LOCAL AND NATIONAL 
 
 POETS OF AMERICA 
 
 WITH INTERESTING 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES AND CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM 
 OVER ONE THOUSAND LIVING AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 THE ONLY COMPLETE BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY OF LOCAL AND NATIONAL 
 POETS OF AMERICA, CONTAINING NUMEROUS SELECTIONS 
 
 PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER FIVE HUNDRED 
 LIFE-LIKE PORTRAITS. 
 
 EDITED AND COMPILED UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF 
 
 THOS. W. HER RINGS HAW, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 HOME OCCUPATIONS," "PROMINENT MEN AND WOMEN OF THE DAY," "AIDS TO 
 LITERARY SUCCESS," " MULIEROLOGY," ETC. 
 
 "GREAT OAKS FROM LITTLE ACORNS GROW." 
 
 CHICAGO, ILL. : 
 
 ^ AMERICAN PUBLISHERS' ASSOCIATION. 
 
 « 1892. 
 
 nil I'l I ■ — — _^.^^_^__a- 
 
CB © 
 
 1 Y^' 
 
 Entered According to Act of Congress, 
 
 IN THE Years 1890 and 1893 by 
 
 THOS. W. HERRINGSHAW. 
 
 IN THE Office of the Librarian of 
 
 Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
 GIFT 
 
 88 © 
 
s 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As ONE of the fine arts, Poetry lias not received the encourage- 
 ment and appreciation in America that is deservedly due to such an 
 important and beautiful branch of literature — an art that has indis- 
 putably played a significant part as one of the factors in shaping the 
 destiny of so great a nation. "No one," says George Parsons Lathrop, 
 "is so bold as to affirm that, as a nation, we are poetic. With Germans 
 Poetry is a part of daily life: it lives not only on their lips but in their 
 hearts as well. Not so with us. Our appreciation of it is generally too 
 theoretical, conventional, perfunctory, and involves a trice of apology for 
 being interested in anything so unpractical. • • • One thing is cer- 
 tain. Whatever the American people think of poetry — and as to this 
 they themselves still appear to be quite vague — it is perfectly clear that 
 they do not think enough about it. If they did, they would know good 
 poetry when they saw it; they would sometimes honor the chief makers 
 thereof, wisely and soberly; they would cause the art and the percep- 
 tion of genuine poetry to be as carefully studied in every school and 
 college as arithmetic and drawing and modeling now generally are stud- 
 ied. They would sustain literature in a generous spirit, make poetry a, 
 vital factor in the family and national life; and give to the accredited 
 poet a distinguished place in the social and political order." 
 
 But, perhaps, when defective rhyme, rhythm, measure, and crude 
 work generally (once allowable and still so prevalent in almost every 
 nation) are no more tolerated; when vowel composition (the arrange- 
 ment of one vowel in regard to another) receives proper attention and 
 
 ®- 
 
 -m 
 
 7^ r- ^ \ / — I ■^■i /-v r^ 
 
i LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIilCA. 
 
 is studied with tlie same care that was evideutly bestowed upon it by 
 the Greeli masters, — then will the art become more dignified, and as a 
 natural consequence receive fuller recognition from competent critics, 
 the metroplitan press, lovers of American literature and art, and from 
 the masses generally. At all events it is to be hoped that the time is 
 not far distant when Americans will more fully appreciate and pay 
 tribute at the shrine of Poetry and Song as the equal and twin-sister 
 of Music. Indeed, the alliance between Poetry and Music, says a writer 
 in the British Britannica, is of very ancient date, and appears originally 
 to have been constant. The praises of gods and heroes, the triumphal 
 strains of happiness and victory, and the lamentations of affliction and 
 defeat, were sung in measure to the sound of the rude instruments which 
 art had invented in almost every country of which there is any histori- 
 cal record. In process of time, however, as Poetry became the vehicle 
 of a wider range of sentiment, the accompaniment of music was often 
 found inconvenient, and a recitation more approaching to common speech 
 was then substituted. 
 
 The Britannica concisely defines absolute Poetry as the concrete 
 and artistic expression of the human mind in emotional and rhythmical 
 language. No literary expression can, properly speaking, be called Poetry 
 that is not in a deep sense emotional (whatever may be its subject 
 matter), concrete in its method and its diction, rhythmical in movement, 
 and artistic in form. The saying of Wordsworth, "That which comes 
 from the heart goes to the heart," applies very closely indeed to modern 
 Poetry, and when any writer's verse embodies a message, true, direct and 
 pathetic, the degree of artistic perfection with which it is delivered has 
 generally been silently passed over. We listen to the poet —we allow 
 him to address us in rhythm or rhyme — we allow him to sing to us while 
 other men are only allowed to talk, not because the poet argues more 
 logically than they, but because he feels more deeply and perhaps more 
 truly. Hence the great difference between Poetry and Prose is that the 
 one comes from the heart, wliile the other is a product of the mind. 
 © © 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL. I'OETS OF AMKlilCA. iii 
 
 Anyone who derides the local piess and its bevy of embryo writers 
 and poets, whether they be deserving of censure or not, at once stamps 
 himself to be a narrow-minded person with a brain of rather small 
 calibre. The local papers are to a great extent entitled to the credit of 
 producing, either directly or indirectly, nearly all of our prominent poets 
 and writers as well as the humbler ones. Their columns are generally 
 opened to any local effort that is of passable quality, and the interest 
 and ambition thus engendered aud fostered have caused new and special 
 endeavors to be taken by these literary aspirants. Therefore, the im- 
 portance of the local press and its writers must not be lost sight of, for 
 without them it is not at all improbable that America could not now 
 boast of such men as Whittier, Emerson, et. al., whose poems and writ- 
 ings first appeared almost exclusively in the local press. 
 
 In the compilation of Local and National Poets of America, 
 the principal object has been to present the best poems of each writer 
 and on as different topics as possible, and the work consequently includes 
 many varieties of Poetry clothed in numerous forms. Brief as are the 
 biographical sketches, they serve somewhat as a medium of introduction 
 to the reader; and especially is this apparent when the sketch is accom- 
 panied with a portrait. Poets of local fame, together with those of a 
 more national reputation, have been given a place in Local and Na- 
 tional Poets of America, but no claims whatever are made for the 
 superiority of its contents ; to winnow the chaff from the wheat, and to 
 judge of the merits of these poems, is left entirely to the reader— a task 
 that will undoubtedly prove a source of both profit and pleasure. Many 
 of the names and faces here presented will be recognized by readers as 
 familiar acquaintances, while tliose of others are known only in their own 
 locality. The work itself will be both a surprise and a delight to the 
 world of literature — a surprise to learn that America is so rich in 
 Poets and Poesy, and a delight in being thus afforded an opportunity of 
 
 making a study of such a large and varied collection of gems from living 
 
 I 
 
 J writers of America. 
 
 51- gg 
 
iV LOCAL, AND NATIONAL L'OEl'S OK AMKlllCA. 
 
 Local anl> Natonal, Poets ok Ajikkica has beeu prepared un- 
 der great difficulties, and nearly a year has passed away since the work 
 was first taken in hand. To the local press of the country and the pub- 
 lishing fraternity in general, a great indebtedness is acknowledged for 
 material and aid in the compilation of this work. To contributors and 
 their friends who have so kindly furnished bound volumes of poetical 
 works, copies of poems cut from magazines and newspapers, manuscripts 
 and other material, the compiler is also under great obligations, for 
 without such co-operation Local and National Poets of America 
 could scarcely have assumed the magnitude befitting a work of such 
 
 national importance 
 
 Thos. W. Herri ngshaw. 
 
 © 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Abbey, Henry, . - . - 
 
 Adams, BlMiiche H. South Berwick, Me. 
 
 Webster, Dak. 
 
 HoUis, N. H. 
 
 - Exeter, N. H. 
 
 Chelsea, Mass. 
 Darliugton, Wis. 
 
 Wauseon, Ohio. 
 
 Adams, Mrs. Irene G. 
 Adams, Letitia M., 
 Adams, Nellie E., - 
 Adams, Rev. J. W., 
 Ag'ur, Maria A., 
 Alden, Henry Mills 
 Aldrich, Mi-s. Julia C, 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey - - - 
 
 Ale.xander, Mrs. M., - Mt. Vernon, Ind. 
 AUansou, Edward G., - Anita, Iowa. 
 AUanson, Mrs. Clara M., - Anita, Iowa. 
 Allen, Mrs. H. Perry, - Colwich, Kan. 
 Allen, Mrs. H. E. M., - Agnew, Neb. 
 Ames, Warren W., - De Ruyter, N.Y. 
 Amory, Mrs. E. M., - Belmond, Iowa. 
 Anders, Matilda A., - Plymouth, Iowa. 
 Anderson, Rev. J. W. D., Elk City, Kan. 
 Anderson, Mrs. Emma M., Durham, N. C. 
 Anderson, Mrs. AUie E., - Almira, Iowa. 
 
 Angwin, Mrs. M., 
 Archibold, Edg-ar, 
 Armin, C. E., 
 Arnold, C. C, 
 Arnold, Birch, 
 Arnold, W. P., 
 Ashabranuer, J. H., 
 
 Mt. Vernon, Mo. 
 
 - Pueblo, Colo. 
 
 ■ Waukesha, Wis. 
 
 Culbertson, Neb. 
 
 Armada, Mich. 
 
 Litchfield, Ky. 
 
 New Albany, Ind. 
 
 Bailey, Mrs. M. L., - Baldwin, Kan. 
 Baker, Harriet S., - Norridgewock, Me. 
 Ballard, Minnie C, - - Troy, Pa. 
 
 Banta, Mrs. M. E., - - Franklin, Ind. 
 Banvard, John - Watertown, S. Dak. 
 Bartow, A. A. - Sandusky, Ohio. 
 
 Barnes, Edwin H., - Marathon, N.Y. 
 Barnhart, Jacob S., - Charles City, Iowa. 
 Barnard, O. W. - - Manteiio, Ills, 
 Bayly, Obadiah, - Walnut Grove, Kan. 
 Beach, Abel, - - Iowa City, Iowa. 
 Beach, Levi, - - Paola, Kan. 
 
 Beech, Mary T., - Stanton, Mich. 
 
 Bedford, Mrs. Lou S., - Dallas, Texas. 
 Bellamy, Orlando, R. Independence. Kan. 
 Bennett, Mrs. Sarah, Wilson's Mills, Me. 
 Bennett. Mrs.A.G., Pipestone City, Minn. 
 Bentley, Mrs. Ella D., Donaldsville, La. 
 
 Bergen, Nellie C, 
 Bethel, Mrs. L. R., - 
 Bevan, Trevor G., - 
 Bevis, Mrs. S. C. H., 
 Binkley, Lillie, 
 Blanchard, Mary E., 
 
 E. Saginaw, Mich. 
 
 Leavenworth. Kan. 
 
 Martinsburg, Ind. 
 
 Cincinnati, Ohio. 
 
 - Atchison, Kan. 
 
 Milltown, Me. 
 
 *- 
 
 Blount, Mrs. Sarah J. - Tonquish, Mich. 
 BoUng, Mrs. MoUie A., West Baden, Ind. 
 
 304 
 11.5 
 291 
 720 
 80 
 175 
 339 
 119 
 237 
 418 
 617 
 608 
 607 
 530 
 400 
 724 
 351 
 244 
 311 
 635 
 303 
 295 
 619 
 751 
 127 
 174 
 689 
 143 
 
 1.53 
 
 451 
 280 
 339 
 749 
 7a3 
 151 
 517 
 120 
 148 
 85 
 39 
 667 
 625 
 519 
 491 
 143 
 199 
 664 
 403 
 469 
 310 
 389 
 606 
 
 Botta, Anna C. L., - - - 
 
 Bowen, Mrs. Bertha W., - Cotulla, Texas. 
 Bowen, Florence N., - Litchfield, Minn. 
 Bowers, Ezra, - West Bowersville, Ga. 
 Boxell, Jobn William, - St. Paul, Minn. 
 Boyeson, Hjalmer H., 
 Bracht, Albert, - Rockport, Texas. 
 Brainerd, Henry A., - Bennet, Neb. 
 Branch, Homer P., - Mitchell, Iowa. 
 Brannock, Mrs. L. E., - Henderson, Mo. 
 Brees, Abram B., - Spencerville, Ohio. 
 Bright., Simon H., - - Kinston, N. C. 
 Briley, John F. - - Lamar, Mo. 
 Brister, Edwin M. P., - Newark, Ohio. 
 Brotherton, Alice W., ... 
 
 Brown, Joseph L., - -Corydon, Ky. 
 Brown, Mortimer C, - Beresford, S. Dak. 
 Browne, Geo. vvaldo, Manchester, N. H. 
 Browne, Hiram Hovvard, - Boston, Mass. 
 Brownell, Henry H., 
 Brownson, Rev. I. K., Fayetteville, N.Y. 
 Bryant, Elva, 
 Buckner, Mrs. May M, 
 Bunker, Mrs. Rosa, ■ 
 Burdette, Robert J., 
 Burns, Mrs. Nellie M., Kittery Point, Me. 
 Burroughs, John, - . . 
 
 Madison, Wis. 
 
 - Lemoore, Cal. 
 
 Kirk.sville, Mo. 
 
 Ardmore, Pa. 
 
 Buskirk, Clarence A. 
 Butler, Mrs. Lou G., 
 Butler, Hon. T. J., 
 Byers, S. H. M., 
 
 - Princeton, Ind. 
 
 Mason, Texas. 
 
 Prescott, Ariz. 
 
 Oskaloosa, Iowa. 
 
 Cahill, Juan F., 
 Campbell, James E., 
 Campbell, John P., 
 Campbell, Edna, 
 Carey, Helen Lee, 
 Cargile, Charles, 
 Carleton, Will, 
 Carpenter, Mrs. E. F., - 
 Carpenter, Jane R. H., 
 Carroll, John D., 
 Carson, Sallie, 
 Carter, Rev. N. F., 
 Cassidy, Patrick S. 
 Chandler, Ella, - 
 Chapin, Bela, , 
 
 Chaplin, Rev. S. A., 
 Cljildress, Rufus J., 
 Chittenden, Rev. E. P. 
 Choate, Isaac B., 
 Clark, Mrs. Vitula M., 
 Clark, Prof. Simeon T, 
 Clark, Annie M. L., - 
 Clark, Eugenie E., 
 
 St. Louis, Mo. 
 Kerr, Ohio. 
 Abilene, Kan. 
 Alamo, Ind. 
 Maiden, Mass. 
 Okolona, Ark. 
 
 Ben venue. Pa. 
 
 Orient, Iowa. 
 
 Brantford, Fla. 
 
 Beaver Falls, Pa. 
 
 Concord, N. H., 
 
 New York City. 
 
 Chestnut Level, Pa. 
 
 Claremont, N. H. 
 
 - Plymouth, Ind. 
 
 Louisville, Ky. 
 
 - Salina, Kan. 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 Minier, 111. 
 
 Lockitort, N.Y. 
 
 Lancaster, Mass. 
 
 Paducuh, Ky. 
 
 m 
 
 440 
 465 
 698 
 411 
 119 
 223 
 355 
 269 
 690 
 532 
 463 
 733 
 340 
 304 
 396 
 446 
 132 
 730 
 68 
 631 
 748 
 5,53 
 241 
 3,53 
 398 
 204 
 341 
 441 
 128 
 337 
 
 95 
 243 
 365 
 135 
 145 
 473 
 
 680 
 164 
 508 
 575 
 
 699 
 307 
 5.3;5 
 137 
 105 
 393 
 
 7:m 
 
 4:i4 
 426 
 107 
 113 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 11 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA, 
 
 Clark, John L., - Lancaster, Mass. 
 Clarke, James Freeman, 
 Cleavelaud, Charles L., - Millbury, Mass. 
 Cleveland, Rose E., 
 
 Clifford, May, 
 Clifgard, Iver, 
 Clodfelter, N. S., - 
 Clymer, Albert 
 Cobb, Isaac, 
 Cocke, Zitella, 
 Colburu, Mrs. M. K 
 Colcord, Martha 0., 
 
 Sauta Rosa, Cal. 
 
 Blue Mounds, Wis. 
 
 Crawfordsville, Ind. 
 
 Morley, Iowa. 
 
 - Portland, Me. 
 
 Baltimore, Md. 
 
 , - Waterford, Pa. 
 
 Portland, Me. 
 
 Colcord, Edward J., Columbia City, S. C 
 Cole, Jessie A., - Horace, Kan. 
 
 Colesworthy, D. C, - Boston, Mass. 
 Collier, Dr. Abner A., - Trenton, Mo. 
 Collins, Mrs. B. A., - Livingston, Tenu. 
 Comstock, Mrs, Helen M., Rochelle, Ills. 
 Conklin, Mrs. H. M., - St. Charles, Mich. 
 Conners, Mrs. H., - Stanwood, Wash. 
 Converse, Mrs. Sarah S.. - Lyme, N. H. 
 Converse, Mrs. H. M., - New York City. 
 Cooke, Mrs. D. F., - - Oconto, Wis. 
 Cooley, E. W., - Marshalltown, Iowa. 
 Copp, Z. H„ - - Kernstown, Va. 
 
 Corbett, Mrs. E. S. B., - St. Paul, Minn. 
 
 Cornaby, Mrs. H., Spanish Fork, Utah. 
 
 Couchman, Wesley, Richmondville, N.Y. 
 
 Coxe, Arthur Cleveland, 
 
 Coxe, W. Beaumont, - Prescott, Ariz. 
 
 Crall, Christian, - - - - 
 
 Cranch, Christopher P., 
 
 Craig, J. T., - - Hunnewell, Mo. 
 
 Crill, Louis N., - - Richland, S. D. 
 
 Crocheron, Mrs. A. J., Bountiful, Utah. 
 
 Crockett, Mrs. Vesta A. R., Portland, Me. 
 
 Cronise, Mabel, - - Toledo, Ohio. 
 
 Crowl, Mrs. M. A., MerriamPark, Minn. 
 
 Crozier, Mrs. M. P. A., Ann Arbor, Mich. 
 
 Crump, Mrs. J. B., - - Harrison, Ark. 
 
 Cummins, Mrs. Anna, South Haven, Mich. 
 
 Cundill, William, - Maquoketa, Iowa. 
 
 Cudmore, P., - Faribault, Minn. 
 
 Currey, Augustus, - Detroit, Mich. 
 
 Currier, Moody, - Manchester, N. H. 
 
 Curtis, George William, 
 
 Curtis, Rose E. V., New London, Conn. 
 
 Curtis, Mrs. M. S., - Newark, N. J. 
 
 lOT 
 200 
 496 
 609 
 443 
 633 
 361 
 67 
 668 
 407 
 726 
 647 
 707 
 251 
 548 
 
 718 
 373 
 558 
 350 
 580 
 644 
 573 
 367 
 465 
 296 
 333 
 378 
 514 
 713 
 536 
 354 
 180 
 91 
 507 
 435 
 1.59 
 166 
 344 
 378 
 666 
 337 
 430 
 701 
 366 
 481 
 651 
 633 
 
 Dana, Charles Anderson, 
 
 Dandridgo, Danske, 
 
 Danehy, Mis. Maggie M., Lancaster, Ohio. 
 
 Daniiflly,Mrs. E. O., Waxahatchi, Texas. 
 
 Darnell, Rev. Henry F., - Avon, N.Y. 
 
 Davis, James, 
 Davis, T. G. C„ 
 Davis, Parker B., 
 Davis, Clarence L., 
 Davis, Ida May, 
 
 Darrow. Allen R., 
 Davenport, W.J., 
 Davidson, Gaylord, 
 Davidson, Clara D., 
 Davis, Walter T., 
 
 Buffalo, N. Y. 
 
 Bethany, La. 
 
 Carthago, III. 
 Ottumwa, I()w;i. 
 - Berlin, N. H. 
 
 577 
 370 
 533 
 
 i:i3 
 
 264 
 679 
 234 
 543 
 134 
 637 
 
 Gloucester, Mass. 
 
 - Denton, Texas. 
 
 Lee, Me. 
 
 New York City. 
 
 Terre Haute, Ind. 
 
 Delany, Mrs. E. B. Blsant, - Zanesville. O. 
 DeWitt, Charles A., - - Lanark, 111. 
 Dickson, Jolin J., - W^est Grove, Iowa 
 Dilley, Mrs. May J., - - Mora, N.M. 
 Diltz, Mrs. Matilda, - Covington, O. 
 Drew, C, - - Jacksonville, Fla. 
 Dwyer, Mrs. Anselina E., - Lynn, Mass. 
 Doekendorff, Jacob B., Southport, P. E. 1. 
 Dodge, George D., Hampton Falls, N. H. 
 Dodge, Mary Mapes, - - - - 
 Dodge, Robert D., - - Adel, Iowa 
 Dole, Mrs. Caroline F., Norridgewock, Me. 
 Donnan, James S., - Central Islip, L. I. 
 Dornian, Allen, - - Clinton, Mo. 
 
 Dorr, Julia Caroline R. - - 
 
 Douglas, Mrs. Myra, - St. Louis, Mo. 
 
 Dowling, Lee H., - North Topeka, Kan. 
 
 Downer, William B., - Cazenovia, N.Y. 
 
 Downing, H.M., Savin Hill, Boston, Mass. 
 
 Downing, Edward C, - Toulon, III. 
 
 Duncan, Mrs. Mary C, - Hanford, Cal. 
 
 Durand, Isaac, - - Verdon, Neb. 
 
 Durant, Horace B., - Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 Dution, J. D., - - Oakland, Cal. 
 
 626 
 709 
 458 
 570 
 
 63 
 
 88 
 415 
 
 69 
 473 
 356 
 437 
 436 
 397 
 184 
 
 160 
 650 
 410 
 433 
 578 
 37 
 284 
 386 
 438 
 338 
 559 
 525 
 409 
 589 
 
 Early, Lewis J., - - Hawesville, Ky. 735 
 Eastland, Mrs. Clara F., - Muscoda, Wis. 319 
 Eberhart, Gilbert L., - Beaver Falls, Pa. 753 
 Edgerton, James A., - Marietta, O. 108 
 Edwards, Rev. J. H., Mechanicsburg, 111. 367 
 Efnor, Mrs. Lottie C, Hempstead, Texas 195 
 Eidson, Dr. A. J., - Coatesville, Mo. 272 
 Emerson, Mrs. IMarthaL., Boxford, Mass. 468 
 Eiighind, Oliver S., - - Salem, Ore. 352 
 English, Josiah G., - - Xenia.O. 7 
 English. Thomas Dunn, - - - 213 
 Ethridge. Annie S., - Convers, Ga. 553 
 Evans. Jolin Wesley, - Louaconing, Md. 623 
 Evans, Francis Anson, - Tell City, Ind. 688 
 Eve, Maria L., - - Augusta. Ga. 212 
 Everett, J. W., - Lake Charles, Ln. 87 
 Ewing, Elmore E., - Portsmouth, Oiiio 475 
 
 rancher, Mrs. F. L., Dodge Center, Minn. 444 
 Farrow, Alexander J., Portland Mills,lnd. 116 
 Faulk, Margaret, - - Beaver, Pa. :m 
 Fauntleroy. Henry, - - Cliicago, 111. :327 
 Fawcett, Mrs. Mary H., Plantsville, Ohio 665 
 Felch, Will Farrand, - Hartford, Conn. 2<.)9 
 Felton, Mrs. Mary, - Belmond, Iowa 5,">7 
 Fenloii. Robert H., - Nyaek, N.Y. .573 
 Ferris, Rev. Walter L., - Ciierokee, Iowa 766 
 Finch, Mrs. Mary B., Frenchtown, Neb. 309 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 -'i' 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Findlay, Mrs. E. V., Decaturville, Tcnn. 
 Fisher, William R., - - Harliiu, Iowa 
 Flagg, Edmund, - - West Salem, Va. 
 Fletcher, Mrs. Lisa A., Manchester, N.H. 
 Fletcher, Josiah M., - Nashua, N.H. 
 Flippin, Manlius T., Tompliiusville, Ky. 
 Tolsom, Mrs. L. A., - Old Town, Mo. 
 Foss. IMrs. Harriet, South Liminston, Me. 
 Fowles, Burt, Minneapolis, Minn. 
 
 Frantz, ]\[rs. Virginia, - Brandon, Miss. 
 Freeman, Dossie C, - Kuig-htstown, 1 nd. 
 Freer, Charles H., Blue Earth City, Minn. 
 Freeze, John Gosse, - Bloomsburg-, Pa. 
 Fries, Ida, - - St. Nicholas, Fla. 
 Fulton, A. R., - - Des Moines, Iowa 
 Furey, Georg-e W., - Sunbury, Pa. 
 Furman, Mrs. Hattie E., - Delhi, Iowa 
 
 Gallagher, J. N., - San Antonio, Texas 
 Ganong-, Mrs. Jane K., - Crafts, N.Y. 
 Garborg, Samuel, - Warren, Minn. 
 Gardiner, J. Warren, - Jefferson, N.C. 
 Gelletlj', James F., Potter's Landing, Md. 
 Gepford, A. L., - - Niantic, 111. 
 Gibbens, Alvaro F., - Cliarleston, W.Va. 
 Gibson, Ella Elvira, - - Barre, Mass. 
 Gilbert, Frank M., - - Evansville, Ind. 
 Gilder, Richard Watson, - - . 
 Giles, Ella A., - - Madison, Wis. 
 Gilliam, Edward, - Reidsville, N.C. 
 Gilleland, Wm. M., - San Antonio, Texas 
 Githens, Cournelli E., - Hannibal, Ohio 
 Gitt, Jos. S., 
 Gleasou, May Adelia, 
 Gnaga, Carrie E., 
 Goldberg, Samuel W, 
 Goodc, Kate, 
 
 720 
 106 
 335 
 78 
 479 
 483 
 620 
 372 
 494 
 594 
 190 
 460 
 205 
 695 
 331 
 027 
 658 
 
 Goodhue, E. S., 
 Gordon, Dr. T. W. 
 Gottsclialk, R. F., 
 Graham, MoUie, 
 Greene, Millen S., 
 Greene, Moses H., 
 Greene, Jacob W., 
 Gi'egg, Frances Anna, 
 Griffith, George B., 
 Griggs, N. K. 
 Grossb^'rg. Jacob G., 
 Gunnell, Mrs. Kate M., 
 
 New Oxford, Pa. 
 
 - Lawrence, Kan. 
 
 Morriam, Ind. 
 
 - Dallas, Texas 
 
 Boydon, Va. 
 
 Riverside, Cal. 
 
 Georgetown, Ohio 
 
 Columbus, Ind. 
 
 Chapman, 111. 
 
 Westerly, R. I. 
 
 Haverhill, Mass. 
 
 Chillicothe, Mo. 
 
 Andover, Me. 
 
 Portland, Me. 
 
 Beatrice, Neb. 
 
 Chicago, 111. 
 
 Minier, 111. 
 
 Haflord, Prof. F. S., - Milton, Ore. 
 Hafford, Mrs. Emily H., - Milton, Ore. 
 Hale, Mrs. Anne G., Newburyport, Mass. 
 
 Hall, Mrs. Mary L.. 
 Halliday, Annetta J., 
 Harbaugh, Thomas C, 
 Harney, Will Willace, 
 Harris, Mrs. Sallie B., 
 Hart, J. P., - 
 
 *- 
 
 Attica, N.Y. 
 
 Detroit, Mich. 
 
 - Casstown, Ohio 
 
 - Pine Castle, Fla. 
 
 - Greenville, Ky. 
 Arkadelphia, Ark. 
 
 744 
 
 673 
 252 
 402 
 428 
 314 
 741 
 359 
 281 
 206 
 118 
 547 
 663 
 589 
 162 
 346 
 520 
 437 
 357 
 54 
 315 
 256 
 670 
 599 
 510 
 555 
 396 
 382 
 747 
 154 
 522 
 
 306 
 492 
 691 
 263 
 387 
 155 
 208 
 621 
 
 Harte, Francis Bret, - - - - 129 
 Hastings, Rev. H. K., - West Side, Iowa 501 
 Hatchett, Catherine G., - Schuyler, Neb. 406 
 Hansen, Minnie A., Franklin Grove, 111. 705 
 Hawk, Mrs. Laura O., - Niantic, 111. 748 
 Hawkins, Albert S., - Midland, Texas 728 
 Hay, John, - - - - 114 
 
 Hayden, Mrs. Alma P., - LewLston, Me. 597 
 Hayward, Virginia May, - Erie, Pa. 349 
 Hayward, Rev. S., - Southbridge, Mass. 314 
 Hebbard, Mrs. R.N., North Topeka, Kau. 439 
 Hegeman, Emmet D. C. - Laurel, Del. 528 
 Hempstead, Junius L., - Jennings, La. 197 
 Hempstead, Fay, - Little Rock, Ark. MO 
 Hendee, Al M., - Kansas City, Mo., 612 
 Henderson, A. R., Williamstown, W. Va. 152 
 Henderson, Dr. James, Bad Axe, Mich., .596 
 Hensley, Sophie M. - Stellarton, N. S. 52'. 
 Hern, Frank E., - Huntington, W. Va. 712 
 Herron, Rev. J. D., - New Castle, Pa. 83 
 Higginson, Ella, - - Sehome, Wash. 447 
 Higginson, Thomas W., - - 202 
 
 Highland, John N., - 
 Hildreth, Emily E., ■ 
 Hildreth, Mrs, Jane E. 
 Hills, Charles W., - 
 
 G.alveston, Texas 183 
 
 Harvard, Mass. 158 
 
 , - Kirksville, Mo. 468 
 
 Washington, D. C. 511 
 
 Hinds, W. H. H., Kennebunkport, Me. 121 
 Hoag, Mrs. Hattie E., - RoUo, 111. 613 
 Hobbs, Mary E. Erwin, - Madison, N. H. 716 
 Hoffman, Phil, - Oskaloosa, Iowa 104 
 
 Hoit, Dr. James D. C, - Yates City, 111. 485 
 Holahan, Martha E., - Wabasha, Minn. 470 
 Holley, Henry W., Winnebago City, Minn. 630 
 Holmes, Grace, - - Festus, Mo. 684 
 Holmes, Jolm, - - Bayshore, L. I. 593 
 Holmes, Oliver W'endell, - Boston, Mass. 65 
 
 Horton, Nathan C, - 
 Horner, Hattie L., 
 Hoskinson, Will H. 
 Hotchkiss, John, - 
 Houswertb, Wm. E. 
 Hoyt, Belden C, 
 Howe, Leander C, 
 Howe, Julia Ward, 
 Howe, Mrs. Mary E., 
 Howells, William D., 
 Huff, Jacob, 
 
 Philadelphia, Pa. 518 
 
 El Dorado, Kan. 185 
 
 Dunmor, Ky. 480 
 
 - Fox Lake, Wis. 660 
 
 - Selingrove, Pa. 590 
 
 Paola, Kan. 721 
 
 Edinburgh, Pa. 738 
 
 321 
 
 Table Rock, Neb. 587 
 
 545 
 
 Chatham Run, Pa. 139 
 
 Hull, Ella G., - Grand Rapids. Mich. 149 
 Hunt, Anna Sargent, - Augusta, Me. 614 
 Hurd, Helen M, - - Athens, Me. 683 
 Hylton, J. Dunbar, - Palmyra, N. J. 246 
 
 Inman, Dr. B. G., 
 Isler, Arnold H., 
 
 Bradford, Ohio 556 
 Cincinnati, Ohio 111 
 
 Jacobs, William R., - - Suffolk, Va. 676 
 Jakeman, Mrs. Ellen, - Manti, Utah, 360 
 James, J. Sheridan, - Tyrone, Pa. 268 
 J.'imieson, Mrs. Josephine, - Dye, Texas 400 
 Jarvis, Mrs. Ida V., - Fort Worth, Texas 379 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 IV 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Jeffrey, Mrs. Rosa V., - Lexington, Ky. 
 Jencks, C. C, - - Kalkuskla, Mich. 
 Johnsou, Ella S., - Houston, Texas 
 Johnson. Jacob C, Johnson's Mills, N. C. 
 Johnson, Henry H., - Hyndesville, N.Y. 
 
 New York City 
 
 Oskaloosa, Iowa 
 
 Topeka, Kan. 
 
 Aug'usta, Wis. 
 
 Robinson, 111. 
 
 Abbeville, La. 
 
 Washington, lud. 
 
 Ilion, N.Y. 
 
 Geneva, N.Y. 
 
 Red Wing, Minn. 
 
 Springfield, Ohio 
 
 Cutler, Ind. 
 
 Cutler, Ind. 
 
 Wallace, Idaho 
 
 Xenia, Ind. 
 
 Sandusky, Mich. 
 
 - Larned, Kan. 
 Rochester, N. Y. 
 Tippecanoe City, O. 
 New York City. 
 Scranton, Pa. 
 Springfield, Ohio. 
 Ruston, La. 
 Dayton, Va. 
 - Washington, Pa. 
 - Crompton, R. I. 
 Springfield, Mo. 
 Maquoketa, Iowa. 
 Kingsley, Mrs. A., Blue Earth City, Minn. 
 Kisner, Mrs. Kate S., - Hazleton, Pa. 
 Kline, Mrs. Mary B., - Hager City, Wis. 
 Klock, Edgar J., - East Schuyler, N.Y. 
 Knapp, Mrs. Frances, Spartansburg, Pa. 
 Knight, Leona Annie, - Gibson City, La. 
 Koopman, Harry L., - Burlington, Vt. 
 Kryder, J L., - - Cedarville, Ind. 
 
 Lackey, Margaret, Crystal Springs, Miss. 
 La Fortune, Jolni S., Tulare, Cal. 
 
 Lamar, Lewis, - Wolfsville, Md. 
 
 Larcom, Lucy, - - - - 
 
 Latlirop, George Parsons, 
 Lauglilin,' Elmer O., - - Paris, 111. 
 Lavely, Henry A., - Pittsburg, Pa. 
 Lawrance, William V., . Chillicothe, O. 
 Lazarus, Emma, - New York City. 
 Lea, Mrs. Margaret I., - Magnolia, Miss. 
 Leavell, Lizzie S., - San Marcos, Texas. 
 Le Count, James, - Hartford, Wis. 
 Leland, Charles Godfrey, 
 Leland, Samuel Plielps, - Cliicago, 111. 
 Lesher, Albert U., - - Manhoini, Pa. 
 Lester, Nicholas, - - FuUon, N.Y. 
 
 Johnson, W. F., 
 Johnsou, James W., 
 Jones, Albert E., 
 Jones, Griffith O., 
 Jones, Williams C„ 
 Jones, Mrs. O. C. 
 Jones, Mrs. Henry B., 
 Jones, Mrs. Kate E., 
 Jones, Rosaline E., 
 Jordan, John, 
 
 Kauflman, Kate, 
 Kautz, Mrs. Julia M., 
 Kautz, Elizabeth, 
 Keegan, J. T., 
 Kelsey, Mrs. Mary C, 
 Kenneflck, James S., 
 Kenyon, James B. 
 Keplinger, Richard P 
 Kerr, James M., 
 Kerr, Judge J. A., 
 Ketchum, John B 
 Ketrick, M. J., 
 Keyser, L. S., 
 Kidd, Edwin E. 
 Kiefler, Aldine S., 
 Kendall, Milton T, 
 King, Mary J., 
 King, Byron T., 
 King, M. C-, 
 
 157 
 V40 
 144 
 233 
 5G9 
 89 
 633 
 549 
 467 
 759 
 624 
 393 
 356 
 572 
 271 
 
 474 
 
 450 
 537 
 711 
 6.53 
 330 
 419 
 633 
 456 
 231 
 585 
 737 
 347 
 429 
 643 
 433 
 497 
 526 
 277 
 634 
 276 
 729 
 316 
 243 
 192 
 81 
 
 194 
 498 
 574 
 
 .we 
 
 482 
 726 
 245 
 661 
 610 
 454 
 476 
 405 
 673 
 167 
 399 
 681 
 
 Lewis, Mrs. Sadie, 
 Libby, Rev. J. A., - 
 Lincoln, Mrs. Ellen F. 
 Lindsay, Mrs. M. B., 
 Linn, Nellie, - , 
 Livingston, Fred W., - 
 
 Lock Haven, Pa. 
 West Poland, Me. 
 - Brunswiclv, Me. 
 Asheville, N. C. 
 Liberty, Neb. 
 San Jacinto, Cal. 
 
 Lockhart, Rev. A. J., - Cherryfield, Me. 
 Long, Jeremiah, - - Madison, Neb. 
 Lord, Charles Chase, - Hopkington, N. H. 
 Loux, Charles W., - - Easton, Pa. 
 Lovejoy, Mrs. Fannie, W.Newbury,Mass. 
 Lowell, James Russell, - - . 
 
 Lowry, Samuel E., - West Salem, Ohio. 
 Luce, Samuel S., - - Galesville, Wis. 
 Luce, Clinton L., - Albert Lea, Minn. 
 Luce, Mrs. Hannah Gale,-Galesville, Wis. 
 Ludlum, Jennie Kate, - Brooklyn, N.Y. 
 Luther, Rev. J. H., - - Belton, Texas. 
 Luzader, Malcolm, - Auburn, W. Va. 
 Lyle, Mrs. Cora G., - B^^nnett, Neb. 
 Lyon, G. W., - Cedar Rapids, Iowa. 
 
 Mace, Mrs. Frances L., - San Jose, Cal. 
 Macmurraj-, Thomas J., Hamilton, Ohio. 
 Magee, Mrs. W. A., - - Kinde, Mich. 
 Manning, Mrs. Jessie W., Chariton, Iowa. 
 Marble, Earl, - - Denver, Colo. 
 
 Marble, Callie Bonney, - Denver Colo. 
 Marble, Milton H., - Table Rock, Neb. 
 Markell, Charles F., - Frederick, Md. 
 Markham, George E., Weeping Water,Neb. 
 Marshall, Jeniza, - Lyndon, Kan. 
 Martin, L. A., - - - Dawn, Mo. 
 Martyu, Mrs. Eliza L., Fitehburg, Mass. 
 Marvin, Jonathan J., - Falls City, Neb. 
 Mathews. Mrs. Sarah A., - Kinsman, O. 
 Maxim, Rose, - North Cambridge, Mass. 
 
 Maxim, William W., 
 ISIay, Julia H., 
 ]May, Mrs. Celeste, 
 McBrido, Maggie F., 
 McCarthy, Daniel, - 
 McCloy, Louise, 
 McDonald, Lawrence S., 
 Mcl'all, Mrs. Anna E., - 
 McFarlaud, Mrs. Sara, 
 
 Paris, Me. 
 
 Auburn, Me. 
 
 Nelson, Neb. 
 
 Victor, Ont. 
 
 Sandusky, O. 
 
 Elyria, Ohio. 
 
 - Retort, Pa. 
 
 Mayfleld, Ky. 
 
 Halifax, Pa. 
 
 MeGirr, John J., - McKcesport. Pa. 
 McKenna, Maurice, - Fond du Lac, Wis. 
 McLean, Sarah E.Pulver, Rochester, N.Y. 
 
 McLemore, Atkins J., 
 McLellan, Isaac, 
 McMahan, Eliza J., - 
 McRae, Milton A., 
 McSherry, Rev. G. W. 
 McVicar, Mrs. .Tohn, 
 Aferedith, Maude, - 
 Merrill, II. Maude, - 
 Miller, Irving J. A. 
 Millor,'Joaquin H., 
 
 - Victoria, Tex. 
 Greenport, N.Y. 
 
 New Florence, Mo. 
 
 CinciiHiati, O. 
 
 , - Taneytown, Md. 
 
 - Detroit, Mich. 
 ■ - Dubuque, Iowa. 
 
 B;ingor, Me. 
 Marshalllown, Iowa. 
 
 147 
 
 477 
 262 
 
 99 
 534 
 698 
 604 
 422 
 381 
 652 
 529 
 
 97 
 582 
 371 
 364 
 371 
 131 
 169 
 562 
 342 
 524 
 
 63 
 179 
 504 
 117 
 308 
 308 
 .595 
 261 
 292 
 255 
 196 
 463 
 544 
 543 
 
 cm 
 
 593 
 3() 
 135 
 444 
 301 
 189 
 325 
 6;3S 
 57(i 
 140 
 669 
 
 253 
 172 
 531 
 1.56 
 
 2!)S 
 404 
 27.3 
 170 
 79 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Miner, Mrs.S.Isadore, Battle Creek, INI ich. 
 Morgan, James B., Gerrardstown, W. Va. 
 Morrison, Alex H., - Fartning'ton, Pa. 
 Morton, Mrs. Madeline D.,New York City. 
 Morton, Eliza H., - Portland, Me. 
 
 Mosette, Tressie E., - Grand Forks, Dak. 
 Moore, Tom, - . Jackson, O. 
 
 Moore, Katliarine J., - York, Pa. 
 
 Mooi e, Mrs. Ella Maude,-Thomaston, Me. 
 Mouiitcastle, Clara H., - Clinton, Can. 
 Mudg-ett, Lydia M.S., - - Elmore, Vt. 
 Murphy, John Albert, - Bronaugb, Mo. 
 Naftzger, George E., - Spencerville, O. 
 Nason, Mrs. Emma H., - Augusta, Me. 
 Neis, Anna M., - Newark, N. J. 
 
 Nelson, Rev. Charles A., New Orleans, La. 
 Nelson, Mrs. N. E., - - Plantsville, O. 
 Nichols, Mrs. Mattie, - Rushville, Neb. 
 Noecker, Millie E., - Fort Wayne, Ind. 
 Norcross, Mrs. Kate E., - Bolivar, Mo. 
 Nutting, George F., - Fitchburg, Mass. 
 
 G'Beirne, H. F., 
 O'Donnell, Jessie F., 
 O'Hagan, Thomas, 
 Oliu, Mrs. Annie P., - 
 Overall, John W., 
 Paine, Selma W., 
 Palmer, Vere D., 
 Palmer, Mrs. C. M., 
 Pal miter, Mrs. Louise, 
 
 Dallas, Tex. 
 
 Lowville, N.Y. 
 
 Walkerton, Out. 
 
 Hartland, Minn. 
 
 New York City. 
 
 Bangor, Me. 
 
 Nortli Star, Mich. 
 
 Dover, N. H. 
 
 - Augusta, Wis. 
 
 Parker, John, - Mahaiioy City, Pa. 
 Parry, Edwin F., - Salt Lake City, Utah. 
 Partridge, Abbie N., - Greenfield, N. H. 
 Patterson, Prof. John L., Lexington, Ky. 
 Patterson, Minnie Ward, Marshall, Mich. 
 Patton, Prof. E. L., . Columbia, S. C. 
 Paxton, William, - Platte City, Mo. 
 Peacock, Arthur S., - Wa-Keeney, Kan. 
 Peacock, Thomas B., - Topeka, Kan. 
 Peakes, Emily W,, - Terre Hnute, Ind. 
 Pearle, Mrs. Mary, - - Erie, Pa. 
 Pearson, Clarence H„ - Laconia, N. H. 
 Peberdy, William, - Middletown, Coun. 
 Pelham, Nettie H., - Plymouth, Mich. 
 Pennell, Harriette G., - Brunswick. Me. 
 
 Penuel, Mrs. Laura G, 
 Percival, Dr. C. S., 
 Perley, May, 
 Perry, Timothy, 
 Peters, M. H., 
 Petty, Rev. Henry. 
 Phelps, Dryden W., - 
 
 , - Hearne, Tex. 
 
 Waterloo, la. 
 
 Newport, N. H. 
 
 Brooklyn, N.Y. 
 
 Watseka, 111. 
 
 Chatham, Va. 
 
 New Haven, Conn. 
 
 *- 
 
 Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, 
 Phifer, C. L., - . California, Mo. 
 Phillips, Ryal J., - Waycross, Ga. 
 
 Phillips. Rev. F. F., - Somerville, Mass. 
 Pickering, Mrs. M., Eureka Springs, Ark. 
 Pickering. Grace E., - Portsmouth, N. H. 
 Pollard, Mrs. Inez M., - Hodgdon, Me. 
 
 275 
 554 
 201 
 375 
 146 
 229 
 217 
 499 
 746 
 434 
 373 
 392 
 
 460 
 713 
 495 
 328 
 715 
 538 
 101 
 334 
 369 
 
 239 
 
 86 
 165 
 445 
 693 
 
 7.34 
 656 
 719 
 721 
 384 
 455 
 294 
 500 
 317 
 714 
 
 75 
 541 
 319 
 715 
 
 73 
 187 
 100 
 416 
 316 
 526 
 345 
 
 a5 
 
 476 
 
 94 
 288 
 173 
 642 
 
 55 
 639 
 2:35 
 333 
 716 
 
 Porter, Thomas F„ - Lynn, Mass. 
 Porter, Bessie, - Currie, Minn. 
 
 Potts, John v., - North Robertson, O. 
 
 Pratt, Charles A., - 
 Pratt, Ellen F., 
 Preston, Margaret J., 
 Price, Viola V., - 
 Prickett, Jacob P., 
 Proctor, Edna Dean, 
 Pugh, T. A., 
 
 SheflBeld, 111. 
 Chicago, 111. 
 
 Emporia, Kan. 
 
 Albion, Ind. 
 
 BrookljMi, N.Y. 
 
 Dumontville, Ohio. 
 
 Rader, Lewis E., - Walla Walla, Wash. 
 Rains, Mrs. Helen A., - Mt. Ayr, Iowa. 
 Randall, Mrs. Laura, - Dansville, Mich. 
 Randall, Ella E.. - Stockton, Kan. 
 Raj', Fabius M., - Saccarappee, Me. 
 Read, Jane M., Coldbrook Springs, Mass. 
 Rexdale, Robert, - Portland, Me. 
 
 Reynolds, D. A., - - Lyons, Mich. 
 Rhoderick, George C, - Middletown, Pa. 
 Rice, Alonzo L., - Ray's Crossing, Ind. 
 Richards, Rev. W. Avery, - Goldfleld, la. 
 Richards, Mrs. Lydia P., - Momence, 111. 
 Richards, Mrs. Abbie H., - Warren, 111. 
 Richardson, John M., - Daingerfleld, Tex. 
 Richardson, Marion M., Richardson, Utah. 
 Richmond, Ray, - Dubuque, Iowa. 
 Richtmeyer, Mrs. Z. C, Conesville, N.Y. 
 Rideout, Edward L., - - Readfleld, Me, 
 Riley, James Whitcomb, 
 
 Rittenhouse, Laura J., 
 Robinson, Annie D., 
 Robinson, Edward B., 
 Robinson, Jonah L., - 
 Robinson, Fred E., 
 Robinson, Mrs. A. E., 
 Rogers, Dr. John C, - 
 Rollins, Alice W., 
 RoUston, Adelaide D., 
 Ruble, Eliza H., - 
 Ruddell, George, 
 Russell, Benjamin S., - 
 Russell, Dr. Joseph P., 
 Runcie, Constance, 
 
 Savage, Minot Judson, 
 Sayre, Jennie, 
 Shaeffer, A.J., 
 Scott, R. G., 
 Sc udder, J. Evans, 
 Searl, Fernando C. 
 
 Cairo, 111. 
 
 Bristol, N. H. 
 
 Portland, Me. 
 
 Watertown, Dak. 
 
 Syracuse, Neb. 
 
 Blaine. Me. 
 
 Pembroke, Me. 
 
 - Paducah, Ky. 
 
 Albert Lea, iMinn. 
 
 Sugar, Kan. 
 
 Bridgeport, N.Y. 
 
 - Waveland, Ind. 
 
 St. Joseph, Mo. 
 
 Waco, Neb. 
 
 Spencerville, Ohio. 
 
 Des Moines. la. 
 
 Walden, N.Y. 
 
 Portsmouth, Ohio. 
 Senter, Mrs. Mary A. A., - Exeter, N. H. 
 Shaler, Clarence A., - Fox Lake, Wis. 
 Shaw, Frances A., - Minneapolis, Minn. 
 Sherwood, Isaac R., - Canton, Ohio. 
 Sherwood, Mrs. Kate B., - Toledo. Ohio, 
 Shimraons, Mrs. Lizzie, - Lawrence, Kan. 
 Shock, John, - - Preston, Colo. 
 Sholes, Althine F., - - Goshen, N. H. 
 Shores, Mrs. Clara, W.Bridgewater. Mass. 
 Shumway, Grant L., - Ashford, Neb. 
 
 506 
 551 
 563 
 279 
 714 
 641 
 466 
 123 
 220 
 241 
 
 648 
 60 
 497 
 214 
 687 
 191 
 45. 
 565 
 414 
 171 
 .365 
 2a3 
 677 
 182 
 765 
 103 
 645 
 300 
 613 
 61 
 456 
 603 
 37 
 550 
 567 
 685 
 204 
 478 
 404 
 167 
 647 
 326 
 141 
 
 213 
 707 
 181 
 188 
 616 
 461 
 41 
 421 
 692 
 600 
 601 
 407 
 342 
 .509 
 505 
 435 
 
*- 
 
 VI 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Simpson, Mrs. Correlli, - Baugor, Me. 4S7 
 Sisco, Mrs. Marcia, - Pomeroy, la. 735 
 Sittler, Sara J., - - Jefferson, Iowa. 431 
 Skilliugs, Robert F., - Peak's Island, Me. 733 
 Small, ELwood E., - Valparaiso, Ind. 368 
 Smart, Amanda, J., - Danvers, Mass. 138 
 Smeltzer, Amelia Jane, - Joyfield, Mich. 343 
 Smiser, Butler S., - - Atoka, I. T. 103 
 Smith, Hubbard M., - Vincennes, Ind. 93 
 Smith. Lewis W., - Fairfield, Neb. 287 
 Smith, John S., - - Osceola, Mo. 493 
 Smith, Mrs. Jeanie, - Johnstown, N.Y. 136 
 Smith, Mrs. Martha, - Le Sueur, Minn. 637 
 Smith, Mrs. Elizabeth, - Lead City, S.D. 671 
 Snow, George W., - - Bangor, Me. 605 
 Soule, Jno. B. L., - - Chicago, 111. 723 
 Southwell, Clara Belle, - Marshall, Mich. 636 
 Southworth, Mrs. Gracia, - Albion, Mich. 579 
 Southworth, Emma L., - Flint, Mich. 450 
 Spear, Dr. David Dana, - Freeport, Me. 4.59 
 Spenser, Welcome O., - Lakeport, N.Y. 723 
 Spofford, Harriet P., - - 203 
 
 Staunton, Mrs. Louise, Fort Wayne, Ind. 401 
 Stedman, Edmund C, - - - 385 
 
 Stephenson, John S., - Elyria, Ohio. 523 
 Stevens, Mrs. S. J., - North Troy, Me. 576 
 Stewart, M. I., - - Winston, N. C 686 
 
 Stewart. Mrs. Martha, - Tomahawk, Wis. 448 
 Stickney, Horace A., - Steele, N. D. 743 
 Stockwell, William, - - Mead, Ind. 397 
 Stoddard, A. H., - Kalamazoo, Mich. 745 
 Stoddard, Elizabeth B., - - - 53 
 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry, - - 449 
 
 Stoner, Leroy, - - Centerview, Mo. 126 
 Story, WiUiam Wetmore, - - 200 
 
 Stout, Traverse E., - Huntington, W.Va. 657 
 Stowe, Harriet Beecher, - - - 417 
 
 Stratton, Mrs. Ella, - "Washburn, Me. 509 
 Swan, Caroline D., - Gardiner, Me. 282 
 Swansou, Mrs. Effle, - Royaltou, Minn. 313 
 Swarthout.George W., Laingsburg,Mich. 640 
 Sweat, Mrs. Margaret. - Portland, Me. 625 
 Swisher, Mrs. Bella F., - Austin, Texas. 177 
 Sylvester, Herbert M., - Portland, Me. 711 
 Taber. Edward F., - Brooklyn, N.Y. 583 
 Taber, Charles A.. - Wakefield, Mass. 51 
 Tapley. Kimball Chase, - St. John, N. B. 581 
 Tate, Thomas E., - - Osyka, Miss. 209 
 Taylor. Henry Ryder, San Antonia, Tex. 163 
 Taylor, W. A., - - Columbus, Ohio. 74 
 Taylor. William, - Aurora, Ind. 59 
 
 Taylor, John Vincent, - New York City. 259 
 Terry, Sallie Effie, - Big Clifty, Ky. 697 
 Thiiyer, Hiram, - Bradford, Iowa. 646 
 Thayer, Julia H., - Morgan Park, 111. 47 
 Thomas, Col. Sam P., - Hawesville, Ky. 708 
 Thomas, Edith Matilda, - - - 514 
 Thomas, Mrs. W. H., - El Dorado, Kan. 109 
 Thomas, Mrs. Mary A., Springfield, Tenn. 6.59 
 Thompson, Maurice, - - - 370 
 
 Tiffany, Mrs. Emma A., - Orwell, Ohio. 
 Tipton, Rev. Milton H., - Elgin, Pa. 
 Tirrill, Mrs. EUza, - Manchester, Iowa. 
 Torrans, John B., - Muscogee, I. T. 
 Townsend, Linus, - - Apollo, Pa. 
 Tracy, Mrs. Harriet T., Sacramento, Cal. 
 Train, Mrs. Emma, North Collins, N.Y. 
 Trowbridge, John T., - - . 
 
 TuUis, John B., - Moorlngsport, La. 
 Turk, Lizzie May, - Canton, Minn. 
 Turner, Tom S., - Massey, Texas. 
 Tyler, Mrs. M. G., - Huntsville, Kan. 
 Van Burg, Mrs. Lizzie, - Filley, Neb. 
 Van Ness, Rev. John G., Maquoketa, la. 
 Vance, W. T., - - South Haven, Mich. 
 Veatch, Andrew A., - Brookeland, Tex. 
 Viney, John A., - - El Paso, Texrs. 
 Walden, Lizzie, - Union City, Ind. 
 Wallace, W. DeWitt, - La Fayette, Ind. 
 Ward. Rev. James T., Westminster, Md. 
 Varder, Col. George W., Kansas City, Mo. 
 Ware, Eugene Fitch, - Fort Scott, Kan. 
 Warner, Daniel S., - Windsor, Mo. 
 Warrener, William J., - Federal, Ohio. 
 Waters, Gay, - Wilmington, Ohio. 
 Watkins, Jas. H. J., East Schuyler, N.Y. 
 
 Watson, William F., 
 Watson, Stephen M., 
 Wear, Robert Duke, 
 Weaver, W. J., 
 Webster, John A., - 
 Webster, Mrs. E. H., 
 
 - Greenville, S. C. 
 
 Portland, Me. 
 
 - Graubury, Tex. 
 
 Mill Hall, Pa. 
 ■Tohnson City, Kan. 
 
 - Hyde Park, Mass. 
 
 Wells, Mrs. E. B., - Salt Lake City, Utah. 
 Werden, Elias, - - Pittsfleld, Mass. 
 White, Rev. Hiram B., - Ortvell, Ohio. 
 White, William W., - Ashford, Neb. 
 Whitehead, Mrs. L. K., - Festus, Mo. 
 Whitman, Mrs. Isa, - Buckfleld, Me. 
 Whitman, Walt, .... 
 
 Whiting. S. K., - Kansas City, Mo. 
 Whitney, Adeline D. T., 
 Whitten, Martha E., - Austin, Tex. 
 Whittet, Robert, - - Richmond, Va. 
 Whittier, John G., - Amesbury, Mass. 
 Wiard, Editha E., - Silver Creek, Neb. 
 Wilcox. Ella Wheeler, - Merideu, Conn. 
 Wilcox, Dr. Hamilton, Albert Lea, Minn. 
 Williams, Rev. Dwight, Cazeuovia, N.Y. 
 Williams, Daisy C, - Newark, Ohio. 
 Willner, Rev.Wolf, - Newark, N. J. 
 Wilson.Lemuel.WessingtonSprings.Dak. 
 
 Wilson. Thomas E., 
 Wils(>n, Gilbert L., 
 Wilson, Mrs. E. A., 
 Wilstacli. John A., 
 Wince, John Laight, 
 Wince, ISIrs. Sarah, 
 Winter, William. 
 Wintermute, Mrs. Martha, 
 Wolf, Mrs. Maggie, 
 
 Roxbury, Mass. 
 Center Point, la. 
 Norwich, Conn. 
 La Fayette, Ind. 
 Pierceton, Ind. 
 Pierceton, Ind. 
 
 Newark, O- 
 Dayton, O. 
 
 394 
 185 
 689 
 443 
 453 
 71 
 586 
 222 
 706 
 697 
 285 
 
 a32 
 
 675 
 413 
 618 
 561 
 433 
 395 
 723 
 592 
 
 33 
 289 
 515 
 457 
 221 
 489 
 452 
 651 
 717 
 168 
 215 
 580 
 
 49 
 629 
 270 
 303 
 486 
 731 
 193 
 534 
 610 
 591 
 311 
 
 43 
 488 
 161 
 322 
 571 
 355 
 .5:39 
 391 
 611 
 238 
 710 
 383 
 521 
 521 
 674 
 
 739 
 
 324 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*-■ 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 VU 
 
 Wood, Mrs. Emma, Easthampton, Mass. 260 
 Wood, Cliarles N., Broome Center. N.Y. 678 
 Wood, Julia A. A., - - St. Paul, Minn. 210 
 Woodbridf-e, Prof. A. A., - Boston, Mass. 358 
 Woodmansee, Mrs. Emily, Salt Lake City. 57 
 Woods, Mrs. Kate T., - Salem, Mass. 445 
 Woodward, Edward P., - Portland, Me. 655 
 Woodward, Nathau A., - Batavia, N.Y. 649 
 
 Woodward, Mary C. S., 
 Worch, Rudolph, 
 Worthen, Mrs. A. H., 
 Wyatt, Rosa, - 
 
 - Osborn, O. 2.34 
 
 Jackson, Mich. 471 
 
 Lyiui, Mass. 015 
 
 Kennard, Iiid. 216 
 
 Young,Mrs.Fannie Spear,Longview,Tex. .503 
 
 Ziegler, Rev. D. P., 
 Zimmerman, J., 
 
 Keystone, Kan. 692 
 Herald, 111. 303 
 
 4i- 
 
 — -^ 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Adams, Enoch G., - South Berwick, Me. 775 
 Adams. Charles FoUen, - Boston, Mass. 849 
 Allen, Frank D., - - Audubon, la. 937 
 Antoniewicz, Mrs. J., San Francisco, Cal. 809 
 Arms, Mrs. Mary P. S., - Beckwith, Cal. 934 
 Arnold, Tlios. H., - Middlesboroug-h,Ky. 818 
 
 Bailey, D. D., Gilbert S., - Pomona, Cal. 985 
 Bailey, Rev. Amos J., - Ogden, Utah. 1003 
 Ballou, Mrs. A. L., - San Francisco.Cal. 801 
 Barry, Mrs. Belle B., - Knoxville, Tenn. 1055 
 Barton, Hubbard Alonzo, - - - - 795 
 Beattie, Blise, - - - Atlanta, Ga. 955 
 Beebe, John W., - -King-man, Kas. 910 
 Beckwith, Mrs. Sue E.,- Audale, Kan. 868 
 Behymer, F. M., - Little Rock, Ark. 1013 
 Bel, Mrs. Sarah P., - Middletown, Conu. 935 
 Bellville, Jolin Oliver, - Evansville, Ind. 906 
 Bennion, Emma, - Strykersville, N.Y. 799 
 Benton, Lucile M., - - Americus, Ga. 879 
 Bickford, Rev. L. F., - Brown vvood, Tex. 1073 
 Biddle, Horace P., - Log-ansport, Ind. 847 
 Bingham, Rev. Charles, - Dayton, Fla. 1018 
 Bland, Bessie, - - - Lynn, Mass. 903 
 Bloomfleld, Fred D., - Jamestown, N.Y. 935 
 Boltou, Mrs. Sarah K., Cambridge, Mass. 810 
 Bolton, Chas. Knowles, Cambridge, Mass. 833 
 Boyden, Mrs. Emily M. B., Chicago, 111. 1063 
 Boynton, Elias, - New Lisbon, Wis. 953 
 Brehm, Mrs. Marian J., - Logan, O. 1016 
 Brewer, Mrs. Jessie M., - Maynard, Mass. 933 
 Brier, Rev. John Wells, - Lodi, Cal. 933 
 Bryant, Edwin M., Corpus Christi, Tex. 1001 
 Burns, Harry C, . - Pittsburg, Pa. 953 
 Bushnell, Mrs. Lillian, - Riverside, Cal. 940 
 Butterworth, Hezekiah, - Boston, Mass. 886 
 Byrum, E. Edwin, Grand Junction, Mich. 880 
 Bartol, Dr. Cyrus A., - Boston, Mass. 1084 
 Beard, John Lewis, - Winston, N, C. 1087 
 Brooks, William Grant, - Saco, Me. 1078 
 
 Cadwallader, Emma Nier, Oskaloosa, la. 893 
 Cappleman, Josie Frazee, Okolona, Miss. 783 
 Cai-penter, Mrs.M.W., Stephentown, N.Y. 884 
 Carter, Ethel Alice, - - Shasta, Cal. 794 
 Carter, Rev. S. B., - Westminster, Conn. 1000 
 Cartwright, Mrs. Mary J., Portland, Ind. 941 
 Cliapman, Prof. Josepli W., Pueblo, Col. 783 
 Chase, Mrs. Julia Clarke, Lancaster, Cal. 981 
 Clark, James G., - San Francisco, Cal. 837 
 Clary, Jack, - - Galveston, Texas. 907 
 Colby, Fred Myron, - Warner, N. H. 800 
 Coleman, Thomas Moore, - Glendon, la. 978 
 Colgan, John Roland, -Pioneer, Ohio. 946 
 
 Collins, David Edward, - Oakland, Cal. 1035 
 Condon, Dr. A. S., - Ogden City, Utah. 779 
 Copithorne, Joseph F.,San Francisco, Cal. 846 
 Corliss, Mrs. Mary E., - Washburn, Me. 1066 
 Crabtree, Thomas Aldin, - Bangor, Me. 980 
 Crane, Rev. Henry C, - Omaha, Neb. 1064 
 Cumback, William, - Greensburg, Ind. 833 
 Crowley, Rev D. O., San Francisco, Cal. 787 
 Christian, Mrs. M. A., Christian, W. Va. 1087 
 
 Dame, Mrs. Abbie H., Lawrence, Mass. 1068 
 Davis, Aaron Green, - Dyersburg-, Tenn. 791 
 Dean, John Willey, - Chariton, Mo. 794 
 Derby, Jr., Roswell, - Florence, Ohio. 947 
 Dingwall, Mary R. D., - Montpelier, Vt. 878 
 Diusmore, Mrs. B. A., - Foxcroft, Me. 793 
 Dormer, Mrs. L. Isabelle, Stockton, Cal. 860 
 Downes, Mrs. V. fl., - Houlton, Me. 944 
 Dorr, George S., - Wolfboro June, N. H. 893 
 Dukes.'J.Malcolmson, San Antonio.Tex. 1006 
 Dunham, Mrs. Emma B. S., Deering, Me. 1070 
 Dunham, Lemuel, - Bryant's Pond, Ind. 918 
 Dupuy, Elisabethe, - St. Louis, Mo. 877 
 
 Edgerton, Jessie, - 
 Ehrhardt, Will, 
 Emery, Brainerd P., 
 Evers, Rev. A. M., • 
 
 Columbiana, Ohio. 949 
 
 Greensburg, Ind. 917 
 
 Newberg, N.Y. 933 
 
 Keedysville, Md. 797 
 
 *- 
 
 Fairman, Mrs. M. M., New Sharon, Iowa. 897 
 Farry, John J. F., - San Francisco, Cal. 898 
 Fielder, Mrs. Lizzie D., Monroe City, Mo. 1014 
 Flanders, Rev. C. P., North Truro, Mass. 1003 
 Flook, Rev. Jacob, - Indiauola, Neb. 1015 
 Florence, Lizzie E., -Wills Point, Texas. 1008 
 Folsom, Montgomery M., - Atlanta, Ga. 833 
 Fowler, Mrs. Fannie H., Manistee, Mich. 1017 
 Fowler, Sylvester, - Louisville, Kan. 997 
 Frederick, Aaron W., - Letcher, Cal. 790 
 Fulton, Adelaide M., San Francisco, Cal. 919 
 Ferris, Luman A., Bernhard's Bay.N.Y. 1075 
 Fitzmaurice, John W., - Jackson, Mich. 1079 
 
 Gallagher, William D., Cincinnati, Ohio. 1039 
 Gibbs, Lilla, - - Clierry Vale, Kan. 939 
 Glidden,Rev.K.B., Mansfield Cent., Mass. 1003 
 Garner, W. Scott, - Tunnelton, W.Va. 973 
 Goodloe, James L., - Memphis, Tenn. 1039 
 Greene, Mrs. Clara M., - Portland, Mo. 865 
 Griffin, George Butler, Los Angeles, Cal. 979 
 Grisson, Arthur C, - New York City. 1031 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 IX 
 
 Hammoiid,Mrs.L.H.,Stroug's Prairie, VVis.912 
 Hardeu, Rev. Jolui. - Kokomo, Iiid. 904 
 Hardy, Mrs. Lizzie C, - Red Cedar, Wis. 966 
 Harris, Alfred \V., - Louisville, Ky. 834 
 Harris, Milo Jenkins. - Camdeu,Obio. 1057 
 Hendrick, Rev. VV. L., - Bangor, N.Y. 888 
 Hills, Lucius P., - - Atlanta, Ga. 998 
 Hoag-, Mrs. Carrie W., - Peabody, Mass. 816 
 Hoag-, Charles E., - Peabody, Mass. 815 
 Hodges, Daniel F., - - Phillips, Me. 930 
 Holland, Edward, - - ludio, Cal. 796 
 Holloway, Elvira H., San Francisco, Cal. 820 
 Hortou, Metta, - - Stamford, N.Y. 1058 
 Houston, Dr. Emei-son, - FuUerton, Neb. 977 
 Hovey, Rev. H. C. - Bridgeport, Conn. 1024 
 Howe, Fred Allison, - Ann Arbor, Mich. 812 
 Howe, Mrs. Harriet. - Los Angeles, Cal. 935 
 Hoxsie, Anna Maude, - Buffalo, N.Y. 1047 
 Hoyt, Mrs. EUen, - - Gallon, Ohio. 921 
 Hulin, Edwin Seymour, - Erwin, Tenn. 773 
 Huntington, Mrs. M.H.,Watertown, N.Y. 960 
 Huse, Mary Stieknej', Princeton, Minn. 1013 
 Harmon, Abner W., - Old Orchard, Me. 1077 
 Harrison, Narcissa, - Waco, Texas. 1085 
 Hibben, Mrs. Ida W., - Sheridan, 111. 1073 
 Hobart, Rev. Milo, - Rogers, Ark. 1083 
 
 Jenness, Herbert E., - Maiden, Mass. 887 
 Jolinsou, Cliauncy A., - Mllford, Iowa. 923 
 Johnson, Charles Nelson, - Chicago, 111. 796 
 Jones, Florence Augusta, Hampton, la. 1019 
 Jones, Isaac Edgar, - Muskegon, Mich. 831 
 Jackson, Hortense Cora,Jamestown,Ind. 1084 
 Jones, E. L. - - - Patoka, Ind. 1088 
 
 Kent, Mariner J., - Los Angeles, Cal. 987 
 Kettoman, G.W., Blue Ridge Summit, Pa. 774 
 Klldow, Jr., Rev. G. W., Nashville, Tenn. 957 
 King, Rev. John Wesley, - Silverton, Col. 920 
 Kingsbury, Mrs. E. A., Los Angeles, Cal. 885 
 Kramer, Rev. George R., Brooklyn, N.Y. 983 
 Kruse, Mrs. Blanche. - Ft. Recoverj', O. 951 
 
 Lamb, Mrs. Philomela T., - Holly, Mich. 923 
 Lanphere, Alvin T., - Coldwater, Mich. 769 
 Lehman, Emma A., - Salem, N. H. 926 
 Lewis, Col. Juan, - Washington, D. C. 863 
 Lillle, Mrs. R. Shepard, - Melrose, Mass. 1022 
 
 *- 
 
 MacCulloch, Hunter, 
 MacDonald, Rufus C. 
 Mackay, Charles H.. 
 Mahoney, Mary G., - 
 Mains, Mrs. Ann E., 
 Maloney, T. H. C, - 
 
 - Philadelphia. Pa. 805 
 
 Boston, Mass. 845 
 
 Boston, Mass. SOS 
 
 San Francisco, Cal. 999 
 
 - Wakeman. Ohio. 965 
 - Scranton, Pa.l045 
 
 Mann, Samuel E., - - Apopka, Fla. 875 
 Martin, MoUie, - Jamestown, Ind. 969 
 Martin, Mrs. M. A. B., - St. Louis, Mo.1060 
 Mason, D.D., Rev. Javan K., Heriidon, Va. 967 
 Mathis, Mrs. J. E., - Santa Barbara, Cal. 871 
 Maxwell, Hu, - St. George, W Va. 821 
 McAdoo, Prof. Wm. G., Knoxville, Tenn. 881 
 McCauley, James, - - Leeds, Md. 989 
 McCourt, David W., - St. Paul, Minn. 839 
 McFadden, Flavius E., - Fairfield, Me. 939 
 McGregor, F. Helen, - Beckwith, Tenn. 874 
 McHenry, Mrs. Ellen J., - Berkeley, Cal.1038 
 Mclntyre, Horace, - Ainsworth, Neb. 971 
 Messenger, Mrs. L. R., Washington, D. C. 869 
 Jliller, Daniel F., - - Keokuk, la. 814 
 Miller, William Lewis, - Ukiah, Cal.1046 
 M'Makin, Mary Aug., Washington, D. C. 993 
 Moody, Joel, - Mound City, Kans. 857 
 I^Ioore, Martin v., - Auburn, Ala.10.37 
 Moore, Thomas R., - Santa Barbara, Cal. 959 
 Moss, Leon F., - Los Angeles, Cal. 853 
 Moway, Duane, - - Mauston, Wis. 792 
 Muuholhind, Ward D., Farmerville, La. 902 
 Muslck, John R., - Kirksville, Mo. 813 
 
 Nealis, Mrs. Jean E. W 
 Nettleton, Charles P., - 
 Newell, Charles M., 
 Newell, Mrs. Laura E., - 
 Nicol, Robert B., 
 Nichols, Roland Albert, 
 Nicum, Mrs. Ada Smith, 
 Noble, Mary Ella, 
 
 Ft. Dufiferin, N.B.1034 
 
 - Hayward, Cal. 870 
 Boston, Mass. 823 
 
 - Zeandale, Kan. 928 
 Milford. la. 943 
 
 Hiram. O. 990 
 
 Cincinnati, O. 996 
 
 Athens, Ga. 968 
 
 Norris, Rev. John Sam., Webster City, Ta. 
 
 Oadams, Rev. T. S., - Maquoketa, Ta. 905 
 O'Bleness, Hamilton C.,Los Angeles, Cal.1069 
 
 Pabor, William Edgar, - Denver, Colo. 841 
 Paige, Charles L., - - Shasta. Cal. 829 
 Paine, Albert Bigelow, - Ft. Scott, Kan. 895 
 Parsons, Charles Case, - Wakeman, O. 963 
 Pelton, John Cotter, - - Otay. Cal. 994 
 Pierce, Rev. David F.. S. Brittain, Conn. 989 
 Pierce, Clara, - New Bedford, Mass. 963 
 Pierson, Delaven L., - Pliiladelphla, Pa. 891 
 Plumley.D.D., G.S., Greenfield Hill, Conn. 970 
 Pomeroy. Mrs. Genie C, Hoquiam. Wash. 889 
 Pratt, Alice Edwards, - Santa Rosa, Cal. 916 
 Rusmussen, Jennie H., Albert Lea, Minn. 974 
 Reid. Mrs. Mary J., - Alameda, Cal. 890 
 Reinhart, Sophie. - Portland. Ore. 931 
 Reynolds, Mrs. Frances, - Mariposa, Cal. 995 
 Rich, Mrs. Caroline W. D., Lewiston, Me. 934 
 Rief, Cliarles, - Grand Island, Neb. 777 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Rigg-s, Luther Granger, Genoa June, Wis. 825 
 Robinson, Harriet H., - Maiden, Mass. 855 
 Robinson, Rev. Jolin B., - Lemont, 111. 817 
 Rogers, Mrs. Anna M., San Francisco, Cal.1053 
 Roe, Mrs.Grace Duffle, Battle Creek.Mieh. 771 
 Ross, Truman D., - - Dake, Colo. 901 
 Russell, Rev. Amos B., Gilmanton, N. H. 915 
 Ruth, Mrs. Delia T., - Muscatine, la. 964 
 
 Salisbury, Joseph B., Barre Center, N.Y.1065 
 Schroeder, Charles H., Washington, Mo.lOlO 
 Scott, Laurence W., - Paris, Texas. 819 
 Severy, Melvin Linwood, - Boston, Mass. 91.3 
 Shapleigh, Mrs. May C, - St. Louis, Mo. 827 
 Sheeleigh, D. D.. M., Ft. Washington, Pa. 958 
 Shelhamer, Mrs. S. Ella. - Pasadena, Cal. 899 
 Shortridge, Mrs. Belle H., Ft. Worth, Tex. 961 
 Sibbet, Dr. S. D., - Beaver Falls, Pa. 780 
 Simmons, Mrs. Narcissa J., Flippin, Ky. 948 
 Sinnickson, Robert, - Trenton, N. J. 778 
 Slaughter, Mrs. Linda W., Bismarck, N.D.1027 
 Smith, Arthur E., - Belcher, N.Y. 975 
 
 Smith, Dexter, - - Boston, Mass.lOll 
 SmiMi, James Jackson M., - Burnet, Tex.1028 
 Smyth, Mrs. Louisa C, - Dresden, 0., 937 
 Sosso. Lorenzo, - San Francisco, Cal. 856 
 Spears. Lulu Emma, - Avalon, Mo. 793 
 Staley, M. Victor, - Appleton, Wis. 976 
 Stambaugh, Mrs. Ettie C, Herman, Neb. 986 
 Steele, Clarence T., - New York City. 1059 
 Stevens, Joseph Lay. - Mapleton, Minn. 1009 
 Stickney, Julian Noyes, Groveland, Mass. 851 
 Stray, Ermina C, - - Noble, O.1071 
 Strong, Rev. Philip B., - Malone, N.Y. 894 
 Strong, Joseph Dwight, - Oakland, Cal. 909 
 Sturm, Mrs. Olga Louisa, - Cleveland, O. 984 
 Suddick, Mrs. Louise P., - Cuba. Mo.l063 
 Sweet, Daniel J., Sweet's Corners, Mass. 938 
 Scanlon, Anna C.,. - Mt. Ida, Wis.1080 
 Stewart, Marcus A., - San Jose, Cal.1088 
 
 Talman, John, - - St. Paul, Minn.1033 
 Tascher, Mrs. Elbe, - Stevens Pt., Me.l025 
 Thomas, Mrs. A. K., Battle Creek, Mich. 954 
 Thompson, Mrs. Emma, - Easton, Pa. 861 
 Todd, Mrs. Mary Ives, Los Angeles, Cal. 867 
 
 Tubbs, Arthur Lewis, Glens Falls, N.Y. 795 
 Tupper, Fred. A , Shelbourne Falls. Mass. 1049 
 Tuttle, Mrs. Emma R., BerUn Heights, O.1043 
 Truman, Stella, - - Opelousas, La. 1081 
 Underwood, Mrs. Lizzie, - Dayton, Va.l007 
 Urner, Clarence Henry, - Richmond, Va. 914 
 Vance, Hart, - - Louisville, Ky. 988 
 Van Loon, Mrs. Hannah, Philadelphia, Pa.l026 
 Van Nada. L. Belle, - Petersburg, Ind.1030 
 Varney, Mrs. F. G., Windham Center, Me.l004 
 Visscher, Wm. L., - Fairhaven, Wash. 1061 
 
 Walcott. Mrs. Edith F., - Oxford, Mass. 911 
 Walker, Justin Elisha, - Nashua, N. H. 900 
 Walser, George H., - - Liberal, Mo.1031 
 Warren, Mrs. Mary E., - Fox Lake, \\is. 993 
 Waterman, Mrs. IdaF., Frankfort, S.Dak. 991 
 Waugh, Rev. John, - Cohocton, N.Y.1005 
 Weber, George Leo, - St. Louis, Mo. 945 
 ^Yebster, George W. D., - Geneva, O. 883 
 Weeks, Leroy Titus, - Osborne, Kan. 942 
 Weir, Joseph Latimer, - Orlenda, Tenn. 873 
 Welty, Edwin Arthur, - Oregon, Mo. 10.51 
 Wert, J. Howard. - Harrisburg, Pa. 836 
 West, Mrs. Flora C, - Evansville. Wis.lG67 
 White, Courtland S., - Halsted, Kan. 798 
 White, Samuel Leander, Wakefield, Mass. 982 
 Whitney, Orson F., Salt Lake City, Utah. 776 
 Wiggin, Jas. B., Campbridgeport, Mass. 811 
 M'illard, Horace B., Fort Atkinson, Wis. 781 
 Williams, Byron B.. - Charles City, la. 936 
 Willson, Lou Valeria, - Jackson, Mich. 972 
 Wilson, Lucy, - - - Vanlue, O. 937 
 Winesburg, Mrs., - Wheeling, W. Va. 950 
 Winslow, Helen, - Roxbury, Mass. 844 
 
 Wixon, Susan Ellen. - Fall River, Mass. 807 
 Wright, Mrs. C. M. H., - Blaine. 111. 785 
 Warner, Dr. A., - - Ainsworth, Neb. 1076 
 Williams, Maggie D., - Livermore, Ky.l086 
 W' yman, Mrs. Sarah E., - Weston, Mich.1082 
 
 Yancey, Mrs. Belle, - Bunker Hill. 111. 859 
 Yates, John Henry, - Batavia, N.Y. 1020 
 Foung, Daniel Kissam, New York City. 1041 
 Young, Mrs. Mary H., Chautauqua, N.Y.1033 
 
 •*- 
 
¥^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Atkins, Mrs. Anna C, Corvallis, Ore- 
 Atkinson, Geo. W., Wheeling-, W. Va. 
 
 Albee, Jolin, 
 AUmond, M. B., 
 AUsopp, Mrs. A., 
 Anders, Matilda A., 
 
 New Castle, N. H. 
 
 Louis%'ille, Ky. 
 
 Temescal, Cal. 
 
 Plymouth, la. 
 
 Austin, Mrs. Harriet B., Woodstock, 111. 
 Allen, Lyman W.. - Newark, N. J. 
 Alldredge, Wm. V., Trinity Station, Ala. 
 Auringer, Rev. C, Northwood, N. Y. 
 Adee, David G., - Washington, D. C. 
 
 Baxter, James Phinney, . ortland. Me. 
 Beck, Mrs. Martha G., Yakima,Wash. 
 Berry, Jos. St. E., - Montrose, Colo. 
 Baxter, Mrs. C A., - Spirit Lake, la. 
 Blake, Edith, - - Viroqua, Wis. 
 Brewerton, Col. G D., Tacoma, Wash. 
 Beery, Mrs. AdalineH.,Hunting:don, Pa. 
 Bergoflf, Mrs. Hattie, Centerviile, S. D. 
 Barton, Mrs. Anna, 
 
 Paw Paw, Mich. 
 
 Rimersburg, Pa. 
 
 Iowa, 
 
 Wooster, Pa. 
 
 Appleton, Wis. 
 
 Baker, Jennie A., 
 
 Buck, Emily, 
 
 Bickerstaph, G. 
 
 Baer, Mrs Libbie C 
 
 Burrage, Rev Henry' S., Portland, Me. 
 
 Bates, Mrs. E W F., Roslindale, Mass. 
 
 Bellows, Johnson, - Chicago, 111. 
 
 Barnes, Mrs. I., - Teanaway, Wash. 
 
 Baker, E. D., - West Millville, Pa. 
 
 Benedict, Mrs Sarah W., Roscoe, 111. 
 
 Bclk, Mrs A E., - - Jasper, Tex. 
 
 Bailey, Newton S., 
 
 Borah, Mrs- Mary M., 
 
 Boyd, B. F.. 
 
 Bogart, G H., 
 
 Bellefonte, Pa. 
 Gove City, Kan. 
 
 Lock wood. Mo. 
 Brookville, Ind. 
 
 @>riggs. Rev. W. T., East Douglas, Mass. 
 
 Bristol, Mrs. A C, 
 Brooks, Fred. E , 
 Brown, Theron, 
 Bruce, G L,, 
 Buss, Rev. W. H. 
 Burr, Rev. E. F., 
 Brown, Mrs N. L., 
 Burr, Rev. W. N., 
 Beach, E. C, 
 Beard, J L., 
 Brown, Louise H., 
 Brooks, W. G., 
 Bates, K. L.. 
 Beets, Mrs. Mary F., 
 Bartol, Dr. C A., 
 Billings, Homer A., 
 Bashford, Herbert, 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 San Francisco, Cal 
 
 Newtonvllle, Mass. 
 
 Marshall, Tex. 
 
 Deadwood, S. D. 
 
 Louisville, Ky. 
 
 - San Jacinto, Cal. 
 
 Ashton, 111. 
 
 Winston, N. C. 
 
 Crawfordville, Ind. 
 
 Saco, Me. 
 
 Welleslej", Mass. 
 
 Gardner, Kan. 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 Fabius, N. Y. 
 
 Tacoma, Wash. 
 
 1263 
 UK} 
 11.50 
 1227 
 11.57 
 1163 
 1333 
 1315 
 1365 
 1395 
 1253 
 
 1269 
 1359 
 1363 
 1386 
 1285 
 1350 
 1335 
 1333 
 1341 
 1333 
 1363 
 1364 
 1383 
 1257 
 1249 
 1355 
 1183 
 1160 
 1145 
 1161 
 1337 
 1197 
 1261 
 1163 
 1119 
 1135 
 1144 
 1239 
 1173 
 124;^ 
 1184 
 1242 
 1253 
 1245 
 1087 
 1090 
 1078 
 1240 
 1099 
 1084 
 1113 
 1099 
 
 CliamberIain,Wm. R., - Chicago, 111. 
 Crocker, Mrs. Manda L., Shelby, Midi. 
 Cooke, Mrs. Isabella W., Salem, Ore. 
 Conway, John D., - Lawrence, Mass. 
 Cope, Caleb S., - West Chester, P. 
 Cooper, Mrs. S. B., San Francisco, Cal. 
 Cooper, Charles, Salt Lake City-, Utah. 
 Chapman, John A., Newberry, N. C. 
 Christian, Miriam . - . . 
 Cox, Palmer, - - New York City. 
 Chandler, Dr. W. T., Campbellsville, Ky. 
 Campbell, W. H., - - Algona, la. 
 Cawein, Madison, J., Louisville, Ky. 
 Cheney, J. V., - San Francisco, Cal. 
 
 Chisholm, Thos. 0., 
 Clarke, Rev. A. T., 
 Clarke, Mrs. Susan C, 
 Clarke, Mrs. M. M., 
 Collier, Mrs. Ida L., 
 Cook, Wm. H., 
 Cooley, Mrs. A. K., 
 Copeland, G. D., 
 Cruikshank, G. H., 
 Cummings, Mrs. J. 
 Curtis, Mrs. M. L., 
 Carl, Luman, 
 Grosser, David, 
 
 Franklin, Ky 
 
 Atlanta, Ga. 
 
 Livermore, la. 
 
 Sheldahl, la. 
 
 Dubuque, la. 
 
 Poultney, Vt. 
 
 Sau Francisco, Cal. 
 
 San Diego, Cal. 
 
 Del.aware, O. 
 
 Falmouth. Me. 
 
 Oakland, Cal. 
 
 Summit, N.Y. 
 
 Davis, Mrs. J. B., Central Village, Mass. 
 Davis, M. K., Central Village, Mass. 
 
 Delke, Jas. A., - High Point, N. C. 
 DeMoss, J. A., - - Thayer, Kan. 
 
 Dickinson, C. M., Binghampton, N.Y. 
 Dickerman, Benoni, - Constantia, O. 
 Dine, Richard, - - Friend, Neb. 
 
 Dixon, W. O., - - Hookerton, N. C. 
 Dodge, V. v., - - - Beverly. O. 
 Dubbs, Rev. J. H., - Lancaster.Pa. 
 Duffield, Grace, • Bloomfleld, N- J. 
 Dunning, Rev. H. N., S. Norwalk, Conn. 
 Doyle, R. D.. - - - Norfolk, Va. 
 Dahlgren, Mrs. M., Boonsboro, Md. 
 
 Dickinson, Rev. C. E., Marietta, O. 
 
 Daniels, Mrs. Frances, DeLuz, Cal. 
 
 Demorest, Charlotte A., 'Towanda. Pa. 
 Dutcher, E. W., Minneapolis, Minn. 
 
 De Woodie, Mrs. Rose J., Houtzdale, Pa. 
 Du Bose, H M., San Francisco, Cal. 
 
 Donaghe, Miss R., - Parnassus, Va. 
 
 1385 
 1378 
 1283 
 1367 
 i:«6 
 i;i49 
 1317 
 1330 
 1087 
 1345 
 1253 
 1311 
 1333 
 1177 
 1170 
 1195 
 1186 
 1118 
 1103 
 11.33 
 1111 
 1201 
 1360 
 1137 
 1094 
 1374 
 1183 
 
 1181 
 1181 
 1124 
 1139 
 1207 
 1240 
 1098 
 1108 
 1199 
 1123 
 1341 
 1303 
 1368 
 1379 
 13;)6 
 i:j21 
 i:«7 
 1318 
 1375 
 1381 
 1346 
 
 Eckert, H. T., 
 Eells, Rev. M., 
 Evans, Alex, 
 Eldred, Ellen E,, 
 Esling, Clias. H. A.. 
 
 Sunbury, Pa. 1139 
 
 Union City, Wash. 1180 
 
 Louisville, Ky. 1364 
 
 Laurens. N.Y. 1279 
 
 Philadelphiu, Pa. 1*53 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Fegely.W 0., - Philadelphia, Pa. 
 Ferris, Luman A., Bernhards Bay,N.Y. 
 Fiun, Frank S., Mechanic Falls, Me. 
 
 Fitzmaurice, J.W., - Jackson, Mich. 
 Flamaiit, A., - - - Napa, Cal. 
 Ford. T. B., - - Frankfort, K5-. 
 
 Foster, Mrs. Harriet A. C, Wilton, N.H. 
 Foster, A., - - - Kezar, Colo. 
 French, Jessie v., - Nashville, Tenn. 
 Flag-g-, Rev. E. O., - New York, N.Y. 
 Fischer. Mrs. A. A., - Omaha, Neb. 
 Foster, Lydia Ann, Dorchester, Mass. 
 
 Gee, Edwin D., - 
 Gibson, James W., 
 Gleason, Gad, 
 Grant, Mary C, 
 Green. Calvin, 
 Gale, Charles F., 
 Gale, Mrs. Lucinda, 
 Getchell, Lora V., 
 Gray, Mrs. Sarah S. 
 Graham, Dr. A. G., 
 
 Hatheway, Flora O, - Conway, la. 
 Hoppin, Prof. James . - - . 
 
 Henry, Mrs. E. J. C, - Sterling-, HI. 
 Hall, M.L., - - - Omaha, Neb. 
 Hamilton, A. J., - Louisville, Ky. 
 Hapeman, Mrs. M. E., Baraboo.Wis. 
 
 Harlan, Hudson, - Ogallah, Kan. 
 
 Harlow, J. M., - - Charleston, 111. 
 Harmon, Abner W., Old Orchard, Me. 
 Harmon, Mrs., M., Minneapolis, Minn. 
 Harvey, J. C, - New York, N.Y. 
 
 Hasting-s, Horace L., - Boston, Mass. 
 Harrison, Narcissa, - Waco, 'Vex. 
 
 Hathaway, B., Little Prairie Ronde.Mich. 
 Hathaway, H. W., - Jersey City, N. J. 
 Hiatt, Harmon, - Crawfordsville, Ind. 
 Hibben. Mrs. Ida W., - Sheridan, 111. 
 Hobart, Rev. Milo, - Rogers, Ark. 
 Hoster, Mrs. Carrie W., Bluffton, Ind. 
 Howard, Fred W - Currie, Minn. 
 Hubbell, S. D., - - Lompoc, Cal. 
 Holt, Rev. J. W., - Burlington, N. C. 
 Hubner, Charles, - Atlanta, Ga. 
 
 1190 
 1075 
 1101 
 1079 
 1164 
 1242 
 1100 
 1121 
 1131 
 1299 
 13.59 
 1254 
 
 - Tennyson, Ind. 1142 
 
 Newton, 111. 1103 
 
 Michigan City, Ind. 1095 
 
 Linden, Va. 1241 
 
 Hebron,Wis. 1185 
 
 Beatrice, Neb. 1271 
 
 Lamar, Mo. 1281 
 
 Berwick, Me. 1325 
 
 - Alpena, S. D. 1.366 
 
 Detroit, Mich. 1376 
 
 1386 
 1386 
 1386 
 1115 
 1217 
 1213 
 1221 
 1219 
 1077 
 1138 
 1178 
 1125 
 1085 
 1205 
 1174 
 1089 
 1073 
 1083 
 1105 
 1147 
 1203 
 1295 
 1277 
 1291 
 1.369 
 13;J9 
 1.353 
 1357 
 1.363 
 1373 
 1378 
 1384 
 12.54 
 1258 
 12,50 
 1256 
 
 Hooper. George W., 1385 
 
 Harris, Franklin G., - Elba, Neb. 1255 
 Huggins, Eli L., Fort Sherman, Idaho. 12.51 
 Hopkins, Mrs. Louisa P., Boston, Mass. 1392 
 Holland, O.R., 1180 
 
 Ireland, Mrs. Mary E., Washington, D.C. 12.35 
 Imrie, John, - - Toronto, Can. 1351 
 
 Johnson, Annie B., 
 
 Humphrey, Nelson G., - LeRoy, 111. 
 Hall, Mrs. R. A., • Auburn, W.Va. 
 Hancock, Mrs. Charlotte, Waukon, la. 
 Haskell, T, N., - - - Nebraska. 
 Henry, Mrs. S. M. I., - Evanston, 111. 
 
 Harlow, Dana B., 
 
 Holden. Warren, - Philadelphia, Pa. 
 Hoyt. Mrs. Mattio A , - Chicago, 111. 
 Hewliiigs, Mrs. L. M., - . . - 
 
 Hendry, Mrs. B., - Tacoma.Wash. 
 Hayes, Lucy Agnes, - Maynard, Mass. 
 Hutson, Chnrles W., - Columbia, S. C. 
 Hanna.William, - Philadelpliia, Pa, 
 
 Portland. Me. 1200 
 
 Jackson, Cora, 
 Jones, E. L., . - - 
 Johnston, George P., 
 Jefifery, Mrs. Isadore G., 
 Jenkins, A. J., 
 
 - 1084 
 Patoka, Ind. 1088 
 
 Brooklyn, la. 1096 
 Chicago, 111. 1273 
 
 - Otay, Cal. 1282 
 
 Judson, Mary, 
 
 Charles City, la. 1252 
 
 Keefe. Mrs. S. C, - Oswego, Kan. 1137 
 Kirschbaum, Edw.T., N. Grafton, Mass. 1229 
 Kennedy, John D., - Altoona, Pa. 1274 
 Kempton, Wm. D., - Cincinnati. O. 1257 
 King, Anna Bronson, - Medina, O. 1250 
 
 Logan, Stephen H. - Coal Hill, .\rk. 
 Logan, Algernon S., Philadelphia, Pa. 
 Leavitt, Mrs. Mary A„ - Vernon, Ind. 
 Landon, Mrs. C, - Highlands, Colo. 
 Lindsay, Mrs. Rhoda S., Douglas, N. C. 
 Lockwood, Theo., Crystal Springs,Miss. 
 Longley, A. P., John Adams P.O., Cal. 
 Lathrop, Mrs. Mary T., Jackson, Mich. 
 Latimer, Laura M., - . - - . 
 Lewis, Mrs. Jennie, - West Side, la. 
 Leighton.Wm., - - Concord, Ma.ss. 
 
 Madeira, Geo., 
 Mariager, Mrs. N., 
 Marvin, Rev. E. P., 
 Mathesen, J. G., 
 Melville, Mrs.V. C, 
 Miles, Mrs. C. H., - 
 Moore, H. A., 
 Morse, W. E., 
 Moslier, Rev. A. E., 
 Murphy, Minnie, 
 Marsh, Mrs. Sophie, 
 Mason, Charles O., 
 MacKellar, Thomas, 
 McNincli. Maggie, 
 Moore, J. L., 
 Morrell, Dr. C. B., 
 McGriff. Mrs. Sadie, 
 Mason, ^[ary A.. 
 Merrill, Mrs. I.E. P. 
 Moore, .lames W., 
 McNeilly, Edwin L., 
 Meade, Mrs. Mary, 
 M;i.\.s(>n, Mrs. Emily 
 Morrison, Alfred H. 
 
 Healdsburg, Cal. 
 
 Santa Barbara, Cal. 
 
 - Lockport, N.Y. 
 
 Pilger, Neb. 
 
 Poynette, Wis. 
 
 ■ Cedar Hill, Tenn. 
 
 Wiscasset, Me. 
 
 Middli'ford, Mass. 
 
 Hastings, la. 
 
 Ciiicago, 111. 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 Glens Falls, N.Y. 
 
 , Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 Williamston. N.C. 
 
 Bethlehem, Ga. 
 
 Cincinnati, O. 
 
 Monroe, la. 
 
 Somerville, Mass. 
 
 Nashville, Tenti. 
 
 Clarksville.Tenn. 
 
 Decatur, III. 
 
 P., Detroit, Mich. 
 
 Canada. 
 
 1246 
 1307 
 1293 
 1328 
 1370 
 1342 
 1368 
 1358 
 1363 
 1.389 
 1216 
 
 1116 
 1189 
 1231 
 1134 
 1166 
 1146 
 1187 
 1148 
 1245 
 1167 
 1272 
 1326 
 1339 
 1310 
 1367 
 1287 
 1360 
 1361 
 1363 
 1364 
 1258 
 1251 
 1284 
 1390 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 

 3J, . _ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Nuftzer, G. E.. - Speiicerville, 0. 1158 
 
 Stanton, Henry T., - Franklin, Ky. 1151 
 
 
 Nolan, Daniel M., - Haverhill, Mass. 1371 
 
 Stapley, Mrs. L., - Belmond, la. 1188 
 
 
 Noj'es, Fannie, - - Onslow, la. 1351 
 
 Stewart, Mrs. E. W., - Altona, Colo. 1113 
 Stouffer, S. J.. - - Benevola, Md. 1136 
 
 
 Oliver, J. H., - - Granbury, Tex. 1247 
 O'Connell, D. J., - Owatonna, Minn. 1183 
 O'Riordau, James, Stony Hollow. N.Y. 1114 
 Ostrom, Ernest R., - Danbury, la. 1355 
 
 Street, Thos., - - Vineland, N. J. 1165 
 Street, Ida M., - Ann Arbor, Mich. 1345 
 Spurlock, Mrs. Phoebe A., Geneseo, 111. 1365 
 Sliuey, Mrs. Lillian H., - Lorin, Cal. 1389 
 
 
 Peay, Rev, J. H., - Trenton, Ten n. 1348 
 
 Skeats, Wilfred S., - Toronto, Can. 1375 
 
 
 Patten, William G., Manchester, N. H. 1348 
 
 Samuel, Selma,, - - Gretna, La. 1370 
 
 
 Page, Mrs. E., - San Franeisct>, Cal. 1140 
 
 Secor, Eugene, - - Forest ('ity. la. 1-301 
 
 
 Pang-born, F.W., - Jersey City, N.J. 1330 
 
 Smith, Mrs. Eva M., - Springfield, 111. 1331 
 
 
 Parli.W. G., - Mystic Bridg-e, Conn. 1304 
 
 Schaeg-gs, Mrs. Amy E., San Diego, Cal. 1155 
 
 
 Pendell, James F., - - Athol, N.Y. 1143 
 Phelps, Mrs. N., Mountain Home, Idaho 1338 
 Pickernig, Grace E., Portsmouth, N.H. 1363 
 Pinliley, Prof. V. A., - Cincinnati, O. 1336 
 Preston, Rev. J. P.. - Creighton, Neb. 11;56 
 Priestley, Mrs. K. E., - San Jose, Cal. 1315 
 Poole, Belle, - - Coving-ton, La. 1376 
 Pennock, M. C, - - Alliance, 0. 1313 
 
 Tanner, A. A., - - Oakley, Id. 1169 
 Thaxter, Mrs. C, Portsmoutli, N. H. 1140 
 Tillotson, Mrs. M. E., Vineland, N. J. 1171 
 Thomas, F. L., - - Lafayette, Ind. 1198 
 Thomas, John, - Skyauon, Ore. 1094 
 Thorpe, Mrs. Rose, Pacific Beach, Cal. 1193 
 Torrey, H. D., - S. Bridgeton, Me. 1091 
 Torrey, Amoret D., S. Bridgeton, Me. 1093 
 
 
 Ranney, Fletcher, - Boston, Mass. 1344 
 
 Truman, Stella, - - Opelouta, La. 1081 
 
 
 Ray, Mrs. R. B., Eureka Spring-s, Ark. 1335 
 
 Tripp, Howard C, - Kingsley, la. 1397 
 
 
 Reed, Mrs. Anna, - Laytouville, Cal. 1109 
 
 Thoniiis, Dr. W^ D., Grand Rapids, Mich. 1366 
 
 
 Richards, L. G., Salt Lake City, Utah. 1193 
 
 Thornhill, Commodore P., Columbia, L,-i. 1337 
 
 
 Rolie, Rev. T. S., - - Truro, Mass. 1154 
 
 Tillson, E. C, - - Deer Park, Md. 1344 
 
 
 Ruffin. Mrs. M. E., - Mobile, Ala. 1344 
 
 Tilley, Lucy E., - - Medina, 0. 13.50 
 
 
 Rhoads, Dr. Thomas, Boyertown, Pa. 1355 
 
 Toland, Mrs. M. B., San Francisco, Cal. 1387 
 
 
 ReQua, Mrs. H.W., - Batavia, 111. 1347 
 
 
 
 Rude, Mrs. B. C, St. Augustine, Fla. 1319 
 
 Upton, Charles Elmer, Placerville, Cal. 1347 
 
 
 Ross, William C, - - Omaha, Neb. 1363 
 
 Urich, Mrs. H. L., - Wilmot, Dak. 1159 
 
 
 Ryan, Mary C, - Obrine, Florida. 1373 
 
 
 
 Reed, Mrs. B. A., - - Chicago, 111. 1349 
 
 Van Tuyl, R., - Prattsburg, N.Y. 1310 
 Vaughan, J. B., - - Atlanta. Ga. 1179 
 
 
 Say ford, Marion W., Harrisburg-, Pa. 1156 
 
 Venable, W. H., - - Cincinnati, O. 1106 
 
 
 Siout, Adelaide, - - Buffalo, N.Y. 1311 
 
 Votow, Rev. E. H., - - Geneva, O. 1356 
 
 
 Shoemaker, Mrs., Morg-an Springs,Tenn. 1380 
 
 Vittum, Edmund March, - - - 1391 
 
 
 Swink, Mollie, - - - Minier, 111. 1,305 
 
 
 
 Sladen, Douglas, - New York City. 1306 
 
 Waite, H. C, - - St. Cloud, Minn. 1347 
 
 
 Smith, Mrs. Annie H., - Atlanta, Ga. 1S38 
 
 Wallace, Martin, - Huntsville, Tex. 1126 
 
 
 Snow, Mrs. Sophie, South Meriden, Ct. 1334 
 
 Warner, Dr. A., - Ainsworih, Neb. 1076 
 
 
 Stewart, Ale.xander, E. Toronto, Can. 1343 
 
 Weed, Mrs. Annie W., - Rose, N.Y. 1097 
 
 
 Stuntz, Mrs. Laura, - Alhambra, Cal. 1389 
 
 Wetniore. Hugh A. .West Superior, Wis. 1141 
 
 
 Stone, Mrs.Virgitiia P., - • - - 1360 
 
 White, Jas. T , - New York, N.Y. 133;} 
 
 
 Siiammo, Rosabel, - - Halifax, Pa. 1360 
 
 White, Mrs. Emma, Onset Bay, Mass. 1191 
 
 
 Seelye, Mrs. L. L., - - Geneva, O. 1363 
 
 Wicksteed, G. W., - Ottawa, Can. 1130 
 
 
 Stanley, Mrs. Ada, - Leicester, Vt. 1364 
 
 Wilcox, C. W., - Somerset, N.Y. 1107 
 
 
 Swaine, Mrs. C. Jennie, - . - - 1367 
 
 Wiley, Hon. W. L., . - Galva, HI. 1333 
 
 
 Smith, Mrs. M. J., - Long-wood, 111. 1383 
 
 Wilkes, Rev. W., - Syllacauga, Ala. 1303 
 
 
 Sageser, Mrs Mary B., - Stuart, Neb. 1130 
 
 Williams, Maggie D., Livermore, Ky. 1080 
 
 
 Scanlon, Anna C, - - Mt. Ida, Wis. 1080 
 
 Woodard, Rev. L., - Oskaloosa, la. 1175 
 
 
 Scholes, Adam, - - Detroit, Mich. 1337 
 
 Wright, Edward D., - Danville. Ind. 1117 
 
 
 Slater. Kate N., Spring-field, Mo. 1133 
 
 Wyman, Mrs. Sarah, Weston, Mich. 1083 
 
 
 Sleeper, Rev.W. T., Worcester, Mass. 1333 
 
 Wall, Mrs. Annie, - Pueblo, Colo. 1377 
 
 
 Slocum, Grace L., - Pawtucket, R. I. 1314 
 
 Wetherbee, Emily G , Lawrence, Mass. 1334 
 
 
 Smith, Mrs. J. L., Hudson, N.Y. 1330 
 
 Waters, Mrs. Elizabeth, - - - 1393 
 
 
 Smythe, Mary E.. - Columbia, Ky. 1341 
 
 Witham, Samuel M., Haverhill, Mass. 1333 
 
 
 Snow, Mrs. Effie G., Schell City, Mo. 1133 
 
 Ware, William Hibbert, Trenton, N. J. 1176 
 
 * 
 
 Spake, Mrs. M. J., - - Edon, O. 1093 
 
 Whitaker, Rev. R., - Salem, Ore. 1361 
 
 « 
 
m- 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL 
 
 POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 COLONEL GEO. W. WARDER. 
 
 Born: Richmond, Mo. 
 When but a boy in years Mr Warder taught 
 school, studied law, and was a practicing- at- 
 torney at riiillicothe, Mo. He is a lawyer, a 
 
 business man, ;i tiiKiiiciiT. a sclidlaf, and a 
 
 COLONEL GEO. -W. WARDER. 
 
 poet. Mr. Warder has issued three volumes 
 of verse, which liave attracted considerable 
 attention, and established for the author an 
 enviable reputati(ni ; in 1873 appeared Poetic 
 Writings or College Poems; in 1874 Eden Dell 
 or Love's Wanderings; and his third volume, 
 a collection of his finest poems, entitled 
 Utopian Dreams and Lotus Leaves, was is- 
 sued from the London press in 1885. Since 
 his residence in Katisas City, Col. Warder has 
 attained a position of prominence and influ- 
 ence in the communitj'. He is president of 
 the Mining E.xcliange, a director in the E.vpo- 
 sition Association, the Warder Grand Opera 
 House,Newsboys Home, and is connected with 
 many enterprises and charitable institutions. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 Methinks, o'er all the realms of space. 
 
 Creative hand ne'e;- meant to trace 
 A nobler form, or fairer face. 
 
 With brighter charm, or sweeter grace. 
 Than woman, who was sent to cheer 
 
 Man in his lonely, hapless fate. 
 With kindness and affection's tear. 
 
 And lead him to a higher state. 
 Her charming face and trusting heart 
 
 Wakes in his breast heroic flame; 
 For her he toils by strength and art. 
 
 To carve his way to wealth and fame. 
 He tills the soil, and sails the fleet. 
 
 Subdues the earth, explores its wilds, 
 To lay his treasures at her feet. 
 
 For her approving love and smiles. 
 In every land where women stand 
 
 In loving beauty by man's side. 
 His rudeness turns to manners bland. 
 
 And truth and honor in his pride. 
 First at the cradle and the grave. 
 
 With swelling heart and anxious breath. 
 She ope's the eyes of great and brave. 
 
 And shuts them in the glare of death. 
 Then lordly man, that scoffs at fear. 
 
 At your own hearth, or where ye roam. 
 Strive with true love to bless and cheer 
 
 This angel of our earthly home. 
 
 MEMORY AND IMAGINATION. 
 There's a world within as a world without, 
 And the mighty depths of the human soul 
 Is a boundless sea where the billows roll 
 To the zephyr'ssigh, and the thunder's shout; 
 Wliere voices come from the sobbing years 
 Like watching stars in their dreamy spheres. 
 And the soul, like earth in its mystic flight. 
 Is half in shadow and half in light. 
 Thou mighty magiciiins to stir the heart 
 To its silent depths with thy voice of tears. 
 Pouring its pathos of tremulous fears. 
 Till the troubled sea of the soul will start. 
 And feeling and passion like billows roll 
 From the sighing heart to the sobbing soul; 
 Eyes dreamy and blue as the tranquil sea; 
 Face beaming and changeful, pleasing and 
 fair; 
 
 ©- 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 34 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 * 
 
 Voice sad and sweet as a Miigdalen's prayer 
 To a pardoning Christ when He set her free. 
 Thy genius, purpose and mission grand 
 Teaches men to feel and their souls expand, 
 That mercy may blend with her loving eyes. 
 The joys of earth with the dreams of the 
 skies. 
 
 THY FACE IS FAIR AND LOVELY. 
 
 Thy face is fair and lovely. 
 
 Thine eyes are softly blue. 
 And who could help but love thee. 
 
 Who knows thy heart so true. 
 
 Who knows the wealth and depth of love 
 
 That in thy bosom glows. 
 The purity like heaven above, 
 
 That from thy spirit flows. 
 
 Thy soul looks through the doors of sight. 
 And beams from out thine eye 
 
 With golden light, both pure and bright, 
 As angels passing by. 
 
 And once I gazed into those eyes 
 That beam with heavenly thought, 
 
 And felt the ties of love I prize, 
 Still nearer to me brought. 
 
 That hour I never shall forget, 
 
 But memory will retain it. 
 And time will only deeper set 
 
 That diamond gem within it. 
 
 Then fleeting time did plume her wing, 
 
 And dip her feet in pleasure, 
 And from the streams of bliss tlid bring 
 
 Us gladness without measure. 
 
 The zephyrs sang unto the sea. 
 
 The golden stars were beaming. 
 While hope, like bird on pinions free. 
 
 Her sweetest dream was dreaming. 
 
 Endymion on the moonlit hills 
 Ne'er bathed in Cynthia's smiling. 
 
 And felt the sweet enrapturing thrills. 
 As in that hour's beguiling. 
 
 SB- 
 
 MARY ANDERSON. 
 Interpreter of truth and art. 
 
 With regal form and queenly grace? 
 
 A matchless poem is tiiy face, 
 Where glowing thoughts of beauty start 
 Like heart that speaketh unto heart. 
 What majesty of gentle truth 
 
 Is thy sweet charm of womanhood; 
 
 So winning, fair, and nobly good. 
 Like genius in its mystic youth, 
 A peerless thing of joy and truth. 
 Bright empress of a fairer land 
 
 Than czar, or king, or magnates rule. 
 
 Where beau.\v, heart and truth's at school. 
 
 And in angelic livery stand. 
 Like sunlit isles in summer laud. 
 Thou staudest proudly and alone 
 
 In art, expression, form and grace. 
 
 And changing beauties of tliy face. 
 And sweetness of thy voice and tone, 
 Like sceptred genius on a throne. 
 Then fair as love and sweet as bliss. 
 
 Press on and win the world's applause. 
 
 Nor in thj- charming splendor pause 
 Till deathless fame thj' brow shall ki.ss, 
 And heaven shall bring eternal bliss. 
 
 SADDEST THOUGHTS MAKE SWEETEST 
 SONG. 
 When the twilight shades are falling 
 And the even-tide is near. 
 
 Comes the voice of memory calling, 
 
 Soft as falling of a tear; 
 And from shadows dim and fleeting 
 
 Come the saddest songs and greeting; 
 Yet the sweetest that I liear. 
 And I dream the olden dreaming 
 
 In the gloaming by the way. 
 And life's rosy-tinted gleaming 
 
 Seems to crown the closing day; 
 And my heart and brain and being- 
 Wrapt in visions I am seeing. 
 
 Sad, yet brightest that I may! 
 O! our saddest thoughts are sweetest! 
 
 For they span a broader sea. 
 Soaring eagle-winged and fleetest 
 
 O'er the world of memory. 
 Hope crowned, heavenward and untiring. 
 To the good and loved aspiring. 
 
 They are calling unto thee. 
 Like tiie murmur of bright rivers 
 
 In the Islands of the Blest, 
 Wiiere the solemn music quivers 
 
 Like a birdling in its nest. 
 Come the smiles of those wlio love us 
 From the far-off heavens above us, 
 
 And our saddest songs are best. 
 
 KISS OUR DARLING AND CO.ME AWAY. 
 
 EXTHACT. 
 
 Dead! Our darling is dead, dear wife. 
 His angel spirit has heavenward fled; 
 His little feet will no longer tread 
 The rugged paths of this sorrowing life. 
 Kiss his forehead of marble claj'. 
 Kiss our darling and come away. 
 Fair was his lovely form, di-ar wife. 
 Bright and sunny his cherub face; 
 See what a dimple the angels did ti-ace. 
 When they kissed him tirst on the shores of 
 life. 
 Kiss him again, for only to-day 
 Can you kiss our darling, and come away. 
 
 © 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 * 
 
 MAYPERLEY. 
 
 Born: Lempster, N. H. 
 After receiving lier education at the Tilden 
 Female Seminary of West Lebanon, Miss Per- 
 ley became a school teacher. Her poems have 
 received extensive publication in the periodi- 
 
 MAY PERLEY. 
 
 cal press, and she is represented in The New 
 Hampshire Poets. Miss Perley is still a resi- 
 dent of her native place, where she is sur- 
 rounded by a host of friends and admirers. 
 
 ©• 
 
 THE VOICE OF NATURE. 
 Child of mine look all around you. 
 
 See the brook runs at your feet. 
 Laughing-, playing, leaping ever 
 
 On its destiny to meet. 
 
 With a voice of wondrous sweetness 
 Singing through the heat of day, 
 
 Fearless, undismayed, it glideth 
 Though it knoweth not the way. 
 
 Child of mine go to the forest 
 Where the oak lifts up its head; 
 
 Grand in solemn strength it standeth 
 Heeding not thy timid tread; 
 
 See its mighty arms outstretching. 
 Shield the tender violet blue. 
 
 Know you not the great All-Father 
 Spreads his sheltering arms o'er you? 
 
 Child of mine look up above you, 
 
 Up into the starry skies. 
 To those myriad worlds of glory 
 
 Raise your timid dazzled eyes ; 
 
 Think you of their awful wonder. 
 Of the race they eacli must run. 
 
 On for aye, sometimes in darkness, 
 'Round and 'round the sinning sun. 
 
 Think you of the years that wait them, 
 Changeless years of niglit and day. 
 
 Think you of the hand that guides them. 
 For they cannot lose their way. 
 
 Thus whatever may betide you. 
 There is One that knoweth best. 
 
 So lay down your head a moment, 
 Know that it is time for rest. 
 
 AFTER DARK. 
 Come now, imp of night, with your mirror - 
 
 For this is the true witching hour; 
 I'll look, if 'tis only to please you. 
 
 So come in your magical power. 
 
 O, fle! 'tis unjust, it is cruel 
 
 To show me the picture I shun ! 
 The weakness, the folly and blindness, 
 
 The deeds that 1 wish were undone. 
 
 I'll shut my eyes tight, little wizard, 
 
 I'll stop my ears, close as I can, 
 I'll hide my head under the pillow 
 
 Before I will see it again. 
 
 Your magic can show me another — 
 Yes many, with skies bright and fair — 
 
 Each life has one fertile oasis. 
 And mine has a bountiful share. 
 
 The sound of the bellowing tempest — 
 
 The sweetest of music to me. 
 The brook, as it laughed In its gladness, 
 
 And rushed to the wide rolling sea. 
 
 The great silent gloom of the forest. 
 The vast, changeless blue all above. 
 
 The words that from dear lips have fallen. 
 The smiles on the faces I love. 
 
 Then, too, is the mystical future 
 
 So full of its untasted bliss, 
 O. say ! little wizard, 1 know it, I feel it, 
 
 'Tis better than this. 
 
 It must be, each year brings the harvest, 
 The harvest of pleasure and pain, 
 
 But wisdom a recompense gives us. 
 Though blighted and worthless the grain. 
 
 No sound through the hush of the darkness 
 That down to my heart seems to sink — 
 
 'Tis sweet, but 'tis dreadful to lie here 
 With nothing to do but think. 
 
 © 
 
*^ 
 
 © 
 
 36 
 
 LOCAL, AND XATIONAI. POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 JULIA HARRIS MAY. 
 
 Born: Strong, Me. 
 After graduating- at Mt. Holyoke seminary, 
 Miss Julia H. May then spent several years 
 teaching in tlie south. Since 1868 Miss May 
 
 JULIA HARRIS MAY. 
 
 has been at the liead of a private school in 
 Strong. The poems of this lady have appear- 
 ed extensively in the leading religious and 
 literary journals. 
 
 «■ 
 
 IF WE COULD KNOW! 
 
 If we could know 
 
 Winch of us, darling, would be first to go. 
 
 Which would be first to breast the swelling 
 
 tide. 
 And step alone upon the other side, — 
 IE wc could know! 
 
 Tf it were you. 
 
 Should I walk softly, keeping death in view? 
 Should I my love to you most oft express? 
 Or, should I grieve you, darling, any less — 
 If it wore you? 
 
 If it were 1, 
 Should I iini)rove tlie moments flitting by. 
 Should I more closely follow God's givatplan. 
 Be filled with sweeter cliarity to man, 
 
 If it were I? 
 
 If we could know ! 
 
 Wecannot, darling; and 'tis better so. 
 
 I should forget, just as I do to-day. 
 And walk along the same old stumbling way, 
 If I could know. 
 
 I would not know 
 Which of us, darling, will be first to go. 
 I only wish the space may not be long 
 Between the parting and the greeting song,— 
 But when, or wher'3, or how we're called to go, 
 
 I would not know. 
 
 ARE THEY GLAD? 
 If she were here 
 
 To take my hand, and ask, " What is it dear?" 
 She would not see the furrows on my face. 
 Nor note the silver wliere the gold had place; 
 Upon my faded lij) she'd leave a kiss. 
 And whisper: " Darling," and she would not 
 
 miss 
 The vanished rose; or, if she did, would say, 
 " How you have ripened since I went away !" 
 The blemishes that others might despise 
 Would still be beautiful in mother's ej'es. 
 
 If she were here 
 
 She would not mind the changes; if a tear 
 
 Should fill my eye I know that she would see, 
 
 And give sweet consolation unto me; 
 
 Yet, in her heart, some things would little 
 
 heed. 
 Knowing how much their discipline I need. 
 And so, I think, though Heaven be not far. 
 And friends can see us even as we are. 
 They may be glad, like loving mothei-hood. 
 Because they know how all things work for 
 
 THE AWAKING. 
 
 As a sweet babj% from his morning dream 
 Awakes, sometimes, and lies without a 
 
 SOI aid. 
 And all Ids rose-bud fingers twirl around, 
 The wlule his violet-e.ves, half open, seem 
 Their petals to unfold, and jiink ch(>eks beam 
 As if glad thoughts the little brain had 
 
 found; 
 But, wlu'u the mother's step upon the 
 groutul 
 He hears, his red lips speak the word supreme 
 In niotlier's hearts, .. agoo," 
 
 So, we shall rise 
 Perchance, wiien we awake from life's brief 
 
 sleep. 
 Not all at once, l)ut lie in rapt surprise. 
 And eye and lip all motioidess shall keep 
 Until we spejik, as new-born powers expand. 
 Some glad sti'a.nge word, that God shall un- 
 derstand. 
 
 -« 
 
®- 
 
 J5 
 
 LOCAI^ AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 37 
 
 MRS. MYRA DOUGLAS. 
 
 BoRx: Adkian, Mich., 1844. 
 Heu father was a pliysieiau, of English and 
 Scotch parcatag-e; her mother of French ex- 
 traction. Mrs. Douglas married earlj' iu life 
 to soon wear the weeds of widowhood. Siie 
 has one cliild, a daug-liter, who inlierits her 
 nioihiT's talent'^. Mr<. Doiijjlas has l)een a 
 writer since rliildliciiid. hilt only ot late yeai's 
 
 MKS. MYHA DOLuI. V-. 
 
 have her stories and verses been before the 
 public. She lias contributed to many of our 
 best periodicals, among- them Waverly and 
 Ballou, of Boston, Baltimorean, Colman's Ru- 
 ral World, etc., and has been a contributor for 
 years to tlie St. Louis Critic, a weekly paper 
 of her own city. She has I'eceived letters of 
 congratulation from some of our most eminent 
 people. Mrs. ex-President Cleveland,Mrs. John 
 A. Log-an, Mrs. Hendricks: aLso Gen. G. I. 
 Beaureg-ard has wiitten lier words of praise 
 and thanks for some of her Poems of the 
 South. She lias every reason to be proud of 
 her success in her chosen career, and bids fair 
 to win a place among- " the few immortal 
 names that were not born to die." Mrs. 
 Douglas prefers to use her maiden name in 
 her work, and all her contributions bear the 
 same signature. 
 
 ®- 
 
 SHE WORKS FOR A LIVING. 
 She works for a living-, is none of your ilk. 
 In calico dressed, while y(jur gowns are of silk, 
 
 And tho' blessed with rare beauty of form 
 
 and of face. 
 She must e'er in humility keep her own place. 
 A child of the people, to work and to bear. 
 Her lot is to labor, her dower Is care. 
 
 What tho' her fair face is !i heritage grand. 
 Her form full of grace as the best of our land? 
 Her hands small and slender, tho' fated to 
 
 work. 
 With a heart strong', tho" tender, no duty to 
 
 sliirk. 
 Her dower is poverty, one of the poor. 
 Her aim is to keep the g-rim wolf from the 
 
 door. 
 A mother, with sisters so small and so de.'ir. 
 Have lived thro' her earnings for more than 
 
 a year; 
 Her father, who, once their protector and 
 
 pride. 
 Thro" fortune's cold frowns, broken-hearted 
 
 he died. 
 And left there behind him so helpless and 
 
 lone, 
 The ones he so loved in adversity thrown. 
 'Twas then that the daughter, the elde-st in 
 
 years. 
 So bravely put by all the bitterest tears. 
 And sought for employment to purchase the 
 
 bread 
 To keep from starvation the loved of the 
 
 dead. 
 To be to her family ever a staff. 
 And the bitter of life all so willingly quaff. 
 
 She goes to her labors with love in her heart. 
 Her work luis been blest, and they ne'er had 
 
 to part; 
 In a dear cosy home, tho' both humble and 
 
 small. 
 Where they all live together, no evils befall. 
 Where the wings of fond mother-love ever 
 
 abide. 
 And the hand of a sister doth kindly provide. 
 
 And she in her calico, humble and poor. 
 
 With her struggle with Fate, with the wolf at 
 her door. 
 
 Is fairer to me, with her pale, thoughtful 
 face. 
 
 Than the maidens of wealth with their fash- 
 ionable grace. 
 
 For a beauty of soul more than mortal doth 
 shine 
 
 On her face from high Heaven, so soulful, 
 divine. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I gaze upon this clover. 
 
 And thro" the past 1 roam. 
 Thro' long, lone years of changes, 
 
 Back to my childhood's home. 
 
 -® 
 
®- 
 
 38 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOETS OF A3IEIIICA. 
 
 THE LAND OF "MAYBE SO." 
 
 Oh! the beautiful huid of " May be so," 
 Where flowers of sweetest perfume grow, 
 Beneath the bluest of summer skies 
 A country rare, to glad our eyes. 
 We roam the realms of ethery air 
 Beyond the bounds of earthly care, 
 Where Fate her smiles on us bestow — 
 In the beautiful land of " May be so." 
 We wander thro' that lovely land. 
 With " best beloved "— aye — hand in hand, 
 We find a little cottage home, 
 Beneath the shade of Heaven's dome. 
 We fold our wings and build a nest, 
 Where mutual love shall ever rest. 
 Ah! what delight the heart may know 
 In blissful realms of " May be so." 
 All sorrows there have passed awaj'. 
 The sun sliines out with gladdening ray, 
 The air is balmy —odorous —sweet, 
 Our hearts so full of joy complete. 
 We raise our eyes in prayer to Heav'n, 
 For restful peace to bosom given. 
 While soothing zephyrs softly blow 
 The Lotus gales of " May be so." 
 
 DUAL LIFE. 
 'Tis said we live a double life. 
 In beams of joy or hours of strife, 
 In moments gay or sorrows rife. 
 
 That make our lot. 
 That waking hours we know are one. 
 In which our honors all are won. 
 And noble acts and deeds are done, 
 
 As our allot. 
 The other is the land of dreams. 
 Where all is weird, though truth it seems, 
 Wliere oft we float o'er silvery streams, 
 
 So happy we. 
 Where every cloud has passed away. 
 And all is bright as gladsome day. 
 And flowers bloom beside our way. 
 
 So joyously. 
 Sometimes we know deep sorrow there. 
 The troubles dire, the load of care. 
 That portioned as our earthly share. 
 
 Doth spirit grieve. 
 But then comes to us, it doth seem. 
 The hajipy thought, -'Tis but a dream," 
 And light doth in the bosom beam. 
 
 And joy receive. 
 The friends we loved gone o'er the stream. 
 We find them in tliat " Land of Dream," 
 And greet them warm, by love supreme. 
 
 With outstretched hand. 
 Their eyes are beaming, bright as stars, 
 We leap the golden, shining bars, 
 Wliile nothing our fond rapture mars 
 
 On shining strand. 
 
 ©• 
 
 There father, mother, husband, wife. 
 The child more dear than even life. 
 Ah me! their loss what anguish rife. 
 
 The heart opprest. 
 But all together, there we meet 
 The ones we loved, witli joy replete. 
 Their faces smiling, do we greet, 
 
 In liome of rest. 
 So if our waking hours are sad. 
 Our slumbers may be briglit and glad. 
 Our aching heart In peace be clad. 
 
 E'en for a time. 
 Awhile forgot our woeful loss, 
 The crown of thorns, the lieavy cross. 
 The spirit all so tempest tossed, 
 
 In sleep sublime. 
 Oh, slumber, sweet to weary soul. 
 Whose spirit yearns beyond control, 
 To fly unto the heavenly goal. 
 
 And vanished friends — 
 We thank thee for thy soothing power. 
 For dreams tliat soothe as Lotus flower. 
 For years of bliss witiiin the hour. 
 
 That slumber lends. 
 
 KISMET -FATE. 
 E'en at our birth exists a mighty power. 
 That rules our life as with a sceptre grand. 
 No will of ours can stay his .stern command, 
 Nor change one jot decrees of day or hour. 
 That mark for us the limit of our breath. 
 And tells the time thy summons comes, O 
 
 death. 
 We may forget his eye is ever stern ; 
 Unyielding, firm, his mandates e'er remain; 
 No softening pity harbor can obtain, [burn. 
 While life and all its pleasures through us 
 We may forget, but ever close and near 
 That power exists, so cold, so dark and drear. 
 At times the sun may shine upon his face. 
 And wake alight of splendor and of joy, 
 Wliile happiness a time our hours employ. 
 That darker days and sorrows may ettace. 
 But ah ! as stern as e'er he was l)efore. 
 That power remains till life for us is o'er. 
 
 What though we kneel, and lifting hands to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Do i)l(>.id in i)rMy(M' for mercies for our soul. 
 And helping liands to lead us to the goal. 
 Where peace awaits the hearts by sorrow 
 
 riviMi, 
 Yet adam.-indni' doih that power remain, 
 As firm and cold, unpityiiig all our pain. 
 O Power great ! unheeding all otn will. 
 Who rules the world with cold, unfeeling rod, 
 Tliou cold vicegei'cnt of a pardoning (Jod, 
 Our heartswith calm siil)inission wilt thou All, 
 Till at the last life's wearied race is run. 
 The heart exclaims in peace. Thy will be done. 
 
 -^ 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 39 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. LOUS. BEDFORD. 
 
 Mrs. Lou Bedford's first work, AVision and 
 Other Poems, was publistied in 1881, and by 
 permission was re-produced in London. This 
 vohime elicited many fine enconiums from 
 such men as Ohver Wendell Holmes, Long- 
 fellow, and Paul H;iyne. In 1888 appeared 
 
 
 MRS. LOU S. BEDFORD. 
 
 Gathered Leaves, a very fine collection of her 
 later poems. This lady has had six children — 
 three sons gTown to manhood reside in Dal- 
 las, Texas; the youngest child and only living- 
 daughter is attending- college. The other two 
 children, a grown daughter and son, with 
 their father, are resting- under the " shadow 
 of the trees." Personally Mrs. Bedford is of 
 medium height and size, with black liair 
 slightly threaded with gray, and dark-brown 
 eyes. This lady is still a resident of Dallas. 
 
 ©- 
 
 EVENING TIME BEST. 
 There are who say that evening- time is best 
 When everything in Nature sinks to rest; 
 Altho' the morning- hour is passing- fair, 
 With warmth and beauty springing- every- 
 where. 
 And Hope a-brooding- in the balmy air. 
 And drowning- with g-lad music anxious 
 Care, 
 Still, many hold that evening- time is best. 
 Full well T know that evening- time is best 
 To one a-weary and in need of rest; 
 
 But surely morning-, with its rosy light 
 A-sweepingback tiie curtains of the night, 
 Until the earth, all beautiful and bright. 
 Bursts forth in one grand anthem of de- 
 light. 
 
 To Youth and joyous Childhood is the best. 
 
 But O! to me the evening- time is best! 
 For I am tired and I sigh for Home — 
 1 long beneath my Father's roof to rest. 
 To lean my head upon my Brother's 
 
 breast — 
 I watch the sun declining- to the west. 
 
 Rejoicing- that the Evening- time is come ! 
 
 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 
 How sad, how very sad It would be. 
 
 When the toils of life shall be done. 
 And we shall ascend above the sky 
 
 To meet the Eternal One, 
 If in our arms, instead of sheaves. 
 We should bear a bundle of worthless leaves. 
 'Tis true, they miglit very beaut'ful be — 
 
 Green, crimson, and golden, too, — 
 And gathered fresh from the parent stem. 
 
 And glistening witli morning- dew; 
 But they'd not sufHce for want of sheaves. 
 Those beautiful, graceful, dewy leaves. 
 Yet such, I fear, my portion 't will be, 
 
 Tho' I've labored and sorrowed here; 
 And have hoped to reap a rich reward 
 
 In a brighter, happier sphere; 
 But O, I feel that I liave no sheaves — 
 Have naught but a bundle of fading- leaves. 
 Methinks, perchance, the Savior will look 
 
 At my wayworn, bleeding feet. 
 And a gentle smile of pity and love 
 
 My averted eyes will meet; 
 That he'll not condemn tho' I bear no 
 
 sheaves — 
 Have simply a bundle of worthless leaves. 
 'T is well He knowcth how frail we are. 
 
 And remembereth we are dust; 
 And giveth us grace in our darkest hour 
 
 In His Righteousness to trust; 
 Else fatal 't would be, instead of sheaves. 
 To carry a bundle of worthless leaves. 
 Sometimes I tire of the burden of life. 
 
 And long for the hour of rest; 
 Aye, fain would I lay my aching head 
 
 On my loving- Savior's breast; 
 I gro'w so wearj-, instead of sheaves. 
 Of bearing- this burden of useless leaves. 
 Dear Savior! teach me to look to Thee, 
 
 And trust in Thy grace alone; 
 And help me do, as the years go past. 
 
 All my duties, one by one. 
 That I m-ay bring- Thee, instead of leaves, 
 A. bundle of beautiful, g-oldcn sheaves. 
 
 -* 
 
^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 40 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 SILENT STEPS. 
 
 Unheed-3d all, the silent Hours 
 Pass outward, one by oue ; 
 So much amid the Past we love, 
 Or castles of To Come, wejiiove. 
 We scarcely deem the Present ours. 
 
 Until, percliance, 'tis gone; 
 Gone with its record, darker fair — 
 For all life's deeds are written there. 
 In silence, too, the hurrying- Years 
 Pass outward, one by one; 
 We almost deem Time's silver sands 
 Are lying idle in our iiands — 
 Thougli blotted here and there with tears - 
 
 Until they, too, are flown; 
 Or, furrowed brow and frosted hair 
 Tell how the Years are passing there. 
 
 EXTKACTS FROM A VISION. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 From o'er the hills 
 Tliat lie so dark against the southern skj", 
 Float gentle zephyrs that through all the day 
 Have wandered 'mid the orange groves, o'er 
 
 beds 
 Of violets, and by the cool, clear streams: 
 And now they come, bearing upon their 
 
 wings 
 Tlie low, sad music of the distant pines. 
 And the strange odors as of tropic flowers, 
 Sweet as the breath of Eden. 
 
 THE poet's home. 
 
 And this we find, the world's his home; its 
 
 trees. 
 Vales, mountains cataracts, its glorious 
 
 views ; 
 Its streams, lakes, bays, straits, oceans, gulfs 
 
 and seas — 
 ."^ill pay a grateful tribute to his muse; 
 And yet, not of the world, he treads alone 
 A temple consecrated all his own — 
 A sacred temple, beautiful and fair. 
 Above the jarring sounds of earth and air. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 With slippered feet, but ling'ring step, gray 
 Dawn, 
 
 Parting the sable curtains Night had draped 
 
 About the gorgeous couch where Nature 
 slept, 
 
 Came up the eastern stair. Awhile she paus- 
 ed 
 
 Upoa the threshold; but the star, that 
 gleam 'd 
 
 So brightly on her forehead, heralded 
 
 The full-orbed day; the darkness backward 
 swept. 
 
 And Morning flashed her beams uiwn the 
 world ! 
 
 ©- 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM GATHERED LEAVES. 
 
 the poet's songs. 
 Immortal and pure, methinks that Song 
 
 Is an angel that walks the world of men ; 
 And every emotion, deep and strong. 
 
 Tells of her presence, herself unseen; 
 And the Poet, chosen and set apart 
 
 To give true voice to this sacred Guest, 
 Must feel, if he'd stir the great world's heart. 
 
 The sting of the thorn in his own breast. 
 not dead. 
 Not dead I The strain can never die 
 
 That trembles to the Poet's lyre, 
 But, floating upward to the skj-, 
 
 Is caught up by the heavenly choir; 
 For Song is but tlie truth exprest. 
 That vibrates in each human breast. 
 And, past the re.ilm b^- mortals trod. 
 It lives— eternal as its God. 
 
 NEW year's thoughts. 
 
 We stand to-day on the beach of Time, 
 
 Whence we gaze far out to sea. 
 Whose waters tenderly lave our feet, 
 
 Then dance back laughingly; 
 But each rippling wave bears from the shore 
 
 A grain of the gleaming sand. 
 And frailer becomes our hold on earth, 
 
 And narrower grows the strand. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 Softly the evening breeze 
 
 Is coming now — 
 Sighing among the trees — 
 
 Fanning my brow: 
 Now quickly hies away, 
 'Mid other scenes to play. 
 But whither it doth go, 
 
 No oue can tell; 
 O'er hills and streams we know — 
 
 Througii shady dell; 
 But where it fludeth rest 
 No one hath ever guessed 1 
 It may be that 't is lost 
 
 'Mid waving corn ; 
 Or where Aurora fair 
 
 Awakes the morn — 
 Where Night and Morning greet, 
 Or earth and heaven meet! 
 Its whispering tones are heard 
 
 Among the pines : 
 By it the leaves are stirred. 
 
 And flow'rs, and vines; 
 And often we rejoice 
 To he:ir its merry voice. 
 But we can never find 
 
 Its dwelling-place; 
 Nor with surveyor's line 
 
 Its bound'ry trace! 
 That it doth come and go, 
 Is all the wisest know ! 
 
 •* 
 
® 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 41 
 
 •^ 
 
 MRS. Mx\RY A. A.SENTER. 
 
 Born: Great Falls, N, H., Sept. 1, 1835. 
 This lady was educated at New Haven, Conn., 
 and at Northfleld, N. H. Her father was a 
 
 iidtcil >rrili(Mlist clcryyiiiaii. Slu- inarried 
 
 MRS. MARY A. A. Sl'.N'I'KK. 
 
 E. L. Seutei', a speculator, and now resides in 
 the town of Exeter, N. H. The poems of Mrs. 
 Senter are distinguished for their classic 
 beauty, deep feeling-, and delicate descriptive 
 power. 
 
 THE DYING GIRL. 
 
 Her spirit was leaving- its temple of clay, 
 And on wings of purity vanished away. 
 While she raised lier hand in the gesture of 
 prayer, [there. 
 
 That the God of Heaven would welcome it 
 And the tears roU'd down her cheek of snow. 
 As she murmur'd it forth in accents so low. 
 That you saw but the motion her pale lips 
 
 gave. 
 While her bosom heaved like a swelling wave. 
 And her white liands shook as she held them 
 
 in air. 
 And like autumn leaves they seem'd wither- 
 ing- there. 
 Till like autumn leaves they fell to rest. 
 On a pulseless lieart and silent breast. 
 And thus death had won for its chamber so 
 
 dark. 
 With an arrow that ne'er had miss'd its mark. 
 
 A form that seem'd like a truant from heaven. 
 And that never sinn'd, but to be forgiven. 
 Tliough death was so stern, he left the trace 
 Of a holy smile on her calm white face; 
 Methinks 'twas a sliade that the spirit had cast 
 As away f lom that temple so lovely it pass'd. 
 
 IT MATTERS NOT. 
 It matters not if sun or rain 
 
 Fall in my life's short day. 
 Or strains of joy, or strains of pain. 
 
 Burst from my lips alwiiy. 
 It matters not if gloom surround. 
 
 And darkness gathers now. 
 And even now with thorns be crown'd 
 
 My weary aching brow. 
 It matters not how rough the road 
 
 That I must journey through. 
 If I but reach the blest abode 
 
 Of Him who suffered too. 
 And naught of earth can move my breast. 
 
 Its glitter nor its show. 
 For Christ has said, I'll give you rest, 
 
 I all your sorrows know. 
 And ever more I close my heart 
 
 To this vain world of sin, 
 I've chosen now the belter part. 
 
 And Jesus reigns within. 
 And wlien at last life's journey done, 
 
 I stand on death's lone shore, 
 Oh ! may I have the blessed one 
 
 To gently bear me o'er. 
 
 WILT THOU COME NOT THEN? 
 When at last the twilight falleth. 
 
 And tlie shadows come apace. 
 And around me friendship calleth. 
 
 Many a dear familiar face. 
 Wilt thou come not then? 
 When my life has almost drifted 
 
 To the far-ofif golden shore. 
 Ere the curtain is uplifted. 
 
 Hiding heaven nevermore. 
 Wilt thou come not then? 
 When my ej'es with earnest pleading, 
 
 Look for those that are most dear. 
 As my life is f.ist receding. 
 
 Shall I know that thou art near? 
 Wilt thou come not then? 
 Ere my voice is hushed forever. 
 
 And my eyes are closed for aye. 
 Ere my hands can clasp thine never. 
 
 Ere the angels bear away. 
 Wilt thou come not then? 
 Must the golden bowl be broken. 
 
 And the vale of shadow past. 
 Ere I hear the dear word spoken. 
 
 Saying I have come at last? 
 I shall see thee then ! 
 
 « 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 JOHN G.WHITTIER. 
 
 Born: Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 17, 1807. 
 The boyhood days of John Greenleaf Whittier 
 was spent on a farm, where he worked in the 
 summer, and in winter he assisted his father, 
 who was a shoemaker. His family were mem- 
 bers of the Society of Friends, and for that 
 reason the poet Is usually spoken of as the 
 ♦'Quaker poet." Mr. Whittier received only a 
 
 ®- 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 common school education : yet, on becoming 
 of age, he assumed the editorship of a paper, 
 and has ever since devoted himself to litei-a- 
 ture. Although he has written both jirose and 
 poetry, he is chiefly distinguished as a poet, 
 borrowing his inspiration largely from current 
 events. The best poems of Mr. AVhittier are: 
 Maud Muller, My Psalm, Mj' Playmate, Snow 
 Bound and Centennial Hynui. His j)rineipal 
 ])rose works arc Old Portraits and Modern 
 Sketches, and Literary Recreations. In the 
 poems of Whittier wo find masculine vigor 
 combined with womanly tenderness; a fierce 
 hatred of wrong, with an all-enibra(ang ehai-i- 
 ty and love. He is unmuri'ied, and has resided 
 at Amesbury, Massachusetts, since 1840. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 The riches of a commonwcnilth 
 Are free, strong minds and hearts of health. 
 
 And, more to her than gold or grain, 
 The cunning hand and cultured brain. 
 
 For still in mutual sufferance lies 
 The secret of true living; 
 
 Love scarce is love that never knows 
 The sweetness of forgiving. 
 
 We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
 Of which the coming life is made. 
 
 And fill our fviture atmosphere 
 With sunshine or with shade. 
 
 The tissues of life to be 
 
 We weave with colors all our own. 
 And in the field of destiny 
 
 We reap as we have sown. 
 
 Dream not helm and harness 
 
 The sign of valor true: 
 Peace hath higher tests of manhood 
 
 Than battle ever knew. 
 
 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Small pity for him'— He sailed away 
 From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 
 Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
 With his own towns-people on her deck I 
 •' Lay by! lay by ! " they called to him. 
 Back he answered, " Sink or swim! 
 Brag of your catch of flsh again ! " 
 And oft' he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Through the street, on either side. 
 Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
 Sharp tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
 Treble lent the fish-horn's braj-. 
 Sea-worn grandsircs, cripple-bound. 
 Hulks of old sailors run aground. 
 Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 
 And cracked with ciu'ses the hoarse refrain: 
 " Here's Find Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
 Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
 By the women o' Morble'eart ! " 
 
 Then the wife of the skijiper lost at sea 
 Said, "God has touched hini!-why should we'/" 
 Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
 " Cut the rogues tether and let him run I " 
 So with soft relentings and riide e.vcuse. 
 Half scorn, hall" pity, they ciit him loose. 
 And gave hiin a I'loak to liide him in. 
 And left him alone with liis shanic and sin. 
 Poor I'loyd Ircson, lor iiis hard heart, 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
 Hv the women of Marblehead';' 
 ^ 
 
-li. 
 
 L,OCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 43 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIKR. 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man. 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan; 
 AVith thj' turned-up pantaloons. 
 And thy merry whistled tunes; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
 With the sunshine on thy face 
 Throug-h thy torn brim's jaunty grace! 
 From my heart I give thee joy: 
 I was once a barefoot boy. 
 Prince thou art: the grown-up man 
 Only is republican.. 
 Let the million-dollared ride: 
 Bai'cfoot, trudging at his side. 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 
 In the reach of ear and eye — 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy. 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 
 Oh for boyhood's pamless play, 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day. 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules. 
 Knowledge never learned of schools, — 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase; 
 Of the ■wild-flower's time and place : 
 Flight of fowl, and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell; 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell; 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 How the robin feeds her young; 
 How the oriole's nest is hung; 
 Where the whitest lillies blow; 
 Where the freshest berries grow; 
 Where the groundnut trails its vine; 
 Where the wood-g'Ape's clusters shine; 
 Of the black wasp's cunning waj', 
 Mason of his walls of clay; 
 And the architectural plans 
 Of gray hornet-artisans ! 
 For, eschewing' books and tasks. 
 Nature answers all he asks. 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 Face to face with her he talks. 
 Part and parcel of her joy : 
 Blessing on the barefoot boy! 
 Oh for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon 
 When all things I heard or saw. 
 Me, their master, waited for ! 
 I was rich in flowers or trees. 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
 For my sport the squirrel played. 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
 For my taste the blackberry -cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone; 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 Through the day and through the night. 
 Whispering at the garden-wall. 
 Talked to me from fall to fall; 
 
 *- 
 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond; 
 Mine the walnut slopes l)oyoud; 
 Mine, on bending: orchard trees. 
 Apples of Hesperides I 
 Still, as my horizon grew. 
 Larger grew my riches too : 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy. 
 Oh for festal dainties spread. 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread 
 (Pewter spoon and bowl of wood) 
 On the doorstone gray and rude ! 
 O'er me, like a regal tent. 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 W^hile for music came the play 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra, 
 And to light the noisy choir 
 Lit the fly his lamp of flre. 
 I was monarch : pomp and joy 
 Waited on the barefoot boy. 
 Cheerily, then, my little man. 
 Live and laugh, as boyhood can. 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
 Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
 Every evening-, from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison-cells of pride ; 
 Lose the f i-eedom of the sod ; 
 Like a colt's, for work be shod; 
 Made to tread the mills of toil. 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil, 
 Happy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden ground; 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah that thou couldst know thy joy 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 JOHN GREENIjEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far- off town. 
 White from its hill-slope looking down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing fllled her breast,— 
 
 A -wish, that she hardly dared to own. 
 For something better than she had known. 
 
 ^ 
 
*- 
 
 -Hf. 
 
 44 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
 Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 
 
 And ask a draft from the spring that flowed 
 Through the meadow, across the road. 
 
 She stopped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 And filled for him her small tin cup. 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bare, and tattered gown. 
 
 " Thanks! " said the Judge, "a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 
 
 Then talked of haying, and wondered whether 
 The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
 And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud MuUer looked and sighed: "Ah me! 
 That 1 the Judge's bride might be! 
 
 " He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
 And praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
 " My father should wear a broadcloth coat. 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 " I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
 
 And the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 
 "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor 
 And all should bless me who left our door." 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
 And saw Maud Muller standing still: 
 
 "A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
 Ne'er hath It been my lotto meet. 
 
 "And her modest answer and graceful air 
 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 "■Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
 Like her a harvester of hay. 
 
 "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
 Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 
 
 "But low of cattle, and song of birds 
 And health, and quiet, and loving words." 
 
 But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, 
 And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 
 
 So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. 
 And Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
 
 *- 
 
 When he hummed in court an old love tune; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well, 
 TiU the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
 Who lived for fashion as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. 
 He watched a picture come and go; 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. 
 He longed for the wayside well instead. 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
 To dream of meadows and clover blooms: 
 
 And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
 "Ah, that I were free again ! 
 
 " Free as when I rode that day 
 
 Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 
 
 She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 
 And many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow and child-birth pain. 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new-mown hay on the meadow lot. 
 
 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
 Over the roadside, through the wall, 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein. 
 
 And, gazing down with a timid grace. 
 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 
 The tallow-candle an astral burned; 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimmcy lug. 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw. 
 And joy was duty and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life again, 
 Saying only, " It might have been." 
 
 Alas for maiden, alas for judge. 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge! 
 
 God pity them both ! and pity us all. 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 
 
 The .saddest are these: ■> It might have been!" 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
 Deepl7 buried from human ey(>s; 
 
 And. in the hereafter, angels may 
 HoU the stone from its grave away! 
 
©- 
 
 -1^ 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIONAl. TOETS OF AMEItlCA. 
 
 45 
 
 ROBERT REX DALE. 
 
 Bohn: Makch 26, 1859. 
 
 In New Eiiglatid the name of Robert Kexdale, 
 journalist, Is well known as the author 
 of Saved by the Sword, a novel, published at 
 Boston, Mass., early in 1889. But as a poet he 
 gained an enviable reputation at a much earl- 
 ier ag-e, and in 1886 appeared his Ui-iftiug- 
 Songs and Sketches, a volume of vei'se and 
 
 ROBERT REXDALE. 
 
 prose. Among- poets he is best known as the 
 author of Transit of Venus, a mythological 
 poem of much strength and beauty. He is 
 entirely self-educated, being apprenticed to 
 the printers' trade when he was but thirteen 
 years old. His literary career dates from 
 1880. Mr. Rexdale is yet unmarried. Since 
 1885,becomiugactively engaged in journalism, 
 he has been assistant editor of the Portland 
 Sunday Times; and as poet, novelist and 
 newspaper man, he enjoys a reputation 
 achieved by but few men before their thir- 
 tieth year. 
 
 m 
 
 IN THE GLOAMING. 
 
 Like the far away gleam 
 Of a mist-hidden stream. 
 
 The joys of tlie morning are showing! 
 But their light, as it tiears. 
 Shall illumine the years 
 
 Where waters of Lethe are flowing. 
 
 Thougli we mingle no more 
 
 On that magical shore. 
 Where briglitly the sunlight is shining! 
 
 There are raptures that l)lend 
 
 When the shadows descend. 
 And life to its close is declining. 
 
 For the stars will arise 
 
 In our evening skies. 
 The blossoms will bloom in the heatherl 
 
 While so trustful and true. 
 
 We will look to tlie blue, 
 And wait in tlie gloaming together. 
 
 EUTERPE. 
 
 This hour so beautiful with bloom 
 
 Is sacred to the muse of song! 
 Its glowing sunset heights illume 
 The hopes o'ersluidowed by the tomb. 
 
 And bid the fainting soul be strong. 
 
 And now Euterpe's harp is crowned 
 With gems that flash like morning rays. 
 
 She gives us music for each wound. 
 
 And l)ids the spirit lift its gaze 
 To skies blue-arched above the mound. 
 
 If olden memories of tears. 
 The ghosts of unforgotten pain, 
 
 Ri.se through the mournful mists of years! 
 
 She sings of undiscovered spheres. 
 And solace brings the weary braiu. 
 
 O sentient Lyre! O breathing Shell! 
 
 Thy mission to the world we own; 
 Since in the light of thy sweet spell, 
 That star-like o'er the desert shone, 
 
 New scenes of beauty rise and dwell. 
 
 So heavenward, on triumphant wings, 
 Take flight, tired heart! and end thy 
 quest. 
 Wliere Music's wand hath touched the 
 
 springs. 
 And love is in the song she sings. 
 There flow the crystal streams of Rest. 
 
 THE CRICKET. 
 Araluen, vexed and weary 
 
 With the dreamy summer day. 
 Said the ci-icket's song was dreary, 
 
 Tliought the sliadows cold and gray. 
 "Little maiden, little maiden," 
 
 Seemed the cricket's chant to be, 
 '■ Life to-day with love is laden, 
 
 God is good to you and me." 
 Sang the cricket in the thicket. 
 
 By the swiftly-flowing stream; 
 Softly ope'd tlic golden wicket. 
 
 To the fairy land of Dream ! 
 Stars of ElHand ! faintly stealing 
 
 Through the mists that fold tlie night. 
 
 —88 
 
©- 
 
 46 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 I a child again am kneeling 
 lu the splendor of thy light. 
 
 O ye tinkling, foam-white fountains, 
 Bathe me in your silver spray ! 
 
 On yon heights of sunset mountains, 
 
 O ye elfin harpists! play; 
 Bid me enter at the portal, — 
 
 Life is dreary, filled with pain. 
 For the youth that seemed immortal 
 
 Thrills no more the pulse and brain. 
 
 Araluen! child of laughter, 
 
 Would that life were young to me; 
 Filled with dreams of some hereafter. 
 
 Bright, and beautiful, and free! 
 Evermore with thee to ponder, 
 
 By the river's ceaseless flow; 
 Evermore with thee to wander, 
 
 Where the tangled roses grow. 
 While the cricket in the thicket, 
 
 By the swiftly-flowing stream. 
 Guards for aye the golden wicket 
 
 To the fairy land of dream! 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 fairest maid of rarest days, 
 Pomona's child with golden tresses! 
 
 1 loiter in thy sylvan ways, 
 
 My heart is warm with thy caresses. 
 
 And o'er again, as in a dream, 
 
 I voice the words the spell is wreathing. 
 As in the reeds beside the stream 
 
 Pandean pipes are lowly breathing. 
 
 I think of one whose starry eyes, 
 
 And laughter through the woodland ring- 
 ing, 
 And shy caresses, and tender sighs. 
 
 Attuned the poet's heart is singing. 
 
 And like Ausonian king of old, 
 I listen to the wood-nymph's pleading, 
 
 Wliilc this poor form of human mold 
 Plods sadly after fancy's leading. 
 
 O river rippling to the sea, 
 Thy silver waters, softly stealing 
 
 In shadowed beauty o'er the lea. 
 Awake the slumbrous chords of feeling. 
 
 And on thy waves of rosy light. 
 Seen in my boyhood's happy vision, 
 
 I'm di'ifting from the shores of night. 
 To isles of rest in realms Elysian. 
 
 DROPPED DEAD. 
 
 Stranger he was to tlie iiililess tlirong. 
 Viewing his corpse as they bor'e liim along. 
 Heedless for aye of their laughter and song — 
 Dropped desid ! 
 
 Low was the message that called him away. 
 Swift as the thought of a child in its play. 
 And in the grandeur of silence he lay — 
 Dropped dead! 
 
 Only a heart whose pulsations are o'er. 
 Only a form that will journey no more, 
 Only a siiade for the Stygian shore — 
 Dropped dead ! 
 
 Ah ! but the gaze of liis wandering eyes, 
 Piercing the blue of the midsummer skies. 
 Looked where the Island of Mystery lies — 
 * Dropped dead! 
 
 What did he whisper, O poet, to thee? 
 Joys of an infinite glory to be, 
 Dreams of a soul by the shadowless sea — 
 Dropped dead ! 
 
 THE SENTINEL FLOWER. 
 The Sentinel Flower, O comrades of old. 
 If guarding your rest in its cuirass of gold! 
 On fields where you fell in the heat of the 
 
 fray, 
 So proud to the last of our standards so gay; 
 And the ring of the challenge is kindly and 
 
 true,— 
 "Halt! 't is tlie grave of a soldier you 
 
 view." 
 
 Though strangers you are to the heralds of 
 
 fame. 
 The halos of glory encircle each name; 
 E'en princes may envy the bliss of your 
 
 dream. 
 This lonely bivouac by the murmuring 
 
 stream ; 
 And the feathery blossoms that wave o'er 
 
 the tomb, 
 Dispel by their splendor the shadows ot 
 
 gloom. 
 
 Aweary of conflict, and silent and lone, 
 
 The soldier will dream of the years that have 
 
 flown. 
 Of vows of devotion, and clasping of hands. 
 And pressure of lips in the far-away lands! 
 While the voices of dear ones, so tender and 
 
 low, 
 Are boi-ne on tin' winds of the lost Long Ago. 
 
 Afar o'er the moonlaiid, O comrades of yore. 
 The bugles are sounding the battle once 
 
 more ! 
 My spirit is s.-iddiMied, for soon I shall lie 
 Alone and unknown, 'nc;itli tin' midsummer 
 
 sky ; 
 But the Sentinel I'lower my slumbers will 
 
 woo, — 
 "Halt:! 't is the grave of a soldier you 
 
 view." 
 
 «- 
 
 ^ 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 17 
 
 -m 
 
 JULIA H. THAYER. 
 
 Born: Keeseville, N. Y. 
 At the ag-e of ten Julia H. Thayer removed 
 ■n ith her parents to the state of lUiuois. where 
 she has since resided as pupil and teacher 
 in her father's school, the Chicago Female 
 College, at Morgan Park. She first published 
 her verses anonymously, but since 1870 until 
 the present time the productions of her pen, 
 chiefly poetical, have appeared in various pa- 
 pers and periodicals under her own name. She 
 ha^ icKUfd llatufiivc- imluecmoiits to write 
 
 But raging hurricanes, in tumult hurled. 
 And blasting winds and tempests are her boast. 
 With thundering whir of ebon wings.trom coast 
 To coast they fly, l)y might resistless whirled. 
 Then in their central calm betimes are furled. 
 And rest content, for lo : a new-born host 
 Of stronger life and fresher bloom arise. 
 Even thus have all the greatest eras wrought 
 Those changes that have made our earth so 
 
 wise. 
 Weak doubting heart receive the lesson taught : 
 Beyond each storm of grief a blessing lies. 
 Becalmed within the center of God's thought. 
 
 © 
 
 JTTLiIA H. THAYER. 
 
 prose, but is most devoted to the muse. She 
 is seen at her best in religious poems and sim- 
 ple lyrics. 
 
 Miss Thayer is somewhat below medium 
 height, has dark curling hair, regular features 
 and gray eyes. Upon the third finger of her 
 left hand is a plain gold ring— to her it is price- 
 less, being the first piece of precious metal that 
 she received for one of her poems. Miss Thay- 
 er is not only a writer of lyrical poetry.but oc- 
 casionally writes prose, and is also a fine mu- 
 sician. There is a conscientious fidelity in 
 Miss Thayer's work, and to her the glorious 
 West brings a laurel wreath that will not fade. 
 
 RESPICE FIXEM. 
 Oh not her gentle, silent agents most 
 Doth Nature use to purify the world. 
 
 THE ISLAND SPRING. 
 
 Far from shore, where salt seas only 
 Hurl white storms of angry foam. 
 
 Stands an Island, bleak and lonely. 
 Banished from earth's sylvan home. 
 
 Not a blade of floweret tender 
 
 Nestles to its rocky breast 
 Through the warmth of summer splendor, 
 
 Into wakening life caressed. 
 
 But as pure as from the mountain 
 Where the sweetest waters start, 
 
 Lo: a sparkling crystal fountain 
 Gushes from its barren heart; 
 
 Fresh and clear, though all surrounded 
 
 By the briny waters wide. 
 Never once its laugh confounded 
 
 By the hostile, dashing tide ; 
 
 Singing always with a spirit 
 
 Envying not the high-born spring ; 
 
 Satisfied to just inherit 
 
 Dreams of wajside blossoming. 
 
 Canst thou recognize the presage, 
 O my heart, with better trust? 
 
 Canst thou read a heavenly message 
 On this tablet of the dustV 
 
 God will bid a fount of gladness 
 
 Spring from out thy rock-bound soul. 
 
 Free from every tone of sadness. 
 Though wild seas around thee roll. 
 
 Tliou Shalt sing the same glad measures 
 Caroled in earth's fairest bowers. 
 
 Though bereft of life's green pleasures 
 And a world of dewy flowers. 
 
 COBWEBS. 
 Meshes touched ^vith the morning-mist, 
 Sheer enough tor the ghosts of fairies; 
 Gossamer forms that the vapor kissed 
 To the verge of a dream as light as the air is; 
 
 Discs of pearl from the fences that swing; 
 Glittering patches of veiling drawn over 
 
 m 
 
m- 
 
 -« 
 
 48 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Meadow-grasses where night-damps chng; 
 Silvery drapiugs that frost the clover; 
 
 Thin transparencies seeking to screen 
 Deep, dark hollows, nud clefts unsightly. 
 Where diamonds, thrilling with liquid sheen, 
 Tremble in nets that hold them lightly. 
 
 Lone and deserted each shining abode — 
 Splendor has driven the tenants away; 
 Gifts of such beauty seem illy bestowed 
 On ugly black spiders that live by prey. 
 
 Yet, after all, what is man himself 
 But j ust such an ogre, who loves to subsist 
 On his unwary brother, on plunder and pelf. 
 In this web of a world that hangs in the mist? 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 Not on seas of wild commotion, 
 When the crazy tempest raves, 
 
 And the savage voice of Ocean 
 Challenges his clamoring caves — 
 
 Not on such the mirrored glory 
 Of the great protecting sky; 
 
 Not a billow tells the story 
 In reflective sympathy. 
 
 Even when, in broken spirit. 
 Waves but sigh along the shore 
 
 Still their motion must inherit 
 
 Shattered, shifting lights — no more. 
 
 But, when every sound is mufHed, 
 And repose, as calm as death. 
 
 Rests upon a sea unruffled 
 By a faint, disturbing breath. 
 
 Then the image of its glory 
 Answers all the watching sky; 
 
 Humbled waves repeat the story 
 In adoring ecstacy. 
 
 ®- 
 
 AN APOLOGY. 
 "Please send us some Thanksgiving verses,' 
 
 The editor writes in July, 
 While Sol's very hottest of curses 
 
 The mercury's passions defy. 
 
 I wipe the warm dews from my foreliead. 
 
 And tear, like a po(;t, my hair. 
 And vow that, at least, it is horrid 
 
 To sit in this thrice-heated glare 
 
 And write up the pudding and turkey 
 And hearty cold-wcathei-y things— 
 
 Bah! mental dyspei)sia makes murky 
 My brain unprovided with wings. 
 
 To the foot of Parnassus I wander 
 To borrow the famed winged steed, 
 
 F\]ll conscious that Motlicr Goose's gander 
 Is more apropos of my need. 
 
 " Come, Pegasus, come," I go calling — 
 No whinnies send welcome reply ; 
 
 Instead comes an impish voice bawling: 
 "The help that you'll get's in your eye. 
 
 "Peg's put out to pasture — no lying- 
 He told me to say, if you came, 
 
 'Twas rather too warm to be flying 
 Through regions no cooler than flame.'' 
 
 " I will walk to the top of the mountain," 
 
 I cry, in the heat of despair: 
 "One draught from the Castalian fountain 
 
 Will make fancy light as the air." 
 
 I reach, with much toiling, the summit. 
 And make for the spring that's near by, 
 
 When the wretched imp jeers: "You don't 
 come it. 
 The well of the Muses is dry. 
 
 "They, skylarking Nine, with Apollo, 
 
 Are off to their summer resort, 
 Nice, breezy Olympus, where follow 
 
 No mortals, whatever their sort." 
 
 Indignant, abashed and scarce seeing, 
 I grope down the mountain again. 
 
 My only consoling thought being 
 The gods are as idle as men. 
 
 MISSING. 
 Late at night I saw the Shepherd 
 
 Toiling slow along the hill. 
 Though the flock below were gathered 
 
 In the fold so warm and still. 
 
 On His face I saw the anguish. 
 In His locks the drops of night. 
 
 As He searched the misty valleys. 
 As He climbed the frosty hight. 
 
 Just one tender lamb was missing 
 When He called them all by name; 
 
 While the others heai-d and followed. 
 This one only never came. 
 
 Oft his voice rang thro' the darkness 
 Of that long, long night of pain ; 
 
 Oft He vainly pau.sed to listen 
 For an answering tone again. 
 
 Far away the truant, sleeping 
 
 By tlie chasm of Despair, 
 Lay, unconscious of its dangt-r, 
 
 Shivering in the mountain-air. 
 
 But at last the Shepherd found it- 
 Found it I re in sleep it died— 
 
 Took it in His loving bosom. 
 And His soul was satisfied. 
 
 Then I saw the Eastern spaces 
 Part befoM' a shining throng, 
 
 And the golden dome of nioiiiing 
 Seemed to shatter into song. 
 
 -® 
 
w 
 
 LOCAl, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 49 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. EMMELINE B. WELLS. 
 
 Born: Petersham, Mass., Feb. 29, 1828. 
 
 This ladj' has been connected witli the edi- 
 torial staff of the Woman's Exponent since 
 1875, and has been the sole editor and publisli- 
 er since 18TT. She has written verses from her 
 
 MRS. EMMELINE BLANCHE WELLS. 
 
 childhood, and will at some future time pub- 
 lish tliem in book-form. Mrs. Wells has at- 
 tended conventions of women in Washing-ton 
 and other places; presented memocials to 
 congress; called upon presidents and senators 
 and members of the House in the interests 
 of Utah, in which state she resides at Salt 
 Lake City. 
 
 AT EVENING. 
 
 How softly fall the evening shadows pale. 
 
 Golden and purple sunsets blend and fade; 
 Night robes earth quietly with mantling veil. 
 And peace and rest the gentle hour per- 
 vade. 
 Great nature soothing with her potent power. 
 Breathes to the world-worn heart her sj-m- 
 patliy; 
 And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound 
 hour, 
 Tlie mem'ries of tlie past steal tenderly. 
 Athwart the scene the moon with golden trail 
 As erst with pitying glance and mellowed 
 light. 
 
 SB- 
 
 Sweeps thro' the empty space with steady 
 sail. 
 And floods with beauty the enchanted night. 
 It is the hour for sweet and tender thought 
 And whisperings of the life that is to be,— 
 And Faith and Trust with holy impulse 
 fraught. 
 Speak to the soul in nature's poetry. 
 Unconscious of ourselves we sink to sleep 
 And bright-robed beings round our couches 
 stray. 
 In sacred stillness holy vigils keep. 
 And night assumes the sceptre of her sway. 
 
 THE DEAR OLD GARDEN. 
 
 My dear old garden still I call it mine; 
 
 And mine it is, for in its grateful shade 
 Of ev'ry tree, and shrub and flow'ring vine. 
 My children and my children's children 
 phiy'd. 
 'Round these my aching heart instinctive 
 clings. 
 And they to me are sweet and tender things. 
 Under those trees I've sauntered to and fro. 
 In search of hidden gems of precious 
 thought, 
 Perchatice some wayward fancies all aglow 
 Have been in chains of measur'd rhythm 
 caught. 
 For rustling leaves, and sighing boughs liave 
 stirred 
 The depths of love, no living voice hath 
 heard. 
 And here young lovers, plighted vows have 
 given. 
 And sealed them with the first fond linger- 
 ing kiss 
 That hallows love, and makes earth seem a 
 heav'n, 
 A sweet enchanted dream of rapt'rous bliss 
 When two pure hearts, in confidence and 
 truth. 
 Unite their joys and hopes in early youth. 
 These trees and shrubs, and ev'ry bush and 
 vine. 
 We've watched from tiniest seed and stem; 
 Why then should I not always call them 
 mine? 
 For in my heart of hearts I treasure them. 
 No matter how neglected now they be 
 
 They were a part of my home life to me. 
 Yes, I remember sitting there so well. 
 
 With baby in my arms and children 'round; 
 And a sweet peace hung o'er me like a spell. 
 While the white blossoms fluttered to the 
 ground; 
 For the young apple trees were just in bloom 
 And we were breathing in their sweet per 
 fume. 
 
 51 
 
©■ 
 
 50 
 
 SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 O, how the childish voices loud and cleur. 
 
 Bang out in laugliter and in merrj- song; 
 No wonder that to me the place is dear. 
 
 To which so many memories belong-; 
 O, would those days but come to me again 
 
 'Twould ease my heart of all lliis racking- 
 pain. 
 O, little ones, 'mong the long tangled grass. 
 
 Where buttercups and clover nestled down; 
 Or like a shadow flitting as you pass, 
 
 To gather hollyhocks in silken gown. 
 Or i>ull the morning- glories from the vine 
 
 Which gaily 'round the fav'rite ti-ee en- 
 twine. 
 And honey suckles frag-r;int were and fair. 
 
 And on them humming birds swung to and 
 fro. 
 But something fairer, sweeter still was there : 
 
 A little maiden, singing soft and low; 
 O, that melodious voice we hoar no more. 
 
 Save in our dreams, it echoes o'er and o'er. 
 
 My garden! when the world was dark and 
 
 cold, [way; 
 
 And troubles gathered thickly round my 
 I wander'd there my feelings to unfold, 
 
 'Twas there I knelt upon the ground to 
 praj'. 
 In that old garden thro' tlie maze of years 
 
 I scan life's pages blur'd with mists of 
 tears. 
 
 ®- 
 
 MEMORY OF THE SEA. 
 In the midnight hour, a memory 
 
 Swept like music o'er my soul 
 As I stood in silent reverie, 
 
 Where the surging billows roll; — 
 Minor music, sad and sorrowing-, 
 
 Full of trembling, full of tears. 
 Ever like the ocean's murmuring, 
 
 Bringing- Ijack the tide of years. 
 Telling of the long forgotten 
 
 In the cycles of the past, 
 Of the nations crushed and broken 
 
 In the world's great holocaust. 
 As I listened so entrancing 
 
 Was the music of the sea,; 
 That T fancied mermaids dancing 
 
 Totlie midnight minstrelsy; 
 And a tliousand harp-stiings quivering, 
 
 Sol)l)ing ill the midnight sea: 
 And my broken heart-strings shivering 
 
 As sad memories ca.me to me. 
 Had I caught tlie inspiration 
 
 Of the music deep and strong 
 That had moved mj- soul's wild i>assion. 
 
 Was it but a syren's song? 
 O, such music, weird iind mournful, 
 
 As the night-wind sw('|)t along. 
 And tlie shattered notes so painful. 
 
 Making discord in the song. 
 
 How far ofif the dreamy vision 
 
 That these memories brought to' me, 
 As I strained my ear to listen 
 
 To tlie murmuring in the sea. 
 Far down where the sea weeds whisper 
 
 To the corals and the shells; 
 But they keep the secret ever. 
 
 Roar or echo never tells. 
 But the human lieart's emotion. 
 
 Answers to the sad refrain. 
 And the ceaseless moan of ocean. 
 
 Brings a grandeur fraught with pain. 
 While the wild waves in commotion. 
 
 Sweeping out unto the shore; 
 Bounding billow-s, restless ocean. 
 
 Echoing for evermore. 
 And the ever constant beating 
 
 'Gainst the rocks thathemm'd the sea, 
 Where the winds in fury meeting. 
 
 Dashed them backward ruthlessly. 
 So our human hopes are driven. 
 
 Recklessly tossed to and fro. 
 And our strongest ties are riven — 
 
 Rent asunder bj- a blow. 
 Ever heaves the restless ocean. 
 
 With its hidden mystery. 
 Sleeping in its surging bosom. 
 
 Until time shall cease to be. 
 
 BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Down in the meadows, where the cowslips 
 spring. 
 And the sweet clover breath is in the air. 
 There where the thrush and bluebird sweetly 
 sing. 
 Dame Nature in her robes so wondrous fair. 
 Holds lier conuiiunion with the regal 
 
 night. 
 And blushes in the dawn of earl.N- light. 
 What picture hath the artist ever drawn 
 
 That could compare in loveliness and grace 
 With nature in her rudest, wildest form. 
 No matter in what clinnite. time or place. 
 So skillfully is ev'ry figure wi-ought. 
 So delicate with feeling is it fraught. 
 In grove, and field, and vale, in forest glade. 
 On sno-wj- heights, where man may scarcely 
 tread. 
 On How'r, or shrub, and ev'ry glassy blade 
 That lifts from earth its tiny, modest head. 
 Til coral reef, or sea beach shining sand. 
 We see the seal of an Almighty hand. 
 I cannot tell how greatly T delight 
 
 In all the beauties of the earth and heaven; 
 How ardently 1 reverence tlie liglit 
 Whicli our good Father has so wisely given; 
 The sun and moon, and all the stars that 
 
 shine 
 With the efifulgence of a power divine. 
 
 « 
 
$«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 51 
 
 * 
 
 CHARLES A.M.TABER. 
 
 Born : Rochestek. Mass., April 3, 1834. 
 
 From 1839 till 18(53 Mr. Taber spent most of 
 liis time in wlialiug', with the exception of be- 
 ing- in California in '49. Mr. Ttiber lias pub- 
 lished essays on Pieviiilini;- Winds, Ocean 
 
 t'HAHLES A. M. TABER. 
 
 Currents and Frigid Periods. In 1873 lie pub- 
 lished a volume of poems, entitled Rhymes 
 from a Sailor's Journal, containing- nearly 
 one hundred very line poems. Mr. Taber has 
 been out of business for the past sixteen 
 years, and now resides in New Bedford, Mass. 
 
 © 
 
 THE TOILER. 
 
 For years he's floated on life's deep. 
 And stemmed its tide with heavy oars; 
 
 A weary time he's had to keep 
 His boat in sig-ht of hopeful shores. 
 
 He has on board a precious freight. 
 Depending- on his anxious toil; 
 
 His health and streng-th decides their fate. 
 For down tlie stream the rapids boil. 
 
 Tlie dang-ers down stream look so dread, 
 He cannot slack his tiring stroke. 
 
 No wealth has he in sails to spread, 
 So he must bear life's heavy yoke. 
 
 Fain would he rest his weary task. 
 To note the pleasures of the stream, 
 
 And in the sunlig-ht careless bask. 
 Or view the sunny ripples' gleam. 
 
 But he is doomed to constant toil. 
 While riches glide with sunny sails; 
 
 They seem to have no weary moil. 
 But waft along- with pleasant gales. 
 
 To him they seem a happy crew, 
 With plenty in a world of ease. 
 
 As glad as fancy ever drew,— 
 The fairest vision labor sees. 
 
 Yet his poor crew must watch the tide, 
 To see how well he meets its force, 
 
 While wealth and pleasure onward glide. 
 And careless view his anxious course. 
 
 At times they note his toiling- way. 
 And mark the distance he may hold; 
 
 So wealth glides on to rest or play, 
 Comparing human toil to gold. 
 
 THE CRUELTY OF NECESSITY. 
 O stern necessity ! what cruel power 
 
 You exercise against the life of man! 
 How many conquered souls before you cower; 
 With what persistency you crush each 
 plan! 
 It's hard to have our tenement of clay 
 
 Besieged by such relentless, cruel force! 
 Our minds aie starved by your consuming 
 sway. 
 And lives cut off from every rich resource; 
 Our time is taxed by a continued war. 
 
 So that our souls to povei-ty are doomed. 
 E'en genius cannot always break your law; 
 To such as those there is a double gloom. 
 Because they know so much they could enjoy. 
 Did you not constant give them mean em- 
 ploy. 
 
 THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 On our eventful voyage of human life. 
 
 We have with us a large and motley crew; 
 All navigators on a sea of strife. 
 And all in hopes to see the whole voyage 
 through. 
 But while we labor on, what change is 
 wrought! 
 The old and able hands soon And their port. 
 And leave to us the cluirge of toil and 
 thought. 
 While younger voyagers constantly report. 
 With such we sail life's sea so swiftly on. 
 The young soon gaining all our strength 
 and skill. 
 Because the log is left of all that's gone. 
 
 And older hands are teaching with a will. 
 So may our journals prove a fit resource. 
 To help the future shape its onward course. 
 
 -^ 
 
® 
 
 m 
 
 52 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SARAH E. PULVER M<^LEAN. 
 
 SIDNEY MCLEAN. 
 
 Born: Waterloo, N. Y., June 26, ia54. 
 
 Sidney McLean commenced writing at thie 
 
 age of eiffliteen, and lias contributed largely 
 
 lo tlic lociil ynessand leading pericdicals of 
 
 SARAH E. PULAT:R MC LEAN. 
 
 the country. Aside from lier literary efiForts 
 slie also follows the profession of music teach- 
 er in Kochester, N. Y., where she now resides. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MY LOVER. 
 What if my lover be dark, or fair — 
 I have no wish ; I do not care — 
 If only his manly, lionest face 
 Shows iu each feature an inward grace. 
 What if my lover be tall, or slight — 
 I do not care, if only his sight 
 Be lifted above earth's sordid care 
 To see God's handiwork, true and fair. 
 What if my lover be poor, or rich — 
 To me it makes no difference which, 
 If only his heart bo stanch and tru(>. 
 His hand will lead mo safely thrcnigh. 
 What if my lover be famous, or no — 
 Fame may fade, or perchance may grow 
 If he comes to me, his manhood clear 
 From the .stain of sin, I will not fear. 
 Somewhere he tarries and waits for me - 
 Sometime his face I shall surely .see. 
 For I shall know when my king I meet. 
 My soul will rise and his coming grt'ct. 
 
 THE MASQUE. 
 
 Oh ! the faces, faces, faces — 
 
 Faces young and faces fair; 
 Faces smooth from lives of ease, and 
 
 Faces seamed by toil and cai-e. 
 I stood upon a busy street — 
 
 They passed me to and fro — 
 Masques are they, thought I, and cover 
 
 The life that lies below. 
 Once in awhile, but rare, there passed, 
 
 A face so marred by sin, 
 That all the baseness stood revealed — 
 
 No need to look within. 
 And standing there, this queer thought 
 came — 
 
 " Suppose that now and here 
 The masque of flesli should fall, and souls 
 
 Stand forth distinct and clear." 
 E'en as I thought, lo ! it was done, 
 
 I started with affright; 
 All suddenly they stood, and were 
 
 As air is, thin and light. 
 But what a change ! that woman's face. 
 
 So beautiful before. 
 Had lost its charm, for mark of Cain 
 
 She on the forehead bore. 
 And each sad feature of her soul. 
 
 Was hurt, and bore a scar; 
 The blood of innocents was there. 
 
 Its perfectness to mar. 
 And over there had been a form 
 
 Manly and full of grace. 
 His soul a very pigmy was. 
 
 And what a sin-scarred face. 
 But one, was he of that long line. 
 
 Who ch«ose with sin to bide. 
 Content to follow fleshly lust. 
 
 And seek no other guide? 
 But there were some who walked beside. 
 
 Whose souls were pure and white, 
 And each of these on forehead had 
 
 A cross of dazzling light. 
 And thus they were, the bad and good. 
 
 Mixed as they went along — 
 Bvit this I saw — the best of masques 
 
 To blackest souls belong. 
 I looked and looked till heart and brain. 
 
 Filled with such bitter pain, 
 Tliat in an agony I cried, 
 
 " Oh, mas<iue them all again! " 
 I drew a dcej) sigh of relief. 
 
 As each its flesh resumed. 
 The faces smiled and were so bright. 
 
 Their darkness not ilhuned. 
 And still the crowd wi-nt surging ny. 
 
 Each had his cross to bear, 
 Wliich I saw not, and thanked my (iod 
 
 We bJ>d a mask to wear. 
 
 -© 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 53 
 
 -« 
 
 ELIZABETH B. STODDARD. 
 
 Born: Mattapoisett, Mass., May 6, 1833. 
 
 This lady is the wife of Richard H. Stoddard, 
 the great American poet, whom she married 
 when twenty-eig-ht years of age. Soon after 
 her marriage she began to contribute poems 
 to the magazines. Her poems invariably con- 
 tain a central idea, not always apparent at first, 
 but always poetical though not generally un- 
 derstood by the average reader. Mrs. Stod- 
 dard has published three novels, and also a 
 story for young folks — Lolly Dinls's Doings. 
 
 What centuries are counted here — my books ! 
 Shadows of mighty men ; the chorus, hark. 
 The antique chant vibrates, and Fate compels! 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT. 
 
 I feel the breath of a summer night. 
 
 Aromatic fire: 
 The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir 
 
 With tender desire. 
 
 The white moths flutter about the lamp. 
 
 Enamored with light; 
 And a thousand creatures softly sing 
 
 A song to the night ! 
 
 But I am alone, and how can I sing 
 
 Praises to thee? 
 Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul 
 
 That waiteth for me. 
 
 ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 On my bed of a winter night. 
 
 Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream. 
 What care I for the wild wind's scream? 
 
 What to me is its crooked flight? 
 
 On the sea of a summer's day. 
 
 Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail, 
 
 What care I for the fitful gale, 
 
 Now in earnest, and now in play? 
 
 What care I for the fitful wind. 
 
 That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree? 
 Groaning and sighing are nothing to me; 
 
 For I am a man of steadfast mind. 
 
 m- 
 
 THE COLONELS SHIELD. 
 
 Your picture, slung about my neck. 
 
 The day we went a-fleld. 
 Swung out before the trench; 
 It caught the eye of rank and file. 
 
 Who knew -The Colonel's Shield." 
 
 I thrust it back, and with my men 
 
 (Our general rode ahead 
 We stormed the great redoubt, 
 As it were an easy thing, 
 
 But rows of us fell dead! 
 
 Your picture hanging on my neck, 
 Up with my men I rushed,— 
 
 We made an awful charge: 
 
 And then my horse, •• The Lady Bess," 
 Dropped, and — my leg was crushed ! 
 
 The blood of battle in my veins 
 (A blue-coat dragged me out — 
 
 But I remembered you 
 
 I kissed your picture— did you know? 
 And yelled, "For the redoubt! " 
 
 The Twenty-Fourth, my scarred old dogs 
 Growled back, " He'll put us through ; 
 We'll take him in our arms: 
 Our picture there — the girl he loves 
 Shall see what we can do." 
 
 The foe was silenced — so were we, 
 
 I lay upon the field. 
 Among the Twenty- Fourth; 
 Your picture, shattered on my breast. 
 
 Had proved "The Colonel's Shield." 
 
 ON THE CAMPAGNA. 
 
 Stop on the Appian way. 
 In the Roman campagna; 
 
 Stop at my tomb. 
 The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
 
 To-day as you see it, 
 Alaric saw it, ages ago. 
 When he, with his pale-\nsaged Goths, 
 Sat at the gates of Rome, 
 Reading his Runic shield. 
 Odin! thy curse remains! 
 
 Beneath these battlements 
 My bones were stirred with Roman pride. 
 Though centuries before my Romans died: 
 Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust. 
 The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king, 
 
 My tomb remains! 
 When Rome commanded the earth 
 
 Great were the Metelli : 
 
 I was Metella's wife; 
 
 And loved him — and Idled. 
 Then with slow patience built he this memorial : 
 
 Each century marks his love. 
 
 Pass by on the Appian way 
 The tomb of Cecilia Metella : 
 
 Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter, 
 
 Wild buffaloes tramp at its base. 
 Deep is its desolation. 
 Deep as the shadow of Rome ! 
 
 -® 
 
*- 
 
 54 
 
 LOCAL AJSTD NATIONAL TOETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 )^ 
 
 EDWARD S. GOODHUE. 
 
 Bokn: Canada, Sept. 29, 186L 
 
 Mr. Goodhue has received a good education. 
 For a year lie lectured in the state of New 
 York, and in 1883 edited the Dawn, but the 
 following- year went to California to regain 
 his health. Since that time he has resided in 
 Riverside, and has been connected with sev- 
 eral of the daily and weekly publicutiuns of 
 
 ®- 
 
 EDWARD S. GOODHUE. 
 
 that city, besides contributing to the Youth's 
 Companion, New York Witness, St. Louis 
 Magazine and the periodical press generally. 
 Mr. Goodhue is now attending the Rush Medi- 
 cal College of Chicago. He was married in 
 1889 to Lulu May Rose, a Chicago young lady 
 who is also studying medicine. The earlier 
 poems of Mr. Goodhue were collected and pub- 
 lished in 1888 under the title of Verses from 
 the Valley; lie has also other books in pre- 
 paration. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 'Tis midnight and no sleep. 
 
 No sleep, comes to my eyes; 
 Long have I lain awake 
 
 Watching the skies. 
 
 Watching vague waves of cloud, 
 Moving like ghosts of night 
 
 Over the moon's pale face. 
 Veiling her light. 
 
 How do they drift and drift 
 
 Onward so far away, 
 Goiue- no whitherward. 
 
 Where can they stray? 
 Large grows my vision now. 
 
 Nothing but sky I see- 
 Nothing t)iit clouds that pass 
 
 On silently. 
 
 EVEN A. 
 
 They do not flash, her eyes. 
 
 But they sparkle and shine, 
 Reflecting the kindly light 
 
 Of a soul divine; 
 1 wish — I have often wished — 
 
 Their dark orbs were mine. 
 Mine to look into— and 
 
 Mine, to have love express. 
 With, oh ! such a wealth and power 
 
 Of deep tenderness: 
 With virtue to cheer, I know 
 
 And comfort and bless. 
 Better than words they speak 
 
 Out what the heart would say. 
 Bidding me wait and hoite 
 
 Till another day — 
 When clouds which threaten low 
 
 Have all cleared away. 
 
 THE EBB AND FLOW. 
 
 'Tis an ebb and a flow 
 
 Of the ocean wide. 
 
 Of the tireless tide. 
 
 It is coming and going the long hours thro' 
 
 Rushing along in its beaten track. 
 
 Onward and upward and forward and back. 
 
 To its paths in tlie rocks and the sand. 
 
 Here and on every hand. 
 
 What it brings it will take away, 
 
 What it takes it will give again — 
 
 Even as rain clouds give the rain — 
 
 Some day. 
 
 If we only knew. 
 
 And we all maj- know. 
 
 This life of ours is an ebb and a flow. 
 
 Of days and of years. 
 
 Of joj' and of woi'. 
 
 And, like the tide that breaks on the rocks 
 
 And throws in the all- its briny sjiniy. 
 
 Is the tide of our life which bears along 
 
 Toward tiie ragged roeksof ill and of wnnig, 
 
 Tiiat cast through our yeai's 
 
 Their spray of tears. 
 
 By our Tide 
 
 Must we all aiiide; 
 
 What it brings it will take awny — 
 
 What it takes it will give .-igaiii — 
 
 All but the woe and the pain — 
 
 Some day. 
 
 -* 
 
 i 1 
 
©- 
 
 « 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 55 
 
 CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER. 
 
 Born: Fayette Co. III., July 16, IHfiO. 
 On both sides he is of German extraction, 
 the name Phifer, Pifer, or Fifer, three gener- 
 ations Inveli in the family's history spelled 
 PfeflVr; and liis mother's maiden name being 
 Heisler. Reared on a farm until 1870, in whicli 
 year liis fatlier died, Charley attended the 
 district school ; then, liis mother having re- 
 moved to the county capital, Vandalia, he 
 soon after liesiun learning tlie printers' trade; 
 
 RB 
 
 CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER. 
 
 and graduated from the public schools of that 
 city in 1880. In 1881 he became editor of the 
 Fayette County News. Removing to Cali- 
 fornia, Mo., in 1883, he started a jol) printing 
 office and for nearly a year run a little sheet 
 called Phifer's Paper, which gained quite a 
 local reputation for humor. Selling the sub- 
 scription to the paper, in 1888 lie run, in con- 
 nection with his job office, a campaign paper 
 styled the Semi-Weekly Republican. He has 
 originated several "wrinkles" in printing, 
 which were given to the craft through tech- 
 nical journals, and have passed into general 
 use. Almost with the dawn of memory he 
 manifested a liking for picture drawing; and 
 while he yet sometimes makes sketches and 
 even engravings (he never had any training 
 for either), the passion for drawing seems to 
 have merged into a passion for writing — and 
 
 particularly verse writing— soon after he be- 
 came a student of printing. He has con- 
 tributed verses, or essays, to Tlie Current, 
 Chicago; Day Star, New York; Republican, 
 St. Louis; Inter Ocean, Cliicago; Toledo 
 Blade, and various religious and local papers. 
 Mr. Phifer has published by his own hands, 
 for circulation among his fi-iends, several 
 pamphlets of verse, and one flve-act play, 
 " Zaphnath-Paaneah," in blank verse, that has 
 been highly complimented by author and ac- 
 tor friends, among whom it circulated ex- 
 clusively In 1890 appeared Annals of the 
 Earth, a volume of three hundred pages, in 
 verse, which was published by the American 
 Publishers' Association of Chicago. The vol- 
 ume was extensively noticed by the press of 
 both America and England. 
 
 IT CANNOT MATTER. 
 It cannot matter where or when 
 
 The light of life goes out with us; 
 For only a few years, and then 
 We all must end in darkness thus, 
 In utter darkness, thus. 
 
 From birth we draw on toward the grave. 
 Like arrows speeding from the bow. 
 
 And though to three-score years we live, 
 'Tis but a little flight, and so 
 
 The strongest are brought low. 
 
 All men are worn out — then they die : 
 If strong, we must the longer bear ; 
 
 If weak, are broken easily ; 
 And peace must come where there is care, 
 The speedier solace there. 
 
 We wail when death destroys our friends, 
 But grieving hastens us to peace ; 
 
 We die, and mourning love expends 
 Itself in tears, till sorrows cease, 
 And quickly comes release. 
 
 Peasants and monarchs side by side 
 
 Into tlie silent tomb shall go. 
 And none shall know they lived or died. 
 
 In one brief century or so — 
 
 Their lineage shall not know 
 
 BOOGERS. 
 When I was a little feller, I was jiss that 'f raid 
 
 Of the Boogers, I'd jiss run 
 Past every tiny wee little spot of shade 
 
 Tliat I would happen upon. 
 I was jiss that 'fraid the Bad Man 'u'd come. 
 
 If I had done anything wrong, 
 I wouldn't go out after night at all, 
 
 Ceppun my ma was along. 
 
 If Jack (he's my dog) was to bark at a tree, 
 My goodness! how I would jump! 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 56 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 I was 'fraid 'twas the Bad Man come for me. 
 
 And my heart 'u'd go thumpity-thump. 
 But I ain't 'fraid of tlie Bad Man, now — 
 
 Leastwise till I get dead; 
 'Cause I never did see no Boogers at all, 
 
 Ceppun on Jim Smith's head. 
 Now — honest Injun — please tell me true, 
 
 Jiss true as ever you can : 
 Did ever a Booger appear to j'ou? 
 
 Jever see tlie Bad Man? 
 I guess tlie folks tell a heap o' stuff 
 
 To scare us to hein' good ; 
 But I want some fun; un' I ain't afraid 
 
 No more of the dark er the wood. 
 If a Booger 'u'd come, I'd jiss set Jack 
 
 On him, un I guess he'd run; 
 He'd leave before you could jiss say, 'Scat I 
 
 Er I'd shoot liim with my gun. 
 I am big enougli to wliip 'em, I guess, 
 
 For the Boogers leave big folks be. 
 If my pa can stay out till eleven o'clock. 
 
 They jiss won't bother me. 
 
 ©- 
 
 A VOICE OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 When the family sit outside 
 
 On the sultry summer night. 
 And the frogs croak far and wide 
 
 And a dark wood bars the sight; 
 When the bat drops, bouncing on. 
 
 And the owl is by the mill. 
 And the moth in flame has flown, 
 
 Tlien we hear the whipporwill — 
 Whipporwill! 
 From the coi)se and from the hill, 
 Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! 
 When around the beetles boom. 
 
 And mosquetos hum in smoke. 
 And the fireside light the gloom. 
 
 And the lightning wrinkles up; 
 When the evening air is full. 
 
 And the lieart is calm and still, 
 'Mid the zephyrs sweet and cool 
 
 Comes the sound of " Whipporwill, 
 Whipporwill;" 
 Ceaselessly it rings, and shrill, 
 Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! 
 Was some maid like Philome, 
 
 Lost in new Arcadian wild. 
 Seized by some rough deity. 
 
 Near o'erpowered and defiled. 
 Till, though stified with lier hair. 
 
 Kindly by Minerva heard. 
 She was restnicd from despair. 
 
 Flying from his clutch, a bird — 
 Wliipporwiir/ 
 Through her hair gag wailing still 
 On her lover, ^ Whip - poor Will! " 
 In the old field ovei'grown. 
 
 By the brook that murmurs low. 
 In the graveyai-d, on a stt)ne. 
 
 From the dead oak just below. 
 Like a mentor weird, or seer, 
 
 Thus the wild voice echoes shrill. 
 Till the judgment seemeth near. 
 
 Ever one word, whipporwill, 
 Wliipporwill ! 
 'Mong the ruins will ring .still, 
 Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill ! 
 
 ANGELS. 
 I was passing along through the woodland. 
 
 And down through the meadows where 
 The grass and leaves were rustling 
 
 In the cool October air — 
 Where the wood was lone with echoes. 
 
 And all was somber and gray — 
 Where the hoary old alchemist, Autumn, 
 
 Blew smoke aloft like spra.v. 
 And with his incantations, 
 
 By his horoscope and art. 
 Changed the leaves to gold and purple, 
 
 Transforming every part — 
 And I saw, all alone bj' the roadside 
 
 Where the grass was crisp and dead. 
 'Mid the broken lances of frost-sprites. 
 
 Where the grand onslaught had led — 
 Flowers wounded and dying. 
 
 The sweet ones and the bright; 
 And I marveled at the mystery 
 
 Wrought in the silent niglit. 
 I thought of a dear one, wounded 
 
 As the flower, and since forgot. 
 Who at evening had bloomed in manhood, 
 
 And by morning he was not. 
 Stricken and wearj- and troubled. 
 
 He had toiled through the summer long. 
 And his hopes, like leaves, had withered, 
 
 Clogging the channel of song. 
 He would rest, and so he departed. 
 
 At the close of a weary night. 
 Into the mystic morning 
 
 Dawning beyond the height ; 
 And I wondered if an angel 
 
 Had not taken his soul in its flight: 
 For he passed as if music was falling 
 
 And fading away with the niyht. 
 I wonder if God does not pity 
 
 The soul that is burdened witli grief. 
 And at death send an angel from Heaven 
 
 To the weary one with relief. 
 Tlie angels are ever around us — 
 
 They speak in the passing breeze. 
 They look with the eyes of llowei-s. 
 
 They rush through the swaying trees. 
 There is notliing mean or common ; 
 
 Each life has its romance f;iir; 
 And the souls of the dead are around us 
 
 And with us everywhere. 
 
 * 
 
® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -« 
 
 EMILY HILL WOODMANSEE. 
 
 Born: England. 
 This lady came to America in 1856 and settled 
 in Salt Lake City, Utali, where she has ever 
 since resided. Mrs. Woodniausee is counted 
 anionp-tho first of our local jHJets. and many 
 of liiT |)oiMic:il jiroductioiis have buen coiiiwl 
 
 EMILY HILL WOODMANSEE. 
 
 in the eastern publications. She is a vivacious 
 little woman of rather less than average 
 height: and although she has experienced 
 sorrow and suffering: her countenance always 
 wears a cheerful and hopeful expression. She 
 deals quite extensively in real estate, and is 
 possessed of quite a little business ability. 
 
 JOYFUL JUNE. 
 
 Gone, the chilly wintry blast; 
 Gone, the hours so overcast; 
 Sunnier days have dawn'd at last — 
 
 Long'd for, look'd tor boon. 
 Loveliest skies! by mortal's seen — 
 Flowers, and fruits and g-rasses green — 
 Greet thy coming:, beauteous queen 
 
 Of summer, joyful June! 
 Rip'Iing streams and murmuring trees, 
 Weird and mystic harmonies. 
 Sights and sounds that welt might ease, 
 
 Or cure niucii fancied woe. 
 Like an inspirational voice — 
 Nature! bids us all rejoice. 
 Free to all, her blessings choice. 
 
 As is the sunshine's glow. 
 
 «- 
 
 On the evil, on tlie good. 
 
 Nature's genei'ous gifts are strew'd; 
 
 Shall we mar hoi' liappiost mood. 
 
 And turn from joy away? 
 What tho' petty griefs and care — 
 'Tis the lot of all to bear — 
 Is it meet to woo despair 
 
 Upon a summer's day? 
 
 Pity all, whose grief 's too great — 
 All, so bowed by sorrow's weight — 
 All, too sadly desolate 
 
 To join in nature's glee; 
 Who cannot swell creation's shout, 
 Who cannot trust as well as doubt. 
 That He, who calls such beauty out 
 
 To cheer us, hears our plea. 
 
 'Tis as well we cannot read 
 
 All the quivering- hearts that bleed, 
 
 Tenderest souls would sink indeed, 
 
 O'erwhelmed by otliers' woe; 
 'Tis as well we cannot see 
 All existing- misery. 
 Otherwise, nor you, nor me, 
 
 Would rest or comfort know. 
 
 Not to mortals is it given 
 
 To assume the tasks of heaven. 
 
 Only One! the Savior even 
 
 All human sorrow bore; 
 Yet, God's own begotten Son — 
 Tho' He scorned the cross to shun — 
 While He cried, »> Thy will be done" 
 
 Sweat bitterest drops of gore. 
 
 Still, within the narrowest sphere. 
 Some there are, both true and dear. 
 Some, with whom a heartfelt tear 
 
 May indeed be shed; 
 Some, whose direful need demands 
 Loving words and helpful hands; 
 Happy he who understands 
 
 To lift the drooping- head. 
 
 Sympathy! thy heaven-born might. 
 Lines the gloomiest clouds with light. 
 Turning oft to paths of right 
 
 Souls by sorrow bent; 
 Fate doth hold us so in thrall — 
 Is it strange some faint and fall? 
 Well it is, the Judge of all 
 Looks at the heart's intent. 
 
 Wherefore sing so sad a strain? 
 Hiirdest lessons learnt is gaiti ; 
 Life is short, and brief its pain; 
 
 Rest will come full soon; . 
 Fairest chances fly away, 
 Why not use them while we may? 
 Tho' we cannot bid thee stay — 
 
 Thrice welcome, joyful June! 
 
 -m 
 
^- 
 
 58 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FAITH AND WORKS. 
 
 See! the wilds, so long- forsaken, into Hie and 
 
 bloom awaken — 
 'Tis the meed of Fiiith unshaken, the reward 
 
 of labor too. 
 Faith hath wrought this exultation, for the 
 
 "Outcasts" of the nation; 
 Yea, through Faith " God favors Zion " — 
 
 Faith and Works can wonders do. 
 Ah, this Faith ! Can words express it? Can 
 
 the jeers of foes suppress it? 
 'Tis superior to language, far above reproach 
 
 and scorn ; 
 'Tis indeed the blest assurance, that for pa- 
 tient, brief endurance. 
 We shall reap the full fruition of the hopes 
 
 within us born. 
 'Tis in vain men cry "delusion," souls are 
 
 thrilled with Faith's infusion. 
 Faith reanimates the spirit as the life-blood 
 
 cheers the heart; 
 Needful 'tis that we obtain it, needful 'tis that 
 
 we retain it — 
 Thougli we never can explain it, Faith doth 
 
 power and peace impart. 
 Faith's the fruit of revelation, Faith's the an- 
 chor of salvation ; 
 Faith obtains from God a knowledge of the 
 
 truth that cheers the soul; 
 Faith's the true appreciation of Clirist's love 
 
 and mediation; 
 Faith's the force of Truth within us. Faith's 
 
 the power that makes us whole. 
 For this Faith it is no wonder, men have e'en 
 
 been torn asunder, 
 Men have"Cru'lly been tormented," scorn- 
 ing to accept reprieve. 
 Knowing, though by fiends surrounded, that 
 
 in truth their faith was founded — 
 Scorn'd they to deny for freedom what they 
 
 could not but believe; 
 
 By the ladder of affliction — sword, and fire 
 and crucifixion — 
 
 For their Faith, by death's most tortuous, no- 
 blest souls have upward soar'd — 
 
 Passed these martyrs up to glory, leaving us 
 their deathless story. 
 
 While the cry, " How long. Thou just One, ere 
 tliy vengeance is outpoured'/" 
 
 Of eternal condemnation there's a fearful res- 
 ervation 
 
 For the murderers of these just ones, of these 
 brave, iiluslrions dead! 
 
 Read we from tlie siicred pages, how that 
 from remotest ages. 
 
 From the dt^ith of " rigliteous Abel," many 
 for their Faitli have bled. 
 
 So, within tliis general ion, by a free and 
 favor'd nation. 
 
 Prophets have for Faith been murder'd, men 
 lia\e sorely been opprest; 
 
 For their Faith— through much privation — 
 " sought they out a habitation," 
 
 Even in a distant desert, In the wild, uncul- 
 tured west. 
 
 m 
 
 UNIVERSAL LOVE. 
 Oh, this life would be a burden 
 
 Were it lived for self alone; 
 Did not loving hearts and faithful 
 
 Beat responsive to our own: 
 Did not pure affection's fingers. 
 
 With a constancy divine. 
 Ever 'round our inmost feelings 
 
 Briglit celestial garlands twine. 
 All Love's social sweet surroundings 
 
 Give to life a healthful zest. 
 And when these are most expansive. 
 
 Then most truly, we are blest; 
 Shall we circumscribe the feelings 
 
 Emanating from above, 
 Whicl) the gods delight to practice — 
 
 Even universal love? 
 God so loved the whole creation 
 
 That he sacrified his Son, 
 And the world's entire salvation 
 
 Shall by love alone be won ; 
 Shall we, in our selfish weakness, 
 
 Strive against so broad a plan? 
 Or, in charity and meekness. 
 
 Love the family of man? 
 If we recognize as kindred 
 
 All the cliildren of our Sire, 
 Shall we limit our affections 
 
 And within ourselves retire? 
 No! the truly good and noble 
 
 Do rejoice in giving joy. 
 Not alone for self they labor. 
 
 Holy Ones their aid employ. 
 For the mission of the angels 
 
 Is to cheer and bless the soul; 
 They have joy in this surpassing 
 
 Mortal's uttermost control; 
 Surely goodness is immortal, 
 
 Cliarity is all divine. 
 Universal love extendelh 
 
 From the God-iiead'ssacred shrine. 
 Whoso these celestial eraces 
 
 Ever cherish in tlie heart. 
 In most trying times and places 
 
 Light and comfort shall impart; 
 Love extendeth and rebouiuleth. 
 
 It liatii joy's elastic spring 
 It shall ever clieer the giver, 
 
 IVielv lo him :\ blessing bring. 
 Love sliiill g:illH>r love around us, 
 
 Onward iln'oiigli tlie stream of time. 
 Love sliall make our old age youthful. 
 
 And our destinies sublime. 
 
 « 
 
Si- 
 
 local AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 o9 
 
 -* 
 
 WILLIAM TAYLOR. 
 
 Born i>f Scotland, Feb. T, 1850. 
 In 1867 Mr. Taylor lost the sight of his left eye 
 through a pieee of the g-un cap penetrating: 
 the pupil. The same year he sailed for Ameri- 
 ca. In 1873 he avms ninrric^d : one year later a 
 sliver of steel from the head of a tool he was 
 using pierced the ball of his right eye, usher- 
 ing him into lifelong darkness. It was a hard 
 trial, but to one of his disposition he soon be- 
 
 WILLIAM TAVT-OR. 
 
 came reconciled to his loss. This blind poet is 
 called the Milton of the West, and he gives 
 recitations of his own original poems to 
 churches, Sunday schools, and other organiza- 
 tions, which have met with universal approval. 
 Mr. Taylor has a wide circle of admirers, and 
 we predict that his journey through life will 
 be comparatively a smooth one. 
 
 ©- 
 
 AM I A SCOT, OR AM I NOT? 
 If I should bring a wagon o'er 
 From Scotland to Columbia's shore. 
 And by successive wear and tear. 
 The wagon soon should need repair; 
 Thus, when the tires are worn through, 
 Columbia's Iron doth renew; 
 Likewise the fellies, hubs and spokes 
 Should be replaced by western oaks; 
 In course of time down goes the bed. 
 But here's one like it in its stead. 
 So bit by bit, in seven years, 
 
 All things arc changed in bed and gears. 
 
 And still it seems as though it ought 
 
 To be the one from Scotland brought; 
 
 But when I think the matter o'er. 
 
 It ne'er was on a foreign shore. 
 
 And all that came across the sea. 
 
 Is only its identity. 
 
 I came a Scotchman, understand, 
 
 To live, by choice in this free land. 
 
 Wherein I've dwelt from day to day. 
 
 Till sixteen years have passed away. 
 
 If physiology be true. 
 
 My body has been changing too; 
 
 And though at first it did seem strange. 
 
 Yet science doth confirm the change; 
 
 And since I have the truth been taught 
 
 I wonder if I'm now a Scot? 
 
 Since all that came across the sea 
 
 Is only my identity. 
 
 STERLING WORTH. 
 What IS there in the garb of man, 
 
 That we should honor or despise? 
 To judge of grain, are we to scan, 
 
 The husks wherein the kernel lies? 
 A coat, by honest labor torn. 
 
 May wrap a heart as true as steel. 
 And so may husks, all weather worn, 
 
 A perfect grain of wheat conceal. 
 A crown may rest upon a head 
 
 Where seldom dwells a worthy thought, 
 While countless noble thoughts are bred, 
 
 Neath hats of straw that's roughlj 
 wrought. 
 What signifies our place of birth. 
 
 The length of purse, or place we fill? 
 The only real test of worth. 
 
 Is passing through the fanning mill. 
 The hand of time, the flail doth ply. 
 
 Alike upon the rich and poor. 
 The great, the small, the low, the high. 
 
 Are equal on the threshing floor. 
 And he who oversees the fan. 
 
 That chaff and wheat doth separate. 
 Will favor not the garb of man. 
 
 The grain must he of standard weight. 
 
 THE ARTISAN. 
 Be not by vanity mis-led 
 
 To slight the artisan, 
 For though he toils to earn his bread, 
 
 He's nature's nobleman: 
 Yea, quite as worthy as a king 
 Is he who makes the anvil ring, [sweat. 
 And from whose brow flow streams of 
 To pay the law of nature's debt. 
 The monuments of Art go view, 
 
 By men of genius wrought. 
 Nor grudge the workman honor due 
 
 Though humble be his lot. 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 -* 
 
 80 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 MRS. HELEN A. RAINS. 
 
 Born: Rome, C, Dec. 16, 1838. 
 Among the many publications to which this 
 lady has contributed miglit he mentioned 
 Peterson's Magazine, Cincinnati Weekly, La- 
 
 MRS. HELEN A. RAINS. 
 
 dies' Repository, and the Christian Standard. 
 This lady was married in 1870 to George W. 
 Rains. She follows the profession of a jour- 
 nalist, and now resides in Mt. Ayr, Iowa. 
 
 JUNE PICTURES. 
 Framed in my window? what a bit of .sky 
 
 Of azure blue— a snowy cloud afloat 
 
 With tiny sails, so like a fairy boat, 
 Suspended in mid-air, as by the eye 
 Reflected in the mirage we can see 
 Objects transcribed with perfect symmetry. 
 Waves upon waves of greenness just below, 
 
 (Of that peculiar shade that June full 
 crowned 
 
 And flusli witli all her rarities has found 
 To beautify the earth) which ebb and flow 
 As with the tide. The country roads' de- 
 cline 
 O'er distant hills the eye can scarce define. 
 
 MY RAHY. 
 
 Fold her hands liglitly 
 Over her breast, 
 
 Clo.se her lids liglitly, 
 Lay her to rest. 
 
 Smootli the daik tresses 
 Over hei' l)row. 
 
 All my caresses 
 
 Availeth not, now. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 And so the spring is here, M-ith memories 
 
 That cling to ev"ry thing with loving touch. 
 The fields afresh with kindling green— the 
 skies 
 Blue and empyreal. I wonder much 
 If in the land where my young days were 
 
 spent 
 These things in old-time loveliness, have 
 lent 
 Hue to the streams, and on the dewy air 
 Apple-bloom diffusion. The dell, whose 
 soil 
 In spring, was rank with yellow cowslips, 
 where 
 We mired at every step, and hours of toil 
 Rewarded us with prize — the very best — 
 A pail of "greens" — do little children test 
 With cheeks abloom, through labyrinthine 
 ways 
 Its grape-\'ine swings, the roots and spicy 
 
 bark 
 If sassafras, these lovely April days? 
 Has modern culture stolen ev'ry spark 
 Of interest in woodland haunts, from those 
 Whose life's expanding, like the morning 
 rose. 
 Promise of vigor in the bud, should hold. 
 Do blooms, perfumes, and healthful airs 
 bespeak 
 To j^oung hearts now, the same delights that 
 told 
 In days agone, on childliood's lip and cheek? 
 Of what avail the knowledge of to-day. 
 If youth has lost her happy, care-free way? 
 Do books impart, one-half the wisdom caught 
 From running brooks and feathered song- 
 sters' lays? 
 Have lessons learned (the Harmonies have 
 taught 
 Tliat Nature blends sublimely in her days, 
 With unison of chords in sweetness wrought 
 Not molded characters, where books were 
 naught. 
 
 GOING FOR THE COWS. 
 Adown the lane a tangle 
 
 Of rankest wet'ds and grasses. 
 Starred ticre and there with spangle 
 
 Of dogwood bloom in masses 
 That overhanging dangle 
 
 Upon the head tliat passes. 
 His way toward the dingle. 
 
 The l)iii'efoot boy is wending, 
 Wliei't' comes the faint commingle 
 
 Of cow-licU rhythm, blending 
 Willi nu lodiama, single 
 
 The inocking-biid is rend'ring. 
 
 :^- 
 
 © 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 61 
 
 -® 
 
 LAURA J. RITTENHOUSE. 
 
 Born: Grand Chain, III., 1841. 
 This lady has given a great deal of her time 
 to the temperance cause, being one of its 
 most fervent supporters. She has published 
 
 twobooks — Out of the Di'pilis, a \hh-ui. and 
 
 liAtTRA .1. RITTENHOUSE. 
 
 a book of temperance stories for young 
 children. She has also contributed to the 
 leading periodicals of America. Mrs. Ritten- 
 house has a splendid family of five children, 
 and now resides at Cairo, 111. 
 
 *- 
 
 WEIGHING BABY. 
 Baby's weight! how much it means. 
 When the " children's angel " leans 
 From God's door through cloud-rift sails. 
 Holding Love's own shining scales 
 Weighing baby as she lies. 
 With her ojien, deep-blue eyes 
 tilled with wonder, while she swings. 
 Like an angel without wings. 
 
 How much does the darling weigh ? 
 None but heavenly scales can say; 
 None but heavenly tongues can tell. 
 All the precious things that dwell 
 In this body warm and small. 
 Making it out- weigh them all — 
 All the dimpled, crowing throng. 
 That in other homes belong. 
 
 Can one weigh the baby's wiles, 
 Witching ways and cunning smiles ? 
 Weigh the voice to us so sweet. 
 Or the warmth of rosy feet ? 
 Weigh her dimples— " Cupid's nest," 
 Where our kisses find sweet rest ':t 
 Weigh the blessings that each day 
 Wrap her 'round in soft array ? 
 
 Can you weigh each hope and jjrayer. 
 Centered on her everywhere ? 
 Or the love that's woven fast 
 'Round her while our lives shall last ? 
 Can you weigh the fair young soul, 
 Op'ning like a spotless scroll ? 
 Only God's unerring gaze, 
 Sees how much our darling weighs. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 When you passed me yesterday. 
 Deigning not to look that way. 
 Did you know that I was near. 
 And with all your coldness, fear 
 Just to meet my earnest gaze. 
 Lest some thought Of other days 
 Should defy you to forget 
 What we have been, Margaret ? 
 
 Did your memory like a dream. 
 Bring before you then a gleam 
 Of a farm-house white and small, 
 Wliere the brightest sunbeams fall; 
 Where the woodbine clambers up. 
 Holding many a dainty cup 
 Filled with incense sweeter yet. 
 Than all others, Margaret? 
 
 Did you see the roses white. 
 And the red ones, where one night 
 'Neath the solemn light of stai-s. 
 Shadows held us in their bars. 
 And the soft wind floating by. 
 Heard us vowing — you and I, 
 That our love's sun should not set. 
 While life lasted, Margaret ? 
 
 Are your hot-house flowers as sweet 
 As the ones that kissed your feet ? 
 Do your prisoned birds e'er sing 
 Like the wild ones on the wing ? 
 Will your wealth and station pay 
 For the true heart cast away ? 
 Does no wild remorse, regret. 
 Prey upon you, Margaret? 
 
 Turn your head away in scorn. 
 Rich in gold — in heart forlorn; 
 Mingle with the heartless, gay ; 
 Laugh and jest and ne'er betray 
 Tlirough your mask of calm, cold pride. 
 How your aching heart is tried; 
 Yet through all life's tangled net. 
 You shall love me, Margaret. 
 
 -m 
 
®- 
 
 62 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 IDA MAY DAVIS. 
 
 Born: La Fayette, Ind., 1858. 
 Mrs. Davis lias written for many leading- 
 mag-iiziues and newspapers, among- wliicli 
 might be mentioned the Chicago Inter Ocean, 
 
 IDA MAY DAVIS. 
 
 Chicago Current and Indianapolis Journal. 
 She is of medium higlit, with brown hair and 
 hazel eyes, and now resides in Terre Haute, 
 Indiana. 
 
 EVENING SONG. 
 Farewell, sweet day. 
 
 Thy thoughts and mine in perfect tunc; 
 And rhyme have blent this day of June, 
 
 And ere the rapture of thy spell 
 Dissolves, I turn to thee and say, 
 . Sweet day, farewell. 
 Farewell, sweet day. 
 
 For I would rather part from thee 
 With every chord in harmony 
 
 Than meet thee in the cold, gray light 
 Of morrow's morn. Thus, glad I say. 
 
 Sweet day, goodnight. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 The rose's heart is red, so red ; 
 
 The thrush's .song is sweet, so sweet; 
 The river lies, a flame of l)lue, 
 
 The morn is golden and complete. 
 I hear her voice amid the reeds. 
 
 Alike no other melody; 
 >ry name, across the echoing wold. 
 
 On wings of wind is borne to me. 
 I reach out — ah I my rose-red dream ! 
 
 Gray shreds of gauze in ochre light 
 Spread slow along the water's trail. 
 
 Into the olive veil of night. 
 It must have been the friendly breeze. 
 
 With magic touch upon my brain. 
 With voice soft soughing thro' the trees, 
 
 That brought me thee, O love, again. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 I, the rose, am glad to-day. 
 
 Slumbering in the summer heat. 
 I heard my lady, joj-ous say, 
 "I'll wear this rose of fragrane e sweet. 
 When I, my guests invited meet." 
 Ah, kindest fate, that I should grace 
 Such beauty as my Lady's face; 
 And she will place me, soft caressed. 
 With lingering touch upon her breast. 
 Strange fingers plucked me yester night. 
 Mid swiftly falling di-ops, dew-bright. 
 Tliey said an uninvited guest. 
 Greeting my Lady, bade her rest. 
 She lay in fair and fleecy white, 
 Witli smiling lips. Thro' pale moonlight. 
 They measured steps, with sound supprest. 
 And laid me softly on her breast. 
 And kissed her cheek so ivory white. 
 I, the rose, am sad to-night. 
 
 A HARMONY. 
 
 The dawn's vinfolding wings the breeze fret. 
 
 Kissing the gentian's slumbrous eyelids 
 swift ; 
 Her siLk-f ringed lashes with thedewdrops wet. 
 
 Quivering 'neath the sun's bright glance, 
 uplift. 
 The bee, hid in the trumpet-blossom's spire. 
 
 Reels to the chimes within its nodding cells. 
 The trembling hollyhock's red chalices of fire 
 
 Rock with the unseen ringer of their bells. 
 O'er purple clematis the butterfly 
 
 Hovers to taste the sweetness from its Ups: 
 And all the opal tints of sun and sky 
 
 Are drank in rainbow colors that he sips. 
 The reeds that grow down by the crystal 
 spring. 
 
 Meeting the morning breezes from the sea. 
 Their matutinal lays are otfering 
 
 In notes that might awake sad Niobe. 
 The ripples from the bnxjk, where bhiedragons 
 
 Upon its bosom clear reflected float. 
 Are like the soft-voiced ringniove's cai-illons. 
 
 Or silvery laughter from a young girl's 
 throat. 
 And every swaying stem keei>s time complete. 
 
 To fill its part in natui-e's melody 
 Of rhythmic cadence to the low wind's beat — 
 
 Song without words— a voiceless symphony. 
 
 ©- 
 
 -« 
 
^ 
 
 LOCAT^ AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF A31K111CA. 
 
 63 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. FRANCES L. MACE. 
 
 Born: Okono, Me., Jan. 15, 1836. 
 The poems of tliis huly liave appeared in tlie 
 Century, AthmtiL*, Lippincott's, Harper's and 
 the leading- n\;igazines of America. In 1884 
 appealed a volume of over two hundred pag(>s 
 from lier pen, entitleil Lefiends, Ljries and 
 Sonnets: ;ind in 1888, Uiider Pine ;ind Pahn, a 
 majiiiiticicnl \i)lunieof ht-i- eollei'ted poems. 
 
 MUS. FKANCES LAUGHTON MACE. 
 
 She was married in 1855 to Benjamin H. Mace, 
 a prominent lawyer and scholar. Mrs. Mace 
 lives at San Jose, under the smiling- sljies of 
 California. At the age of eig'hteen she wrote 
 her celebrated hymn. Only Wailing, which 
 was copied through tiie leng-th and breadtli of 
 the land. Mrs. Mace is a handsome, stately 
 woman, with a truly artistic temperament, 
 and has four children now living-. 
 
 ONLY WAITING. 
 Only waiting- till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown. 
 Only waiting- till the glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
 Till tlie eight of earth is faded 
 
 From this heart once full of day. 
 Till tlie dawn of Heaven is breaking- 
 
 Tlirough tlie twiliglit soft and g-ray. 
 Only waiting- till tlie reapers 
 
 Have tlie last sheaf g-athered home. 
 For the summer-time liath faded 
 
 ^ — 
 
 And tlie autumn winds are come. 
 Quielily, reapeis, gather quickly 
 
 Tlie last ripe hours of my lieart 
 For tiie bloom of life is withered. 
 
 And I hasten to depart. 
 Only waiting- till the ang-els 
 
 Open wide tlie mystic gate. 
 At whose feet I long- have ling-ered. 
 
 Weary, pooi-, and desolate. 
 Even now I hear 1 heir footsteps 
 
 And their voices far away: 
 If they call me 1 am waiting,— 
 
 Onlj' waiting to obey. 
 Only waiting till tlie shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown. 
 Only waiting till the g-limr(aer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown; 
 Then from out the folded darkness 
 
 Holy, deatliless stars shall ri.se. 
 By whose light my soul will gladly 
 
 \ying her passage to the skies. 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 I know a spot where woods are green, 
 
 And all the dim, delicious June 
 A brook flows fast the boughs between 
 
 And trills an eager, joyous tune. 
 
 In clear unbroken melody 
 
 Tlie brook sings and the birds reply: 
 "The violets — the violets! " 
 Upon the water's velvet edge 
 
 The purple blossoms breathe delight, 
 Close nestled to the grassy sedge 
 
 As sweet as dawn, as dark as night. 
 
 O brook and branches, far away. 
 
 My iieart keeps time with you to-day! 
 "The violets — the violets! " 
 I sometimes dream tliat when at last 
 
 My life is done with fading things. 
 Again will blossom forth the past 
 
 To which mj' memory fondest clings. 
 
 That some fair star has kept for me. 
 
 Fresh blooming still by brook and tree, 
 "The violets — the violets! " 
 
 EBB AND FLOW. 
 My river! Thou art like the poet's soul. 
 
 Where tides of song perpetual ebb and flow. 
 
 Like thine the current of his life runs low 
 At times, his visions suffer loss and dole, 
 And sunken griefs break through the water's 
 shoal. 
 
 Then while despair is tossing to and fro 
 
 His stranded hope, a breath begins to blow 
 From the great sea! With rising swell and roll 
 The waves of inspiration lift and float 
 
 His being into broad and full expanse. 
 Now rocks his fancy like an airy boat 
 
 On wreathed billows; liis impassioned glance 
 Little of cloud or reef or wreck will note, 
 
 On the high tide of song in blissful trance. 
 
 -® 
 
* 
 
 -® 
 
 64 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 LOTUS-EATING. 
 These perfect days were never meant 
 
 For toil of hand or brain. 
 But for sucli measureless content 
 
 As heeds no loss nor gain ; 
 Close held to Nature's flowery breast 
 In deep midsummer rest. 
 Within this woodland shade I feel 
 
 The life of wind and tree; 
 Soft odors, tremulous boughs reveal 
 
 Unuttered ecstasy; 
 The wild bird's diowsy warble seems 
 My own voice heard in dreams! 
 And yonder azure mountain brow 
 
 Against the opal sky, 
 The river's cool, melodious flow. 
 
 The pine-tree's pensive sigh. 
 Each utters forth my inmost mood 
 Of blissful solitude. 
 That ever-daring deeds were done. 
 
 Or fiery flags unfurled. 
 Is like a tale of glory won 
 
 In some primeval world. 
 Where under skies of angry hue 
 Not yet the lotus grew ! 
 O world, to-day in vain j-ou hold 
 
 The glittering branch of palm; 
 The lotus hath a flower of gold, 
 
 A fruit of heavenly balm. 
 And underneath the greenwood tree 
 Are flower and fruit for me. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Bridge of enchantment! for a moment hung 
 
 Between the tears of earth and smiles of 
 heaven. 
 Surely the sheen of jasper, sapphire, gold. 
 
 Flashes and burns along thy colors seven. 
 And to the lifted heart, the beaming eye,. 
 Reveals the splendor of the upper sky. 
 Whether as Northmen dream, the hero's soul 
 
 Enters its rest across thy brilliant height; 
 Or, as the more melodious Greek hath told. 
 
 Iris descends with message of delight; 
 Or in the silence beautiful is heard 
 The still, small whisper of the Hebrew Word; 
 Welcome forever to a stormy world. 
 
 Dear in each sign and symbol of the past 
 As of tlie future; for our Hope shall climb 
 Thy lustrous arcli to realms unseen and vast; 
 Peace shall come down to us. and in thy light 
 God's finger still the golden Promise write! 
 
 *- 
 
 THE ANGELUS. 
 Ring soft across the dying day, 
 
 Angelus! 
 Across the ambcr-tintod bay. 
 The moiidow tluslicd with sunset ray, 
 Ring out and float and melt away, 
 
 Angelus. 
 
 The day of toil seems long ago, 
 
 Angelus! 
 While through the deepening vesper glow. 
 Far up where holy lilies blow, 
 Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow, 
 
 Angelus. 
 Through dazzling curtains of the west, 
 
 Angelus, 
 We see a slirine in roses dressed. 
 And lifted high, in vision blest. 
 Our every heart-throb is confessed, 
 
 Angelus! 
 Oh, has an angel touched the bell, 
 
 Angelus? 
 For now upon its parting swell 
 All sorrow seems to sing Farewell; 
 There falls a peace no words can tell, 
 
 Angelus! 
 
 ECHO LAKE. 
 In sunset beauty lies the lake, 
 
 A limpid, lustrous splendor! 
 The mists which wrapped the mountain break. 
 And Storm Cliff's rugged outlines take 
 
 An aspect warm and tender. 
 
 Now listen ! for a spirit dwells 
 High in these mountain nooks and dells. 
 Echo! Echo! 
 
 Hail to thee ! Hail to thee ! 
 Sad Echo, mocked of all her kind. 
 
 Here haunts the fleeting summer. 
 And sends her voice upon the wind. 
 Still hoping long-lost love to find 
 
 In every transient comer. 
 Not where 'mid silver beeches shines 
 
 The lake's pellucid fountain, 
 But high o'er tangled shrubs and vines 
 She dwells amid the spectral pines. 
 
 The spectre of the mountain. 
 
 Float nearer still and drop the oar, 
 
 Here where the lilies glisten; 
 O Echo, we return no more; 
 For us beyotid the island shore 
 
 True love doth long and listen. 
 Thou grievcst not, nor dost rejoice, 
 O wandering, solitarj- Voice! 
 
 Echo! Echo! 
 
 Farewell ! Fa rewell ! 
 
 TEARS OF ISIS. 
 When tsis, by true mother love oppressed. 
 Held \vo\iiid('d Horns to lier goddess breast, 
 Each tear that touched the sympathetic ear 
 To some rich, aromatic herb gave birth. 
 Such healing sprang from her celestial pai 
 Mortals no longer seek relief in vain, [yea 
 For oft as spritig awakes tlie slumberi 
 In wood and meadow blossom Isis' tears. 
 
 th 
 
 « 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 65 
 
 -SB 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Born : Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 39, 1809. 
 This great scholar is cqvially uoted as a poet, 
 novelist, essayist, and physician. Ho is con- 
 sidered one of the most witty, orig-inai and bril- 
 liant writers of the present day. Educated 
 partly at Phillips academy, he graduated at 
 Harvard when twenty years of age. Young- 
 Oliver then spent a vear in studying law: but 
 
 ©- 
 
 OliTVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 the subject of this sketch very soon abandon- 
 ed the law in order to enter upon the study of 
 medicine, which course he pursued In Europe, 
 chieiiy in Paris. 
 
 In 1836 Mr. Holmes returned to America, took 
 the degree of M. D., and two years later he 
 became professor of anatomy and physiology 
 in Dartmouth college, which position he held 
 until the time of his marriage, in 1840, when he 
 removed to Boston, and there won much suc- 
 cess as a practicing physician. In 184" he was 
 appointed to the chair of anatomy and physio- 
 logy in Harvard — the seat of the medical de- 
 partmentof this university being in Boston— a 
 post which he has filled with honor until 1882. 
 
 While Dr. Holmes has won distinction not 
 only as a professional man and a writer on sub- 
 jects related to his profession, he is best known 
 to the pubUc by his ptirely literary produc- 
 tions. 
 
 During the year 1&30, while studying law, he 
 contributed a number of witty poems to a col- 
 
 lege periodical. Dr. Holmes was one of the 
 foundersof the Atlantic Monthly magazine, to 
 which he contributed from time to time; and 
 in the pages of this periodical first appeared 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. His 
 lyrics, such as Old Ironsides, Union and Liber- 
 ty, Welcome to the Nations, and others, are 
 not only spirited, but also the most beautiful 
 in our language; and his humorous poems, in- 
 cluding The One-Hoss Shay, Lending an Old 
 Punch-Bowl, My Aunt, The Boys, and many 
 others, are characterized by a vivacious and 
 sparkling wit which makes their drollery irre- 
 sistible. His prose works are greatly admired, 
 the best of which are The Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast Table, The Professor at the Break- 
 fast Table, The Poet of the Breakfast Table, 
 and the novels Elsie Venner, and the Guardian 
 Angel. 
 
 " Dr. Holmes," says John G. Whittier, '«has 
 1 leen likened to Thomas Hood ; but there is little 
 in common between them, save the power of 
 combining fancy and sentiment with grotesque 
 drollery and humor. Hood, under all his whims 
 and oddities, conceals the vehement intensity 
 of a reformer. The iron of the world's wrongs 
 has entered into his soul. There is an under- 
 tone of sorrow in his lyrics. His sarcasm, di- 
 rected against oppression and bigotry, at times 
 lietrays the earnestness of one whose own 
 withers have been wrung. Holmes writes sim- 
 ply for the amusementof himself and his read- 
 ers. He deals only with the vanities, the foi- 
 bles, and the minor faults of mankind, good- 
 naturedly and almost sympathizingly suggest- 
 ing excuses for folly, which he tosses about on 
 the horns of his ridicule. Long may he live to 
 make broader the face of our care-ridden gen- 
 eration, and to realize for himself the truth of 
 the wise man's declaration, that ' A merry 
 heart is a continual feast!' ' 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 I saw him once before 
 As he passed by the door; 
 
 And again 
 The pavement-stones resound 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say, that in his prime. 
 Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
 
 Cut him down. 
 Not a better man was found 
 By the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets, 
 And he looks at all he meets, 
 
 Sad and wan ; 
 And he shakes his feeble head. 
 
 -9 
 
m- 
 
 -)5 
 
 66 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 "They are gone!" 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 On the lips that he has prest 
 
 In their bloom ; 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 Mj- g-randmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady ! she is dead 
 Long ago— 
 That he had a Roman nose. 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 In the snow. 
 
 But now his nose is thin. 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like a staff; 
 And a crook is in his back, 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here; 
 But the old three-cornered hat. 
 And the breeches, and all that. 
 
 Are so queer! 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 In the spring. 
 Let them smile, as I do now. 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 
 Where I cling. 
 
 88- 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 
 Note.— Dr. Holmes has said of this poem, "If 
 you will remember me by the Chambered Nau- 
 tilus, your memory will be a monument I 
 shall think more of than any bronze or marble. ' ' 
 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 
 Sails the unshadowed main. — 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare. 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun thcii- 
 streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl. — 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 
 
 And (!vcry chambered cell. 
 Where its dim <ireaming lite was wont to dwell. 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 
 
 Before thee lies re\-ealed,— 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt un- 
 .sealed ! 
 
 Year alter year beheld the silent toil 
 That spread his lustrous coil; 
 
 Still, as the spiral grew. 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway 
 through. 
 Built us its idle door. 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the 
 old no more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by 
 thee. 
 Child of the wandering sea. 
 Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
 Than ever Triton blew from wi-eathed horn? 
 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a 
 voice that sings : 
 
 Build -thee moi'e stately mansions, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past I 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 
 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Lea\'ing thine outgrown shell by life's unrest- 
 ing sea! 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 The simple lessons which the nursery taught 
 Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought. 
 And the full blossom owes its fairest hue 
 To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew. 
 
 Where go the poet's lines'/ 
 
 Answer, ye evening tapers ! 
 Ye auburn locks, je golden curls. 
 
 Speak from your folded papers! 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest 
 
 Where the sweet wailing singers slumbei". 
 But o'er their silent sister's breast 
 
 The wild flowers, who will stoop to number"' 
 A few can touch the magic string. 
 
 And noisy Fame is proud to win them; 
 Alas for those that never sing. 
 
 But die with all their music in tiiem ! 
 
 Old Time, in whose bank we deposit our notes, 
 Is a miser who always wants guineas for 
 
 groats; 
 He keeps all his customers still in arrears 
 15y lending them minutes and charging them 
 
 >ears. 
 
 You hear that lioy laughing? You think he's 
 
 all fun; 
 But the angels laugh, too. at the good he has 
 
 done; 
 Th(> rliildrcii laugli loud as tlicy triK)]) at his 
 
 call. 
 And the poor iiuiii tlmr knows liim laughs 
 
 loudest of all. 
 
 -i^ 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AJIERICA. 
 
 67 
 
 -© 
 
 ALBERT CLYMER. 
 
 Born: Faikfield Co., C, Dec. 10, 1837. 
 In 1890 Mr. Clymer removed from his farm in 
 Morley to Oliii, Iowa. He has issued a volume 
 of poems entitled Echoes of the Woods, con- 
 sisting of song's, ballads and lyrics which in 
 a charming manner carry the author back lo 
 the (la\-~ (if b..\ hnnil iind xniin.i;- iiiaiil 1 in 
 
 ALBERT CLYMER. 
 
 his Ohio home. The true spirit of the muse 
 pervades the entire volume. He has had a 
 strong partialitj- for poetry from his earliest 
 recollection. Mr. Clymer has several volumes 
 of verse ready for publication, and devotes 
 his time mainly to writing and doing light 
 farm work. 
 
 ©- 
 
 POETRY AS COMPARED TO PROSE. 
 True poetiy of thought, if it is well expressed, 
 In prose, blank verse, or rhyme, as suits men 
 
 best. 
 Dull nature wakes from lethargy and sleep; 
 To contemplation, laughter, chance to weep. 
 It — heaven-born — the soul of man Inspires 
 With rapture, and his zeal it flres. 
 It thrills the soul with beauty's vital charm ; 
 To noble deeds it nerves the palsied arm ; 
 It cultivates the heart; incites to love. 
 And elevates the thouglits to things above. 
 Since prose is deemed sufBciently complete. 
 Devoid of rhythm, of rhyme, and of poetic 
 
 feet.— 
 
 In rhyming verse, we've measured time. 
 We've harmony, and rhythm, and rhyme; 
 The parts arranged in tn-der all complete : — 
 Some lines have many, otliers have few feet. 
 Instructive poems we, besiire have .seen; 
 And .some we ne'er could tell just wliat they 
 
 mean. 
 We here will not affirm, nor yet deny. 
 That such is poetry; though it seems dry; 
 Perchance the author gave us but the hull; 
 And kept the kernel: — chance our taste is 
 
 dull. 
 We hope from time to time, as shall appear 
 
 most meet, [repeat. 
 
 To give you fruit ; who taste It will the taste 
 Though it holds meat all ready to your hand. 
 It's taste who'd judge, should skill to taste 
 
 command. 
 This fruit may, then, be cracked, and tasted 
 
 too, all round, [sound. 
 
 And cracked again; remaining fresh and 
 
 EVOLUTION. 
 
 Wonderfully long, indeed, Haeckel's chain. 
 Which gave the moneron two legs and a 
 brain. 
 From the depth of the sea the moneron 
 
 came ; — 
 Haeckel the scientist gave it a name ; — 
 As small as a pin's head, a globular cell; 
 After ages to crawl, snail-like, from a shell. 
 An infusory, neither male nor female. 
 Acquires a back-bone, and flns, and a tail. 
 A thing without nerve, or muscle, or wish. 
 Is changed to a polyp, a moUusk, a flsh. 
 Hatched ])y the sun from the spawn of the 
 frog, [wog. 
 
 Reigns queen in a mud-puddle. Miss PolU- 
 A tortoise, a monkey, four legs recollect; 
 A man witli two hands and a mind walks 
 erect. 
 Some millions of years requiring to span 
 The chasm between the monkey and man. 
 The billions betwixt his first and last state 
 And the number of times he did transmi- 
 grate 
 No man from such data can calculate. 
 The existance of man, how brought about, 
 They ne'er can explain if God is left out. 
 So scientists fail, with all their great skill. 
 To solve the great problem ; aye fail thus they 
 will. 
 God says he made man;— of the ground 'tis 
 
 confessed 
 As good, when fli-st formed, as is Haeckel's 
 best. 
 Those naturalists sure liave been to gi-eat 
 
 pains. 
 To prove that they sprang from a race minus 
 brains. 
 
 -© 
 
s- 
 
 68 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIOJ^AL POETS OF AMKIIK A. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Such teachers as tliey should exit the hive ; 
 
 By nature's g-reat law " the fittest survive." 
 
 Since they from the spawn of the rena were 
 
 hatched, 
 And by them the bull-frog-s as croakers are 
 matched, 
 " Fi-om the form of the arm, and tlie length 
 
 of the thig-h," 
 Tliej" sprang' from the species the g-entry 
 would fry. 
 They judge of the class, order and strain. 
 By range of \ision and compass of brain. 
 From grinders, and molars, and curve of 
 
 the jaw. 
 And spinal column, they inference draw. 
 The texture of muscle, the form of the bone, 
 The order of teeth, and the org-ans of tone ; 
 The size of tlie skull, the brain caliber, 
 The pedigree and habits infer. 
 Whence a class sprang, thro' which line they 
 
 descend. 
 When they went crawling, or stood upon end. 
 The reptile, the grub, the molecule source ; 
 They draw their conclusions from data of 
 
 course; 
 If valves or bivalves; we're told that those 
 
 seers 
 Calculate back for a billion of years ; 
 To prove evolution must have produced 
 
 man. 
 Without a creative intelligent plan. 
 Infidels madly the Bible have spurned: 
 'Tis only the present in which they're con- 
 cerned : 
 Trusting their reason they're going astray, 
 As others will do who take the same way. 
 'Tis clear, quite clear, very clear to my mind, 
 Tliose men, as the frogs, to leap are inclined; 
 Equally good at the game of leap-frog. 
 They jump at conclusions and croak in a 
 bog. 
 
 ®- 
 
 WE HAVE HAD ENOUGH. 
 We've had enough ! 
 
 Of poison drugs and watering; 
 
 Of feeing men for slaughtering; 
 Of interested flattering; 
 Of learned legal smattering; 
 Politic jugglers cattering:— 
 Tlie public sore while mattering. 
 The owls of Bacclius cliattering. 
 The liquor drivel pattering. 
 The sacred shrine bespattering. 
 The badge of Justice tattering, 
 Tlie social faliric battering. 
 The legal cog-wheels clattering; 
 
 Till Liberty is tottering: — 
 
 Of shilly shally pottering. 
 We've had enough ! 
 
 Theabovf) jingle may b(! read from top to 
 bottom. 
 
 f" 
 
 HENRY H. BROWXELL. 
 
 Born: Providence, E. I., Feb. 6, 1820. 
 After receiving a coUegiato education he be- 
 came a school teacher, began the study of law 
 and admitted to the bar in 1844. In 1849 he gave 
 up the practice of law and thenceforth devot- 
 ed himself to authorship; he has published 
 several volumes of verse besides many works 
 of prose. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Hast thou no angel-charity, no kindness to ful- 
 fill 
 
 For those on wliom this winter storm beats 
 down more naked stilli' 
 
 THE EAGLE OF CORINTH. 
 'Tis many a stormy daj". 
 
 Since, out of the cold, bleak North, 
 Our great War- Eagle sailed forth 
 To swoop o'er battle and fray. 
 Many and many a day 
 
 O'er charge and storm hath he wheeled, 
 Foraj' and foughteu field. 
 
 Tramp, and volley, and rattle I — 
 Over crimson trench and turf. 
 Over climbing clouds of surf. 
 Through tempest and cannon-rack. 
 Have his terrible pinions whirled — 
 (A thousand field of battle? 
 A million leagu'es of foam I 
 But our Bird shall yet come back, 
 
 He sliall soar to his Eyrie-Home — 
 And his thundrous wings be furled. 
 In the gaze of a gladdened world. 
 On the Nation's loftiest Dome. 
 
 GLORY. 
 
 Not a sob, not a tear be spent 
 
 For those wlio fell at his side — 
 But a moan and a long lament 
 
 For him --who might liave died. 
 Who might have lain, as Harold lay. 
 
 A king, and in state enow — 
 Or slept with his peers like Roland 
 
 In the Straits of Roncesvaux. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 This narrow room,-- this nanow room. 
 Sad image of a future doom; 
 Silence, wliere all around is loud. 
 And loneliness amid a crowd. 
 On the free mountain could I stand, 
 Nor mark one trace of liinnan hand. 
 Or steer my bark, \\ licrc none niiglit be. 
 Save mine ol<l playmates of the Sea, 
 The winds and waves— 'twouhl ne'er impress 
 This sense of utter loneliness 
 
 -® 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 69 
 
 m 
 
 JOHN JAC(3B DICKSON. 
 
 Born: Scott Co., Ind., Sept. 8, 1826. 
 Working on the farm when young at six dol- 
 lars per month, Mr. Dickson afterward learn- 
 ed the cooper trade. In 1830 he removed to 
 West Grove, Iowa, where he now resides, buy- 
 ing liis farm from the government. In 1861 
 
 JOHN J. DICKSON. 
 
 he was with Sherman's army on its famous 
 march to the sea. Judge W. M. Diclison, of 
 Cincinnati, is the only brotlier of the subject 
 of this sketch. John J. Dickson lias been a 
 member of the Presbyterian church for the 
 past thirty years, but now favors the Friends 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 In memory I recall my hopeful days 
 (There was a buoyant spirit once within , 
 And brood o'er youths contented, cheerful 
 
 ways. 
 So full of joy and innocent of sin ; 
 For then the world, with its eternal din 
 Of creeds, oppression, strife for pelf , and war. 
 Had not made me lose faith in all but Him— 
 Had not impelled a course my peace to mar; 
 And now I sigh for days in memory afar. 
 And yet there is a recompense for Age. 
 The purpose of a wise Creator's plan 
 Is found recorded in the Sacred Page, 
 And happiness is for the aged man 
 Who yields a willing soul, whose mind can 
 scan 
 ©■ 
 
 Where Freedom feels no license or restraint. 
 Who fears a wrong more than the public Imn, 
 Yet feels unworthy to be called a saint. 
 Though on the highest mount, serene, above 
 
 complaint. 
 But I am under law e'er since my birth 
 So that I cannot soar on angel wings 
 From care and the discordant sounds of Earth 
 Far up away from these to fairer things 
 That Faith has pictured, where the dweller 
 
 sings; 
 For love has no opposing foe above 
 To mar its Eden joy from which there springs 
 A peace that Earth's contending sects approve. 
 Then take the sword and disobey the Lord of 
 
 love. 
 
 TO A BUDDING POETICAL GENIUS. 
 The flower that crowns a rosary 
 
 Was once a bud unseen. 
 Your genius may, developed, be 
 
 The world's admiring theme. 
 In prosy lines devoid of art, 
 
 (If you will read my story, 
 I'll try to act the critic's part. 
 
 And help you on to glory. 
 If you have genius, rare and great. 
 
 No rule can be your bar, 
 Shakespeare made his own law of verse. 
 
 And Bonaparte of war. 
 None but the great dare step aside 
 
 From Custom's iron rule. 
 The common mind must follow her. 
 
 Or be esteemed a fool. 
 No genius now upon the stage. 
 
 Whose great inventions show 
 To all the smallness of the age. 
 
 In things it does not know. 
 As Webster said, there's " room above," 
 
 Where lawyers great may go. 
 And so it is in ev'ry thing; 
 
 There is a crowd below. 
 It is our wish you may succeed. 
 
 And laurels crown your brow. 
 And when you do you will not need 
 
 The lines we send you now. 
 Your " feet" the " measure" lit exact, 
 
 According to the rules. 
 The poets of the past have made 
 
 The text book of the schools. 
 Then mount Pegasus' back and soar 
 
 On Fancy's wings away 
 To old Parnassus' mountain shore. 
 
 Where aU the muses play. 
 In language pure compose your verse. 
 
 Pathetic or sublime, 
 But at '-a sinner " hurl no curse. 
 
 Nor wink at public crime. 
 
 -© 
 
^- 
 
 ■® 
 
 70 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Write from your heart —you'll not cater 
 
 To kings or reigning wrongs- 
 Like Milton, Burns, or Wliittier, 
 
 Breathe freedom in your songs. 
 The poet's sympathies are not 
 
 To party lines confined ; 
 Nature does not dispense the gift 
 
 Upon a narrow nind. 
 Wlien woeing for the rruses' grace — 
 
 The favor of the nine, 
 Know this one line of sense is worth, 
 
 A thousand of mere rhyme. 
 
 THREE HUNDRED HEROES. 
 
 The sunset's glow shines o'er the trees, 
 Tiie pine leaves rustle to the hreeze. 
 
 The feathered warblers prattle; 
 But man is vile, tlie evening star 
 Looks on a crimson scene of war — 
 
 Tlie carnage of a battle. 
 On come the legions of tlie Gray— 
 ("The Union must be sliot away" 
 
 All Howard's corps is broken. 
 Tlie Babel noise proclaims the tale, 
 Wliicli througli the pines the evening 
 gale 
 The fearful news has spoken. 
 O, for ten minutes more of time 
 To get the cannon into line, 
 And stop by i-apid shelling. 
 The onward charge of Jackson's corps. 
 Who, louder than tlie Babel roar 
 
 Of fugitives, are yelling. 
 The old Tliird corps's a mile away. 
 Fast pushing forward to the fray. 
 
 But Stonewall's corps is nearing. 
 To live with Fame's heroic dead 
 A forlorn hope must now be led. 
 To Death the LTnion cheering. 
 Up rode commander Pleasanton, 
 "Align those pieces, man each gun," 
 
 He said; "be quick and steady. 
 Charge, Keeiian, charge, upon the foe, 
 And hold them back until you know 
 
 Our batteries are ready." 
 Brave Keenan, smiling made reply, 
 "You had as well said I must die; 
 
 For yon pine woods are gory. 
 But you command: I will obej'." 
 They charged, they died; they saved the 
 day ; 
 They turned the tide of glory. 
 The charging legions of the Gray, 
 Were by tiiree hundred held at bay 
 
 Until the guns were sigiited; 
 Then on they came with louder yell, 
 But they were stopped by shot and shell 
 And Jackson's charge was blighted. 
 
 This praying, fighting, brightest star 
 The lebels had in all the war 
 
 Was shot the danger braving. 
 But treason's guilt his glory mars, 
 And Fame, above the fallen bars, 
 
 Halos the old flag wa^^ng. 
 Three h'undred heroes rode away, 
 Their bodies in the pine woods lay. 
 
 Their deed of martial glory. 
 Though unsurpassed on bloody plains. 
 Is yet unsung in measured strains, 
 
 Nor read in hist'ry'ssti)ry. 
 An exit that all men admire. 
 An exit that the brave desire 
 
 Is where the lead is flying. 
 It is the soldiers' "hallowed ground" 
 To fight in battle and be found 
 
 Among the dead or dying. 
 
 *John Bright, (England's Quaker States- 
 man), resigned his place in Gladstone's min-. 
 istry, because of his war in Africa, but held 
 that our war for liberty and union was justi- 
 fiable. "The law is a terror to evil doers," 
 and must have power to enforce it. Our war 
 was a police force, to enforce the law, and 
 prevent anarchy. 
 
 .' PUT UP THY SWORD." 
 There is a field where just men work, 
 
 A high untrodden plain. 
 Above the jostling crowd below. 
 
 That strive for present gain. 
 Where men by love of truth inspired 
 
 Go forth to work and die, 
 That God's eternal truth may have , 
 
 A dwelling 'neath the sky. 
 The doctors wrangle through the years 
 
 On issues past and gone. 
 A Providential man appears 
 
 And truth goes marching on. 
 O, who will work for God to-day 
 
 And let the " dead past" go'i* 
 War stays the progress of His truth: 
 
 O who will meet this foe':' 
 And blow ..tlie Tniiiipet of Reform" 
 
 So loud, so clear, so strong, 
 'Twill rouse the nations of the world 
 
 Against this giant wrong. 
 The party men have fed the flock 
 
 On dogmas' worthless food. 
 And tlu'y have drifted from His lock 
 
 Tossed by the passion's Hood. 
 Yc " Five and twenty" chosen men,* 
 
 Will ye prepare a creed 
 Defining sin, proclaiming war 
 
 To be the devil's deed'/ 
 Make no inoic creeds in Jesus' name 
 While VI' are slaying men. 
 
 ©- 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 ® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 71 
 
 For all your bloody fields proclaim 
 
 •■Ye must be born again." 
 Your taslv is greater now than wlien 
 
 Your fatliers sailed away. 
 May Plymouth Rock be typical 
 
 Of what ye do to-day. 
 O may ye build a new Mayflower 
 
 To stem the world's rude shock. 
 Above the passions of the hour 
 
 On God's eternal rock. 
 O, for a faith that overcomes 
 
 A faith in God and right. 
 Then saints would put His armor on 
 
 And Christians would not fight. 
 O, for a Garrison to lead 
 
 This moral movement on, 
 (Untarnished by a selfish deed 
 
 Until the work is done. 
 To stand and wait for God to work. 
 
 Shows lack of common sense. 
 The lazy work their garden thus 
 
 And get no recompense. 
 Are all the virtues waiting for 
 
 Some great propelling power? 
 Are weeds and Aice the only things 
 
 Not idle for an hour? 
 Men see this wrong from age to age, 
 
 Tliis bloody, damning crime. 
 And saj' "mysterious Providence," 
 
 And idle pass their time. 
 O, sluggish soul arise and work 
 
 For truth and right to-day. 
 A holy purpose kept in view, 
 
 And God will show the way. 
 Your labor may be fruitless now. 
 
 You may not live to see 
 The victory of the Prince of peace. 
 
 But what is that to thee? 
 * Written in 1880, when the theological 
 not all lineal descendants of the Pilgrims, in 
 their then late Council at St. Louis had chosen 
 a committee of twenty-five to prepare a creed 
 or interpretation of the Bible. 
 
 if 
 
 98- 
 
 THE QL'AKEES. 
 A sincere purpose to do right 
 
 Proceeding from within, 
 A walking by the Inward Light 
 
 Protects the soul from sin. 
 George Fox, the Friend, built on this 
 rock, 
 
 Tlie building stands secure ; 
 The only sect the world's rude shock 
 
 Has left unstained and pure. 
 Tliey sought the Heavenly Father's care. 
 
 No thronging crowds around; 
 They bowed their heads in silent prayer. 
 
 And that is >. holy ground." 
 
 No titled men — no useless forms 
 
 Within their building found; 
 No unpaid toil, no clash of arms. 
 
 Ah, there is " holy ground." 
 Tliough men of peace they charged upon 
 
 The citadel of sin ; 
 Moved by the Holy Spirit on, 
 
 They conquered foes within. 
 Tliey make no compromise to gain 
 
 The world's admiring throng; 
 Their record is without a stain 
 
 Of blood, or crime, or wrong. 
 If Heaven is for those alone 
 
 Who have subdued the tares 
 The enemy of souls hath sown. 
 
 What great reward is theirs? 
 The warlike sects for dogmas fight. 
 
 And with the world unite; 
 Their morals in a rusty plight. 
 
 Their fighting weapons bright. 
 The eagle's claws are on the dove 
 
 Since Adam's race begun; 
 O, Prince of Peace, O God of Love, 
 
 When will Thy will be done? 
 
 MRS. HARRIET T. TRACY. 
 
 Born: Turner, Me., March 7, I8I7. 
 
 The greater part of the life of this lady has 
 been past in California, where she now resides 
 at Sacramento. Her poems have appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. 
 
 TO MY BIRDS. 
 
 Little Tam O'Shanter, 
 Oh, why cannot you sing 
 
 A wee sweet little song 
 Before in comes the spring? 
 
 The day is so gloomy. 
 
 And I am so sad. 
 Oh sing me a song 
 
 To make my heart glad. 
 
 Yes, when it comes spring 
 And my throat is all right, 
 
 I will sing merry songs 
 From morning till night. 
 
 And little brother Fred 
 Will join in my song. 
 
 And other little birds 
 Will then come along 
 
 And join in the chorus 
 As we hang by the tree, 
 
 We will sing of our love 
 To the birds that ;:ire free. 
 
 -© 
 
©; 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 MRS. JULIA M. KAUTZ. 
 
 Born: Bethaxy, N. Y., Nov. 16. 182.5. 
 Graduating at Le Roy, N. Y., in 1849, she 
 took charge of the young' ladies department 
 in Log-ansport seminary. Tn 1850 she was 
 maiiied to the Rev. W. P. Kautz of the Pres- 
 
 MRS. .ITLIA M. KALTZ. 
 
 byterian clmrch, by whom she lias two daugh- 
 ters. Mrs. Kautz has written more or less 
 for a number of years. She also read the C. 
 L. S. C. course and graduated with the class 
 of 1887. 
 
 THE WEST WIND. 
 From golden orange groves, on fluttering 
 
 wings. 
 Magnolia-scented, laden rich with balms. 
 When Ev'ning whispers soft to wav-ing 
 
 palms, 
 Tliy spirit comes and thro' the forest rings; 
 The rev'rend oak his branches gaily flings. 
 Forgetful of ihe dreamy ocean calms. 
 Which Florida's soft air at eve embalms. 
 Or gulf-stream's measur'd flow, the oreole 
 sings. 
 Away upon the eastern shore in glee 
 Thou I'isesD ; thy gay sprites at sunrise play 
 With ot her sprites ; and haste to meet the sea, 
 'Till rush, and roar, and cold from far away 
 In icy fettei's binds each swaying tree. 
 The riijpling stream, the lake where elflns 
 play. 
 
 With wondrous skill upon my window pane 
 Frost, all thy gambols and wild flights, luis 
 
 traced ; — 
 The sea, the shore, the ship bj' whirlwinds 
 
 chas'd ; 
 The gUnt and glow that f oUow after rain. 
 Deep night, proclaim'd thy song and wild re- 
 frain. 
 While drifting snows our cosy homes em- 
 brac'd. [chaste. 
 
 Thou whisper'st in tlie pines in accents 
 Of gentle sleep, and dreams of swelling 
 
 main. 
 O, West Wind ! Tell to me of mountains old 
 Whose brows are hid in clouds ; whose sides 
 
 are bare. 
 Why in their hearts are hid the shining gold, 
 And sparkling gems, and mines of silver fair ? 
 Why should we care for fame and wealth un- 
 told? 
 Do whistling winds to us a message bear ? 
 
 HARMONIES. 
 
 The green has left the rustling corn. 
 
 And dying leaves on winds are borne ; 
 
 Sweet songsters trill 'mid southern bowers — 
 
 Sad echoes of their songs are ours. 
 
 The blue has faded from the skies , 
 
 The rosy dawn with springtime dies. 
 
 Soft spicy breezes no more cheer: 
 
 How like my life, the passing year. 
 
 The lily's form, beneath the mould 
 
 Creeps slowly down, transflxt and cold. 
 
 Stern winter's blast her heart sweeps o'er 
 
 With sullen plunge and rutliless roar. 
 
 My grave shall be 'neath grassj" sod. 
 
 At rest my hands, my soul with God. 
 
 Ah, me ! at rest from carking cares. 
 
 My peaceful bed the lily shares. 
 
 LAWS. 
 Distilling the attar destroys the rose. 
 Deal gently with others, for Jesus knows ; 
 By crushing the vintage we spoil the grapes- 
 Tread softly the paths our Father .shapes. 
 Hearts cease their wild beating, and where is 
 
 man '/ [can. 
 
 Tlien wound not, and crusli not because you 
 The perfume of roses, in their own sphere 
 Leaves blackened rose-petals damp mould- 
 
 'ring here. 
 The red wine wliich sparkles in limpid light. 
 Leaves clusters of beauty no longer bright. 
 The spirits of martyrs will soar on high. 
 While their bruised bodies sore broken lie. 
 Be kind to thy brother! God only knows 
 The making and sciMiting the <iiieenly rose. 
 The grcwing and loading the fruitful vine. 
 The tinting and blessing the ruby wine. 
 The trials his children are wont to heed. 
 His hand is bi iiciith them in sorest need. 
 
 ©- 
 
 « 
 
©- 
 
 -88 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MARY PEARLE. 
 
 Born: Ireland, Nov. 33, 1849. 
 Educated iu Dublin, Mrs. Mary Pearle has 
 filled many important positions in different 
 schools and missions, and was held in high iv- 
 gard in the best society m the land of her na- 
 tivity. In 1881 she came to America with her 
 
 \1 VK\ IM \M,I,. 
 
 husband and a beautiful baby girl. She has 
 written many poems for different papers. In 
 1888 she lectured in Ohio on temperance and 
 social purity, which the press speaks of as very 
 able and interesting- lectures. She is corres- 
 ponding secretary for the W. C. T. U. and The 
 Peace by Arbitration society. She is a mem- 
 ber of the Episcopal church, and teaches a 
 Bible class at St. Paul's. She is a very pleas- 
 ant lady and has a wide circle of friends. 
 
 98- 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF THE EYE. 
 Do not ask me if I love thee. 
 
 But look into my eyes 
 And read my soul in language plain 
 
 That cannot brook disguise. 
 The tongue may frame a flippant speech. 
 
 Deceitful, through and through ; 
 The scuis deep fount it cannot reach 
 
 To tell my love for you. 
 Look at me with those pure, clear eyes. 
 
 Like stars look on the night 
 Out of the depths of azure skies, 
 
 Making the darkness bright. 
 
 So shine on me, thou guiding star. 
 
 The first in love's fair sky. 
 That sealed two soul's affinity 
 
 Through language of the eye. 
 Since first my lonely heart sent out 
 
 Its yearning sigh for thee. 
 Hast thou not read it bj' the light 
 
 That guided thee lo me? 
 And should one doubting cloud arise 
 
 On love's transparent sky. 
 Then, dearest, look not in mine eyes. 
 
 Nor ask the reason why. 
 
 JUNE ROSES. 
 Red roses of June, in your beauty sweet, 
 
 I wish you could bloom forever; 
 In shady arbors, where lovers meet, 
 
 When moonbeams o'er dead leaves quiver. 
 White roses of June, that smile upon all 
 
 With that far-off look of wonder. 
 Some fairer clime you fain would recall 
 
 From depths of azure yonder! 
 Say " farewell " to the earth, arraj'ed anew 
 
 In vestments fair of lieaven. 
 As you shed sweet balm around like dew 
 
 From your beautiful petals riven. 
 Pale roses f ud red, ere you pass away, 
 
 Teach me your jjure, frail beauty; 
 How best to fill life's transient day 
 
 Willi pleasure and with duty. 
 Give me the key-note of heavenly love. 
 
 Albeit ill chords of sorrow; 
 Tlien up and away, we may meet above, 
 
 In God's fadeless, bright to-morrow. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE LILIES. 
 
 Two lilies my darling brought me, 
 
 The last in her garden fair; 
 One she placed upon my bosom, 
 
 The other in my hair; 
 And then an unvoiced question 
 
 Tlirew its shadow o'er her face. 
 As she gazed on lier pure white lilies 
 
 Drooping with patient grace. 
 Tlien with a skeptic's logic 
 
 She questioned soft and low: 
 •' How can we consider the lilies. 
 
 Now they no longer grow'?" 
 And I saw a teardrop glisten 
 
 O'er the sunshine of her eye. 
 Like the rainbow's transient glory 
 
 On the blue of April sky. 
 " We recall their sweetness, dear one. 
 
 And learn from them to grow 
 Each day more meet for heaven 
 
 In earth's garden here below; 
 And when we are apt to murmur 
 
 Over the clothes we wear; 
 'Tis well to consider the lilies. 
 
 Of which the Lord takes care." 
 
 -S 
 
15- 
 
 74 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM A.TAYLOR. 
 
 Born : Perry Co., 0., April 25, 1837. 
 Commencing to write prose and verse at the 
 age of fifteen, Mr. Taylor taught school at in- 
 tervals for the following six years, at the 
 same time being editor and part proprietor of 
 Perry County Democrat. At the age of twen- 
 ty-one he was admitted to the bar, practiced 
 law for four years in connection with editorial 
 work, and was also state's attorney a part of 
 the same time. He then became one of 
 the editorial writers of the Cincinnati En- 
 quirer. Mr. Taylor served in the army of the 
 Potomac during the war, after the close of 
 which he resumed editorial work on the En- 
 qviirer. He was chief editorial writer of the 
 
 *- 
 
 WIM.IAM A. TAVLOK. 
 
 Pittsburg Post for eight years subsequent to 
 1868. He next was employed successively on 
 the New York Sun for two years; then on the 
 New York World for a period ; next was man- 
 aging editor of the Pittsburg Telegraph for 
 nearly two j'ears; and then became editor- 
 ial manager of Columbus Democrat and 
 Times for .several years. He is now again 
 with the Cincinnati Enquirer as staff corres- 
 pondent and general political writer. Mr. 
 Taylor has declined a number of tempting 
 positions, including a secretaryship of lega- 
 tion under President Cleveland, preferring 
 journalism and literary work to political i)ro- 
 motion. 
 
 ALL IN FOUR LINES. 
 Love's labor of life 
 Is to live and let live ; 
 Life's labor of love 
 To forget and forgive. 
 
 THE CURSE OF GENIUS. 
 
 ON A portrait op T. D. JONES, SCULPTOR. 
 
 The curse of Genius, Art and Worth — 
 Tlie crime of man against mankind — 
 
 Is the fierce struggle that besets 
 The friendless pioneers of Mind. 
 
 Grim hunger turns the tempered steel 
 To lead, in many a brawny hand, 
 
 That else had shorn away the wrong, 
 And purified the waiting land. 
 
 Old Homer begging in the streets 
 
 Of seven cities, sang in vain; 
 Each thrust him out of gilded gates 
 
 Ahungcr forth the arid plain. 
 
 Old Homer lying in his grave — 
 
 A god was worshipped — turned to dust. 
 And madly fouglit for, where his songs 
 
 Gained not the vagrant's dole of crust. 
 
 This is life's curse — its crowning thorn — 
 The ill to which the good is turned — 
 
 Men gild the lamp when life is gone. 
 
 Who never trimmed it while it burned; 
 
 Pile granite over pulseless dust. 
 That died upon the cruel stones 
 
 Of hunger's threshold, while the trump 
 Of fame blared down his parting groans. 
 
 Fame may be sweet, but bread — God's 
 name ! — 
 
 Is sweeter than Parnassian rills. 
 Where hungering genius droops and dies, 
 
 Amid the plenty of the hills. 
 
 What though God paints the bended skies. 
 And clothes the earth with song and 
 sheen. 
 
 If he who copies dies athirst 
 Amid the glory of the scene 1 
 
 This is the curse of life — to live 
 
 At the sharp point of mortal strife. 
 
 To find neglect more keen tlian scorn. 
 And death a bald burlesque of life. 
 
 To fill a maus'leum's stately crypl. 
 
 Blazoned with that which gave not 
 bread — 
 
 The meed of life in mockery. 
 
 Heaped on the cold, unheeding dead. 
 
 Before her lay the unconquered waste. 
 
 Beliind lier, smiling by tlie sea. 
 Her virgin mother, proud and chaste, 
 
 Chanted the hymn of Liberty. 
 
 -® 
 
 I 
 
©- 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM M. PAXTON. 
 
 Born: Washington, Ky., March 3, 1819. 
 Educated for the law iu his native town, he 
 removed to Platte Co., Mo., where he still re- 
 sides. In 1850 he removed to Platte City and 
 spent twelve years in mercantile pursuits. 
 Later he resumed the practice of law, and for 
 twelve years prospered ; but in 1872 he became 
 liurd of hearing, and it was nccessarj' for liini 
 to ,Lii\'(' uji his lurrati\-i' i^'at'tiee. Ilin-inj:-, 
 
 WILLIAM M. PAXTON. 
 
 however, a complete abstract of titles of real 
 estate of Platte Co., he still, at the age of 
 seventy-one, is industriouslj' employed in the 
 business of abstracting- and examining- titles. 
 In 1881 he published a small volume of poems 
 of 135 pages. In 1884 he compiled a genealogy 
 of his mother's family, a work of 435 pages. 
 In 1888 Mr. Paxton published a book of poems 
 containing 453 pages, which has attracted uni- 
 versal admiration. 
 
 *■ 
 
 THE ROGLHSH GIRLS. 
 Tlie girls are dainty rogues, 'tis true, 
 
 And full of fun and art, sir; 
 For when I first met cunning Sue 
 
 She sweetly stole my heart, sir; 
 And when the parson came and tied 
 
 The pleasant nuptial band, sir, 
 Tlie craft}' Sue stood by my side 
 
 And sljiy stole my hand, .sir. 
 
 And then she stole my house and farm ; 
 
 It was, indeed, a shame, sir ; 
 She made them charming, bright and warm. 
 
 And even stole my name, sir. 
 Upon the street I used to roam, 
 
 And nightly drink and play, sir; 
 But now she's fixed so nice a home 
 
 That there I'm bound to stay, sir. 
 
 She keeps the house too nice and neat, 
 
 And everything too clean, sir; 
 And when she makes me wipe my feet 
 
 I think it verj- mean, sir. 
 On rocking chairs I have to sit. 
 
 And back and forth I sway, sir; 
 And when I'm forced to cough and spit, 
 
 A vase is in my way, sir. 
 
 I am a prisoner every day. 
 
 With cords of love I'm tied, sir; 
 In Susie's bonds I want to stay. 
 
 And with her I'll abide, sir; 
 For Sue has pilfered everything. 
 
 And now .she's stolen me, sir. 
 But makes me happy as a king. 
 
 And wealthy, proud and free, sir. 
 
 HOW ADAM DIVIDED PROPERTY WITH 
 EVE. 
 
 When man rebelled and was expelled 
 
 From Eden's vales and groves elysian. 
 He said to Eve, "You now must leave; 
 
 But you shall have a fair division. 
 So, as your half, I'll give the calf. 
 
 And keep the cow, whose milk I'm needing; 
 fhe colt is thine,— the mare is mine; — 
 
 The calf and colt are broke to leading. 
 " The lambs for thee,— the ewe's for me — 
 
 The wool is what I've set my heart on; 
 I'll take the hog, and you the dog,— 
 
 And these are all we've got to start on. 
 With sweat of brow you'll have to plow. 
 
 And earn the bread that's so much needed ; 
 Now do not stay, but haste away. 
 
 For tears are vain and won't be heeded." 
 
 The calf was brought,— the colt was caught, 
 
 And in Eve's arms the lamb was taken; 
 With failing heart she made the start. 
 
 And seemed by God and man forsaken. 
 She stopped to tell her last farewell. 
 
 In voice subdued and full of feeling,— 
 When Tray, tlie dog. attacked the hog,— 
 
 Who rushed to Eve, in terror squeeling. 
 
 The cow and mare and ewe were there. 
 
 And heard while feeding at their manger; 
 Of course they flew as mothers do. 
 
 To save their offspring when in danger. 
 To Eve they clung, who held their young, 
 
 And as she went they followed after. 
 Her tears were gone,— she hurried on. 
 
 And nearly split her sides with laughter. 
 
 -® 
 
m- 
 
 76 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OP' AMERICA. 
 
 -« 
 
 Without a word slie led the herd. 
 
 And kept it at lier liome securely; 
 But Adam stood lu angry mood, 
 
 And scowled and knit his brows demurely. 
 Though whipped, he tried with manly pride. 
 
 To get and cook his daily victuals ; — 
 Made soup of cheese, — made pies of peas. 
 
 And burnt his hands on pots and kettles. 
 
 But life like this, was not the bliss. 
 
 That Adam, at the first expected; 
 So off he went to Eve's nice tent. 
 
 And reconcilement was effected. 
 And to this day, the wife has sway. 
 
 And husbands know 'tis best to let her; 
 I've known no strife,— 'twixt man and wife, 
 
 But what the woman got the better. 
 
 THE LOVER'S SOLILOQUY. 
 A brilliant rose, in blushing- grace, 
 Too modest to e.xpose its face. 
 May make the bower its hiding- place, 
 
 And bloom in covert there; 
 And though we do not see the rose, 
 Yet every oue its presence knows, 
 For far and wide, its frag-rance flows, 
 
 And dwells upon the air. 
 
 'Tis thus her spirit, every hour. 
 Where'er I am, with mystic power, 
 Regales me as the hidden flower, 
 
 And makes my heart rejoice. 
 And something wliispers in my ear, 
 That her pervading spirit's nea.r; 
 And I imagine that I hear. 
 
 The music of her voice. 
 
 I meet her in my raptured dreams; 
 We rove by sylvan vales and streams. 
 And talk of love and kindred themes. 
 
 And promise not to sever. 
 Can she, though absent, cheer me so? 
 Has perfect bhss been found below? 
 Can dreams of her, such joy bestow? 
 Then let me dream forever ! 
 
 ©- 
 
 A WIFE'S UNDYING LOVE. 
 
 The moonlight is soft, and the fields are invit- 
 ing; 
 Come, husband, let's walk in the meadow 
 apart; 
 For I am enraiJtured, when you are reciting. 
 The story of love, in sweet words from the 
 heart ; — 
 That story, they tell us, is old and fictitious,— 
 And soon we'll grow weary and careless, 
 they think; 
 But love is like wine, that, from age is delici- 
 ous. 
 And time gives it body, and flavors the di-iiik. 
 
 The brook, from the mountain, comes dancing 
 and leaping 
 
 And merrily sings as it troops through the 
 lea; 
 But when its a river, it seems to be sleeping. 
 And silently wends its deep course to the 
 sea; 
 So love, at the first, was a shallow emotion. 
 And made a great noise, like the brook as it 
 goes ; 
 But now it's a river, profound in devotion. 
 And deeper the stream the more softly it 
 flows. 
 
 Come, tell me you love me,— I never grow 
 weary; 
 As well might the songs of my mother grow 
 old,- 
 Or even the home of mj' childhood grow 
 dreary. 
 As words of affection seem lifeless and cold. 
 Come tell me, again, the delightful old story, 
 You told me before your betrothal to me: — 
 The love that you show is my lifeguard and 
 glory,— 
 And death be my portion, if parted from 
 thee. 
 
 THE BRIDEGROOM'S ECSTACY. 
 
 Mary, darling — Mary, dear. 
 Let me whisper in your ear 
 Words of love no friend should liear,- 
 
 Lest he think me raving. 
 Mary, I am all your own ; 
 In my lieart I've set your throne. 
 Where, as queen, j'ou rule alone, — 
 
 All my soul enslaving. 
 
 Soon, the holy marriage rite 
 Shall our souls as one unite. 
 And I'll bask in genial light 
 
 Beaming from thy beauty. 
 And when I, in joy and i>ride. 
 Clasp tliee as my charming bride 
 Thou Shalt be the star to guide. 
 
 And incite to duty. 
 
 Trees, since I became thy choice. 
 Clap their hands, and hills rejoice. 
 And I seem to hear thy voice. 
 
 Even wlien I'm sleeping. 
 On life's journey we will start. 
 Bidding every care depart, 
 And we'll give both luuid and heart 
 
 To eaeli otlier's keeping. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 A mother true and pure as dew. 
 
 And as an infant tender. — 
 Witli blusliing cheek and maimers meek, — 
 
 Our liearts could but surrender. 
 
 -* 
 
m- 
 
 '^ 
 
 LOCAL AXD :>fATIO]SrAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY. 
 
 Bokn: Pekin, N. Y 
 Born within sound of Niagara Falls and edu- 
 cated in Adrian, Mich., Mrs. Bailey removed 
 to Kansas in 1871. Her first poem appeared 
 in 1879, since which time she has written both 
 prose and verse for the leading periodicals of 
 Amei-ica, including the Kansas City Journal, 
 New York Tribune, Chicago luter-Oeean and 
 
 MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY. 
 
 the local press of Michigan. Indiana and Kan- 
 sas. A woman of decidedly quiet domestic 
 tastes and habits, Mrs. Bailey has written 
 mainly for relief and pleasure of expression. 
 She has had three children, one of wliom 
 is now living — Robert Victor, a bright child, 
 of nine years of age, who is gifted with re- 
 markable oratorical powers. 
 
 *- 
 
 MARA. 
 Out from the depths I cry to Thee, 
 
 Wild are the winds that 'round me blow. 
 High roll the waves that buffet me. 
 
 Why, Lord, why is it so ? 
 My dearest earthly wish denied. 
 
 My days devoid of all delight, 
 My life barque stranded where the tide 
 
 Goes out in darkest night. 
 The phantoms of my dead hopes rise, 
 
 I stretch my longing arms in vain; 
 They, mocking, echo back the cries 
 
 Which ill relieve my pain. 
 
 So varied were the woes I felt. 
 
 So dai'k the future looked to be, 
 I marvelled why the Lord had dealt, 
 
 So bitterly with me. 
 And as I sadly mused, came then 
 
 These words, so sweet yet strangely clear. 
 As music o'er the waters when 
 
 All is still— " Be of good cheer." — 
 " He chastens whom he loves " — am 1 
 
 For this distinction fit '? Oh Lord, 
 I proudly claim the honor high 
 
 Thus granted in ihy word. 
 O glorious truth to hearts sore tried 
 
 By sorrows here ! Who suffers most, 
 Whate'er of bitter grief betide. 
 
 May of God's favor boast. 
 And closer kinship feel with One 
 
 Who knelt in dark Gethsemane; 
 Who agonized till all was done — 
 
 A sin-bound world set free. 
 O, Love divine I O, thorn-crowned head, 
 
 O, radiant cross upraised for me; 
 O, pi-eeious blood on Calvarj- shed. 
 
 Up from the depths, 1 fly to thee. 
 
 BIRDIE. 
 Ai'e there no children there ? No dear child 
 
 faces. 
 Blooming with fadeless beauty in that bliss- 
 ful air ; 
 Nor prattle sweet with winsome baby-graces. 
 
 Making our home more fair ? 
 Will she my spotless one, who has this Ufe 
 
 outgrown. 
 Be changed to womanhood, ere I again can 
 
 know. 
 The loving, gentle, soul that grew unto my 
 own ? 
 O, poet, saj' not so ! 
 Our Savior when on earth the little children 
 
 blest. 
 And said: " Of such the kingdom is;" cannot 
 
 it be. 
 That he may take my baby to his loving 
 breast. 
 And keep her thus for me ? 
 For one bright year she led me with her tiny 
 
 hand. 
 Dull care was banished, while joy crowned 
 
 each hour. 
 As I watched the leaflets of my bud expand. 
 
 To form the perfect flower. 
 A radiant vision of these houi-s, I see — 
 A fair and smiling face, with soul-lit eyes of 
 
 blue; 
 Sweet lips, whose kisses deeper rapture gave 
 to me. 
 Than lover ever knew. [again. 
 
 The golden head is nestled on my breast; 
 
 -©- 
 
©- 
 
 78 
 
 i& 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 With love's mute eloquence, those wistful 
 
 eyes fill mine, 
 With happy tears. O, sacred joy akin to pain. 
 
 An ecstacy divine! 
 Too soon the vision fades ; liow would it still 
 
 this wild. 
 Impassioned longing for what I held most 
 
 dear, 
 To know that some glad morning I may clasp 
 
 my child. 
 Just as I had her here. 
 To know that in the glorified hereafter, 
 E'en as when here — her arms outstretched in 
 
 glee. 
 Her lovely face all dimpled o'er with laughter 
 Thus may she welcome me. 
 
 Peace, eager heart ! Faith doth no questions 
 
 ask ; but when 
 My ransomed soul finds home, then shall be 
 
 gratified. 
 Its hungry yearnings all, in sweet content; 
 
 For then, 
 " I shall be satisfied." 
 
 MRS. LISA A. FLETCHER. 
 
 Born: Ashby, Mass., Dec. 27, 1844. 
 Mrs. Fletcher is an invalid, and has really 
 never known a well day in her life. Yet 
 beauty in every form appeals to her and she 
 finds much sweetness and joy from couch and 
 pillows in writing, painting- and reading. Dur- 
 ing the past few years she has written many 
 beautiful poems, of which a few are here 
 given. 
 
 AT SUNSET. 
 Beyond the sunset gleaming bright, 
 Beyond the day's last lingering- light, 
 What would be of heavenly sight. 
 If thi'ough the g-ates we looked to-night? 
 Beyond the sum of life's brief day. 
 Beyond earth's skies so cold and gray. 
 What would be if when we pray 
 Heaven opened out its shining way? 
 If aided by angel staff and rod, 
 Bej'ond that silvery path we trod. 
 Ah ! what would meet our vision broad. 
 Far o'er those billowy seas of God? 
 
 SB- 
 
 SWEET JUNE. 
 Buttercups and daisies, golden and white. 
 Springing: to meet and gladden our sight. 
 Tall waving grasses bending- low, 
 O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! 
 Wild i-os(^s blooming by wayside and hedg-e, 
 Columl)ines nodding o'er rocky ledgre. 
 Little birds singing, or liigh or a — low, 
 O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! 
 
 Beautiful laurel, stately and tall. 
 Bending adown o'er mossy wall. 
 Tiny lobelia fragile and low, 
 O sweet June days, move slow, move slow ! 
 Fair fleur-de-lis, queen of the flowers. 
 Lifting her face to sunshine and showers. 
 And even the voice of the brooklet's flow, 
 O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! 
 Gentle breezes and beautious skies 
 Where white the fleeting clouds arise, 
 Nature her great heai-t lending- so, 
 O sweet June days, move slow, move slow ! 
 
 FULFILLMENT. 
 
 The hope to which we fondly cUng, 
 
 And call our own. 
 Is oft the swiftest to take wing. 
 
 And soonest flown ! 
 The wish for which we long and sigli. 
 
 And pray and yearn. 
 May be but a bitter draught to drink. 
 
 Which we should spurn. 
 The evil wliich we fear and dread. 
 
 And dare not face, 
 God may g-ive the strength to bear. 
 
 And needed grace. 
 Tlie good for which we scarce h.ave hoped. 
 
 Nor all perceive. 
 May be sweetest in its fulfillment, 
 
 When we receive. 
 The joys for which we seek and strive, 
 
 And foUow fast. 
 When we call them ours, may be 
 
 With dark o'ercast. 
 The trials which we fain would shun. 
 
 And cast away. 
 Like precious pearls may show to us 
 
 Some hidden ray. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Weird, shadowy sleep. 
 By which we leap 
 
 From night to morn ; — 
 Sweet, silent dreams. 
 
 Glad, golden g-leams, 
 Wliere hope is born: 
 Tired, fitful sleep 
 When slowlj- creep 
 
 The liours away: — 
 Sad making- thought 
 Witli i)ain inwrought 
 
 Till breaks the day: 
 Sweet, painless sleep 
 Peaceful and deep 
 
 Foi- lu-ai-ts oi>pressed, 
 Quit-k, fleeting hours 
 'Midst dreamland bowers, 
 
 Hy angels blessed I 
 
 -m 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -m 
 
 79 
 
 IRVING J. xV. MILLER. 
 
 , Rokn: Worcester, O., Oct. 14, 1866. 
 In 187(5 Irviiig-'s parents removed to Marshall- 
 town, Iowa, where lie enjoyed a tliorough 
 course in the grammar school, and in which 
 town lie now resides. Ahout 1884 he com- 
 menced to court the muse, and ever since 
 that time has contributed quite freely to 
 some of the most wortliy and widely quoted 
 periodicals of America. He is at present as- 
 sistant editor of tlie Marshalltown Electric 
 
 IRVING J. A. MlLLhK. 
 
 Liglit. During the fall of 1887 he issued a 
 book entitled Fireside Poems, which met with 
 a ready sale. In 1888 he took editorial charge 
 of the Star, in Union, Iowa, which position he 
 filled for about one year. Mr. Miller was 
 married in 1888. He is a practical printer by 
 trade, and in person is a little above tie aver- 
 age height, with brown hair and eyes. Mr. 
 Miller has also issued a book of campaign 
 songs, which was heartily received by all. 
 
 © 
 
 THE HERO OF CONEMAUGH. 
 
 Down through a valley of love and repose, 
 
 Where tlie roses once bloomed and tlie Cone- 
 ma ugh flows 
 
 O'er liillock and crevice, o'er dyke, bridge and 
 stone. 
 
 Inspired by his duty and trav'ling alone. 
 
 Rode a hei'o, unknown, with his warning to 
 
 all. 
 But the number who liarliened and listened 
 
 was small. 
 Came the rushing of waters — tlioir tliunder- 
 
 ing roar. 
 As they hastened, witli fury, to jiillage and 
 
 gore. 
 And the trees and the houses gave way, like a 
 
 straw. 
 In tlie hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. 
 On ! On ! with that courage a patriot thrills, 
 Siiouting: "Run for your lives! Run for the 
 
 hills!!" 
 He dashed like a war-maddened Chippewa 
 
 brave, 
 For his was a duty to rescue and save ; 
 Nor looked he about for the demon beliind. 
 Pursuing his trail like a hurricane wind. 
 But loudly and clear (for lie knew no despair 
 His summons rang out on the evening air 
 As the terrible waves grasped their forms 
 
 like s straw. 
 In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. 
 O, God, it was fearful, for so it is said; 
 When the watei-s receded and gave up their 
 
 dead, 
 'Mid the thousands of bodies that laj^ on the 
 
 ground 
 Not a trace of the steed or liis rider was 
 
 found; 
 For a stranger he was, but iiis heroic deed 
 Finds a place in the minds of the sufferers 
 
 freed. 
 In the years to come, and the time to be. 
 Like a phantom 'twill pass through our mem- 
 ory, 
 And we'll see, like a gliost of the buried past. 
 On his steed this courier riding fast, 
 And we'll hear, hke an echo, his warning cry 
 Where the Conemaugh dashed in its fury by. 
 
 AXIOMS. 
 A noble deed; an action wrought; 
 A nation mov'd to solemn thought. 
 A skillful hand ; a drop of ink ; 
 The mass is mov'd to weep or think. 
 A pensive mind; a noble strain; 
 A pow'r is held o'er tliis domain. 
 A chaste desire ; a purer cause; 
 A nation hails with wide applause. 
 A modest girl; a manly boy; 
 A father's pet; a mother's joy. 
 A cheerful home ; a household kind ; 
 Will breed no grief, leave none behind. 
 A loyal wife ; a husband true ; 
 As one will pass life's journey through. 
 When friendship dies, and love has fled, 
 Forevermore the heart is dead. 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 80 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 NELLIE E. ADAMS. 
 
 Bokn: Exetek, N. H., July 12, 1864. 
 Miss Adams graduated with honors from the 
 Robiusoii Seminary at Exeter, and later from 
 the normal department of the same school. 
 She has written both poetry and prose, but is 
 
 NELLIE E. ADAMS. 
 
 most noted for her verse. In 1885 she pub- 
 lished a little volume entitled Blossoms, a col- 
 lection whicli met with a ready sale and re- 
 ceived very favorable cemment from the 
 press g'enerally. Miss Adams was the class 
 poet at lier graduation. She is still a resident 
 of the place of her nativity, where she is very 
 popular. 
 
 ©- 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 If we knew. 
 Knew at all times and all places, 
 
 Wliat was right. 
 Knew and did what was accepted 
 
 In His sight, 
 Held tlie good of others only 
 
 Up to view, 
 Comfort-bearers each one might be. 
 
 If we knew. 
 
 If we knew. 
 
 Knew the dear ones we love better 
 
 Far than life. 
 For us bearing heavj' burdens 
 
 In the strife. 
 Often wearied when tlie pathways 
 
 Darker grew. 
 Would we not their lives make brighter? 
 
 If we knew. 
 If we knew. 
 Knew the moments swiftly gliding 
 
 Of to-day. 
 That its morning, and its evening. 
 
 Gold or gray 
 Were the last that e'er would vanish 
 
 From our view. 
 Would we not improve them better? 
 
 If we knew. 
 If we knew. 
 How our words and deeds were telling 
 
 Day by day. 
 On the liA'es of all who meet us 
 
 On the way. 
 If our Influence Avas clearer 
 
 To our view. 
 Oh, we all, would aim higher, 
 
 If we knew. 
 
 THE TWO WRECKS. 
 
 The sea moaned, surging heavily 
 
 Under a gloomy sky, 
 While the seething, white-capped breakers 
 
 Tossed their briny foam on high. 
 
 And the ship, that sailed at daybreak 
 
 Out from the harbor bar. 
 Beneath the sunny heaven. 
 
 Floating proudly stripe and star, 
 
 Was being widely driven. 
 
 Like a bird before the gale. 
 Her anchor lost in the sea flood. 
 
 And torn each snowy sail. 
 
 Before the arching rainbow. 
 
 Told that the storm was o'er. 
 She sank beneath the billows. 
 
 To rise, to rise no more. 
 
 Out in the gathering darkness, 
 
 Out in the wind and the sleet. 
 With face upturned to a pitiless sky. 
 
 Lay a body in the street. 
 
 Tiie wreck of a once proud manhood. 
 
 Of a life that promised fair. 
 Of loves, aiid hopes, and ambitions, 
 
 The end of all lay there. 
 
 Somebody kissed that bloated face. 
 
 When it was young and fair. 
 Some one curled 'round a baby head 
 
 Those ringlets of sunny hair. 
 
 Somebody thought of the comfort and pride 
 He would be in the after years, 
 
 Somebody sank into tbe grave 
 In bitter woe and tears. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 81 
 
 -m 
 
 JOHN LANDOR KRYDER. 
 
 Born: New Berlin, Ohio, Dec. 2^, lt>33. 
 By self-study, application and oijscrvation, 
 Mr. Krydcr g'atliered the rudiments of his 
 education, and at the age of nineteen taught 
 his first school. For several years thereafter 
 lie was engaged in teacliing and studying 
 medicine. In 1858 lie commenced the practice 
 of medicine, and iias bcfti fiit;;i>.''c<l tlicrcat 
 
 JOHN LANDOH KRVDEIt. 
 
 until the present time. He has written con- 
 sideralile poetry from time to time, more as a 
 recreation when not engaged in the more ar- 
 duous duties of his profession; these poems 
 have appeared in many leading newspapers 
 and magazines. Dr. Kryder is six feet tall, 
 weiglis 150 pounds, and cow resides at Cedar- 
 ville, Ind. 
 
 SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 
 I think to-night of drifted years. 
 
 Lying behind in the grave of care. 
 Of life's pages, written in tears. 
 
 Torn and scattered, sometime, somewhere. 
 
 I hear the night-wind's mournful sob. 
 Like spirit whisp'rings in the air. 
 
 And think me, will this heart's wild throb 
 Cease soon, and rest, sometime, somewhere. 
 
 Low murm'rous voices speak to me. 
 As my thouglits go hither and there 
 
 8&- 
 
 O'er blurr'd past, and wonder if we, 
 Sliall meet again sometime, somewhere. 
 
 Will rough places all l)e made smootli. 
 
 All leveled and even and fair; 
 All en^^es and crosses forsooth. 
 
 Be Ijauished, sometime, somewliere. 
 
 And all the vows, that iiave bet ray 'd 
 The ears and hearts of brave and fair. 
 
 And all the wrecks, that tliey liave made 
 Restored again, sometime, somewliere. 
 
 And wild humors, of idle hours, • 
 That filled the eye with castled air. 
 
 And painted rainbows, thro' the showers. 
 Unfold again, sometime, somewhere. 
 
 Will broken loves, and severed ties. 
 That strew dead seas, with wild despair. 
 
 In realms of peace, 'neath azure skies — 
 Be reconciled, sometime, somewhere. 
 
 Fair hope inspires; the eye of f^ith 
 Invites the wish, and builds the pray'r. 
 
 Love, there shall rule, instead of wrath. 
 Sighs change to smiles, sometime, some- 
 where. 
 
 Yes, on the verge where two worlds meet. 
 All things will be made even there: 
 
 Serf and King, Priest and Clown, will greet, 
 On equal terms, sometime, somewhere. 
 
 And that far shore of prophetic dreams 
 With all its myst'ries grand and fair. 
 
 Will i)e disclosed, when best it seems. 
 In God's good will, sometime, somewhere. 
 
 BY-PAST TIMES. 
 
 There are treasures in mem'rys urn; 
 Embalmed witli the loves of the past. 
 And we have lived, to know aud learn. 
 Their joys were too fragile to last: 
 Yet while affection's ties remain. 
 Those by-past times come back again. 
 
 Forever o'er the sea of thought. 
 Like gentle swells of peaceful waves 
 That hide the wreck and ruin wrought. 
 By tempest when it fiercest raves, 
 A heart-calm to unrest and pain. 
 Comes some sweet by-past time again. 
 
 Wonderful sea. Oh! changing tide, 
 Forever freighted with weal or woe ; 
 Joyous sunbeams dance and ride. 
 Thy billows crest, or cradle low. 
 And o'er thy bosom now and then 
 Floats some sweet by-past time again. 
 
 Some idle song in sweet low trills. 
 That wafts along the shaded years ; 
 Soft as the purl of meeting rills. 
 Endearing hopes, dissolving fears, 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 -© 
 
 82 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Awakes from its dream Lethean, 
 And echo's by-past times again. 
 
 Alas ! it seems so passing strange. 
 That from the censer of those days. 
 The incense should so widely range; 
 And tlieir perfume, thro' distant maze, 
 Walie in each lieart the mellow chimes, 
 And fragrance of the by-past times. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 Tenderly strew over each grave to-day, 
 Tlie perfumed blossoms of balmy May. 
 And the •» nameless mounds " by stream or 
 
 lake. 
 Bedeck them for mother's or sister's sake. 
 
 What mattei's it now whetlier friend or foe. 
 Lies mould'ring to dust in the tomb below. 
 Spread sweet charity's mantle o'er the brave 
 And cover with flowers each hero's grave. 
 
 Known or unknown. Oh ! how manj' to-day. 
 Grieving, are wond'riug where their loved 
 
 ones lay ; 
 Weeping and wond'riug, they gladly would 
 
 know, 
 If tribute to their's, some hand will bestow. 
 
 Time and its changes should soften the heart. 
 And sympathy lessen pale sorrow's dart, 
 And tears should refresh the green on each 
 
 gi-ave ; 
 Bright flowers shed their fragrance o'er the 
 
 brave, 
 
 Tliink, some sad heart, that is far, far away; 
 In gratitude deep would gladly repay. 
 For the drop of a sigh, a bud or a tear. 
 On the grave '• unknown " to some one so 
 dear. 
 
 Think Mercy's Angel wiU hasten away. 
 
 With message to friend, of the Blue or the 
 
 Gray. 
 How it would solace the sorrow of years. 
 And lessen Ihe grief, that's hallowed with 
 tears. 
 
 ©- 
 
 A JUNE DAY DKEAM. 
 
 This sweet June day 
 
 I drift away, 
 Wiicre care cannot my peace betray; 
 
 From toil and heat. 
 
 And dust retreat, 
 Wlierc fairer scenes my senses greet. 
 
 My footsteps seek 
 
 The higliest peak. 
 O'er looking lake and crystal creek; 
 
 lyikt! vine-clad wall. 
 
 Of caslled liall. 
 Hill-sides abloom, arise and fall. 
 
 So clear and free 
 
 Tliere comes to me. 
 Soft cadence of past melody ; 
 
 As 'neath the trees, 
 
 I lie at ease. 
 And listen to the whispering breeze. 
 
 Each regal note. 
 
 From silver throat. 
 Of song-birds reach, near and remote; 
 
 Tlieir happy mood 
 
 Seek to intrude. 
 And lend joy to this solitude. 
 
 Not far away 
 
 The new mown hay. 
 Sends forth richest, royal bouquet ; 
 
 And glim'ring sheen. 
 
 O'er velvet green. 
 Makes restful this enchanting scene. 
 
 While here and there 
 
 Sail cloud-ships fair. 
 Sailing, sail by on waves of air. 
 
 Until they greet 
 
 The anchored fleet. 
 Where azure skies and landscapes meet. 
 
 There vines o'er creep 
 
 Willows that weep, 
 On island rising from the deep; 
 
 On either hand 
 
 Its pearly sand. 
 Lies sparkling in the sunlight grand. 
 
 O ! calm, sweet June, 
 
 Thou hast o'er strewn. 
 The earth with garland and festoon ; 
 
 No discord here. 
 
 To mar the ear. 
 Intrudes with form, or creed, or fear. 
 
 This temple grand, 
 
 Tlie Artist's hand. 
 Perfection shows, at his command; 
 
 Oil I who would miss 
 
 A day like this'? 
 Sweet prelude of Elysian bliss. 
 
 Drink in, my soul. 
 The sweets that roll. 
 From heaven's free, o'erflowing bowl; 
 Oh! heart of mine. 
 At Nature's shrine. 
 Pay homage to the hand divine. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Again the days are growing long. 
 
 And thi' dew rests on tlie flowers, 
 Wingeil minstrels never tire of song. 
 
 To ciiariii and dieer the passing hours; 
 Hours, that seem to me i)assiiig slow, 
 
 Wliile a, wakeful nienuiry strays 
 To you, and scenes of long ago. 
 
 Recalling other summer days. 
 
 I 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 83 
 
 -® 
 
 REV JOSEPH D. PIERRON. 
 
 Born: Kirtland, C, Nov. 4, 18.>J. 
 Mr. Herron has a love for music, and Spring 
 Song he .set to music, which has l)een render- 
 ed by choruses of children in New Yorl\ and 
 
 JOSEPH D. HERRON. 
 
 other cities. He has held but two positions 
 in the ten years of bis ministry — assistant 
 minister in Trinity Parish, New York; and 
 Rector of Trinity church, New Castle. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Hail, hail, all hail! 
 
 'Tis the halcyon month of May, 
 
 Hail, hail, all hail! 
 
 'Tis nature's gala day. 
 
 Ye nymphs of the mountain. 
 
 Ye sprites of the fountain. 
 
 That dance 'mid the leaflets green: 
 
 Come out from your bowers. 
 
 With garlands of flowers. 
 
 And welcome your fairy queen. 
 
 Hail! fairy of spring! 
 
 Scatter thy flowers o'er hill and dale. 
 
 While the breezes o'er them blow. 
 
 And soft be thy touch in the woodland vale. 
 
 Where the leafy tendrils of mjTtle trail. 
 
 And the sparliling fountains flow. 
 
 Hail ! beautiful queen ! 
 
 Deck with thj' blos.soms the branches bare, 
 
 And thy golden smiles bestow; 
 
 Paint with thy pencil the flowers fair. 
 
 The royal fuchsias and i-oses rare, 
 
 And the violets bending low. 
 
 Short is thy stay, O lovely queen. 
 
 For the summer is coming soon; 
 
 E'en now is the way of tliy exit seen. 
 
 In the golden month of June. 
 
 But while thou art queen thy reign is .sweet. 
 
 For thy sceptre is covered witli flowers; 
 
 And before thy grotto the fairies meet. 
 
 And the eLflns dance with glittering feet, 
 
 Beneath the jessamine bowers. 
 
 Then spring, bright spring we bid thee hail, 
 
 But soon we will say good-bye ; 
 
 For thy brightest beams e'er long will pale. 
 
 When the violets droop in the woodland vale. 
 
 And withering, fade and die. 
 
 For the golden harvest-time will come. 
 
 And the reapers with sickles keen, 
 
 Will bring to the flowers their only doom, 
 
 And lay them low in their earthy tomb, 
 
 The mouldering sod between. 
 
 But after the winter snows are past. 
 
 And gone are the sleet and rain ; 
 
 When the dreary days no longer last. 
 
 And bright spring comes again. 
 
 We will shout aloud as we did of yore, 
 
 All hail fair spring to thee; 
 
 Scatter thy flowers the woodlands o'er. 
 
 Till the air is sweeter than ever before, 
 
 As it blows through each leafy tree. 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 Oh! the winds of Annandale! 
 The bracing winds of Annandale, 
 Blowing and sweeping o'er hill and plain. 
 Piling snow drifts in road and lane. 
 Cracking the trees that are covered with ice. 
 Till bending and swaying they snap in a 
 
 trice. 
 Cold are the winds of Annandale; 
 But never a cheek is blanched and pale. 
 That out of the house is wont to tarry, 
 And brave the wind of January. 
 January's bitter cold; 
 
 But sprightly youth wUl scarce grow old. 
 And pine away before its time. 
 If, committing the so-called crime 
 Of lingering out in the ice and snow. 
 We make the days of the winter go. 
 Oh! the hills of Annandale! 
 The snow-clad hills of Annandale; 
 Glittering white in the sun's bright rays. 
 That shimmer and dance like a troop of fays; 
 Placing a gem on each feathery flake, 
 Till they look like stars on a frozen lake. 
 Soon is heard on the frosty air, 
 Tlie shout of the coaster — Oh ! sport most 
 rare! 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 84 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 «- 
 
 Little we heed how the buttons go. 
 Little we heed liow the blinding: snow 
 Files in our eyes and fills our ears, 
 Till our bosom throbs with fleeting fears ; 
 But flowing over with jubilant bliss. 
 We vow that nothing can equal this. 
 
 O ye, that sit in the halls of state. 
 That rule our country strong and great. 
 Give ye no thought to those halcyon days. 
 That ye spent in a thousand whimsical ways — 
 Ways that only youth may know, 
 To conjure joy and to banish woe ? 
 Give ye no thought — alas too oft, 
 Your muids are soaring too far aloft, 
 To give one glance at childhood's day, 
 But are wont to sneer at its foolish play. 
 Know ye then, men with minds so great, 
 Tliat stand at the helm of the ship of state. 
 Know ye that these same jubilant boys. 
 That rend the air with their mirthful noise. 
 And sUde down hill with their nose to the 
 
 ground. 
 In the halls of the nation may yet be found. 
 
 Then hip, hurrah! for King Winter cold, 
 
 With his shaggy beard so gray and old. 
 
 Long may he sit on his icy throne. 
 
 And rule the realm he now doth own; 
 
 Glassing the river with sheets of ice. 
 
 Where by a throw of fortune's dice, 
 
 The youth and the maiden perchance do 
 
 meet, 
 And fly o'er the ice with the wind so fleet. 
 The wind that causes a ruddy glow 
 On cheek and lip as they swiftly go. 
 O rudest wind ! to be so bold. 
 As to kiss those lips with a touch so cold ; 
 But perliaps there would be no fault to find, 
 If the onlj' culprit were the wind. 
 Then hurrah! once more for tlie Winter King, 
 Who moans and whistles and tries to sing. 
 And plays a prelude queer and odd. 
 On the creaking limbs that sway and nod. 
 And tlien with a slirick ho leaves the vale. 
 And mounts to tiic hills of Annandale, 
 There with a wliirry add flurry he stops. 
 And dances a horn-pipe tolimijer his chops; 
 And if a stray cat l)y cliaiice he spies, 
 He nips her tail till slie l^links lier eyes. 
 And rends the air with yowls and cries. 
 
 O Winter King what a I'oyal sway, 
 Thou boldest ever from day to day. 
 But the time will come when thy liirono will 
 
 melt, 
 And no longer thy chilling breath be felt; 
 And thou wilt sleep in the vast unknown, 
 Wliile the golden summer reigns alone. 
 
 SECOND. 
 
 Oh I the groves of Annandale! 
 The balmy groves of Annandale; 
 Through whose trees with a whisper low, 
 
 The summer winds so wearily blow, 
 
 And fan our cheeks till we fall asleep. 
 
 While the hum-birds play at a wild bo-peep. 
 
 The bees croon drowsily in the clover, 
 
 The squirrel chirps like a rolUcking rover; 
 
 And sweet to the soul beyond all price. 
 
 Nature foreshadows Paradise, 
 
 Hand in hand through tlie shady grove. 
 
 The youth and the maiden slowly move. 
 
 Her cheeks are red, but not with cold. 
 
 As when once they were kissed Ijy the wind so 
 
 bold. 
 They set them down by a running stream. 
 And think they are living a fairy dream. 
 He scans her face with a loving eye, 
 Then looks to see if there's any one nigh, 
 — But here let me say, when they flew apace 
 Over the ice, she slapped his face. 
 When he tried to follow the wind's example; 
 Of womanly spirit a worthy ample. — 
 But now when thesummer breezes blow. 
 And the rippling streamlets freely flow, 
 And the blue-bird warbles a love song sweet, 
 A languor steals o'er their mossy seat. 
 And there, in the light of a summer's sun, 
 A precious heai't is wooed and won. 
 Oh ! the summer of Annandale ! 
 The golden summer of Annandale. 
 Happiest hours of all the year, 
 Happy indeed to the maiden dear. 
 Who laughed at love when the Winter King 
 Held his sway over everything. 
 Now, no more howls the chilling blast. 
 No more the snow falls thick and fast 
 Over the field and over the plain. 
 Till we look for a fence or a road in vain. 
 No more is heard the coaster's song. 
 As it swelled into melody loud and long. 
 The hills are green, and the flowers wave, 
 And lift their heads to the sky's blue nave; 
 And seem to whisper as they nod: 
 All that is lovely belongs to God. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Child of the grand old winter, 
 
 December floateth by ; 
 And the ground without is bare and white 
 
 As the moon in tlie cloudless sky. 
 The wind blows cold and dreary. 
 
 Across tlie whilciied i)lain; 
 And we si'c the oaks with their branches bare. 
 
 Through the frost on tlie window pane. 
 But within where the yule-log's burning. 
 
 Each ln'art is liajiijy and gay; 
 For the loving Prince of earth and Heaven, 
 
 Was born on Cliristmas day. 
 Then hail! grand i)ld December, 
 
 We welcome you :>r.camore! 
 For tlu! memory sweet of a night > ou biing. 
 
 That came in the days of yore. 
 
 -® 
 
«- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 So 
 
 MARY TURNER BEECH. 
 
 Born: Homer, N. Y. 
 In lier childhood her parents removed to Fair- 
 field, Ohio, where .she was educated, spending- 
 an additional year in the academy at Elyi-ia in 
 the same state. She early evinced a taste for 
 literary pursuits, and wrote essays and short 
 stories that received publication. She was 
 married to her first husband, Jenson Beers, 
 in IS.m; in 18T9 Mr. Beei'S died of a disease con- 
 tracted while in the seivice of his country. 
 
 .MAKV TUKNKH BEKCH. 
 
 la 1.SS.5 the sulgect of this sketch was married 
 to Richard Beech, of Beechville, 111. Mrs. 
 Beech resides a part of her time at her old 
 home in Stanton, Mich., and the rest she 
 spends at her husband's home on the banks 
 of the Mississippi river. She has two living 
 children— a son, Ray, born in 1869; and a 
 daughter, Jennie Augusta, who is now the 
 wife of T. E. Powell, the publisher of the 
 Montcalm Herald. 
 
 ^- 
 
 TO THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING. 
 
 One simple flower — what joy it brings. 
 
 How welcome to the sight. 
 We wildly press the voiceless thing 
 
 That brings such true delight. 
 One simple flower what fragrance yields. 
 
 It whisper's hope and peace; 
 Its tender thoughts, like buds concealed. 
 
 Love's sweetest incense breathes. 
 
 One simple flower the past is here 
 
 With all its varied train. 
 The IdUss we've known, the silent fear 
 
 Comes strangely back again. 
 One simple flower, oh what so fair. 
 
 So tender as thj- leaf. 
 In nature's rank is found no where, 
 
 A life so pure, .so brief. 
 Fair simple flower — long may you clieer 
 
 The toiling sons of earth ; 
 Who heeds thy gentle teaching here. 
 
 Secures a gem of worth. 
 
 SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 OF DR. J. B. SULLIVAN. 
 
 Some simple word, 
 
 My heart has stirred. 
 And thought in fancy strays — 
 
 So while we meet. 
 
 In converse sweet. 
 Accept this meed of praise. 
 
 In langaiage well 
 
 I've heard him teU 
 While mem'ry bells were ringing 
 
 How oft at night 
 
 By fireside light 
 And his mother sweetly singing — 
 
 He tried to make. 
 
 His marks so straight. 
 While the fire his head was burning; 
 
 Little thought he. 
 
 How hard 'twould be, 
 Tlie line to keep amid life's turning. 
 
 Is there one here 
 
 With marks so clear 
 Written in life's copy-book 
 
 But would erase 
 
 Fi-om out its place 
 Here a curve, and there a crook '.' 
 
 We find alloy. 
 
 Mixed with our joy. 
 Grief and care must come to all — 
 
 To-day its cash. 
 
 To-morrow trash. 
 Up we go, and down we fall. 
 
 Shadows of care 
 
 May silver the hair, 
 Tlie sunshine of youth may depart, 
 
 But the twilight of age 
 
 Holds many a page 
 Wliich brings joy and peace to the heart 
 
 Its not too late 
 
 To celebrate 
 Tlie golden years gone by. 
 
 To thank the Lord 
 
 For all the good 
 Bestowed us from on high. 
 
 © 
 
© 
 
 -as 
 
 86 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JESSIE F. O'DONNELL. 
 
 Born: Lowville, N. Y., Jan. 18, I860. 
 Miss O'Donnell has published a volume of 
 poems entitled Heart Lyrics, and now follows 
 the profession of literature. Her poems have 
 
 JESSIE F. O'DONNELL. 
 
 appeared in a number of the leading- Ameri- 
 can periodicals. In person .she is very slight, 
 and now resides in her native town. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE NIGHT- BLOOMING CEREUS. 
 The indolent four o'clock ladies 
 
 Had waked from their long, dreamy rest, 
 But tlie sun-flower's golden-lashed l)lossoms 
 
 Had turned their brown eyes to the west. 
 And tlie lilies grown suddenly weary, 
 
 Lay husiied on the river's cold breast. 
 The blue-t)ells began a .soft tinkle, 
 
 Tlic i)rimros('s opened their eyes; 
 And the grasses wa\t'il low whei'i' thi' faii-ies 
 
 Had stolen tlie \iok'ts' fiisgni.se; 
 And al)ove, througli the angels' va.st gardens. 
 
 The stars blossomed out in tlie skies. 
 A voice from the lily-bells callijig. 
 
 Rang out on the even air clear: 
 " O j'e blossoms! awake, in the gnidens! 
 
 Tlie Lord of tlie flowers conieth neai'I 
 O awake! in the field and tlie woodland; 
 
 The Maker of blossoms is liere!" 
 Tlie poppy jnst nuirnnired: .. I'm sleepy! " 
 
 And nodded lier roiiml drowsy head; [ters 
 And liie tulips had closed theii- bright shut- 
 
 •' Against the night dew-drops," they said; 
 And the little green balls of the daisies 
 
 Never stirred in their soft, grassy bed. 
 But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily 
 
 UpUf ted her chalice of light. 
 And the roses threw open their bosoms 
 
 And gladdened the fair summer night, 
 And the stars of the jasmine blossoms 
 
 Leaned down from the trellises' height. 
 The Lord, walking slow through the garden. 
 
 Smiled back at the roses' perfume, 
 Caressing the lily's pale petals. 
 
 Or shaking the hyacinth's perfume. 
 Till He came where the Cereus slumbered, 
 
 Close hiding her beautiful bloom. 
 She thrilled at the heavenly presence. 
 
 And slowlj' uncovered her face. 
 And swinging the pearl of her censer, 
 
 With reverent, ineffable grace. 
 Stood revealed in her magical beauty, 
 
 Tlie soul of that wonderful place. 
 Spell-botmd at the white growing vision, 
 
 The Lord watched the flower unfold. 
 Till away f i-om the quivering stamens 
 
 The last snowy petal had rolled. 
 Then he bent o'er the weird, witcliing blos- 
 som, 
 
 Left a kiss on its bosom of gold. 
 All tremulous with the keen rapture. 
 
 And rich with the Master's breath, • 
 " Not one lesser touch shall defile me!" 
 
 The Night-Blooming Cereus saith; 
 And gathering her garments about her, 
 
 She yielded her sweetness to death. 
 Wherever a Cereus blossoms, 
 
 'Tis said that the Master is nigh ; 
 That he watches the glorious flower 
 
 Uncurl the gold stamens that lie 
 In the petals that tremble with rapture, 
 
 And shut round lus ki.ss when they die. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Oh, the wondrous, glistening Easter, 
 Shining in the morning light ! 
 
 Silently tlie world had blossomed 
 Like a white rose in the night ; 
 
 Softly smiled the winter landscape 
 To the sunbeams' glances bright. 
 
 And who can blame the woman that she chose 
 Life's warmth and color, ere hei" first love 
 
 liurned 
 To ashes'/ Hearts need hearts. And, oh! 
 
 God knows 
 Dear love issweetaltliough but half returned. 
 
 Can you measure a bluebird's quivi-ring 
 
 flight -t 
 Or the speed of a homesick swallow 'i 
 
 ® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 87 
 
 m 
 
 JOHN WILLIAM EVERETT. 
 
 Born: Cedar Groa'e, La., Dec. 13, 1869. 
 In liis youth his parents removed their place 
 of abode several times, finally settling in 
 Lake Charles, La. when the subject of this 
 sketcli was sixteen years of age. His f atlier 
 is editor of The American in that town, and 
 young Everett also resides there. While still 
 
 JOHN WTLLIAM EVERETT. 
 
 in the university at Waco, Texas, he con- 
 tributed several poems to the local press. 
 He next attended the Mississippi college at 
 Clinton, where he continued his studies as a 
 theological student, a profession he intends 
 to follow. Besides his poetic writings, he has 
 contributed prose to various publications; 
 and he has published a musical composition. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE AMITE RIVER. 
 
 'Tis late; the sun is sinking in the west; 
 Tlie wind moans lonesome through the 
 waving trees ; 
 Tlie twit' ring birds have hushed to seek their 
 rest; 
 The swallow's wing beats homeward on the 
 breeze. 
 The river moans and ripples as it flows; 
 
 The moon is rising now upon the scene ; 
 The stars are stealing slowly from their close. 
 And adding pleasure to the thought serene. 
 
 Upon tills bank I have stood in days gone by; 
 In youth's bright, hai)py hours I've wander- 
 ed here. 
 With one who now is sleeping silently 
 Beneath the sod, whoso voice I'll never 
 hear! 
 
 Ah, yes! Upon this bank of rocks and sand. 
 
 Beneath the shady trees that bow above, 
 I've kissed her cheeks, and pressed her little 
 hand. 
 And spoke to her in tender words of love. 
 How often has she knelt to write her name 
 Upon the ground upon the river's strand, 
 And stood and watched the wavelets as they 
 came. 
 And washed the writing from the glittering 
 sand! 
 She knew not then whUe standing by my side. 
 
 And gazing at her name as't disappeared. 
 That her own Life, so lovely — and my pride — 
 Was pictured there in emblems she had 
 reared ! 
 Ah, life is short ! But oh, how beautiful 
 
 Is her's to me while memory draws it nigh ! 
 How gentle ! Oh, how mild and dutiful 
 Was she, who — lovely, darUng girl— should 
 die! 
 Yes, time has borne her from this sacred 
 place; 
 No longer meet we by the river's shore, 
 No more shall I behold her lovely face. 
 And her sweet voice shall greet me, never 
 more! 
 
 E\T;NING ON THE CALCASIEU. 
 
 The day is done ; 
 
 The setting sun. 
 Growing red, sinks out of view; 
 
 The lowing herds 
 
 And twltt'ring birds — 
 I hear them on the Calcasieu. 
 
 The old saw mill 
 
 As death is still. 
 Save sundry hissings now and then ; 
 
 'Neath the sky blue 
 
 Gathers the dew. 
 Glittering in the sunlight's sheen. 
 
 The Calcasieu 
 
 Reflects the blue 
 And beauteous sky that bows above. 
 
 And from afar 
 
 A Little star 
 Reflected, seems to speak of love. 
 
 What is that ? Hush ! 
 
 I hear a slush ! 
 I look; I see a little boat; 
 
 A maiden fair 
 
 With golden hair. 
 Sweetly, softly sings, afloat ! 
 
 ®- 
 
 -® 
 
© 
 
 -® 
 
 88 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. E. B. BISANT-DELANY. 
 
 Born : Muskingum Co., C, March 16, 1844. 
 Since 1856 this lady has contributed quite ex- 
 tensively to ihe ZiiiH'svillt' .Inijriial and the 
 pcii<"lir;il prc-s .L:rnciall.\ . Slic now resides 
 
 MRS. EUKA BROOKE BISANT-DELANY. 
 
 on tlie Old Homestead near Zanesville, where 
 she has become very popular. Personally 
 this lady is of the average height with gold 
 brown liair and blue y;vay eyes. 
 
 INTKODUCTION. 
 Petals of poetic passion — 
 
 Yellow, crimson, vari'sated,— 
 Briar-rose, thorn-spear be-mettled ! 
 
 Ls thy warsomc mood e'er sated? 
 Muse of Satire? Flee this moment! 
 
 Seek the desert of distress; 
 Mortal woman is not faultless. 
 
 Fallen anpel ! — nothing: less ! 
 Charity? We'll kiss thy fin-ehead; 
 
 Pity, holds tlu^ helm of ship. 
 Ere the life-boat leaves the vessel, 
 
 Mercy kneels with quiv'ring lip. 
 Hope— o'er sanpuine — wields the anchor, 
 
 Read finale in her eyes! 
 Saved! Pale waves in foam-spray rancor, 
 
 Ocean's anthem greets the skies. 
 
 YOITTl LILY. 
 
 'Montr animate Ijlossoins, 
 A florist of tuste, 
 
 Will choose a fair Lily— 
 
 An emblem so chaste. 
 When the meadow is grac'd 
 
 By the lithe golden-rod. 
 The zephyrs a-quiver, 
 
 All glorify God. 
 
 Pretty pansy attuned 
 
 To blithe notes of the harp. 
 Might to sweet violets. 
 
 Tone of envy impart. 
 Wlieu the tube-rose's soul 
 
 Caught the hot breath of June, 
 The lily grew pale 
 
 'Neath the blush of the moon. 
 
 So chaste is the Lily 
 
 Of rail fled soul. 
 That all passionfled tides 
 
 Must obej' her control. 
 Then cherish the Lily! 
 
 Mind-petals of trust 
 Are soul-nooks etherial. 
 
 That gather no dust. 
 A song for the Lily ! 
 
 A sonnet of love! 
 As soulful and tender 
 
 As cooing of dote. 
 When her mates In tlie gloaming. 
 
 And buttercups nod 
 To the blaze of the planets 
 
 That glorify God. 
 
 LITTLE MARIAM KING. 
 
 Wee namesake of thy grandma's, 
 
 Thou daughter of a King; 
 
 Fair child of many graces. 
 
 Of thee the muses sing,— 
 
 Sweet bud zephyr kiss'd, 
 
 Bud beguiling mist. 
 
 Song nymphs proclaim thee 
 
 Child of delight! 
 
 Thy mother— a poetess courting the stars. 
 
 Threw kisses at Venus, and frowned on old 
 
 Mars, 
 Whose face grew so red with the cruel war 
 
 glow- 
 Reflection lent blush to a crystal of snow 
 O sweet little Mariam ; 
 
 God shield thee from harm ! 
 There's a spirit keeps vigil. 
 
 At sign of alarm 
 All the planets will rush. 
 
 Set creailon ajar,— 
 Thy guardian is grandma, 
 
 In Fair-Land, afar. 
 Sweet bud zephyr kiss'd. 
 Bud beguiling mist ; 
 Song iiymplis i)i'ocIaim tliee — 
 Child of deliglit! 
 
 SB 
 
 -ee 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND KATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 89 
 
 -« 
 
 WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON 
 
 Born: New York City, Oct. 7, 185". 
 Educated at Penning'tou seminary. New Jer- 
 sey and universitj' of the city of New York, he 
 was married in 1878 to Sue Ri)fkhill, daug'hter 
 of Capt. Z. Rockhill of New Jersey. For past 
 eight years lias lieeu on the editorial staff of 
 New York Tribune. Mr. Johnson has lectur- 
 ed frequently and made many other public 
 addresses. He is the author of several books 
 
 WILLIS FLEK in K loHS^oN 
 
 find scores of poems which have liad wide cir- 
 culation in the periodical press of America 
 and England. In person lie is sliglitly under 
 average size, but robust and athletic in a 
 notable degree, with hair and eyes nearly 
 black. Mr. Johnson in winter lives in Brook- 
 lyn, N. Y., and in summer divides his time 
 between mountains and sea-shore. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE VICTOR. 
 
 In the old world, when I was dead, 
 [ followed where my fortune led; 
 
 O tyrant Fate! 
 All senseless, soulless, save to be 
 Slave of capricious destiny. 
 
 O cruel tyrant Fate ! 
 Then dawned my birthday, and to life 
 I sprang, and unto doomf ul strife ; 
 
 O foeman Fate ! 
 And fought my way, ere set of sun, 
 
 To this new world, the victory won. 
 O liated foeman Fate! 
 
 Now all is sense, and life, and love. 
 And footstejis unrestrained rove; 
 
 O baffled Fate! 
 And where I lead. Fate follows me. 
 Myself my lord of destiny. 
 
 O baflBed, vanquished fate! 
 
 NAMES. 
 'Neath the Natural Bridge's dizzy arch 
 A youth once carved his name ; 
 
 And when above the yawning chasm, 
 He hung, as if with life's last spasm, 
 He struck his knife into the Hint, 
 Dreaming each rude and ragged dint 
 Through the coming years' unceasing march 
 Would herald liis deathless fame. 
 
 But the name was only read 
 
 By eagles in their flight. 
 And within the year the lichens grew 
 
 And buried it out of sight. 
 
 In careless leisure my name I trace 
 On a perishable page; 
 
 And I know the ink may quickly fade. 
 Or the leaf be torn, or the book mislaid, 
 Or Are may burn, or flood despoil — 
 In a thousand ways my pen's poor toil 
 May come to naught, and a vacant place 
 Alone wait the coming age. 
 
 But my name, I trust, shall live. 
 Safe kept in memory's shrine; 
 
 Full many a year after ruthless fate 
 Shall have faded this fleeting line. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The aster glows the falling leaves beneath. 
 The golden rod gleams by the hedgerow 
 brown. 
 As tho' the dying summer in the frost king's 
 teeth 
 Had hurled lier gauntlet down. 
 
 So when the shades of solemn silence sink 
 
 Upon us, and we reach life's latest breath. 
 The soul exultant bids, e'en on the grave's 
 black brink. 
 Defiance unto death! 
 
 We perish not. The mounting spirit towers 
 
 In conscious immortality sublime. 
 And gains beyond death's feeble, fleeting, 
 winter hours 
 Eternal summer time. 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 I am rich; who says me nay? 
 I have bread to eat each, day. 
 Water from the mountain rill. 
 Woman's lips to kiss at will. 
 
 « 
 
©- 
 
 -m 
 
 90 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ©- 
 
 Russet garb, and couch of moss. 
 Treasures free from rust or loss — 
 Why should not my life be gay? 
 I am rich; who says me nay? 
 
 I am rich; who says me nay? 
 Friends have I in long array — 
 Sun, and rain, and cloud and dew. 
 Fields of green and sliies of blue; 
 Pictures drawn by nature's hand; 
 Books the soul may understand. 
 And a life-long hoUday — 
 I am rich; who says me nay? 
 
 I am rich; who saj's me nay? 
 Wliom have I to envy, pray? 
 Crown encumbered liing? or sage 
 Poring o'er the midnight page? 
 Midas starving witli his gold? 
 Better far, a thousand fold. 
 Is Bohemia than Cathay ! 
 I am rich; who says me nay? 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Prince, tliy bounty I decline! 
 Quaff with me this rustic wine! 
 Equals thou and I to-day — 
 I am rich ; who says me nay? 
 
 BOOKS AND BINDINGS. 
 On my study shelves they stand. 
 Well-known all to eye and hand, 
 Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold. 
 In morocco rich and old, 
 Some in paper, plain and cheap. 
 Some in muslin, calf and sheep; 
 Volumes great and volumes small 
 Ranged along my study wall ; 
 But their contents are past finding 
 By their size or by their binding. 
 
 There is one with gold agleam. 
 Like the Sangreal in a dream. 
 Back and boards in every part 
 Triumph of the binder's art; 
 Costing more, 't is well believed. 
 Then the author e'er received. 
 But its contents? Idle tales. 
 Flapping of a shallop's sails! 
 In the treastiry of learning 
 Scarcely worth a penny's turning. 
 
 Here's a tome in paper plain. 
 Soiled and torn and marred with stain, 
 Cowering from each statelier book 
 In tlie darkest, dustiest nook. 
 Take it down, and lo! each page 
 Breathes the wisdom of a sage! 
 Weiglii'd a, ttiousand limes in gold. 
 Half its worth would not Ije told. 
 For all truth of ancient story 
 Crowns each line with deathless glory. 
 
 On my study shelves tln'y stand; 
 But my study walls e.\i>and, 
 
 As mind's pinions are unfurled. 
 Till they compass all the world. 
 Endless flies go marching by. 
 Men of lowly rank amd high. 
 Some in broadclotli, gem-adorned. 
 Some in homespun, fortune-scorned; 
 But God's scales that all are weighed in 
 Heed not what each man's arrayed in. 
 
 THE STONES OF MANHATTAN. 
 I tread the stones of Manhattan ; I, who have 
 
 journeyed far 
 From the meadow-sward and the moss bank, 
 
 and the streamlet's pebbly bar; 
 I, who have wandered hither, allured by the 
 
 tales they told 
 Of how the stones of Manhattan were reeking 
 
 with ruddy gold. 
 
 I tread the stones of Manhattan, the stones 
 that are hard to my feet, — 
 
 As hard as the hearts around me, as hard as 
 the faces I meet. 
 
 Hot is their breath in summer, with fever of 
 selfisli greed. 
 
 Cold is their touch in winter, as hearts to tlie 
 hand of need. 
 
 My heel strikes Are from the fUnt, but the 
 spark is dead ere it burns, — 
 
 Strikes flre in my angry striding, but is bruis- 
 ed by the stone it spurns, — 
 
 And echo scorns with a stony voice the cry of 
 a soul's despair 
 
 Breathed out on the thunderous tbrobbingsof 
 the city's desert air. 
 
 Oh ! faithless stones of Manhattan, that tempt- 
 ed my boyish feet 
 Away from the clover-meadow, from the wind- 
 woven waves of wheat ! 
 I thought ye a golden highway ; I find ye the 
 
 path of shame. 
 Where souls are sold for silver, and gold is the 
 
 price of fame ! 
 But my wearj- feet must tread ye, as slaves on 
 
 tiie (juariy lloor. 
 And my aching brain nuist suffer your i)iti- 
 
 less uproar. 
 Till the raving tide .shall .sweep above, and 
 
 careless feet shall tread 
 On the fatal stones of Manhattan, over my 
 dreamless bed ! 
 
 POETS I^NKNOWN TO FAME. 
 Wlio (luestions if a Ijrazen triniiiu't sounti. 
 
 Or silver clarion, or pipe of reed, 
 Wlien edioes linger 'mid the Switzer hills? 
 Who seeks the poet's name or native bound. 
 
 So but liis song be melody indeed. 
 And Ids inspired word tlie spirit tin-ills? 
 
 © 
 
*^ 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATTOlSrAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 91 
 
 LOUIS N. CRILL. 
 
 Born : Spragueville, Iowa, June 3, 1867. 
 Louis eng'ag-ed in the mercantile business in 
 18b3, and is tlie proprietor of a general mer- 
 chandise store in Richland, Dakota, where he 
 now resides with his wife, whom he married 
 in 1888. He has hut recently commenced to 
 court the muse, yet his writings have in a 
 
 LOUIS N. CRILL. 
 
 comparatively short time appeared extensive- 
 ly in many prominent publications, including 
 the New York Truth Seeker, Sturdy Oak, and 
 the American Nonconformist. In person Mr. 
 Crill is Ave feet ten inches in height, weighs 
 175 iJouiids, and lias daiK li;tirunU eyes. A vol- 
 ume of his poems will s<ioa be published. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MOTHER'S ADVICE. 
 When you grow up, my darling boy. 
 
 To manhood, good and true. 
 You'll find your sister don't enjoy 
 
 The rights by justice due; 
 You'll find it true that custom gives, 
 
 To man the higher place ; 
 That woman only strives, and lives 
 
 To perish in the race. 
 When you grow up, my darling boj , 
 
 Admit the truth so plain. 
 That woman's rights are to employ 
 
 The products of her brain ; 
 To feast in banquet halls of fame. 
 
 Beside her bi'other, man ; 
 
 To show the world in deed and name 
 
 That woman's in the van. 
 Wlieu you grow up, my darling boj-. 
 
 Stand firm for truth and right; 
 Disdain the fact that mother's joy 
 
 Is tinged with one sad blight. 
 Endeavor with yt)ur strength sincere 
 
 To abrogate the laws 
 That make a woman's life appear 
 
 A slave to any cause. 
 When you grow up, my darling boy. 
 
 In justice always scorn, 
 And ev'ry wrong try to destroy. 
 
 Until a good is born. 
 Remember that in future needs 
 
 Posterity may call 
 Upon the men whose earnest deeds 
 
 Gave equal rights to all. 
 
 BORDER ECHOES. 
 Ripples of laughter will echo, in a valley of 
 
 anguish and pain; 
 Carols of birds rent the air, when with sorrow 
 
 the sky is aflame. 
 Nations are boasting in luxury, while its 
 
 sovereigns are living in need; 
 Liberty sits on Its pedal, while the millions in 
 
 serfdom do bleed. 
 Musical strains are vibrating, while the notes 
 
 of distress reek the air ; 
 Sunshine is sending its blessing, and the 
 
 shadows of trouble are there. 
 Great are the names of the wealthy, but hum- 
 ble the tiller of soil; 
 Pinioned are angels of fortune, but wingless 
 
 the daughters of toil. 
 Gilded the rainbow of hope, that bows o'er a 
 
 life of despair; 
 Sweet are the songs of the birds that warble 
 
 in seasons of care. 
 Gay are the symbols of fashion, in a city of 
 
 mis'ry and pain; 
 Grand the cathedrals of state, while the poor 
 
 live in hovels of shame. 
 Rosy the tint of the sunset, that is domed in 
 
 the sky of the west ; 
 Drifted away by the breezes are the clouds of 
 
 dismay and distress. 
 Noble the man of the present, that is free 
 
 from illusion and guile; 
 Soothing the proffer of kindness, in an hour 
 
 of misfortune and trial. 
 Robed in the mantle of glorj', is the goddess of 
 
 justice and right; 
 Chased by the light of the morning, is the 
 
 darkness and gloom of the night. 
 Onward humanity struggles, through the 
 
 mist and the storm do they glide; 
 Tossed on the waves of the ocean, and then 
 drifted ashore by the tide. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 92 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -SI 
 
 WE HAVE A LITTLE BABY. 
 We liare a little baby 
 
 To cheer our heartli and home. 
 To fill our hearts with gladness. 
 
 And cause us not to roam. 
 Its eyes do g-lltter fondly — 
 
 In sweet affection shine ; 
 We see the image plainly 
 
 Of beauty most divine. 
 Tliey hold a hidden magic 
 
 In every look and stare. 
 Compelling pure devotion. 
 
 Unceasing love and care. 
 
 We have a little baby 
 
 Our leisui-e to emploj^; 
 It drives away all sorrow 
 
 And fills our lives with joy. 
 The clouds have southly drifted. 
 
 The sky is bright and clear, 
 Then comes the tiny tendril 
 
 To draw our hearts so near; 
 And like the gentle zephyr 
 
 That woos the morning sun, 
 It brings to us the emblem. 
 
 Of heaven here begun. 
 
 We have a little baby 
 
 So sweet, so pure, so fair. 
 To bear our name and fortune. 
 
 To drive awaj- dull care. 
 It is a little fairy. 
 
 Bedewed with winsome smiles, 
 And 'neath its little dimples 
 
 We see its gleeful wiles. 
 Just like the morning roses. 
 
 Just like the morning dove, 
 It is a little blessing 
 
 To link our lives in love. 
 
 ©- 
 
 A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Oh fast the years are fleeting 
 
 My youthful days are gone, 
 A childish heart's fond beating 
 
 Is past the gray of dawn. 
 Bring back those years of pleasure 
 
 So free from toil and care ; 
 Those years that gave full measure 
 
 To every joy full share; 
 Bring back tlie golden beaming 
 
 Of childhood's hopes and fears. 
 Bring back the silver gleaming 
 
 Of early gleeful years. 
 
 Resound those notes of laughter 
 That echoed through the air. 
 
 Bring back these long years after 
 The joys that now are rare; 
 
 Bring back the eager yearning 
 For river dale and hill, 
 
 Wlieri' childish ho))e was burning 
 
 With joy its cup to fill. 
 Those springtide spells of beauty 
 
 Tliat filled our hearts with joy. 
 Are changed to hours of duty 
 
 Our earnest thoughts employ. 
 
 The thrill of bush and wlldwood 
 
 Where youthful fancy played; 
 The flowery paths of childhood 
 
 That led through dells of shade 
 Were changed to paths when lovers 
 
 In fondest passion dream. 
 Of secret joys that hovers 
 
 Where love doth reign supreme, 
 Recall the fondest token 
 
 By early childhood earned — 
 The spell of years is broken 
 
 The sweets of knowledge learned. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 I have gazed on the morning of life. 
 
 On the rose tinted flush of the scene, 
 When the fancj' of youth was still rife 
 
 And the beauty of springtide was green. 
 When the future was shining with splendor, ' 
 
 Not a cloud in the dome of the sky : 
 And the pathway of youth was made tender 
 
 Though the driftwinds of sorrow were nigh. 
 
 I have gazed on the moontide of life. 
 
 On the midday of withering heat; 
 On the mingling of trouble and strife 
 
 And the feverish brow of defeat. 
 I have gazed on the heights of ambition 
 
 That ascend to the zenith of fame, 
 I have heard the pulsebeat of Life's mission 
 
 And I know that true Bliss is the aim. 
 
 I have gazed on the ev'nlng of life. 
 
 On the sweetness of calm and repose; 
 On the surcease of sorrow and strife 
 
 And the grandeur that living bestows. 
 I have seen the gray shadows fast falling 
 
 'Round the tottering frame of old age. 
 And the echoes of night are fast calling — 
 
 Mother Nature has turned the last page. 
 
 I have gazed on the sunset at last. 
 
 On the vision of crim.son and gold — 
 When the shade tints of ev'niug are past. 
 
 Then the beauties of Dawn will unfold. 
 I have gazed on the casket containing 
 
 The I'einains of a dear one who's gone. 
 And the symphonies sweet are refniining. 
 
 On the flight to the beauties beyond. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Charming the maiden that snatches a rose 
 
 To pin on a lover's breast ; 
 Grand is the passion the heart only knows 
 
 When love is by love caressed. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 -as 
 
 liOCAI. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 93 
 
 HUBBARD M. SMITH, M. D. 
 
 Born: Winchester, Kv., Sept. 6, 1820. 
 Early in life young Hubl>ard apprenticed 
 himself to a saddler, and worked at that busi- 
 ness until about twenty-one years of age. 
 About this time he commenced the study of 
 medicine, but did not practice until 1844. Two 
 years huer Mr. Smith married a friend of his 
 youth; settling' in Vincennes, Indiana, in 1849, 
 where he has since resided. He has ever since 
 been engaged in the practice of his profession, 
 excepting about ten years in which he was 
 engaged either in editing and publishing the 
 Vincennes Gazette or acting as postmaster. 
 Mr. Smith has filled many important posi- 
 
 * 
 
 HUBBAKD M. SMITH, M. D. 
 
 tions — including U. S. Pension Surgeon for 
 twelve years ; and now fills the oflBce of trustee 
 to the Presbyterian church and the univer- 
 sit}'. His poetical compositions have been 
 publislied in the leading periodi>als of Amer- 
 ica. Mr. Smith is a member of several 
 medical societies, and has contributed prose 
 to the medical press and associations. He 
 became one of the charter members of the 
 Western Writers' association of Indiana, and 
 has road several poems before that body. His 
 sons have become well known as men of abil- 
 ity — one as a United States Consul ; another 
 as a musical composer; a third son as a com- 
 mercial traveler; and the fourth son is suc- 
 cessfully practicing law in Dallas, Texas. 
 
 Dr. Smith also has two daughters living at 
 the old homestead. The; Doctor is still active- 
 ly engaged in the practice of medicine, being 
 now the oldest of his confreres at Vincennes. 
 
 SONNETS - CUPID'S PLEA. 
 Are matches made in heaven? Ah I no, not 
 all; 
 For circumstance, and art, and mammon 
 
 do 
 Much of the pairing of the world, they who 
 Mark not the fact ai;e deaf to Cupid's call. 
 Yet, when, contrariwise, some people seek 
 The course of nature's plan to overthrow. 
 Success may follow for awhile; but woe 
 And sorrow afterward dire vengeance wreak. 
 A monitor presides within the breast 
 Of every mortal, as a lining soul. 
 Restless, and vigilant, and e'er in quest 
 
 Of some congenial spirit to console 
 The aching heart, and give its longings rest. 
 And nothing else its cravings will control. 
 To farthest verge marked by the night and 
 day, 
 Ere blighting sin the human race had 
 cursed, 
 Tlie heavenlj' orbs their courses run, as first 
 Through space they started in their trackless 
 
 way. 
 So, in accord with laws divinely made. 
 
 When left to freely choose, all creatures 
 
 mate. 
 And not by accident, which some call fate, 
 And thus, through love, is Nature's voice 
 
 obeyed. 
 Are laws which seem to govern earth and 
 heaven, 
 Not made for man? Can he set them aside, 
 When they for all creation's sum were given? 
 Can he, through station, pomp or wealth, 
 or pride, 
 Or fame, atone for pure affection riv^en. 
 
 That on Love's altar once was deified ? 
 The wedding bells with silver tongues may 
 ring 
 Their merry chimes, the ear to ciiarm and 
 please. 
 And riches bring with them luxurious ease; 
 But, ah, too oft they leave a poignant sting 
 Where naught but joy seemed only due ; for 
 love 
 Cannot be bought with gold; respect, at 
 
 best, 
 Is all that mammon gains by rich behest — 
 Affection pure it cannot buy or move. 
 Society, with artful charms may win 
 
 With dazzling rays, but all its glamor 
 soon 
 Wears off, as pleasures fade from gilded sin ; 
 And even Fame the heart cannot attune, 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 94 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 When mated not by love, for naught within 
 One answering chord sends back to prof- 
 fered Ijoon. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 With an arm of might, 
 
 At tlie dawn of liglit, 
 The blacksmith hies to his shop away 
 
 To labor till 
 
 The whippoorwill 
 At evening sings his vesper lay. 
 
 The bellows blow. 
 
 And the coals soon glow, 
 Like the dazzling rays of the noon-day sun ; 
 
 The huge sledge swings, 
 
 And the anvil rings 
 For the daily task is now begun. 
 
 The sparks as bright. 
 
 As the meteor's light, 
 From the vivid metal swiftly fly; 
 
 Whilst wreaths of smoke. 
 
 From the burning coke. 
 In beauteous columns rise on high. 
 
 List! list, the peal. 
 
 As on the steel 
 The hammers swiftly fall with might. 
 
 Like clashing swords. 
 
 When army hordes 
 Contending meet in deadly flght. 
 
 Though on his brow 
 
 The sweat stands now. 
 He heeds it not but toils away. 
 
 Since Heaven has said, 
 
 Man's daily bread 
 By labor shall be gained each day. 
 
 The world may sneer 
 
 And cast a leer. 
 At the sooty smith, whilst passing by; 
 
 But what cares he. 
 
 With a heart as free 
 As the curling smoke ascending high. 
 
 'Tis not the shade 
 
 Of man, or trade, 
 Whicli lie labors at, that gives him worth; 
 
 But heart and mind. 
 
 Which stand behind. 
 That give him greatness on the earth. 
 
 No specters grim 
 
 Appear to him. 
 At night to mar his sweet repose; 
 
 For in his mind 
 
 Sweet peace is shrined, 
 And on his cheeks healtli's hue e'er glows. 
 
 As thus he toils. 
 
 Life's sad turmoils 
 Are things tt) him as light as air; 
 
 For no tliouglits I'cst 
 
 Williiii liis bi'casl. 
 But those whicli hope and love bring I hero. 
 
 MATTHEW H. PETERS. 
 
 Born: Rhenish Bavaria, June 6, 184.3. 
 M. H. Peters, the author of the following 
 thoroughly American sentiment is by birth 
 a German ; was brought to this countrj' when 
 a babe and has grown up thoroughly imbued 
 witli the sjiirit of our institutioiis. He served 
 
 MATTHEW H. PETERS. 
 
 four years as a union soldier during tlie war 
 of the rebellion, and was twice severely woun- 
 ded, rising from the rank of a private to the 
 rank of Major in his regiment — the T4tli Ohio. 
 He has served one term in the Illinois legis- 
 lature, and was mayor of Watseka four years. 
 In ISWhe started the Iroquois County Times. 
 
 THE GOLDEN RULE. 
 I ask not for myself a right 
 
 Which I to otiiers would deny; 
 With all mankind I'd share the light 
 Nor would I rule by force of might. 
 
 But on the (iolden Rule rely. 
 AH men liave their i>aternity 
 
 In common witli their fellow men; 
 Ecjuality, frati-rnity. 
 
 Should rule the heart and guide the pen. 
 And when this hallowed rule i)revail 
 Tyrants, crowns and kings shall fail, 
 And niiin and woinaii i'<niiil boiii 
 Shall stand ei'ect that, glorious morn 
 And !■('<■( )giiize the right of I'ach 
 To libei'tj' of thought and si)eecli. 
 
 « 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEIilCA. 
 
 95 
 
 ® 
 
 JUAN F.CAHILL. 
 
 The life and labors of Mr. Cahill have been 
 directed unswerving-lj' to the development 
 of more extensive commercial relation be- 
 tween the United States and all the other 
 countries of the American continent. His 
 
 «- 
 
 JUAN F. CAHILL. 
 
 writings are better Isnown throughout Span- 
 America than at home, particularly throug'h 
 his editorials which have appeared in El Com- 
 merciodel Valle, pubUshedat St. Louis, Mo., 
 and of which he has been editor and proprie- 
 tor for the past fifteen years. Mr. Cahill has 
 written extensively for the pei-iodical press, 
 and the poem, Mexico's National Anthem, of 
 which he is the autlior, has already become 
 very popular indeed. 
 
 TO THE WORLD'S ADVANCE THINKERS 
 
 AND WORKERS. 
 Cong'enial spirits loom in everj' clime ! 
 Fettered by no creed, unhallowed by no crime ! 
 You of magnetic power,— Kings of earth ! 
 Endowed with prescience 'mid surrounding 
 
 gloom. 
 You roll the stone from mind's obstructed 
 
 tomb: 
 Beget new thoughts and better systems plan ; 
 Iconoclastic Sampsons, leading brother man! 
 Evolved from spheres and ages hoar with 
 
 rime. 
 Your footfalls lead Progression's march and 
 
 prime : 
 
 Your psyciiic light, concealed in human form. 
 Pierces the clouds and calms the angry storm. 
 Nor age nor sex your mighty powers confine; 
 For light supernal througli your spirits sliine. 
 The controversial power,that peace wilhliolds. 
 Grows less and weaker as your light unfolds. 
 Your strifes of mind, to realize God's plan 
 Of peace on eartli and brotherhood for man. 
 Will soon the crown of brilliant victory wear 
 And full fruition to the nations bear. 
 Thi.s Great Republic's mission you will fill; 
 And, by your force of soul and wealth of skill. 
 Unite the waters on which commerce flows 
 From lake Itasca to the Barbadoes. 
 From northern Yellowstone to the Uruguay 
 Your Ocean-River craft will freely ply. 
 Upon the sliallow waters come and go 
 And trend the Gulf of neighboring Mexico; 
 The Mississippi's mighty banks explore. 
 And cleave the waters of Colombia's shore; 
 And from each country bring the precious 
 
 freight 
 From far Alaska to Magellan's Strait; 
 And homeward bear,across the ocean's breast. 
 Rich tropic treasures to our Potent West; 
 When thus exchanged the products of each 
 
 rone. 
 The North and South will bless this Eulophone 
 
 TO THE PAN-AMERICAN CONFERENCE. 
 A union of hearts and a union of hands, 
 A union no Kingcraft can sever 
 Is the union of sovereign Republican lands — 
 May it prosper, 'mid blessings forever! 
 Let war and its horrors forevermore cease 
 Where God-like intelligence reigns; 
 Where Washington waged every battle for 
 
 peace 
 And Lincoln broke slavery's chains! 
 Where Andean heroes with Bolivar bled 
 In defense of the same holy cause — 
 Where Hidalgo and Morazan victory led 
 'Gainst Spanish oppression and laws! 
 Where Liberty dwells on the seas and the 
 
 lands 
 And her martyrs with glory are crowned;— 
 Be there union of hearts and union of hands 
 Where American Republics are found! 
 
 A NOBLE NAME ENSHRINED. 
 Kind, curious reader, can you find. 
 Say I to those who thirst for fame. 
 Letters here so linked, combined. 
 If read aright, will spell a name; 
 Remember, you must be well skilled. 
 And sacrifice some of your time 
 To this anomalous labor which, fulfilled. 
 Will lend new prestige to my rhyme. 
 Why so? You ask — A name has here a shrine 
 Of grander merit than Golconda's mine. 
 
 -© 
 
«- 
 
 © 
 
 96 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM: 
 Deatli's blighting blast 
 
 Came cold and fast, 
 Engulfing in its gloom 
 Love, Worth and Youth, 
 
 But this soul of truth 
 Finds life beyond the tomb. 
 Immortal fame 
 
 Illumes this name 
 Now numbered with the dead; 
 And clouds of woe. 
 
 Fair Mexico, 
 o'erhang-thy chieftain's head. 
 Reflect ! Look back, 
 
 Proud Anahuac, 
 To til e deed by Diaz done! 
 Each bitter strife 
 
 For the nation's life 
 Gave glory to her son ! 
 And his noble wife, 
 
 When fear was rife. 
 Devoutly Knelt in prayer; 
 Each battle fought. 
 
 With anguish fraught, 
 Delfina's thoughts were there. 
 In the land above 
 
 Where peace and love 
 Abide with all the blest. 
 Zealous and true, 
 
 'Mid the chosen few, 
 
 God called her home to rest. 
 
 *- 
 
 MEXICO'S NATIONAL ANTHEM. 
 Bind, oh my country! thy brow with the olive 
 Of peace, for Archangels thy future foretold; 
 And heav'n decreed it when time was an infant 
 The hand of Jehovah thy life would unfold. 
 Should daring monarchs attempt to invade 
 
 thee. 
 Profaning thy soil with unhallowed tread. 
 Remember, dear country, that kind heaven 
 
 gave thee [dead! 
 
 In each son a soldier, unconquered, though 
 Cho.— Mexican men, to the tocsin of war. 
 Make ready the charger and steel. 
 Let earth vibrate to its c(>nter and far 
 With the cannon's sonorous appeal! 
 In war's fiercest combats thou often liast seen 
 
 them, [tliy name. 
 
 Their liearts nerved with courage and love for 
 Braving death and destruction, as heroes, 
 
 serenely, [fame. 
 
 Who seek, as their guerdon, the death-bed of 
 If all deeds and all exploits of glory. 
 Of thy brave sons in Ijattle, were told, 
 How thy records would glow with the story 
 Stamped in letters of crimson and gold! 
 As the oak by tlie lightning is sliattered 
 And liurled to the torn^nts below. 
 So discord, domestic, is banished 
 By thy Angel of Peace, Mexico! 
 
 No more shall the blood of thy children 
 
 Be shed in internecine strife, 
 
 Nor the steel by their hands be uplifted — 
 
 Save to guard thy fair honor and life. 
 
 The sword of Zempoala's great hero 
 
 Shall defend thee with vigorous blow; 
 
 And thy glorious, trl-colored banner 
 
 Shall sustain his strong arm 'gainst thy foe. 
 
 In war and in peace will this chieftain 
 
 Lead the Mexican standard to fame; 
 
 For he 'twas who circled with glory 
 
 And chaplets of laurel thy name! 
 
 War! war! without truce, to the invader 
 
 Who dares our land's honor to stain ! 
 
 War! war! — Let our country's flag redden 
 
 In the waves of the blood of the slam ! 
 
 War! war! — in the mountain — the valley, — 
 
 Let the loud-sounding cannon proclaim. 
 
 And the echoes, sonorous, resound it 
 
 In Union and Liberty's name! 
 
 Rather tlian yield in submission 
 
 And weaponless bend to the foe. 
 
 Let the blood of thy sons steep the meadows 
 
 And their footprints the glory work show I— 
 
 Let thy palaces, temples and towers 
 
 Be given to ashes and flame ! 
 
 And their ruins alone bear this record : — 
 
 Here Anahuac's heroes were slain! 
 
 If the war trump should call you to battle, 
 
 Iturbide's loved flag to uphold,— 
 
 Press forward, brave sons of Mexitli, 
 
 And forget not your heroes of old! 
 
 Let the enemy's ensigns be trampled ; 
 
 Let them carpet the field of the dead ! 
 
 Where your war-horses dash on in triumph. 
 
 By their riders to victory led ! 
 
 When thy soldiers return to the hearthstone. 
 
 Wearing proudly the garlands of fame 
 
 That in battle, with lionor, they wrested 
 
 Defending their country's fair name. 
 
 Their laurels, ensanguined, they part with. 
 
 Exchanged for the myrtle and rose. 
 
 While their fond wives and daughters rejoicing 
 
 Strew with jasmine the couch of repose. 
 
 He who in battle for country 
 
 Shall amid tlie fleri-e contest succumb. 
 
 Must obtain a rich chaplet of glory. 
 
 And of liero and soldier the tomb. 
 
 Let the cross o'er the grave that's erected 
 
 Be the sword that he valiantly bore, 
 
 Enwrapped with Ignala's loved banner 
 
 And crowned with tlie laurels he wore. 
 
 Free country! thy children are plighted. 
 
 Their last breath for thee to exhale. 
 
 If Bellona's shrill trump should invoke them. 
 
 The enemy's hosts to assail— 
 
 For thee are the garlands of olive! 
 
 For them are the records of fame! 
 
 For tliee is bright victory's laurel ! 
 
 For them — is u tomb and a name ! 
 
 -« 
 
 I 
 
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 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 97 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 Born : CAirBRioGE, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819. 
 
 This poet, essayist and critic graduated at 
 
 Harvard, and for more tiian twenty years was 
 
 professor of belles-lettres in that coileg-e. In 
 
 1877 he was appointed minister of Spain, and 
 
 JAMES RUSSELIi LOWELti. 
 
 three years later he was transferred to the 
 English court. 
 
 Mr. Lowell's best poems are: The Present 
 Crisis, Sir Launfal, A Glance Behind the Cur- 
 tain, Under the Willows, A Fable of Critics, 
 Commemoration Ode,Longing and The Change- 
 ling. His chief prose works are: Among My 
 Books, and My Study Windows. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 When I was a beggarly boy. 
 
 And lived in a cellar damp, 
 I had not a friend nor a toy. 
 
 But I had Aladdin's lamp; 
 When I could not sleep for cold, 
 
 I had fire enough in my brain. 
 And builded, with roofs of gold. 
 
 My beautiful castles in Spain ! 
 
 Since then I have toiled day and night, 
 
 I have money and power good store. 
 But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright. 
 
 For the one that is mine no more ; 
 Take. Fortune, whatever you choose. 
 
 You gave, and may snatch again ; 
 I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, 
 
 For I own no more castles in Spain! 
 
 LONGING. 
 Of all the myriad moods of mmd 
 
 That through the soul come thronging. 
 What one was e'er so dear, so kind. 
 
 So beautiful, as Longing? 
 The thing we long for, that we are 
 
 For one transcendent moment, 
 Before the present, poor and bare. 
 
 Can make its sneering comment. 
 
 Still through our paltry stir and strife 
 
 Glow down the ■svished ideal. 
 And Longing molds in clay what Life 
 
 Carves in the marble real. 
 To let the new life in, we know. 
 
 Desire must ope the portal; 
 Perhaps the Longing to be so 
 
 Helps make the soul immortal. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected. 
 
 Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies 
 In other men, sleeping, but never dead, 
 WiU rise In majesty to meet thine own,| 
 
 New occasions teach new duties; time makes 
 
 ancient good uncouth; 
 They must upward still and onward who would 
 
 keep abreast of truth. 
 
 But better far it is to speak 
 
 One simple word which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 
 And friendless sons of men. 
 
 The busy world shoves angrily aside 
 
 The man who stands with arms akimbo set 
 
 Until occasion tell him what to do. 
 
 And he who waits to have his task marked out 
 
 Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. 
 
 No man is born into the world whose work 
 Is not born with him ; there is always work 
 And tools to work withal, for those who will. 
 And blessed are the horny hands of tod. 
 
 Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis Uke 
 A star new-born that drops into its place, 
 And which, once circling in its placid round 
 Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. 
 
 And I honor the man who is willing to sink 
 Halt his present repute for the freedom to 
 
 think. 
 And when he has thought, be Ms cause strong 
 
 or weak. 
 Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak. 
 Caring naught for what vengeance the mob 
 
 has in store. 
 Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or 
 
 lower. 
 
 ©- 
 
 m 
 
m 
 
 -© 
 
 98 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Life is a leaf of paper white 
 Whereon each one of us may write 
 His word or two, and then comes nig-ht ; 
 Greatly begin ! Though thou hast time 
 But for a line, be that sublime! 
 Not failure, but low aim, is crime. 
 
 8&- 
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 Note.— The following extract is the prelude 
 to Part First of The Vision of Sir Launfal, one 
 of the best of Lowell's efforts as a poet. The 
 poem appeared in 1848, and it has done much 
 to establish the reputation of its author as 
 one of the most scholarly of American poets. 
 Over his keys the musing organist, 
 
 Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
 First lets his fingers •wander as they list. 
 
 And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his 
 lay. 
 Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 
 
 Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his 
 theme, 
 Fli'St guessed by faint auroral flushed sent 
 
 Along the wavering vista of his dream. 
 
 Not only around our infancy 
 Doth heaven with all its splendors lie. 
 Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
 We Sinais climb, and know it not. 
 Over our manhood bend the skies; 
 
 Against our fallen and traitor lives 
 The great winds utter prophecies; 
 
 With our faint hearts the mountain strives; 
 Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 
 
 Waits with its benedicite; 
 And to our age's drowsy blood 
 
 Still shouts the inspiring sea. 
 
 Earth gets its pri.'o for what earth gives us : 
 
 The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
 Tiie priest hath his fee who comes and shrives 
 us. 
 
 We bargain for the graves we lie in; 
 At the devil's booth are all things sold. 
 Each ounce of dross cost its ounce of gold : 
 
 For a cap and bells our lives we pay; 
 Bubtjles we buy with a whole soul's tasking; 
 
 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
 'Tis only God may be had for the asking. 
 No i)rice is set on the lavish summer; 
 June may be had by the ])oorest comer. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
 Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tunc, 
 
 And o\'er it softlj' her warm ear lays; 
 Whctlier we look or whether we listen. 
 We licar lilc mni-mur oi' sec it glisten; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might. 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers. 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of hfe may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice; 
 And there's never a leaf nor a Ijlade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creatiu-e's palace. 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and 
 
 sings; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her 
 
 nest, — 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best":* 
 
 N;)w is the high tide of the jear. 
 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
 Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer. 
 
 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it. 
 We are happy now because God wills it; 
 No matter how barren the past may have been, 
 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are 
 
 green. 
 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
 How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell , 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help 
 
 knowing 
 That skies are clear and grass is growing. 
 
 The breeze comes whispering in our ear 
 That dandelions are blossoming near. 
 
 That maize has sprouted, that streams are 
 flowing. 
 That the river is bluer than the sky, 
 That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 
 And if the breeze kept the good news back. 
 For other couriers we should not lack; 
 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing; 
 And hark I how clear bold Chanticleer, 
 Warmed with the new wine of the year. 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
 
 Joy conies, grief goes, we know not how; 
 Everything is hai)iiy now. 
 
 Everything is upward striving; 
 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
 As for grass to be green or skies to he blue — 
 
 'Tis the natural way of living. 
 
 Who knows whither the clouds have fled'? 
 
 In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; 
 And the eyes forget the tears they have shed. 
 
 The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; 
 The st)iil i)artak(>s the season's youth. 
 
 And thesnlithurous rifts of iiassion and woe 
 I,ie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
 
 [.ike l)ui'ncd-o\it cratei's lu'aled with snow. 
 AVIiat wonder if Sir Launfal now 
 ]{enienibered the keeping of his vow'? 
 
 ^ 
 
SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 99 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARIA B. LINDESAY. 
 
 Born in England, Jan. 1, 1862. 
 Mrs. Lindesay is known more as a Christian 
 poet, and her poems have appeared in the 
 
 MBS. MARIA B. LINDESAY. 
 
 Chicago Living- Church and ulhei- pruniinent 
 periodicals. She now resides witli her hus- 
 band in Asheville, N. C. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE SCULPTOR'S TEST. 
 Within liis studio, one briglit day, 
 A massive block of marble lay. 
 So wondrous pure, so spotless white 
 It seemed to fill tlie room witli light, 
 And woo his genius to diire 
 And try to form a Being there. 
 Spurr'd by the one inspiring thought, 
 From day to day he iiatient wrought. 
 From weel£ to week, from year to year 
 Till fourteen of tliem pictured there. 
 And he all doubt if 'twas his best. 
 And trembling much, applied the test. 
 He called a child, a little child 
 All innocent and undeflled. 
 And pointing to the figure there. 
 In its pure beauty grand and fair. 
 He bade lier mark it long and well. 
 And who she thought it was to tell. 
 He watched lier with a beating heart. 
 Nor could he check a fearsome st^.rt. 
 When the bright eyes had wandered o'er 
 His work, and viewed it yet once more. 
 
 She -spoke, as thougli of lioly things, 
 " 'Tis some good angel, — without wings.' 
 He turned him to his work again 
 With more of pleasure than of pain. 
 And labored on, with hopes and fears. 
 For seven more long weary years; 
 And feeling lie had done his best, 
 He once again applied the test. 
 The child he called unto him now. 
 Looked on it once with thoughtful brow. 
 And worshiping witli reverent face 
 The beauty of its wondrous grace. 
 Bent all abashed, her infant head. 
 And, "It is Jesus Christ," she said. 
 
 CHRIST'S HUMANITY. 
 O ! Babe upon thy mother's breast. 
 In our weak garb of suffering drest. 
 So lowly, yet so wondrous high 
 That angels might not pass thee by. 
 And wise men came from di.stant lands. 
 With kingly offerings in their hands; 
 What dreams prophetic, strange and old 
 Thy heritage and work foretold ! 
 O! Child within the temple's court. 
 Where priest and prophet wisdom sought. 
 And thy young lips first ope' to tell, 
 Tlie message that they knew so well; 
 O ! Man upon the upward way 
 Beneath the heat and toil of day, 
 With weary feet and tender frame, 
 Yet ever, always, just the same: 
 Mighty to heal, lowly and mild. 
 Yet grand in justice, undeflled. 
 And blending with a god-like love 
 Thy life work with Thy place above! 
 O! Savior at the awful close. 
 Forsook by friends, beset by foes — 
 Before the vengeful bar arraign'd 
 With brow and garments crimson-stained. 
 Amidst the mob, whose only cry. 
 In thirsty voice was, • Crucify !' 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 How beautiful is Life ! When the first streak 
 
 Touches the sunrise hills, [of dawning 
 And all the glint and glow of early morning 
 
 The ^vide east fills. 
 How beautiful is life ! At noontide's hour 
 
 When, glowing like the sun, 
 Man's widening pathway lit with wondrous 
 Is mapped and run. [power. 
 
 How beautiful is life ! When eventide 
 
 Steals softly on. 
 And sunset's gates are flining open wide 
 
 Till day is done. 
 How beautiful is life! When mystic night 
 
 Disrobes her starry breast. 
 Gleaming with other world's far distant light. 
 
 And man must rest. 
 
 ^ 
 
©- 
 
 100 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 WILLIAM PEBERDY. 
 
 BOHN: England, July 13, 1860. 
 Mr. Peberdy is now a resident of Middletown 
 
 Conn., where he follow.s the ocfupittiim of an 
 
 .\ I I I I \.\1 PEBERDY. 
 
 engineer. Hi.s poems have appeared in the 
 press since his youth. He was married in 
 1884 to Miss Belle M. Patrick, of Gorham, Me. 
 
 ©- 
 
 AN AGED MAN, 
 Old man, of hoary years and age, 
 
 Late falling of its bloom. 
 Thy history marks the w:irrior's page 
 
 And shares its honored doom. 
 Thy traveling days are nearly o'er. 
 
 And far advjineed the day 
 When thou shalt be lo work to more; 
 
 But silent death shall say, 
 Come liiy thee down, thou weary one, 
 
 My shoulders broad and square 
 Shall bear thee off, thy duties done. 
 
 Thy days should end in prayer. 
 The part ye liave chose from the chalice of 
 
 Hath carried thee well to the last; 
 Hard frozen and frosty, thy season of strife. 
 
 Now bie:ik blows its wintrly blast, [head. 
 Such numbers of seasons hath changed thine 
 
 Ne'er again shall we see its bright glow; 
 All fairness lias gone, and all traces have tied 
 
 And left it as white as the snow. 
 Those long deep lines across thy brow. 
 
 Designs of nn.xious care. 
 Bf^speaks that it hath made a blow. 
 
 [life 
 
 Which left impression there. 
 Thy tottering steps old age proclaims 
 
 She's master of her will, ^ 
 
 And toward the tomb she guides her reins, 
 
 Where death shall make thee still. 
 Then laid at last within the tomb, 
 
 That churchyard's quiet bed. 
 Where leaves will drop and daises bloom 
 
 As though thou were not dead. 
 And all the world will still pursue 
 
 Every motion as before, 
 Feeling not the loss of you. 
 
 Because thou art not with us more. 
 Prepare, or yet the breeze of June, 
 
 Or one bright ray from that great zone 
 May mark the mantle of our tomb. 
 
 Or glance upon a new laid stone 
 That bears thy name or scores our years. 
 
 The nightlj- shades which o'er us waves. 
 Unnerves the stranger, breeds his fears; 
 
 Such lonely sentinels of our graves. 
 
 THE FOREST GLADE. 
 Warble, dear bird, with thy notes to the sky, 
 This place is a home for thy kind; 
 Thy songs are so cheery. Oh, where were ye 
 
 taught';:' 
 Is thy teacher still living? Can thy lessons be 
 
 bought? 
 Or is it a song of thy mind? 
 I know not a place that is lovely as this, 
 On my memory impress it with love; 
 Oh, find me the builder, and say when his 
 
 birth. 
 Are there any more places so like this on 
 
 earth? 
 Or a scene that has fell from above. 
 What photo could picture, what artist can 
 
 paint, 
 With impressions that make such a bliss; 
 Oh, could I but model thy looks with a pen. 
 What art would exceed or price buy such a 
 
 gem. 
 With them there are no low nor high. 
 Now may it i>reach or rather teach 
 appeared in tln> leading pei'iodicals. He was 
 one of the founders of the 'I'heta-Delta-Chi. 
 Til sun is now setting low down in the west. 
 Each plant in itself doth exclaim; 
 To separate one from its friend I could ne'er. 
 Yet each one to my heart I will cherish as 
 dear, 
 I must them, for want of a name. 
 Does it not in itself quite proclaim wliat it is? 
 The Niglitingale's song 1 can heai-, 
 Its soft silvery voice re-echoes the hill. 
 And then in a moment, again it is still,— 
 My footsteps hath filled it with fear. 
 Such salubi'io\is air with a soft balmy breeze. 
 That silently glides through the dell, [glade. 
 So the stream with a swiftness adds life to the 
 
 -« 
 
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 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 101 
 
 MILLIE E. NOECKER. 
 
 Born: Kendall ville, Ind., Sept. 14, 1863. 
 Miss NOEckER has written for some of the 
 leading periodicals for the past ten years; 
 among- whicli might be mentioned the Metli- 
 odist Advocate. Fort Wayne News and the 
 
 Mir-LIE E. NOECKER. 
 
 Brakeman's Journal. In person she is a little 
 below the medium height. Millie is a great 
 admirer of poetry, and takes great pleasure 
 in her literary work. 
 
 FORGIVE. 
 We hear them saying, here and there, 
 
 I can ne'er forgive a wrong! 
 Think well each one, before you speak. 
 
 Does all blame on one belong ! 
 You think a sin you can't forgive! 
 
 Who is free from every sin? 
 The day will come, when you think not. 
 
 Then you'll say, " what might have been. 
 And when beside your bed you kneel. 
 
 Asking Jesus to forgive, 
 Do you expect his tender love. 
 
 When a wrong you'd not forgive? 
 Loving hearts oft drift asunder. 
 
 By these words, " I'll not forgive," 
 When by lo\'ing words and reason. 
 
 You in sweetest joy might live. 
 Soon beside the unforgiven 
 
 You will stand in deepest grief. 
 
 You will try to ease your conscience. 
 
 And to lull your Soul to sleep. 
 But "too late," will be your answer. 
 
 You refused their last request. 
 But to make amends to conscience, 
 
 You will theii forgive in death. 
 What is love, when life is ended? 
 
 What's forgiveness in death ! 
 Arms that clasped thee once are folded. 
 
 Lips of smiles for e'er bereft ! 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Oh ! how soon we are forgotten, 
 
 In this busy world of ours. 
 If our paths were only strewn. 
 
 Not with thorns, but sweetest flowers. 
 All our life long, we'd be happy. 
 
 We would never more be sad, 
 Scores of friends would then surround us. 
 
 Friends by thousands we would have. 
 But when thorns thus sorely wound us; 
 
 And the pains thus pierce our hearts. 
 Quickly those proclaiming friendship. 
 
 Hasten from us to depart. 
 Oft we see the truest friendship, 
 
 Fade like dewdrops from our view. 
 For alas ! this world soon wearies 
 
 Of the old friends, and wants new. 
 But how sweet in deepest sorrow. 
 
 Is a tried, true, loyal friend; 
 Tho' the world would scorn, condemn us. 
 
 Faithful they'd be to the end. 
 
 A LEAP IN THE DARK. 
 
 A leap in the darlj, oh ! what's beyond. 
 
 The matrimonial brink? 
 Will the paths to tread be rocks of love! 
 
 Or sands in which to sink? 
 Will there be a sun of Love to shine, 
 
 Along life's weary way ! 
 Or the Sun of Love, forever set, 
 
 On our wedding day? 
 Ah! who can see o'er the brink of time 
 
 And tell us, what is there? 
 It may be joy, or it may be pain, 
 
 Be comfort or despair ! 
 If a Bride was sure her Lover would 
 
 Crown her queen of his heart. 
 She'd gladly place her hand in his, and 
 
 Take the leap in the dark. 
 
 Tho' you try, you can't forget me. 
 
 Strive as hard as e'er you might. 
 For remember after twilight 
 
 Comes the dark'ning of the night; 
 Yes, a night so dark and dreary. 
 
 E'en the stars cannot shine through; 
 Then with mingled joy and sorrow. 
 
 You'll think of her who loved you true. 
 
 ©- 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 102 
 
 LOCAL AND NxVTIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 RAY RICHMOND. 
 
 Ray Richmond is hardly more than a school 
 girl, and is at present flnishiug- in music and 
 painting at the Boston N. E. conservatory. 
 
 KAY KICHMOND. 
 
 She has already edited the juvenile depart- 
 ment of two monthly publications, and is a 
 paid contributor of short stories for two or 
 three other publications. 
 
 MORNING. 
 The purple mists of morning 
 
 Float o'er the sunlit space 
 With white smoke interwoven 
 
 Like fllmy, frost-work lace. 
 
 Tlie dark clouds on the river 
 Rise up and disaiii)ear. 
 
 The pearly beams of suidight 
 All greet the morning here. 
 
 ®- 
 
 DAWN. 
 flushing morning is at liand; 
 Rosy tints light up the land. 
 
 Distant liills against the gray 
 Silent watch they for the day. 
 
 Dreaming cities lie in sleep 
 Close beside the murmuriiit;- 
 
 On whose breast the mists stil 
 Waiting for the coming day. 
 
 play 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 Faintly, softly fades the light 
 Of the chill November day. 
 Slowly, surely creeps the night 
 O'er the hill-tops faraway. 
 
 Grayer, darker grow the clouds, 
 O'er the brown hills, lowering 
 With the first snow of the year. 
 Sullen, dismal, glowering. 
 All, at last, dies from the sight 
 And the darkness, falling 
 Ushers out another day 
 Ever past recalling. 
 
 IN ANSWER. 
 
 A little message comes to me 
 From o'er the distant rolling sea: 
 A message, sweet, that gladdens me. 
 
 My kindest friend has sailed away. 
 Beyond the wide and glistening bay. 
 To distant lands, far, far away. 
 
 His going leaves me saddened, too. 
 For fear I dangers on the blue. 
 Yet sailor lads are brave and true. 
 
 But light of heart I'll strive to be. 
 And send my thoughts across the sea, 
 To him whose friend I hope to be. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 As the sweet warm days of summer. 
 
 Heavy-laden with fragrant air. 
 Bade farewell to spring's bright sunshine 
 
 Met I, Love most wondrous fair. 
 She was tripping thro' the meadow; 
 
 ■I was fishing by the brook; 
 I gazed long, and long upon her 
 
 She gave back a startled look. 
 
 Afterward we met together. 
 And our looks said more than aye. 
 
 Deep into her heart I gazed, 'till 
 Blushing red, she turned away. 
 
 May perhaps, my looks meant nothing. 
 
 May perhaps, she smiled for naught; 
 What care I, if people prattle ';:' 
 
 Would I change for tlieir's, my lot ';' 
 For I love her and slu> knows it ; 
 
 And she loves me. 1 can tell, 
 Not by words of adoration 
 
 But l)y looks I know so well. 
 
 If our love is hot or scorching 
 
 Who about us need complain ? 
 Perfi'ct love is never freezing; 
 
 Ever will our love remain. 
 Warm and pleasant, as the sunmier, 
 
 Never chilled by ;iiitumn air. 
 How I love my darling sweetheart, 
 
 Who is always wondrous fair. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 103 
 
 -« 
 
 BUTLER S. SMISER. 
 
 Born: Oldham Co., Ky., July 6, 1863. 
 Mr. Smiser is now t'ligngcd in publisliing- tlic 
 Indian Citizen at Atoka, Indian Territory. 
 
 BUTLER S. SMISER. 
 
 He has been reading- law for the past few 
 years, and intends to follow that profession. 
 
 « 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A RUSTIC. 
 Dear old rustic, famous rustic. 
 
 Oft I've on thy lap reclined 
 While I read tlie worlds of Dickens— 
 
 Copperfleld and Old Hard Times; 
 Many a peaceful liour I've lingered 
 
 With thee, 'neath the cooling- shade 
 Of that old grape vine, so precious. 
 
 When its fruit red-ripe is made. 
 Day by day I've kept thee company, 
 
 Heeding not the flight of time; 
 Hour by hour I lingered with thee. 
 
 Musing o'er some pleasant rhj'me. 
 Heat and sun were all forgotten, 
 
 'Neath thy cool and balmy shades 
 As the downy breeze came rustling 
 
 Through thy green inviting blades. 
 How I grieve to know that early 
 
 You and I are doomed to part. 
 But I'll always cherish fondly 
 
 Sweetest memories in my heart. 
 Other friends will hover 'round thee, 
 
 Seek thy shade with calm delight. 
 
 While I court another's shadow, 
 
 Lingering 'neath its folds 'till night. 
 Then it is I'll fondly chcrisli 
 
 Sweetest thoughts of olden times 
 Spent in calm communion with thee 
 
 And some poet's pleasant rhymes. 
 Lovers fondly seek thy slu'lter. 
 
 Seal their vows beneath thy shade ; 
 For no one will ever shun thee 
 
 'Till thy vines are all decayed. 
 Now, I leave thee, lovely rustic. 
 
 To thy future friends and fates 
 But I'll ne'er forget thy friendship. 
 
 Though I roam in other states. 
 Time may leave its marks upon me. 
 
 Turn my locks to aged white. 
 But I'll never cease to love thee 
 
 While my eyes have earthly sight. 
 
 MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 
 I love to sit on a calm, clear night. 
 When the moon is hid and the stars are 
 
 bright ; 
 And ponder the depth and power of love 
 That prompted the God of nature above 
 To fashion this world by his wondrous might, 
 And give it such gems of peace and light. 
 Till I see in the east the nightly Queen 
 As slowly she rises, so calm and serene; 
 And ghostly shadows of peering height 
 Are made by the flickering, misty light. 
 All nature is clothed in peace, profound; 
 Made more sublime by the distant sound. 
 Of a bugle song, on some neighboring hill; 
 Or the gurgling eddy of a rippling rill; 
 Or the mournful howl of a lonely hound 
 That echoes back from the hills around. 
 My soul seems to rise and float with the wind. 
 While to tangible things my vision is blind. 
 On, on through eternity's ages I roll. 
 As I follow the steps of my wandering soul. 
 
 MAY DAY. 
 
 Oh! the chattering children, with faces so 
 bright; [delight! 
 
 How they frolic and ramble, with childish 
 The time has seemed ages, as day after day. 
 They looked for the coming of the mei-ry 
 spring May. 
 
 The mind and the heart are the soul of a man. 
 Which recks not of sin in its beautiful plan; 
 But the body is human, and wars with the 
 
 soul; 
 As it passes through time to eternity's goal. 
 We dream of the future, we dream of the past; 
 The one -we have blasted, tlie other we blast. 
 We hope while we live if we die in despair, 
 And trust all the future to mercy, through 
 
 prayer. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 104 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 These words from the lips of a poor ballad 
 boy. 
 As he poured out his heart in a song: 
 
 " To honor in life your neighbor and friend 
 You may struggle the best that you can, 
 
 Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and 
 need 
 A Mr. 's not always a man." 
 
 Though years have sped by since that after- 
 noon, 
 
 And time wrought her changes below. 
 Vet somehow those words still ring in my ears 
 
 And court me wherever I go. 
 
 But why should I marvel if into my mind 
 Those phrases should oftentimes rise? 
 
 For truth like the sea can never be stilled, 
 And error is all that e'er dies. 
 
 •• To honor in life your neighbor and friend. 
 You may struggle the best that you can. 
 
 Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and 
 need 
 A Mr.'s not always a man." 
 
 PHIL HOFFMANN. 
 
 Born: Oskaxoosa, Iowa, Aug. 16, 1868. 
 In 1885 Phil Hoffmann entered the field of 
 journalism; he also about this time tended 
 the Penn college for several terms. In 1887-8 
 he acted as correspondent of the Oskaloosa 
 Daily Herald, during the session of the legis- 
 lature at Des Moines. So thoroughly pleased 
 were the proprietors of the Herald that he 
 was installed upon the editorial staff, a posi- 
 tion he still retains with merit. He is a fre- 
 
 PHIL HOFFMANN. 
 
 quent contributor to numerous periodicals, 
 including the Chicago Herald ana Burlington 
 Hawkeye, and is one of the editorial staff of 
 the Midland Montlily. His prospects for a 
 briglit future ai'c voi'y encouraging, consider- 
 ing tlio fact that lie lias only just attained his 
 majority. Mr. Hott'manu is orderly sergeant 
 of tlu! military company of liis native city, 
 and in business and social circles he is a gen- 
 eral favorite. 
 
 ®- 
 
 A MR.'S NOT ALWAYS A MAN. 
 As I sat in my nwm one bright afternoon 
 
 With the shades of my window t hrown higli, 
 And watched far lielow midst the dust and the 
 din 
 Th(! crowd as it liurricd fast by, 
 
 I cauglit from tlit! breeze tliat silently stole 
 Oil angelic wings o'er the tlirong. 
 
 IN REVERENCE. 
 Last night in the beautiful moonlight, 
 
 I sat by my window alone. 
 And peered with an awful pleasure. 
 
 Far into the great unknown. 
 And each little constellation. 
 
 With its tliousand, thousand skies. 
 Seemed bursting with laughter in basking 
 
 Before my wistful ej-es. 
 While Venus, the star of the evening. 
 
 That beautiful gem of gems. 
 Seemed singing in tones that resounded 
 
 Through all the heavenly realm. 
 And I thought of He who created 
 
 This wonderful universe, 
 Witli movements so silent, so perfect. 
 
 With beauties so grand and diverse. 
 Of He who masters creation 
 
 With a gentle and lenient hand 
 Who was, ere time was unfolded. 
 
 And will be after its end. 
 He who upon world;! without number 
 
 For his credits of reverence calls — 
 Yet who sees and tenderly cares for. 
 
 Each poor little sparrow tliat falls. 
 Ah: Sweet were tlie A-isions th:U thrilled 
 me. 
 
 Each atom seemed laden with jt)y ! 
 As loudly I cried in my musings 
 
 With a feeling that knew no alloy. 
 Vain spirit of mortal polluted 
 
 Look lip at the hi'iivens above 
 And tell me, Oh! how canst thou battle. 
 
 Against yon fountain of love? 
 
 -® 
 
SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 105 
 
 -« 
 
 RUFUS J. CHILDRESS. 
 
 The poems of this gentleniau have appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. He 
 
 HUFUS J. CHILDRESS. 
 
 is a resident of Louisville, Kentucky, where 
 he has a wide circle of friends and admirers. 
 
 MY HEART. 
 
 My heart is like the lonely shell. 
 
 That trembles on the beach, 
 Within when e'er its billows swell 
 
 The ocean's reach. 
 The dawn hath kissed with rose its lips, 
 
 And they no grief should know; 
 Yet from the mournful tide it dips 
 
 Some kindred woe. 
 And though the tide dies down again, 
 
 Caug'ht from its sombre stave. 
 The shell still breathes a mystic strain — 
 
 One with the wave. 
 So this poor shell-like heart of mine 
 
 Echoes a kindred mite 
 Caug-ht from the realms of song' diviue 
 
 And infinite! 
 The tides that stir within my soul 
 
 Swell upward wild and strong-, 
 Unfathomed through my spirit roll 
 
 Such floods of song'! 
 I cry aloud for fitting- speech 
 
 That throug:h me earth mig-ht hear, 
 
 For oh! my glad Htart in their reach 
 
 Feels Heaven is near! 
 But on my lips their music dies. 
 
 Too great tbe rapture given ; 
 God suffers few to pierce the skies 
 
 And leap in Heaven ! 
 And so, though like the voice of June, 
 
 My soul g-lad anthems fill. 
 My heart at length must tire and swoon 
 
 Of longing still. 
 And I, though stirred by passion strong. 
 
 But for this feeble strain. 
 Stand looking toward the skies of song — 
 
 In vain! in vain! 
 
 Yet, mourn on, touched with grief sublime, 
 
 O heart, for joys that flee ! 
 Still breathe unheard thy lowly rhyme 
 
 One with the sea! 
 Mourn on ! For soon the glowing skies 
 
 Will break their seals of blue, 
 When like a lark my soul shall rise 
 
 And flutter through ! 
 No more then in that golden noon, 
 
 Of song and sorrow's might; 
 No more my heart will tire and swoon — 
 
 No more of night! 
 
 MUSIC. 
 I love thee when the leaves are brown. 
 When bending skies with tempests frown. 
 When gleaming snows the hill-tops crown, 
 
 At morn or noon. 
 Or when the happy day dies down 
 
 In joyous June. 
 I love thy sweet, inspiring powers, 
 Love thee on art's harmonious towers, 
 Love thee amongst the dewy flowers 
 
 In throat of bird. 
 Or flooding earth's enchanted bowers 
 
 Wherever heard. 
 When brooding shadows o'er me fly. 
 And all the stars seem large and nigh, 
 I love the strange aerial sigh 
 
 That softly falls. 
 Like some sweet whisper breathed on high, 
 
 O'er sky-built walls. 
 I love thee — love thy lightest form • 
 In throats with mirth and laughter warm. 
 Love thy loud voice in night and storm — 
 
 And strangely feel. 
 But pleasure in the dire alarm 
 
 Of thunder's peal. 
 But love thee most 'mid yellow glooms 
 Wliich many a vestal star illumes. 
 Where floodest thou cathedral rooms 
 
 From floor to dome. 
 With echoes Ijlown like scented blooms 
 
 From glory's home. 
 
 -® 
 
©^ 
 
 -* 
 
 106 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM ROBERT FISHER. 
 
 Born : Jefferson Co., Iowa, July IS, 1865. 
 William commenced writing- poetry at the 
 age of sixteen, and two years later publislied 
 a volume of poems in pamphlet form. At the 
 ajre of twenty he wrote a jxiem of one thou- 
 
 WILLIAM ROBERT FISUEK. 
 
 sand lines, and has written ten times as much 
 more since that time, of which there are a 
 number of translations from German, Danish 
 and Norwegian authors. Mr. Fisher has higli 
 aspirations, ami his literary career has yet 
 hut just begun. 
 
 e&- 
 
 K(,)UALITV. 
 Our fathers told us long ago, 
 And pledged to die for what we kTiow, 
 That all arc equal born; 
 Among the nations lot it lly. 
 And shout that message to the sky 
 Till earth hath learned to scorn. 
 
 To scorn the despot on his throni>. 
 But not the royal born silonis 
 The iisurer as well ; 
 The triumi)her o'er innocence. 
 Ill-gotten, blood-bouglit cinincnce. 
 And all that speaks of hell. 
 
 With them tliere are no low nor liigli, 
 And w<! are brollicrs, you nnd I, 
 And bi'others of llic king. 
 
 Though lessened is his manhood's claim. 
 For being duped with notions tame 
 Of " blood right " — such a thing. 
 
 His" blood right " and man's only one. 
 
 Is right to live as man has done 
 
 In fellowship with man ; 
 
 To have his dangers, hopes and fears. 
 
 With him rejoice, with him shed tears. 
 
 Win honor if he can. 
 
 But not alone we scorn the base. 
 
 For love hath claims upon the race, 
 
 Tliat love called charity. 
 
 Which earth must have ere that bright day 
 
 Wlien knowledge hath eternal sway 
 
 And all mankind are free. 
 
 SIGHT. 
 The eyelids cannot dim the sight, — 
 Nay when they're closed 'tis far more 
 
 bright. 
 Both In day dreams and dreams of night. 
 
 In dreams of day mine eyes may see, 
 A castle and an ley tree. 
 Glossed by the sun all gorgeously. 
 
 In dreams of night a thousand things. 
 Wondrous as Saturn with his rings, 
 O'ershadow me with condor wings. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 mock me not with glorious eye. 
 Too late, too late; 
 
 Nor pity to a soul deny 
 Accursed of fate. 
 
 Thou'rt victor, let thy love forlnd 
 Thou be elate, 
 
 1 cannot hope as once I did. 
 
 Too late, too late. 
 
 THE SONG OF YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 There's potency in youthful dreams. 
 As Keats, and White, and Drake attest. 
 
 Who dared to touch immortal themes 
 Ere their frail beings sank to rest. 
 
 A'et highest glory is for him 
 
 Who like old Milton sings with jtower. 
 The song which Meditation grim. 
 
 Has given in life's silver hour. 
 
 THE DWELLING PLACE. 
 
 Where wo\ild you dwell my love"::' said 1. 
 
 Your dwelling i>lace where would it be ': 
 In mansion on a mountain high, 
 
 Or in a cottage by the sea 'r 
 
 ■ ■ A dwellinti place," ni>- Icive replied, 
 ..On numiitain orbyocean blue, 
 
 M'diild lie t lie same if by your side; 
 11' living there, my love, with you." 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 107 
 
 MRS. ANNIE MARIA CLARK. 
 
 Born: Still Bi\t:r, Mass., Sept. 21, 1835. 
 Mrs. Clark has written two volumes of 
 prose — Light from the Cross and Olive Lor- 
 Ing's Mission, both of which have been highly 
 praised. Her poems have appeared in many 
 prominent periodicals. She now resides in 
 the beautiful and historic old town of Lan- 
 caster, Mass. 
 
 CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. 
 
 " A kiss for your thoughts. Sister Alice," 
 
 I heard little Charlie say. 
 As we sat 'mid the twilight in silence 
 
 At the close of a busy day. 
 And Alice said, speaking softly, 
 
 " My fancies have wandered afar. 
 To Bethlehem, where the wise men came. 
 
 Led on by that wonderful star. 
 " To-morrow, you know, is Christmas, 
 
 And close to my heart to-night. 
 Came thoughts of the watching shepherds 
 
 And the glorious, beautiful sight. 
 •> When the angels stood all around them 
 
 In the midnight, calm and still. 
 Singing ' Glory to God in the Highest, 
 
 On earth peace and to men good will.' 
 "And sweeter than all, dearest Charlie, 
 
 Was the thought that came to me then. 
 Of how much the Lord must have loved us. 
 
 To have come as a child among men. 
 "To live here and labor to save us. 
 
 If we will but love and obey. 
 And striving to keep his commandments. 
 
 Seek to walk in the heavenly waj'." 
 " And it almost seemed that an angel 
 
 Whispered close to my heart, soft and clear, 
 ' Fear not, for I bring you good tidings, my 
 child, 
 
 Greatest joy to bless and to cheer. 
 "And, Charlie, I think that to-morrow 
 
 Will be bright with a clearer light. 
 And I hope I shall do more to make you glad. 
 
 For the thoughts that have blest me to- 
 night." 
 
 JOHN LAWRENCE CLARK. 
 
 Born: Still Eiver, Mass., Nov. 30, 1871. 
 The subject of this sketch is the son of Mrs. 
 Annie Clark, whose name appears on this 
 same page. Although quite a j-oung man, 
 John has written several poems of merit that 
 have received publication. 
 
 ®- 
 
 BALLAD OF ST. VALENTINE. 
 In early times there lived a saint, 
 None better in the almanac , 
 
 Who used to kiss the pretty maids. 
 Of whom in Rome there was no lack. 
 
 At length the pagans did destroy 
 This somewhat amatory bishop, 
 
 And, as he perished at the stake. 
 He sent a very pious wish up, — 
 
 Tliat he might reach a paradise 
 
 Wheie there were girls in goodly host. 
 
 Then, with this very saintly prayer, 
 The holy man gave up the ghost. 
 
 'Tis told, when by such cruelty 
 
 The sweet St. Valentine was dying, 
 That every little maid in Rome 
 
 Did make her black eyes red with cry- 
 ing. 
 On second month and fourteenth day 
 
 This good saint's martyrdom befell. 
 And since that year the day has been 
 
 A sentimental festival. 
 
 BRIDGET. 
 A pleasant friend to me 
 It little Bridget Nee, 
 
 Though her grandpa came from Erin 
 long ago; 
 But in her pretty face 
 There never is a trace 
 
 But a true New England blossom she 
 did blow. 
 The ancestors, may be, 
 Of pretty Bridget Nee 
 
 Were barons very grand and very harsh; 
 I really hope 'tis so. 
 For 'twould pain me much to know 
 
 They were ordinary trotters of the marsh. 
 
 The Yankee girls can say 
 Whatever things they may. 
 
 And laugh and sneer at pretty Bridget 
 Nee; 
 That's but another reason 
 Why in this summer season 
 
 She is a friend very pleasant unto me. 
 Should you be cast awhile 
 On the shoi-e of Erin's Isle, 
 
 Young ladies of a certain high-toned 
 school. 
 And the people looked askance 
 With a very scornful glance. 
 
 Would you say those people kept the 
 Golden Rule. 
 But I will moralize. 
 Which is something I despise. 
 
 Though of coui'se 'tis ajipropriate at 
 times ; 
 And now I'll have to close. 
 And go to writing prose, 
 
 Which is not as interesting as these 
 rhymes. 
 
 -1^ 
 
-^ 
 
 108 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON. 
 
 Born: Plantsville, C, Jan. 30, 1869. 
 Receiving the degree of A. B. at the age of 
 eighteen, Arthur then went to Michigan, 
 where he became associate editor of a state 
 historical and biographical encyclopedia, 
 with headquarters at Kalamazoo ; and later 
 was manasring editor of the Evening Herald 
 
 JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON. 
 
 at the same place. In 188-S he became con- 
 nected with the Marietta Register of Ohio, 
 with which he is still at work. His first pub- 
 lication of poems was made in 1889, which is 
 a work that has been liberally noticed by the 
 American press, and has received a fair cir- 
 culation. 
 
 BIRTH OF A DAV. 
 Once, when over the north 
 A wealth of grass and flowers, 
 A nnisic in the air 
 Proclaimed that it was June, 
 A beautiful day was born, 
 That witli an uiilieard step, 
 liod by the kindly Sun, 
 Sped round the sleeping earth. 
 
 She was the youngest babe 
 Born unto passing time. 
 From out the sable folds. 
 That cling about the night- 
 
 Night's spotless, gemmed skirts, 
 Her roseate face peeped fortli. 
 
 The jeweled stars looked down 
 
 Upon her ruddy glow 
 
 And paling shrank, abashed. 
 
 The moon's white face grew dark. 
 
 Her dreamy flood of light. 
 
 As neath an ashen veil. 
 
 Was buried in the sky. 
 
 Tlie night grew old and died. 
 A blush spread o'er and far 
 Along the somber dome. 
 And as over the sky 
 The smile of day grew bright. 
 Breaking upon the earth, 
 Fi'om off the flowery fields. 
 The still earth answering snfiiled. 
 
 Supreme as any King 
 
 Tliat ruled in days of Eld, 
 
 Upon a shifting throne 
 
 Whose feet stood on the hills. 
 
 The young queen ruled alone. 
 
 The ancient Sun rose up 
 
 And crowned the new-born day. 
 
 With dark-hued light and deep 
 
 He gilded as he rose 
 
 All the wood-crowned heights ; 
 
 And with a softer glow 
 
 The verdured, grass-clad slopes. 
 
 Witli kindly eye he looked. 
 From out his morning home. 
 Far in the blushing east. 
 Looked down on Nature's face 
 And straightway she grew glad; 
 Upon the tinkling brook 
 That laughed its answer back; 
 Upon the drooping flowers 
 That hid from sterner night. 
 That raised their jeweled heads 
 And ope'd their wondering eyes; 
 Upon the meadows, strewn 
 With tear-tlrops that were shed. 
 By elfs that live in air. 
 For the departed night. 
 And thousand glinting gems 
 Sparkled with shimmering light. 
 
 The moving shadows crept 
 Long-<lrawn across tlie fields; 
 The scattered lierds rose up 
 To r^rop the dewy grass; 
 The glad-voiced birds sang out 
 The melodies of morn; 
 And o'er the outstretched fields 
 Of sunrise far and wide. 
 Where busy haunts of men 
 Doited and blotched their face, 
 Tlie sound of wakened life 
 Resumed its echoing sway. 
 
 ©- 
 
 -8B 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 109 
 
 -^ 
 
 MRS. SARAH A. THOMAS. 
 
 Born: Hoitlton, Maine. 
 Reared In an atmosphere of literature, it has 
 been the ruling passion of her life. Her fatlier 
 was a man of high mental culture, brilliant 
 in conversation, and a fine reader of prose 
 and poetry. She commenced to write poetry 
 at the age of ten, and shortly afterward sev- 
 eral short stories.which were never published. 
 In 1873 Mrs. Thomas contributed to a New 
 York Magazine entitled For Everybody ; since 
 then she lias contributed to the leading perio- 
 dicals of America, including tlie Waverly 
 
 MRS. SARAH H. THOJIAS. 
 
 Magazine, Ballou's Magazine, Saturday Eve- 
 ning Post and the Chicago Ledger. Mrs. 
 Thomas has about twelve hundred pages of 
 unpublished manuscript that she intends to 
 issue at some future time. She has written 
 for publication under the noms de plume 
 Rena Snow, Blanche Raymond, Mary F. Schuy- 
 ler, and Josephus. Mrs. W. H. Thomas now 
 resides in a beautiful little home near the 
 city of El Dorado, Kansas, where she numbers 
 amongst her friends many ardent and enthu- 
 siastic admii'ers. 
 
 TO MY HUSBAND. 
 Twelve years of sunshine, and of storms 
 Since first our lives were joined in one; 
 
 ©- 
 
 But, had the sky no threatening clouds. 
 We would forget to prize tlie sun. 
 
 And, gliding down life's quiet stream, 
 With life one joyous summer day. 
 
 We would not note our rapid flight 
 Were there no landmarks by the way. 
 
 I would not call to memory now 
 
 The sorrows of those vanished years: 
 Our steps led through affliction's path. 
 
 Bordered by bitter falling tears. 
 But I would have you think to-day 
 
 Of all that made life seem most dear, 
 Of hopes that tint with pleasmg ray 
 
 The prospects of the coming year. 
 
 It seems that those who love are doomed 
 
 Affliction's bitterest cup to drain. 
 As if they with their mutual strength 
 
 Were better formed to bear the pain. 
 Or it maj' be, had fortune smiled. 
 
 Our love with years had colder grown: 
 Yours might have followed fancy's paths. 
 
 And I have doubted e'en my own. 
 
 Perhaps that Fate has been more kind 
 
 Then we, dear heart, shall ever know: 
 The purest gem may worthless seem 
 
 If scanned by firelight's fitful glow. 
 Then at our lot we'll not repine. 
 
 Though cold and dreary seem the way. 
 But journey on, heart joined to heart. 
 
 Until we find the perfect day. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 In the gathering twilight calm and gray. 
 My thoughts take wings and fly away. 
 To a wooded glen where the fallen leaves 
 Lie yellow as grain in its golden sheaves; 
 But even there no rest I find. 
 
 For rest is not for me. 
 Then I fly to a fair, Elysian land 
 With sparkling waters and golden sand. 
 Where perfumed breezes lightly blow. 
 And the orange and palm together grow. 
 And the air is music's soft refrain. 
 Yet they do not soothe my pain. 
 
 For rest is not for me. 
 I rise on the wings of the silent night 
 And soar through realms of starry light. 
 To a land whose streets are paved with gold, 
 (Oh! half its beauty has ne'er been told,) 
 Where a thousand years shall be as one. 
 And songs of joy are never done, 
 
 Ah ! here is rest for me. 
 I awake to find it only a dream; 
 But this one thought is a joy supreme, 
 That I, wl'cn my mission here is o'er. 
 Shall reach that land and weep no more ; 
 For though life's cares may dim the light. 
 There's One who will guide my steps aright, 
 
 To that rest which waits for me. 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 110 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -m 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 
 " AVhat's a sigh, infant? " an old man said 
 As he phiced his hand on the curly liead; 
 The child glanced up, in mild surprise. 
 With a question in its laughing- ejes: 
 •I Oil, man of learning hast thou never read 
 'Tis an effort to strengthen life's slender 
 thi-ead? " 
 
 " What's a sigh, school-boy?" the sage then 
 
 asked. 
 As the little fellow whistling passed; 
 " Know you not— you, who, once like me. 
 Thought only of days that are to be? 
 Have you never felt the rapturous thrUl 
 Of climbing a little higher still? " 
 "What's a sigh, maiden?" she paused in the 
 
 dance. 
 With her winning smile and sparkling glance; 
 " 'Tis the coquette's shield, 'mid the gay 
 
 throng — 
 The lover's plea in his plaintive song; 
 Fate has been kind, for my heart is free; 
 Neither lovers nor sighs ever trouble me." 
 " What's a sigh, mother? " she leaned o'er her 
 
 child, 
 A tear in her eye —the infant smiled, 
 " 'Tis a whispered prayer — a hope — a fear 
 For the absent one, or the darling near. 
 And no earthly sound can reach as high 
 As a mother's prayer — a mother's sigh ! " 
 
 *- 
 
 LINES TO MY FRIEND: 
 
 MRS. N. W. FOWLER, MEADVILLE, PA. 
 
 I know that we shall meet again, somewhere; 
 
 It may be when we both are growing old. 
 And youth has lost its bloom — we shall not 
 care. 
 Our hearts need not have in that time grown 
 cold. 
 Yes, in some other clime — some other 
 
 land. 
 I know that I shall clasp your warm, true 
 hand. 
 Perhaps 'twill be in spring lime, when the 
 earth 
 (iives kindly welcome to the sun's bright 
 rays — 
 la springing grass and modest violets. 
 With robins trilling forth their pure, sweet, 
 lays. 
 I would not hope to meet you in the strife 
 Of worldly care.s, which mar the joys of 
 life. 
 
 And we may meet in sumnu-v, when the tiekls 
 Are rich with golden grain; when blooming 
 
 flowers 
 And ii|iiMiing fruits shed fi'agraiice on the 
 
 air; 
 
 ^^Eoliann breezes speed the swift-winged 
 hours. 
 Our time of meeting may be far away. 
 But still, I know that we shall meet some 
 day. 
 
 It may be in the autumn, when the trees 
 Have changed their airy hues for gold and 
 brown. 
 And earth, robbed of its vei-dure, seems to 
 plead 
 For every faded leaf slow fluttering down. 
 But though the autumn winds may sadly 
 
 sigh. 
 We may not meet in sorrow, you and I. 
 
 Or we may meet in winter when the earth 
 Is robed in fleecy folds of purest white ; 
 With crystal gems on house top, tree and 
 lower, 
 Reflecting beauteous rays of changing light. 
 We may have reached the winter of our 
 
 age. 
 With teardrops blotting life's close-writ- 
 ten page. 
 Or we may meet in that bright world above. 
 Beyond death's valley, in that Aidenn 
 where 
 Lost joys are all legained; loved ones re- 
 stored ; 
 No restless yearnings — no unanswered 
 prayer. 
 Ah! yes, dear friend, I know we shall 
 
 meet there. 
 And we may meet on earth, some day, 
 somewhere. 
 
 YEARNINGS. 
 Only to lay my poor, weary head 
 On some faithful breast and whisper my 
 pain. 
 Only to know that life holds for me 
 Some pledge that I have not lived in vain. 
 
 Only to glance at the mystical page 
 Of the future and read my own dreary lot, 
 
 Only to know one heart beats for me — 
 That I in my loneliness am not forgot. . 
 
 Onlj' to drink from Lethe's .still stream 
 And feel its sweet calm o'er my worn senses 
 creep; 
 
 Only to lie with cold fold«d hands. 
 Never again to wake or to weep. 
 
 f)nly to know that heaven will be mine 
 
 After life's tiresome journey is done — 
 Only to know thougli the storm-clouds be 
 dark 
 lU'liind tlieniis hidden the bright shining 
 sun. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ® 
 
 111 
 
 ARNOLD HENRY ISLER. 
 
 Born: Switzerland, 1848. 
 At the age of five the subject of this sketch 
 was brought to America. Wlien riiue years of 
 age he ran away from home; and three years 
 later, when the civil war broke out, he again 
 ran away from the place he was tlien making- 
 his home, and became a member of the 23rd 
 Ohio Infantry. He served through the war 
 from beg-inning- to the end, as a private, scout, 
 spy, and color-bearer, and has often been 
 written up as the youngest soldier of the war. 
 After the war young' Isler settled down in 
 
 ©■ 
 
 ARNOLD HENRY ISLEK. 
 
 Columbus, Ohio wlieie lie soon developed 
 into a verse-writer and journalist. In 1872 he 
 published a volume entitled Wild Thoug-hts in 
 Rhyme, and the edition of twelve hundred 
 copies was disposed of in less than six 
 mouths; and for several years his verses ap- 
 peared in the leading- dailies and weeklies of 
 America. Mr. Isler then wrole stories and 
 humorous sketches, and started several 
 newspapers with considerable success. In 1886 
 he was offered the position of exchang-e and 
 literary editor of the Cincinnati Enquirer, 
 which he still fills. Mr. Isler is married, lives 
 happily, and his hobby is making- scrap-books 
 and collecting- rare pictures. 
 
 A LONGING. 
 
 O, sweet is the sleer; of the dead ! 
 Quiet their rest in the clay ; 
 
 Unmoved by tlie strife and tread 
 Of humanity, day by day 
 Unmoved by the terrible sway 
 
 Of the masses fighting- for bread. 
 
 Oh, sweet is tlie sleep of the dead! 
 Quiet their rest in the clay. 
 
 I'm weary; I would I were dead! 
 
 At rest in the cold dark clay. 
 I'm tired of the strife I've led. 
 
 Of the strug-g-le day by day, ' 
 
 Just to live like a slave and say, 
 I drink, and I eat my own bread. 
 I'm weary; I would I were dead! 
 
 At rest in the cold dark clay. 
 
 PAINTER, PAINT A PICTURE. 
 
 Painter, paint a picture, 
 
 Of a maid most fair; 
 Make the colors richer 
 
 Than June roses are; 
 Give it all the sweetness 
 
 Of the song- of birds. 
 Graced with the completeness 
 
 Of the poet's words. 
 
 Give the face the brightness 
 
 Of a summer day. 
 With a look of lightness 
 
 Anda touch of play; 
 Give the mouth a splendor 
 
 Of the budding- rose. 
 Tempting-, soft and tender 
 
 In its sweet repose. 
 
 Give the eyes the fire 
 
 And passion of a soul 
 Strong- in its desire 
 
 To break beyond control; 
 Give the hair the beauty 
 
 Of weird loveliness. 
 Truant in its duty 
 
 To its fair mistress. 
 
 Give the form the glorj-. 
 
 And the queenly mien. 
 Of her who lives in story — 
 
 Egypt's fairest queen; 
 Give it airy motion 
 
 Of a fairy sprite. 
 Claiming- heart devotion 
 
 By a royal right. 
 
 Painter, paint a picture 
 
 Of a maid most fair; 
 Make the colors richer 
 
 Than June roses are; 
 Give it all the sweetness 
 
 Of the song- of birds. 
 Graced with the completeness 
 
 Of the poet's words. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 * 
 
 112 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 i 
 
 DO I LOVE THEE? 
 "Do I love thee?" 
 Ask of the bee, 
 
 If it loves not the flowers of Spring; 
 Ask of the bird. 
 If it loves not to fly and sing; 
 The answer they return to thee — 
 Is mine, 
 And thine, 
 Marie. 
 
 "Do Hove thee?" 
 Ask of tlie sea. 
 
 If it loves not the wind's shrill hiss; 
 Ask of the rose, 
 
 If it loves not the dewdrop's kiss: 
 The answer they return to thee — 
 Is mine. 
 And thine, 
 Marie. 
 
 "Do I love thee?" 
 Ask not of me, 
 
 Look in my eyes and read love there : 
 List to my heart. 
 And hear it beat in sad despair; 
 The answer they return to thee— 
 Is mine. 
 And thine, 
 Marie. 
 
 THE MONTHS OF THE FLOWERS ARE 
 OVER. 
 
 The months of the flowers are over, 
 
 The fair, sweet summer is dead ; 
 The perfume of the sweet-scented clover, 
 
 With the soft, warm breezes has fled; 
 The green woods, but yesterday ringing 
 With the voices of glad birds singing. 
 
 Are silent, yellow and red; 
 Alas, for the soul of the rover. 
 
 That on summer joys has fed! 
 For the months of the flowers are over. 
 
 The fair, sweet summer is dead. 
 
 Tlie joys of the singer are over. 
 
 The days of his youth have fled; 
 No longer will fields of gre-jn clover. 
 
 And flowers respond to his tread : 
 The world, that was yesterday rin<;itig 
 With notes of a joyous youtli's singing. 
 
 To anotlier gay songster is wed; 
 Alas, for the soul of the rover. 
 
 That on summer joys has fed ! 
 For the months of the flowers are over. 
 
 The fair, sweet summer is dead. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE KISS. 
 I met her one night 
 
 O sweet little Miss! 
 'Neath the stars so bright. 
 
 I met her one niglit. 
 And to my delight 
 She gave me a kiss ! 
 
 Perhaps 'twas amiss 
 
 In that fairy sprite 
 To give me a kiss: 
 Perliaps 'twas amiss — 
 But oh! the sweet bliss 
 I tasted that night. 
 
 'Neath the stars so bright, 
 
 O sweet little Miss! 
 With no one in sight, 
 'Neath the stars so bright, 
 To our hearts' delight 
 We gave kiss for kiss. 
 
 O sweet little Miss ! 
 
 What intense delight— 
 What infinite bliss — 
 O sweet little Miss! 
 Lies hid in a kiss. 
 
 On a starlit night. 
 
 A GLANCE. 
 I caught but a glance of her eye. 
 So tender, and blue as the sky. 
 As she hurriedly passed me by. 
 
 Her face — more worthy than my praise. 
 So sweet and so pure in its grace, 
 I caught but a glimpse of her face. 
 
 Though she hurriedly passed me by, 
 Her face, and the glance of her eye. 
 Will haunt me until I die. 
 
 MY VALENTINE. 
 A girlish face with wondrous grace. 
 
 With features passing fair; 
 With mouth like rose in calm repose. 
 
 As of Love's presence unaware. 
 
 Cheeks soft as plush and quick to blush 
 When word or look surprise; 
 
 And auburn hair — ah ! I declare. 
 None know how much her hair I prize. 
 
 Sad, blue gray eyes that ne'er disguise 
 
 The soul from out the graj', 
 A soul so good that womanhood 
 
 Seems bettered by its magic sway. 
 
 A form of mold as fine as gold 
 And graced with queenly air; 
 
 A fairy step, by which she crept 
 Into my heart and nestled there. 
 
 O sad, sweet face! in all this place, 
 
 Tiiere is no love like thine. 
 O heart so true! it is for you 
 
 1 pray— "God bless my Valentine." 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 113 
 
 -m 
 
 EUGENIE E.CLARK. 
 
 Born: Paducah, Ky., Dec. 10, 1869. 
 The young lady whose pieture and u;ime ap- 
 pear here is one of the quite accomjilished 
 young hxdies of Paducah. Graduating from 
 college. Miss Clark, has devoted much of her 
 time and her talent since to literary pursuits, 
 mostly over the nom de plume of Geneva. 
 Her writings on various subjects, both in 
 prose and poetry, have won for her a very en- 
 viable reputation, both at home and abroad. 
 Her first literary effort was at the age of ten, 
 when she wrote a poem which promised her 
 subsequent literary ability. She has lately 
 
 © 
 
 EUGENIE E. CLAKK. 
 
 written an opera, which she is now setting to 
 music, and which competent critics who have 
 examined it pronounce a sure success, as the 
 pubUc will soon have a chance to vei-ify. Miss 
 Clark has also written a novel, which East- 
 ern publishers have examined and declared 
 full of power and great promise. As a con- 
 tributor to the local literature of the city her 
 articles have been most flatteringly criticised, 
 and show a graceful and easy flow of lan- 
 guage and tliought. There is evidently quite 
 a brilliant future before Miss Clark if she shall 
 decide to utilize the talent she has for author- 
 ship. Her poems have been widely read and 
 admired by lovers of the muse throughout 
 the United States. 
 
 TO A ROSE. LA BRIDE. 
 Pale, perfect flower, to thy petals cling 
 A sweetness born of dew, of sun, of heaven; 
 An incense that upborne to paradise. 
 Meets wafts of angels' breath in downward 
 
 sighs 
 Swayed earthward, that to mortal souls it 
 
 bring 
 The dream of happiness that shall be given. 
 
 I gaze upon^'our leaves now curled and dry 
 And yellowed into pale and softened gold. 
 The days and weeks and months — a year has 
 
 past 
 Since he who gave thee sighed, when we at 
 
 last 
 Knew that the time had come to say good-bye 
 Till many moons should wave and buds un- 
 fold. 
 
 Thy faint breath whispers of one sunny hour 
 Passed where the trees and blossoms wove 
 
 their spell 
 Of trembling sweetness in the dappled shade; 
 The drowsy note of birds borne from the glade 
 Came on the truant breeze, that wooed the 
 
 flower 
 Then tossed her fragrant kisses o'er the fell. 
 In thy pure heart the subtle perfume lives. 
 As lives in mine the sweetness of that hour. 
 Whate'er betide, whate'er the years may bring. 
 The fragrance of a thought to thee will cling. 
 Though fame or place — whate'er the future 
 
 gives 
 To me, to thee I give all in my power — 
 A kiss, a tear, a sigh, pale, perfect flower. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 Long and wearily I waited, 
 Waited Jamie for thy coming. 
 Listened for thy loved footsteps — 
 Tearful leaflets sighed: " He comes not." 
 Long and wearily I waited ; 
 Pitying skies wept all day with me; 
 E'en the birds were silent, while I 
 Watched and waited, but you come not. 
 Shall I ever feel your hand-clasp 
 Warm my blood like wine, and tingle 
 Thi-ough my veins like drops of ichor? 
 Feel your warm Ups' tender clinging? 
 Yes, I hear your solemn promise. 
 And a soothing peace falls o'er me 
 Like a heavenly benediction; 
 And my waiting heart hath patience. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Oh! golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust 
 In gleaming mist o'er all the silent earth. 
 Tell me, dost look upon another face 
 So sad as mine, another heart so sad? 
 
 m 
 
® 
 
 -© 
 
 114 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ANNA C. L. BOTTA. 
 
 Born: Bennington, Vt., in 1828. 
 This lady was educated in Albany, N. T., and 
 began early to write for literary periodicals. 
 Mrs. Botta's style is musical, elegant and fin- 
 ished. Among her best poems are Paul at 
 Athens, Webster Books, and Wasted Foun- 
 tains. She has published in periodicals num- 
 erous stories, essays aud criticisms, and has 
 edited various works. A new e^tioa of her 
 poems appeared in 1884. 
 
 © 
 
 THE DUMB CREATION. 
 
 Deal kindly with those speechless ones. 
 That throng our gladsome earth ; 
 
 Say not the bounteous gift of life 
 Alone is nothing worth. 
 
 What though with mournful memories 
 
 They sigh not for the past? 
 What though their ever joyous Now 
 
 No future overcast? 
 
 No aspirations fill their breast 
 
 With longings undefined: 
 They live, they love, and they are blest, 
 For what they seek they find. 
 
 They see no mystery in the stars, 
 
 No wonder in the plain; 
 And Life's enigma wakes in them 
 
 No questions dark and vain. 
 
 To them earth is a fi nal home, 
 
 A bright and blest abode; 
 Their lives unconsciously flow on 
 
 In harmony with God. 
 
 To this fair world our human hearts 
 Their hopes and longings bring. 
 
 And o'er its beauty and its bloom 
 Their own dark shadows fling. 
 
 Between the future and the past 
 
 In wild unrest we stand: 
 And ever as our feet advance. 
 
 Retreats the promised laud. 
 
 And though Love, Fame, and Wealth aud 
 Tower, 
 
 Bind in their gilded bond. 
 We puie to grasp the unattained. 
 
 The something still beyond. 
 
 And, beating on their prison bars, 
 
 Our spirits ask more room. 
 And with \inanswered (luostlonings. 
 
 They pierce beyond the tomb. 
 
 Then say thou not, oh doubtful heart. 
 
 There is no life to come: 
 That in some tearless, cloudless land. 
 
 Thou Shalt not find thy home. 
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 
 Born: Salem, Ind., Oct. 8, 1838. 
 John Hay practiced law in Illinois in 1861, but 
 immediately after went to Washington as as- 
 sistant secretary to President Lincoln, remain- 
 ing with him, both as a secretary and a trusted 
 friend, almost constantly till the death of Mr. 
 Lincoln. He then served the government in 
 various capacities. In 18V0 he became an edi- 
 torial writer, on the New York Tribune, where 
 he remained about five years. Pike County 
 Ballads is his best book of verse. Col. Hay is 
 supposed to be the author of Breadwinners. 
 
 JIM BLUDSO, OP THE PRAIRIE BELLE. 
 
 Wall, no ! I can't tell where he lives, 
 
 Becase he don't live, you see; 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of livin' like you and me. 
 Whar have you been for the last three year 
 
 That you hav n't heard folks teU 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
 
 The night of the Prairie Belle? 
 
 He were n't no saint,— them engineers 
 
 Is ail pretty much alike, — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
 
 And another one here, in Pike ; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in u row. 
 But he never funked, and he never Ued, — 
 
 I reckon he never knew how. 
 
 All boats had their day on the Mississip 
 
 And her day came at last, — 
 The Movastar was a better boat. 
 
 But the Belle she would n't be passed. 
 And so she came tearin' along that night — 
 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on the safety-valve, 
 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 
 
 The flre bust out as she clared the bar. 
 
 And burnt a hole m the night. 
 And quick as a flash s^^ e turned, and made 
 
 For that willar-bankon the right. 
 There was runuiu' and cursin', but Jim yelled 
 out. 
 
 Over all the infernal roar, 
 •• I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore." 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the burnln' 
 boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard. 
 And they all bad trust in his cussedness. 
 
 And kuowed he would keep his word. 
 And, siu'c's you're born, they all gt)t off 
 
 Al'on^ the smokestacks fell,— 
 And lUiidso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 115 
 
 © 
 
 BLANCHE HERMINE ADAMS. 
 
 BoRs: Vancouver, Wash., Oct. 23, 1871. 
 
 Miss Adams is the daughter of Major Enoch 
 George Adam.s, the poet, lecturer, journalist 
 and soldier, wlio is fully represented elsewhere 
 in tills work. In 1885 she removed with her 
 
 BLANCHE HERMINE ADAMS. 
 
 mother to Berwick, Maine, and entered South 
 Berwick Academy, where she will soon gradu- 
 ate. Miss Adams is editor-in chief of the Ber- 
 wick Scholar, which is published in connection 
 with the Academy. 
 
 51 
 
 ARBOR DAY POEM. 
 
 O'er castle old where wealth untold 
 
 In years long since gone hy 
 Had held its sway for manj- a day, 
 
 Wliich now in ruins lie. 
 The ivy green how oft 'tis seen 
 
 By some observant guest '. 
 To him the thought with trutli well fraught 
 
 Comes with a sudden zest. 
 That wealth may flee on land and sea. 
 
 But we maj' safely hold 
 Close to the right with all our might. 
 
 As ivy ruins old. 
 Our ivy green that you have seen 
 
 Is planted here to-day. 
 Now maj' it preach or may teach 
 
 A lesson in its way. 
 
 And may our class as time shall pass 
 
 Forever to the riglit. 
 Aye cling with zeal, and always feel 
 
 We ev'ry wrong must fight. 
 
 When life shall fail with ache and ail. 
 
 And earthly hopes decline. 
 Then let us cling like ivy ring. 
 
 To higher things divine. 
 
 Aspire to heaven with sins forgiven. 
 
 As ivy climbs the steeple 
 And lieavenward go from things below, 
 
 Alluring other people. 
 
 MT. HOOD. 
 In the far and glorious West, 
 Rearing aloft its snowy crest. 
 Stands a mountain lone and grand 
 Like a sentinel at hand. 
 Overlooking fir and pine. 
 Overlooking New World's Rhine, 
 Lordly stream of Oregon, 
 River poets boast upon 
 Hood in purity sublime. 
 Changeless still in lapse of time, 
 Show'st how great thy beauties are, 
 Nothing can thy whiteness mar. 
 'Gainst the azure hemisphere, 
 Standest thou without a peer. 
 Hard thj- summit is to reach. 
 As the fame desired bj' each. 
 Only birds that strongest spring 
 Brush thy summit with their wing. 
 Though the seasons come and go. 
 Summer's heat and winter's snow. 
 Thou remain'st still the same. 
 Like unto the spotless name 
 Of some great soul that has fame 
 Left untarnished still and pure. 
 Name that ever will endure. 
 Through the ages long to come. 
 Till are all men summoned home. 
 Scorn by it is heeded not. 
 All mere trouble is forgot. 
 Towering above llie ills of life 
 Beneath it sinks all din and strife. 
 Thus tliou, monarch of Cascades, 
 Where beneath, o'er hills and glades. 
 Roar the streams and water falls. 
 Disregarding Ijanks and walls. 
 
 Or when on a sultry day. 
 Through dry forest fires play, 
 Tliou dost firm untainted stand. 
 Luring with a beckoning hand 
 Like a saint in saintly robe. 
 Grandest monarch on the globe, 
 I within thy shadow born. 
 Hail thee, glorious as the morn! 
 
 ^ 
 
ge- 
 
 ne 
 
 -a&i 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ALEXANDER J. FARROW. 
 
 Born: Orangeburg, Ky., Jan. 3, 1843. 
 The poems of Mr. Farrow have appeared 
 quite extensivelj' in the local press. He was 
 married in 1865 ti) Sai;ili V. Hanisay, and now 
 
 m 
 
 ALEXANDER JAMKS FARROW. 
 
 resides on a farm In Putnam county, Ind. 
 After graduating- at a college in Missouri, Mr. 
 Farrow taught scliool for some time in the 
 city of St. Joseph and other places. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 Heavenly muse! my mind inspire, 
 And fill me witli poetic fire; 
 Direct my liand the lyre to string. 
 Of lovely woman, godde.ss sing. 
 God made man in Eden's bowers. 
 To walk amid the fairest flowers; 
 But looking from His golden throne. 
 He saw that Adam was alone. 
 He laid him down in sweet repose. 
 And made his eyes in slumber close; 
 But when the drowsy god had fled. 
 He heard a light and fiiiry tread. 
 He started up, and looking 'round, 
 Beheld the sigiitthat made the sound — 
 So lovely, i)leasing was the sight, 
 He thouglit it was an angel bright. 
 There gentle Eve befon^ him stood. 
 In all tlie grace of womanhood — 
 He saw lier fair and faultless form, 
 And felt his breast wUh 1 1 aiisport warm. 
 She turned to fly in wild affrigjit,— 
 For man was terror to lier sight; 
 
 But vain it was from him to part: 
 
 He clasped her to his beating heart. 
 
 Oh man ! how good was God to send. 
 
 Fair Eve to be thy bosom friend I 
 
 To share thy joys, thy sorrows know. 
 
 To soothe thy soul in grief or woe. 
 
 Though mighty oceans, deep blue seas. 
 
 Towering mountains, waving trees. 
 
 Diversify this mundane sphere, 
 
 All would be drear, but thou art hei-e. 
 
 The placid lake, the silver stream. 
 
 Where wandering poets love to dream ; 
 
 The shady dell, the winding vale 
 
 Where fragrance sweet the flowers exhale; 
 
 The golden sands the streamlet laves. 
 
 Refulgent gems in ocean's caves. 
 
 Could only empty pleasure give. 
 
 If man were doomed alone to live. 
 
 O woman ! gentle as the dove, 
 
 'Tis thee we honor, thee we love; 
 
 Our infant years have been thy care. 
 
 And at thy knees we knelt in prayer. 
 
 A mother! sacred be that name. 
 
 Far sweeter than the voice of fame ; 
 
 Can her dear image e'er depart. 
 
 Long as life's current thrills the heart? 
 
 No! far within the heart's deep cells. 
 
 Her cherished image ever dwells; 
 
 Her guardian spirit hovers 'round, 
 
 When slumber holds all nature bound. 
 
 When death has thrown his flaming dart. 
 
 And stopped the current of her heart, 
 
 Her sacred memory lingers near 
 
 And claims the tribute of a tear. 
 
 A mother's love, how deep! how true! 
 
 Pure as the crystal drop of dew; 
 
 It penetrates the dungeon's gloom. 
 
 And fondly lingers 'round the tomb. 
 
 The wretch that on the scaffold stands 
 
 With human blood upon his hands. 
 
 Feels, while his fleeting life remains, 
 
 A mother's love he still retains. 
 
 No crime that stains fair nature's face. 
 
 No damning deed of dire disgrace 
 
 That cries aloud to hea%en above, 
 
 Can alienate a mother's love. 
 
 When stretched upon his dying bed. 
 
 And death his flaming dart liath sped. 
 
 To lay the fond loved husband low. 
 
 Who can depict his ct)nport's woe. 
 
 Away, ye sensele.ss knaves! for shame. 
 
 Who speak so lightly of her name; 
 
 Her name should make your bosom thrill. 
 
 Till death your throbbing hearts sliall still. 
 
 This world would be a gloomy place — 
 
 This life would be a, dreary waste — 
 
 Yea, heaven itself would be a hell. 
 
 If woman ceased with us to dwell. 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 11- 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. JESSIE W. MANNING. 
 
 Born : Mount Pleasant, Iowa, Oct. 26, 185.5. 
 Jessie made verses in her childhood; was 
 fairly studious as a little girl ; and music was 
 a passion with lier. Graduating in 1874, she 
 became enthusiastic in science and literature. 
 She made up her mind to adopt the lecture 
 platform as a profession, and lectured 
 throughout tlie western states on literary 
 subjects and on temperance for five years, 
 when slu' was married to Mr. Eli Manning, a 
 
 MR.S. JLsNlh W. .MA>MNG. 
 
 merchant of Chariton. Mrs. Manning never 
 regretted her abandonment of the platform, 
 content in the seclusion of home with hus- 
 band and children. She has written a long 
 poem entitled The Passion of Life, which has 
 earned her favorable notice. Mrs. Manning 
 writes critical essays and reviews for the 
 press. She also has another long poem com- 
 pleted, which will soon be published. 
 
 ®- 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF YOUTH. 
 Why art thou sobbing low — 
 Wherefore th j' weary woe — 
 Whence comes this pain that through thy 
 fair life quivers ? 
 Joy sits at thy right hand; 
 Love waits for thy command ; 
 Carest thou that bitter wind rare blossoms 
 shivers ? 
 
 See what a glory falls 
 Through the moon's fairy walls; 
 Now shows the pageant fair of the world's 
 splendor: 
 Ah ! not thy fairest dream 
 Rarer than this could .seem — 
 Life looking futureward, smiles sweet and 
 tender. 
 Why then, thy sad regret ? 
 Why art thou weeping yet ? 
 Why waiting desolate, gladness untasted ? 
 Cease now thy wailing cry. 
 Hush now thy sobbing sigh'— 
 Else might the sweetness of thy fate be 
 wasted. 
 Nay! nay! the secret comes 
 Which all the burden seems 
 Of the world's woe and tears, counted and 
 singled. 
 This the sad lesson taught — 
 This, with its dreams fraught, 
 Life's joy is bitter sweet, foul and fair 
 mingled. 
 
 THE GLAMOUR OF YOUTH. 
 
 What is so fair, so fair — 
 In all this world of care — 
 
 So fair as youth ? 
 Youth with its rhyme and chime. 
 Faith in grand things subhme, 
 Hope for great deeds in time, 
 
 Yearnings for truth. 
 Ah, how the golden haze 
 Flushes the fleeting days ! 
 
 Dreams and romance 
 Flood with a grace divine 
 All common things or fine ; 
 Turn water into wine — 
 
 Walk into dance. 
 Nature's sweet grace is wrought 
 On every ardent thought. 
 
 Impulse and aim. 
 Not yet has caution chilled — 
 Not yet has passion thrilled — 
 Not yet despair has filled 
 
 Youth's heart of flame ; 
 Pulsing with prescient beat 
 To the advancing feet 
 
 Of life's events; 
 Eager for strife to come — 
 Forecasting ti-iumph's sun — 
 Knowing no fear to numb 
 
 Youth's sanguine sense. 
 All promise molded there, 
 Folded in youth so fair — 
 
 Youth in its purity. 
 Wliat wiU the sequel tell ? 
 Will it prove ill or well ? 
 How wiU the promise swell 
 
 In the futurity ? 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 -m 
 
 lis 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ELLA A.GILES. 
 
 Born in Wisconsin, Feb. 3, 1851. 
 Miss Giles has already written and publish- 
 ed sevei-al works, including- Bachelor Ben, 
 Out From tlie Shadows, and Maiden Rachel. 
 Her poems and sketches have appeared in the 
 leading periodicals, and liave been widely 
 
 ELLA A. GILES. 
 
 copied by the western local press. Miss Giles 
 is rather tall, slender, and a decided brunette. 
 She now resides in Madison, Wisconsin, with 
 her father, engaged in housekeeping and lit- 
 erary work. 
 
 f^- 
 
 DEFEAT. 
 I know thee not! Alas for those 
 To whom thou canst thy form disclose. 
 Oft I discern flend-sliapes afar 
 In dim outlines, but lo, a star 
 Sliiiics also from black space; a friend, 
 Disguised as foe, fiticc storm-clouds send. 
 M.y will hath taught me how lo gain 
 Profit fi'om loss, pleasure from pain. 
 Will is supreme! Grim specters rise 
 No more when I have missed a prize. 
 I fear no foes but those within, 
 My soul di'eads no defeat but sin. 
 And wliat sin is I can decid(! 
 For self alone, 1 am my gnide. 
 Suc(H'ss ill myself at any cost. 
 Attain 1 that aiifl naught is lost. 
 
 BEGONE SUSPENSE. 
 
 Thou wretched, haggard, tottering dame ! 
 Exile from Hades! without name 
 Save such as in thy changeful moods 
 Thou givest thyself; thy form obtrudes 
 Its ugly shape into tlio mind 
 And hungers there with looks unkind 
 When men dare dream of being blest 
 With Hope; that loss exacting guest 
 Of whom thou jealous art whene'er 
 Thou see'st her timidly draw near. 
 Begone, Suspense, from hearts that ache 
 With dim forebodings ! Better break 
 'Neath one fell blow of certainty 
 Than meet thy cruel, treacherous eye 
 Which nothing tells, yet doth suggest 
 Ills that elude the keenest quest. 
 Begone forever, evil hag ! 
 When thou'rt away no more wiU lag 
 Life's weary hours; with swifter pace 
 Time's feet will run their destined race. 
 
 OH, YE BEAUTEOUS HILLS OF 
 FRANKFORT. 
 Oh, ye beauteous hills of Frankfort, 
 
 Wist j'e why to-day we sigh ? 
 Gentle hills that sit and listen 
 
 To the tender, leaning sky ; 
 Shadowed hills, enlaced with sunshine, 
 
 Mist-embosomed, silence-clad, — 
 Do ye feel our yearning homage; 
 
 Know why we no more are glad ? 
 'Tis because, amid your forests. 
 
 In the hush of "Arnold's wold," 
 Walks a baid who speaks your language, — 
 
 One to wliom ye oft have told 
 Secrets of transcendent sadness. 
 
 Which so freely forth he breathes 
 That he low-rebukes our rapture, 
 
 And to us your sigh bequeaths. 
 Oh, wild-tangled wold, soul-wooing, 
 
 Stretched in smiling, careless grace 
 'Neath the arch of clouds far distant, 
 
 But for him, upon your face 
 We could only read a story 
 
 Fraught with radiant joy's deep thrills; 
 But he lives, and he your voice is,~ 
 
 Your own voice, ye once-mute hills! 
 Griefs vicarious does he suffer. 
 
 Till your strength is the world's gain; 
 Hai)i)y hills? Nay, mounts transfigured 
 
 By tlie poet's .steadfast pain. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 Forgiveness is the fragrance, rare and swoet, 
 Tliat flowers yield when trampled on by feet 
 That reckless tread the tender, teeming earth; 
 For blossoms crushed and bleeding yet give 
 
 birtb 
 To pardon's perfume; from the stern decrees 
 Of unfoigiveness. Nature ever flees. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA, 
 
 119 
 
 :« 
 
 HJALMRR H. BOYESEN. 
 
 Born jn Norway, Sept. 23, 1848. 
 
 In 1868 Mr. Boyesen came to America, and the 
 following year he became editor of the Frcmad, 
 a Scandinavian paper published in Chicag-o. 
 He has since been professor of German in Cor- 
 nell and Columbia universities. The contribu- 
 tions of this author to the periodicals of the 
 day soon attracted attention, and he became 
 popular as a story-teller in prose and verse. 
 He is one of the founders of the Author's club 
 in New York City. Many of his books and 
 short stories have been translated into Ger- 
 man, Norwegian, and at least one of them into 
 Russian. 
 
 ®- 
 
 EGIL SCALD' S LAMENT. 
 Strangely, son, thou starest; 
 
 And thy sight is sunken; 
 Still thou art and silent. 
 
 As with slumber drunken: 
 Lo, thy lips are li^nd ; 
 
 Loud erewhile their laughter! 
 Shall I vainly listen 
 
 For thy voice hereafter? 
 
 Dumb thou art, and dampness 
 
 In dark drops descending 
 For thy brow is breaking, 
 
 With thy bright beard blending. 
 Foam-fiakes fleck thy forehead; 
 
 Fixed thine eyes and frigid; 
 And thy mighty frame is 
 
 Faint with frost and rigid. 
 
 Swift spreads slumber's shadow! 
 
 Speak ere strength forsake thee ! 
 Woe! my witless wailing 
 
 Never moi'e will wake thee I 
 Dead thou art, my darling; 
 
 Long the n'ght before thee. 
 Thou hast left thy father 
 
 Lonely to deplore thee. 
 
 Bodvar ! best beloved ! 
 
 Of bold sons the boldest ! 
 In thy helpless hand my 
 
 Life's snapped thread thou boldest. 
 Swordless Death has sought thee 
 
 Mid the sea-weeds swelling; 
 Fain thy father follows 
 
 Thee to Hela's dwelUng. 
 
 For thy birth's bright hour 
 
 Blessings bloomed ai-ound thee: 
 Fast about my heart-roots 
 
 Wound, each fresh year found thee; 
 On thy brave young boy-face 
 
 Glad my sight would linger. 
 As thou fed'st me lightly 
 
 With thy baby finger. 
 
 Oft I stood in spirit, 
 
 By strong sons surrounded; 
 Whose sonorous saga 
 
 Through my soul resounded; 
 Saw their fearless phalanx 
 
 Fame and fortune gather, — 
 Safe within their shield burgh 
 
 I, their happy father ! 
 
 Saw them swords unsheathing; 
 
 Heard their armors' rattle; 
 Saw them storming, shouting 
 
 With the joj' of battle: 
 Bodvar foremost fighting, 
 
 Fair and fierce and glorious, 
 And his falchion flashing 
 
 In his path victorious. 
 
 IF THE ROSE COULD SPEAK. 
 Within the rose I found a trembling tear. 
 Close curtained in a gloom of crimson night 
 By tender petals from the outer light. 
 I plucked the flower and held it to my ear. 
 And thought within its fervid breast to hear 
 A smothered heart-beat throbbing soft and low. 
 I heard its busy life-blood gently flow. 
 Now far away and now so strangely near. 
 Ah, thought I, if these silent lips of flame 
 Could be unsealed and fling into the air 
 Their woe, their passion, and in speech proclaim 
 Their warm intoxication of despair; — 
 Then would I give the rose into thy hand; 
 Thou couldst its voice, beloved, not withstand. 
 
 HENRY MILLS ALDEN. 
 
 Born: Mount Tabor, Vt., Nov. 11, 1836. 
 Henry had a good collegiate education. In 
 1869 he became managing editor of Harper's 
 Magazine. He is the author of the poem, The 
 Ancient Lady of Sorrow; and, jointly with A. 
 H. Guernsey, Harper's Pictorial History of 
 the Great Rebellion, Mr. Guernsey writing the 
 eastern campaigns and Mr. Alden the western. 
 
 THE MAGIC MIRROR. 
 The magic mirror makes not nor unmakes; 
 Charms none to sleep, nor any from it wakes — 
 It only giveth back the thing it takes. 
 'Tis but the heart's own cheer that makes it 
 
 glad, 
 And one's own bitterness will drive him mad; 
 It needeth not that other help be had. 
 
 Dame Fortune maketh none to rise or fall ; 
 To him that hath not doth no portion call; 
 To him that hath is freely given all. 
 They see themselves who look in Fortune's face, 
 Unto the sad in sadness Heaven's grace; 
 And to the souls that love is love's embrace. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 120 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -a 
 
 ABEL BEACH. 
 
 Born: Gkoton.N. Y., Feb. 7,1829. 
 After graduating: in 1849, he taug-ht Latin 
 .and Greek in tlie Iowa state university. He 
 was admitted to the bar, but has never prac- 
 ticed law. Mr. Beach later on ensjaat'ii in 
 
 ABEL BEACH. 
 
 mercantile business in the stationery trade, 
 and is now insurance and pension attorney at 
 Iowa City, where he resides. Mr. Beach was 
 one of the seven original founders of Theta- 
 Delta-Chi college fraternity organized in 1847. 
 
 FANCY AND FACT. 
 Last night in sweet transport of vision me- 
 
 thought 
 I was hajjpy a( liome with my loved and lost 
 
 boys, 
 AVIi(( liad coriie as of yore and endearingly 
 
 souglit 
 My time to l)eguile with tlieir innocent joys. 
 
 Home lieavenly joys! 
 Their past was with many dear memories 
 
 crowned, 
 Willi many sweet cliarms and good deeds was 
 
 briglit; 
 Their ])reseiit tlie halo of youth slione around, 
 Theirfuture waslitwitli liojies heavenly liglit. 
 
 Resplendent the light! 
 O i)rcsenco most dear! O sweet iiKiment of 
 
 I'liss! [part 
 
 I No rapture more liallowea could angels Im- 
 
 ® 
 
 To man from the mansions above than was 
 
 this 
 Brief hour of delight to a fond father's heart. 
 
 O'erflowing my heart! 
 But, alas ! the bright vision dispelled is soon 
 
 made [gleam 
 
 To deepen the darkness where light seemed to 
 My boys in their silent beds long since were 
 
 laid:— [Dream. 
 
 I wake but to find that my bliss was — a 
 
 Delusive the dream ! 
 Tis well that the future lies hid in the mist 
 When dreaming we need but to reach and 
 
 receive. 
 The goal of ambition is often a tryst [ceive. 
 Where fortune and honor but gleam and de- 
 Dreams only deceive! 
 The ocean of life, to the young and the bold,— 
 With its beauteous expanse and its perfume 
 
 of breeze, — 
 With Utopian isles hiding treasures untold. 
 Has a thousand alluring charms suited to 
 
 please. 
 In prospect to please ! 
 O how often at morn, under calm sunlit skies. 
 The gallant bark glides o'er the gem-crested 
 
 wave 
 But to sink 'neath the mountainous billows 
 
 that rise [save ! 
 
 In the lightning torn night when no effort can 
 
 Heaven only could save! 
 And now as I gaze on the wreck stricken 
 
 shore, [wind. 
 
 Or am tossed on the deep at the sport of the 
 My spirit in anguish cries out — >• Nevermore 
 Will peace be my lot till the haven I find. 
 Shall finally find!" 
 
 IN FUTURO. 
 
 The day is short, the night is long. 
 
 And tediouslj' I wait the dawn 
 
 Of rising sun upon my sky: 
 
 But its first ray says "by-and-by." 
 
 At my right hand I see a friend 
 
 Grasp golden treasures without end; 
 
 And then again I vow to try 
 
 For better fortunes " by-and-by." 
 
 I find but few have luck, 'tis not 
 
 Ordained, it seems to be my lot. 
 
 And if it deigns to e'er draw nigh 
 
 " Not yet," it says, "but by-and-by." 
 
 Like .sea tossed mariner, at night 
 
 I see the luring stars shine bright 
 
 Which only sjieak of heights too high 
 
 To be in reach of •• by-and-by." 
 
 And yet with compass true, and chart, 
 
 I'll aim for a still l)e1ter mart 
 
 Wliere faithful work and worth may vie 
 
 Witli wealth for happy "by-and-by. 
 
 I 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 121 
 
 -* 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS. 
 
 Born: West Milan, N. H., Jan. 30, 182L 
 Mr. Hinds is a dentist by profession ; he lias 
 
 ■written Poems fur oNcr liiilf a cciii im\-, which 
 have a PI M 'ail ■! I iiiihc Iriidiiiij- pci ic xiifals of 
 
 WILLIAM HI:NKY H. HINDS. 
 
 tlie East. Capt. Hinds passed through the 
 war of the rebellion. He has a family of tliree, 
 and now resides in Kennebunliport, Maine. 
 
 ©- 
 
 WELCOME, SWEET BIRDS OF SPRING. 
 
 Welcome, sweet Ijii-ds of spring, — 
 Again on tireless wing, — 
 Ye came your songs to sing. 
 And flowei's and sunshine bring. 
 
 How we love your singing, — 
 To hear your sweet notes ringing, — 
 Which abroad you're flinging, 
 On the morning air. 
 
 In the tree-tops clinging, 
 On the green turf springing. 
 O'er the blue waves winging. 
 We hear you everywhere. 
 
 Welcome, blithesome, bluebird. 
 Your twtter first we heard, 
 And like some magic word. 
 Our inmost heart is stirred. 
 
 Far your lone flight winging, 
 Fir.st were you in bringing, 
 
 News of Nature's springing. 
 Into new life again. 
 
 We love your song out-pouring. 
 While northward you are soaring. 
 And Nature's God adoring. 
 In musical refrain. 
 
 Welcome, robin red-breast,— 
 In pretty crimson vest. 
 And coat of ash, you're dressed, — 
 Of all spring birds, loved best. 
 
 For 'twas dear " Cock Robin " 
 Set our young heart throbbing. 
 And our bosom sobbing. 
 As on parental knee. 
 
 We sat, and saw in sorrow. 
 The " cruel, cruel sparrow. 
 With bow and blood-stained arrow,' 
 And him dead, under the tree. 
 
 Welcome, sweet merry lark. 
 All Nature seems to hai-k. 
 For thy morning songs, that mark, 
 'Twixt the dawning and the dark. 
 
 Welcome, Bob o' Lincoln, 
 We hear j'ou now, we think, on 
 Some quiet river's bi'ink, on 
 A water-willow bow. 
 
 You're a jolly fellow. 
 Dressed in black and yellow. 
 And your voice's so mellow. 
 We seem to hear j'ou now. 
 
 Yes, you're looking down. 
 With such a comical frown. 
 Now you're bobbing round 
 Just like a feathered clown. 
 
 Welcome, twittering swallow, 
 Scarce our eyes can follow. 
 As o'er hill and hollow. 
 You're flitting everywhere. 
 
 You are such happy creatures, 
 You seem like winged preachers. 
 Sent from Heaven, to teach us 
 Of God's loving care. 
 
 Then welcome, birds of spring. 
 Ye make our hearts to sing, 
 And praise our Heavenly King, 
 •' Wlio giveth each good thing." 
 
 Ye bring us joy and gladness. 
 And drive away our sadness. 
 Ye free our hearts of badness, 
 With your innocence and song. 
 
 God bless you happy singers. 
 For while your sweet note lingers. 
 It still shall serve to bring us 
 To Heaven's happy throng. 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 122 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 »- 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE ISADORE. 
 
 People still show. 
 
 When the tide is low, 
 Where that new ship went ashore. 
 
 On that fearful night, 
 
 Near no beacon light, 
 'Mid the breakers' crash and roar. 
 
 Forty-five years 
 
 The Heavenly spheres 
 Have sped on their shining way, 
 
 Since one day at noon. 
 
 When there was no moon, 
 She left the Kennebunk bay. 
 
 Tlie captain said 
 
 As he went ahead. 
 His "Ship must sail that day; 
 
 Tho' the winds and wave 
 
 Might storm and might rave, 
 His ship should be on her way." 
 
 The clouds shut down 
 
 With a seeming frown, 
 That told of a coming storm; 
 
 And the south winds blew 
 
 As lost to their view. 
 Were their homes so snug and warm. 
 
 Tlie wind shifts east 
 
 And the briny yeast 
 Is blown far on to the shore, 
 ^ The ship with full sail 
 
 Is caught in the gale. 
 Her shrouds in ribbons it tore. 
 
 No one can go 
 
 For the blinding snow 
 Up aloft to reef tlic sail; 
 
 And the surging dec p 
 
 Seems ever to leap 
 Into mountains in the gale. 
 
 In vain they shout 
 
 And try to >. about " 
 Their ship in its mad careei-. 
 
 It is " pitchy dark " 
 
 And there's not a spark 
 To tell them wliich way to steer. 
 
 With sails all rent 
 
 The " Isadore " went 
 Straight on to the rocky reef, 
 
 AVhere no arm can save 
 
 From a watery gra^^e. 
 And no life boat give relief. 
 
 O tho anguish then 
 
 Of those tlftoen men, 
 As they saw tlieir horrible fate, 
 
 Tliat tlioy there nnist die 
 
 Willi kind friends so nigh, 
 All unconscious of tlieir state. 
 
 At early dawn 
 
 On tho coming morn 
 
 When their neighbors sought the shore. 
 
 They saw on the beach 
 
 Almost within reach 
 The wreck of the " Isadore." 
 
 And along the strand 
 
 On every hand 
 In death's cold and silent sleep, 
 
 Those sailors so true. 
 
 That Kennebunk crew 
 Were strewn by the angry deep. 
 
 Their spirits now free, 
 
 On a stormless sea 
 Are sailing forevermore; 
 
 And cables of love 
 
 Fast anchored above. 
 Still draw their friends to its shore. 
 
 WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL WORLD. 
 Wonderful, beautiful world is this, 
 Tho' little understood; 
 Yet brimming full of joy and bliss 
 For each one's highest good. 
 O, wonderful, beautiful world. 
 How happy man will be 
 When all its wonders are unfurled 
 Their beauties he can see. 
 O, wonderful, beautiful world — 
 God speed the glorious day 
 When error from Truth's throne is hurled. 
 And Truth shall hold full sway. 
 When man himself shall understand — 
 His body and his mind; 
 "The proper study of mankind is man," 
 The greatest good to find. 
 He is God's temple, where he dwells, 
 " A house not made with hands," 
 And in his inmost heart there wells 
 A wish God understands. 
 A wish to know " whence, what and where," 
 And all about his kind; 
 A wish to search earth, ocean, air. 
 Their unknown source to find. 
 To know the whence, the why and where t'(,)re, 
 Of everything around — 
 To know of wliMl had gone before 
 Man here on earlli was found. 
 Of wonderful worlds on worlds still sought, 
 Beyond man's utmost ken ; 
 Beyond man's utmost reacli of thouglit. 
 His power of speech or pen. 
 Of wonderful worlds, of beings, too, 
 Too small for human sight, 
 E.xcept as they arc brought to view 
 By micro.scopic light. 
 Wonderful, beautiful world is this. 
 Yet chills our blood to tell, 
 Tho' brimming full of joy and bliss, 
 Man makes himself the hell. 
 
 ^ 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 123 
 
 -ffl 
 
 JACOB P. PRICKETT. 
 
 Born : Benton, Ind., May 10, 1836. 
 Mr. Prickett is editor of the Albion New 
 Eraof his native state. He lias written for 
 
 JACOB P. PBICKETT. 
 
 the press for the past twenty-five years, and 
 his poems have appeared from time to time 
 in the leading- periodicals. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE PICTUEE FANCY PAINTED. 
 An old man dreaming- sits. His streaming- 
 locks 
 Are whiten'd by the flecks of foaming- spray, 
 From off the crested waves of passing- years. 
 That ebb and flow on Time's tempest'ous sea. 
 Whose waters separate the Fairy Land 
 Of far-off Childhood from life's Sunset Land. 
 Tlie murm'ring- breezes softly whisper as 
 They gently blow from off that distant shore 
 Of life's sweet Springtime Land, and, blend- 
 ing with 
 The sad, sweet music of the murm'ring sea, 
 The long- forgotten songs of childhood sing 
 In silv'ry cadence, soft, and sweet and low. 
 And lull, with golden symphonies from chords 
 Of mem'ries long forgot, the wearied brain. 
 And heart, and soul, to dreamland's sweet re- 
 pose. 
 And by the rose-wing'd messengers of sleep. 
 And through the mystic mazes of dreamland. 
 He back transported was across the gulf 
 
 Of Time's relentless sea, to that sweet realm — 
 The Fairyland of childhood's happy days. 
 
 He, dreaming, sits upon the hilltop's once 
 Familiar brow, where stands the old log- home ; 
 To him a palace now, because it holds 
 Life's sweetest memories ; and form so dear 
 Of a sweet mother, whose unchanging love, 
 Like golden sunbeam, gilded life's pathway 
 Through cliildhood's happy years. Before 
 
 him now. 
 He sees the old, loved scenes of years agone. 
 At foot of hill, and in its shadow deep, 
 At sunset's hour, there stands the silent mill. 
 And from it flows, o'er pebbly bottom bright, 
 The little streamlet, bearing on its breast, 
 A flood of old-time memories so dear. 
 Beyond it lies, like dimpled smile upon 
 The placid face of gufleless innocence. 
 The little raeadow with its nodding plumes 
 Of gold and purple flow'rs, and sweet per- 
 fume — 
 A gem of Nature's setting in the crown 
 Of the old home ! Beyond the meadow's rim. 
 In shadow of the overhanging trees. 
 The more majestic river calmly flows — 
 A silv'ry framework for the picture dear, 
 In Mem'ry's chamber hanging, and which tide 
 Of passing years cannot deface nor dim. 
 
 And as he dreaming sits, and lives again 
 Amid the scenes to which the golden chain 
 Of mem'ry binds his heart and soul. Estrange 
 Poetic fire and ardor sweetly thriU 
 His being, and the inspii-ation, felt 
 By artists who to canvas have transferred 
 Their golden glow'd conceptions rare and 
 Fills mind and soul, and he an artist is. [pure. 
 With rare conception — execution true — 
 The inspiration of his magic touch. 
 To spotless canvas the loved picture gives. 
 The rude, log home; the gently sloping hill; 
 The pebble-bottom'd brooklet at its base ; 
 Ti.ellow'r-decked meadow with its gilded rim 
 Of silv'ry waters, and the grand old trees. 
 Deep in whose shadow's heard the river's flow. 
 Ah, sweet the picture, and so true complete, 
 'Twas Art with Nature vieing; but just then 
 The Master Artist of the Universe, 
 With rainbow tints, and sunsets' golden glow 
 And mellow'd hues, touch'd topmost branches 
 of [hand 
 
 The grand old forest trees. Then with the 
 Of inspiration, quick the golden hues 
 To canvas were transferred. And as he gazed 
 Admiringly upon his work, a hand 
 Upon each shoulder then was gently laid ; 
 Two soft and dimpled arms stole lovingly 
 About his neck, and bending o'er him then. 
 With face and form angelic and divine, 
 Was his soul's idol, who, with holy kiss, [true. 
 Sealed her pure heart's devotion deep and 
 
 -© 
 
m- 
 
 124 
 
 S 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. CLARA D. DAVIDSON. 
 
 BORX : Lacon, III., Nov. 30, 1851. 
 Having taught school about five years, Clara 
 subsequently edited a woman's department 
 in a number of Iowa publications. In 1870 
 she married Georg-e M. Davidson, who is a 
 lawyer by profession. Mrs. Davidson has a 
 
 son who lias nearly reached manhood. She 
 wrote and published verses at an early age, 
 which liave appeared from time to time in the 
 Yankee Blade, "Waverly Magazine, Cincinnati 
 Enquirer, Woman's Journal, and a score of 
 other equally prominent journals. 
 
 ©- 
 
 ON THE DES MOINES. 
 A sweep of woodland on the shore, 
 
 A glow of moonshine on the bar; 
 A light-rimmed cloudlet loaning o'er 
 
 Waters tliat mirror every siar. 
 O brightly, marvelou.sly blue 
 
 The sky about the low-hung moon, 
 O weird tlie woodland ways, that grew 
 
 Dark 'neat h the shadows of liigli moon ! 
 A swish of waves against tlie boat. 
 
 Oars dipping gently, lifting strong. 
 An owl's wild, melancholy note, 
 
 A Hslierman's exultant song. 
 These are the sounds that rise above 
 
 The flowing river's cliangeless chant. 
 
 I watch the light-kissed waters move, 
 
 I watch the shadows' even slant. 
 Below, the river seems to end 
 
 In a chaotic mass of sand; 
 Above, the sharp sweep of a bend 
 
 Gives us a vision of near land. 
 And so the river seems a lake 
 
 By a deceit of vision. So 
 Life seems a journey that we take. 
 
 Bounded by things we cannot know. 
 
 THE TEST. 
 Who dares not follow Truth where'er 
 
 Her footsteps lead. 
 But says, " O, guide not there, nor there. 
 I have not strength to follow where 
 
 My feet would bleed ; 
 But show me worn ways trodden fair 
 
 By feet more brave,— " 
 Who fears to stand in Truth's broad glare, 
 What others dared not will not dare. 
 
 Is taut a slave. 
 
 FOR ME. 
 
 Was it the wind that in prophetic mood, 
 Despite the ice, foretold the coming good. 
 
 Or had the timid Spring, so late uncrowned. 
 
 Burst from her wintry silence at a bound. 
 And, free at last and flushed with victory, 
 Come whispering low her happiness to me? 
 
 Or had the birds, far south but northward 
 bound. 
 
 Discovered some new subtlety in sound 
 And sent into my soul the thrill and stir 
 Harmony wakes in music's worshiper? 
 
 For O my heart beat lightly on that day. 
 
 Though shadows gathered close about my 
 way. 
 I said, — " Whatever gift fate has denied. 
 The trees are tall, the sky is blue and wide. 
 
 The sunshine glitters on the ice-bound brook 
 
 And sparkles on the snow-heights a I look; 
 And every sunbeam, every ice-hung tree. 
 And everj'thing for beauty is for me. 
 
 For me — for all! O beauteous, bounteous 
 earth. 
 
 What new delights do ye each day bring 
 forth ! 
 Not thine the blame if in these lives of ours 
 Our rising tears shut out the bloom of flowers. 
 
 WHAT IS ETERNITY? 
 An ever outward-sti'otohing .sea. 
 Shoreless and boundless, strong and free, 
 A vast, self-singing hymn; 
 Whose rhythm the circling ages keep. 
 Whose music, mighty, strong and deep 
 Hushet.li a^ons of time to sleep. 
 And, laying one away to rest 
 Cradles another on its breast. 
 
 ■* 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 125 
 
 -m 
 
 EDNA JANE CAMPBELL. 
 
 Born: Alamo, Ind., March 17, 1855. 
 Edna began teucliiiig at the age of fifteen 
 years, and the money she thus earned was 
 apphed lo better her own education, until she 
 
 EDNA JANE CAMPBELL. 
 
 graduated in 1881. Miss Campbell's produc- 
 tions have chiefly appeared without her signa- 
 ture. She still resides in her native town. 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH. 
 
 Stands this old church from the town apart; 
 
 Old fashioned porch and half decayed. 
 
 Where the ivy new in early spring 
 
 Its leaves of green so kindly bring, 
 
 Tlie faulty spots and chinks to hide. 
 
 Like charity pure for sins essayed. 
 
 A withered tree a century old, 
 
 That's bending 'neath the blade of time, 
 
 Spreads wide its boughs in christian grace, 
 
 Affords'the weary a resting place. 
 
 The good, the bad, alike to shield. 
 
 From storm, and heat and lurid clime. 
 
 In this church 'neath the word of God, 
 
 Have met together the grave and gay. 
 
 The thoughtless too with hearts of joy. 
 
 By care unknown or times annoy. 
 
 And those bent low 'neath the chastening rod. 
 
 Buoy faith in holy ecstacy. 
 
 In this church so anxious stood. 
 
 With quivering breath the girlish bride; 
 
 A clinging mantle of snowy white 
 
 ©- 
 
 Half hides her shrinking form from sight 
 As from youth's mooring toward womanhood. 
 She launched her craft on an unknown tide. 
 The dead here too in frigid state 
 Lay waiting silent by friends bewept, 
 While the pastor old spoke words of peace 
 And comfort in the souls release. 
 Ere gentle hands had borne to rest 
 This clay, where many kindred slept. 
 Stands this old church almost forgot; 
 A monitor old of times defect. 
 No more the aisles resound with tread. 
 No more the grave nor honored dead. 
 No more the gay with buoyant step. 
 In prescribed shapes sit circumspect. 
 The change of time as earthly law. 
 Progression's stride, advancement's sway. 
 New thoughts, new hopes, and new designs. 
 Do now possess the present minds. 
 But like that church each one may tell 
 Of sunshine, storms, and wintry fray. 
 
 GLENDORA. 
 
 Glendora, the mist and the shadow 
 Fall damp on the bare of my brow, [meadow. 
 The sunbeams of liope and the sweet of the 
 That have tucked their shy heads 'neath the 
 thick of the fallow, [vision now. 
 Bursts bright from the wold on my soul's 
 Glendora, mortality shrinks. 
 Because of my love which is true. 
 With heaven to lure me, on eternity's brinks. 
 From its beauty and rest and sunshine, me 
 I may turn in my love back to you. [thinks 
 Glendora, the hour draws near, 
 When Time relaxes liis hold. 
 As the waters break chill, there slumbers no 
 fear [near. 
 
 Of Death, for he brought you in tenderness 
 To cheer my lone bark on the waters so cold. 
 Death has been holy, forsooth. 
 He brought me best joy of time. 
 You, the life, the soul of my youth. 
 And fastened the cord of faith and of truth 
 And tinged his pathway with treasures su- 
 blime. 
 My spirit may burst from on high,— 
 The soul's sanhedrim of tenderness true — 
 Your spirit awaken as tlie hour draws nigh. 
 As in earnestness great I pass through the 
 
 sky 
 And linger awhile in communion with you. 
 The clouds weep in tears to-night. 
 The wail of the wind whispers low, [light 
 
 That Death mourns his duty, at morning 
 Eternity's vision will burst on my sight. 
 And he'll snatch my lone spirit from you. 
 Glendora, my darling in death. 
 Torn apart in the wayfare of life. 
 
 -® 
 
m- 
 
 126 
 
 -Q 
 
 LOCAL AXr> NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 The angel has come to shoi-ten my breath; 
 
 And bear my lone spirit a heavenly wraith 
 
 From you, and the landmarks of strife. 
 
 The beams of the sun as he sank 
 
 Kissed your brow so holy and white. 
 
 Then fell on my lii)S as I eagerly drank 
 
 The kiss. Welcome messenger harbinger 
 
 Your beauty for me ends to-night. [frank 1 
 
 Life suffered the tic to be broken 
 
 That held j'our warm hands in mine. 
 
 And ne'er in his reign was there spoken 
 
 A word, nor he brought not a token. 
 
 But Death placed my hand here in thine. 
 
 Glendora, my constant of heart. 
 
 The holiest rapture Death brings to my bed, 
 
 The quiver of fear and of anguish depart, 
 
 In dreariness lone on the river so dark — 
 
 But I know you will watch when my spirit 
 
 is fled. 
 My spirit may weep on the waters of night. 
 When Death moves the boat from this desolate 
 
 shore, [light. 
 
 When he waves his dark banner and vanishes 
 And mortality's portals are shut from my 
 
 sight, [more. 
 
 When the waters recede and I see you no 
 The birds have all ceased to sing. 
 Nature locked up is staying his breath. 
 The angel of Death by the might of his wing- 
 Will wipe out what's mortal, but the spirit 
 
 will cling [deatli. 
 
 To its idol and worship, o'er the slumbers of 
 The cui'tain of darkness has closed on my view. 
 Your face is shut out as I grope on the strand. 
 The storm god, fantastic, rides high; in lieu 
 Of billows that rage, that beat me from you; 
 As we part on the beech of mortality's land. 
 Glendora, farewell, life slips from my grasp. 
 The veil is loosened which darkens my eyes. 
 When life grows heavy as it glides from your 
 
 clasp, 
 Wlien 'tis sabled with time and turbid at last, 
 Witli the angel of light come home to the skies. 
 
 »- 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 Emblem of purity, spotless in chastity. 
 Safe on thy pedestal, symbol of truth. 
 No wind hath soiled you, unsullied, unruffled 
 you, [youth. 
 
 Thy food the moist dews which cherish tliy 
 Queen in thy royalty, superb in thy rarity. 
 Head bowed to shield the blush on thy face. 
 Warmed by tlu; snnl)eam, kissed l)y the rain- 
 drop. 
 Etched by the liaiid (if Tinie in delicate grace. 
 S<x)n will frost beset and wild winds beget, 
 Tliy lioney tiie wild bee in bounty icj)lete. 
 Plucked aw.-iy ruthlessly, boriu! away care- 
 Thy folioles scattered as requiem meet, [lessly, 
 
 LEROY STONER. 
 
 Mr. Stoner has written quite a few poems, 
 and herewith is given a few stanzas from 
 America, a poem from his pen that has been 
 published in pamphlet fomi. 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 America, great domain. 
 Blest land of Liberty. 
 Praise to thy God, Great King, 
 Ruler of the Universe, 
 Who out of nothing made 
 The Earth, Sun, Moon, and Stars. 
 
 Bounteous Earth, 
 Garden and habitation of man 
 Of whom many families there be; 
 Some in darkness, some in light. 
 Those who live in the light receive 
 The richest blessings of the Great King. 
 
 America, fertile land. 
 Inhabited by a noble race of men ; 
 Men of courage, and shrewd device. 
 Land of pretty women, queen of her sex. 
 Men and women chaste and refined — 
 Greatest nation on the Earth. 
 
 Nation, soul divine. 
 Born of an industrious and pious maid. 
 Who sought the wilderness to escape 
 The designs of evil minded men. 
 Who did seek to destroy 
 The bloom on lier fair cheek. 
 
 Child of divine paternity. 
 Nursed in the wilderness by a mother 
 Who by patience and much toil. 
 Converted the wilderness into a garden 
 Laid out into thirteen plats 
 In which grew all manner of fruits. 
 
 The garden, beautiful and i-are. 
 Was claimed by a certain lord and trader 
 Who owned a host of ships 
 That sailed, loaded with merchandise, 
 From tlie trader's mart and port 
 To all known ports on the Earth. 
 
 The lord, crafty and bold. 
 Denied the maid a choice of marts 
 Wherein her produce she might dispose; 
 Decreed that all her trading she should do 
 At Ills port or mart, and her exports 
 Must be carried in eit her his ship or cart. 
 
 The maid, virtuous and just, 
 For his discovery of the land. 
 Allowed tiie claims of the lord so far 
 As to appoint governors in tlie garden. 
 One to preside over each i>lat 
 In the execution of civil law. 
 
 But liberty and justice 
 Claimed the maid of strong ciliaracter, 
 Gave her the exclusive right .... 
 
 -© 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 — * 
 127 
 
 CHARLES C.ARNOLD. 
 
 Born: Monroe Co., N. Y., June 8, 1857. 
 Although but recently has Mr. Arnold com- 
 menced to court the muse, his poems are at- 
 tracting universal admiration in the state of 
 his adoption — NebrasJia, where he now re- 
 
 CHARLES C. ARNOLD. 
 
 sides at Culbertsou. He is a painter by pro- 
 fession. The rang-e of his poetic subjects are 
 remarkable, and the Culbertson Sun speaks 
 highly of his poetical genius. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 The snow, the snow, the beautiful snow. 
 Falling so gently to the earth below. 
 In thj' lovely garb on a mild March morn 
 To deck the eartli in thy cloudless form. 
 Thou wertsent by the hand of an all-wise one, 
 Those numberless flakes falling one by one. 
 
 Thou beautiful form of spotless white 
 Falling to earth for our delight. 
 Thou makest us glad by thy presence here. 
 Which doubtless betokens a plentiful year; 
 The people all hail thy advent below. 
 Thou spotless form, this beautiful snow. 
 
 ©- 
 
 TO A PRETTY MAID. 
 
 Pretty maid with eyes so bright 
 That sparkle like the summer's night! 
 In whose orbs a beauty lies 
 That's likened unto summer skies, 
 
 And thou with silken nut brown hair 
 Crown of glory dost thou wear. 
 Form of which a god is pi'oud. 
 And a brow without a cloud. 
 Lips which put a rose to shame, 
 And in whose eyes a brightness flame, 
 Standing in thy sweetness there 
 Forever be thou without care. 
 Prettj' maid with neck like snow 
 One whose cheeks do ruddy grow. 
 Graceful form and step so liglit 
 And wliose eyes are ever bright, 
 Like the stars of summer's niglit. 
 Pretty maid of pure desires 
 In whose heart as burns a Are, 
 Thou that always free from care, 
 Light as birds of summer air, 
 Happy art thou everywhere. 
 This thou art, and many more 
 Could be named by the score. 
 In whose orbs a beauty lies. 
 That's likened unto summer skies. 
 And thou with silken nut brown hair, 
 Crown of glory dost thou wear. 
 
 MEMORY'S PICTURE. 
 
 Of all the beautiful pictures 
 That hang on memory's wall. 
 
 Is one of a dear kind mother, « 
 The fairest and sweetest of all. 
 
 She was taken peacefully away. 
 
 To the land of blissful rest. 
 And now is among the numbered 
 
 Who dwell in the land of blest. 
 She was a good kind mother. 
 
 That oft our hearts did cheer; 
 But now she veigns in glory. 
 
 Where heavenly beings appear. 
 This beautiful memory's picture, 
 
 Doth often haunt me still. 
 As when the spirit departed. 
 
 And death her brow did chill. 
 And to the days of childhood. 
 
 Does my memory often roam ; 
 As we gathered round the fireside 
 
 In our far away eastern home. 
 
 THE CLASSIC FRENCHMAN. 
 
 Down the beautiful valley 
 Flows the classic Frenchman stream, 
 
 How its pretty waters glisten. 
 How its sparkling waters gleam. 
 
 They flow along so smoothly 
 And pass along so gi-and. 
 
 We think it the finest river 
 Out in this western land. 
 
 They wind about those waters pure 
 And glisten on their way, 
 
 * 
 
m- 
 
 128 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 © 
 
 Tliey pass along- tliroug-h l^ridg-es, 
 How those sparkling- waters play. 
 
 Was there ever such a river 
 As this classic Frenchman stream, 
 
 Mingling- with the old Republican 
 Grand and beautiful they seem. 
 
 What a mighty power these waters 
 Which in combination flow, 
 
 Passing gently down the valley 
 And in the sunlight glow. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT. 
 Beautiful moonlight so starry and bright; 
 O! What rejoicing this lovely night — 
 Beautiful stars in the flrmanent shine: 
 You are held in space by one Divine. 
 Emeralds set in Heaven's crown so fair, 
 Sparkling like diamonds rich and rare; 
 Beautiful moonlight we love of tliee to tell. 
 To express all thy glories we cannot well. 
 Thou cometh at the close of day, 
 And of thy beauties what shall we saj-; 
 To mention the charms thy grandeur unfold. 
 Has not been accomplished by poets of old. 
 Thou has led the traveler on his way. 
 And by thy light he's not gone astray ; 
 Thou hast turned the darkness into light 
 Thou beautiful emblem — the orb of night. 
 
 THOSE FLEECY AND SILVERY CLOUDS. 
 A sheen of clouds a silvery white 
 Were in the summer sky, 
 And marvelous beauty did appear 
 Unfolded to the eye. 
 'Twas tinged with silver purest white: 
 No refiner could compare 
 With those white and fleecy cloudlets 
 Up in the Heavens there. 
 Tliey moved about in wondrous beauty; 
 They appeared a misty light 
 Pure as the snow immaculate — 
 Those fleecy clouds of white. 
 They unfolded their silvery outlines 
 With Heaven's background of blue. 
 Then vanished soon and sank away — 
 Those clouds of wondrous hue* 
 
 m 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 Thou beautiful river that flows along. 
 Bright thy waters and sweet tliy .song; 
 Low tliy iiiiirnuir, tliy melody sweet, 
 TJiat swiftly runs in tliy channel .so deep. 
 Beautiful river how thy waters gleam. 
 Broad is tliy way and briglit tliy stream, 
 Onward tliy cour.se to tlieticean flow 
 Bearing tliy ships as t lie winds do blow. 
 Beautiful river that murmurs all day: 
 What is it tliat tiiy liriglit waters say, 
 Running along in thy diannei so strong, 
 Pj'iiy. O, jiray tell me wliat is tliy song. 
 
 HON. THOMAS J. BUTLER. 
 
 Born : Bedford, Ind., Feb. 5, 1836. 
 This gentleman has filled the position of re- 
 porter, editor, etc., and wielded the pen more 
 or less for the past thirty five years, his writ- 
 ings having appeared chiefly in local news- 
 papers in California, Nevada, Idaho, Arizona, 
 and the western states generally. He was 
 married in 1881 to Miss Carrie E. Blake, and 
 now resides in Prescott, Arizona. Mr. Butler 
 is now receiver of public moneys. In person 
 he is of very large stature, being six feet and 
 four inches in height, and weighs two hun- 
 dred pounds. Mr. Butler is well known and 
 highly respected in his adopted city as a man 
 of gi'eat integrity and business ability. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 From Fourth of July Poem, 1886. 
 Of human progress, every age 
 Begets an impulse most sublime 
 That may be measured by a gauge 
 Peculiar to its day and time. 
 Coeur de Leon clad in steel. 
 The holy Sepulcher to gain. 
 An impulse of religious zeal 
 Impelled him and his faithful train. 
 Columbus bore the flag of Spain 
 Beyond the world, as wise men thought, 
 Adventurous impulse o'er the main 
 Impelled him to the goal he sought. 
 Extent of Empire o'er the world 
 Impelled the nations to these coasts, 
 And colonies, with flags unfurled. 
 Pressed on his track in mighty hosts. 
 They builded better than they knew 
 Tliose Kings and Queens of foreign lands: 
 The seeds of Liberty to strew 
 Was not a part of what they planned. 
 They hoped the fealty to retain 
 Of subjects born to be their slaves. 
 E'en though beyond the raging main. 
 The Atlantic's wild and stormy waves. 
 Divini! the right of Kings had been 
 To reign and rule with high behest. 
 The subject deemed it mortal sin 
 To thwart the ruler (iod had bles.sed. 
 But now, tliree tliousand miles across 
 The Ocean's heaving, billowy breast, 
 Fri'i;dom dared her mane to toss 
 And Liberty to raise lier crest; 
 To own and till the virgin soil 
 New tliouglits and new t'motions bring; 
 The powei- that ga\'e them ii-ave to toil 
 They realized was King of Kings. 
 Tlie spirit, surging Ihroiigh I'acli frame 
 Of .self dominion wide and strong. 
 And boundless as tlie land they claim. 
 Would ne'er again .submit to wrong. 
 
 -e& 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 129 
 
 FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 
 
 Born: Albany, N. Y., 1839. 
 Bret Hartk is a thoroug'h American poet, a 
 man of brilliant wit, wide information and 
 strong purposes. In 1864 he removed, with his 
 parents, to California, where he became a com- 
 positor in a printing office, then he mined for 
 himself, then became a school teacher, then an 
 
 FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 
 
 express messenger. In 185" he returned to the 
 compositor's case on the Golden Era, where he 
 was soon assigned a place in the literary de- 
 partment. All the works of Bret Harte show 
 keen wit and pungency of expression, and his 
 prose tales teem with noble thoughts. 
 
 "To the man who'll bring to me," 
 
 Cried Intendant Harry Lee,— 
 Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mme,- 
 " Bring the sot, alive or dead, 
 I will give to him," he said, 
 "Fifteen hundred pesos down, 
 Just to set the rascal's crown 
 Underneath this heel of mine; 
 Since but death 
 Deserves the man whose deed, 
 Be it vice or want of heed. 
 
 Stops the pumps that give us breath,- 
 Stops the pumps that suck the death 
 From the poisoned lower levels of the mine." 
 
 ^ 
 
 "JIM," 
 Say, there! P'r'aps 
 
 Some on you chaps 
 
 Might know Jim Wild? 
 Well — no offence; 
 Thar ain't no sense 
 
 In gettin' riled! 
 Jim was my chum 
 
 Up on the Bar; 
 That's why I come 
 
 Down from up yar. 
 Looking for Jim. 
 
 Thank ye, sir! You 
 Ain't of that crew — 
 
 Blest if you are I 
 Money ;— Not much ; 
 
 That ain't my kind; 
 I ain't no such. 
 
 Rum? — I don't mind, 
 Seein' it's you. 
 
 Well, this yer Jim, 
 Did you know him? — 
 Jess about your size; 
 Same kind of eyes — 
 Well, that is strange; 
 Why, it's two year 
 Since he came here 
 Sick, for a change. 
 
 Well, here's to us: 
 
 Eh? 
 
 The h you say! 
 
 Dead? — 
 That little cuss? 
 What makes you star— 
 You over thar? 
 Can't a man drop 
 A glass in yer shop 
 But you must r'ar? 
 It wouldn't take 
 D — much to break 
 You and your bar. 
 
 Dead! 
 Poor — little — Jim ! 
 Why, thar was me, 
 Jones, and Bob Lee, 
 Harry and Ben — 
 No-account men: 
 Then to take him ! 
 Well, thar— Good-bye — 
 No more, sir — I — 
 
 Eh? 
 What's that you say? 
 Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
 No? Yes? By Jo! 
 
 Sold! 
 Sold! Why, you limb. 
 You ornery, 
 
 Derned old 
 Long-legged Jim ! 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 130 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE HEATHEN CHINEE. 
 
 "Which I wish to remark,— 
 
 And my language Is plain — 
 That for ways that are dark. 
 
 And tor tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— 
 
 Which the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 Ah Sin was his name. 
 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply; 
 But his smile it was pensive and childlike. 
 
 As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 
 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— 
 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 It was August the third; 
 
 And quite soft was the skies; 
 Which it might be inferred 
 
 That Ah Sin was likewise; 
 Yet he played it that day upon WiUiam 
 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 Which we had a .small game. 
 And Ah Sin took a hand : 
 It was euchre. The same 
 He did not understand ; 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table. 
 
 With a smile that was childlike and bland. 
 Yet the cards they were stocked 
 
 In a way that I grieve, 
 And my feelings were shocked 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve: 
 Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers. 
 
 And the same with intent to deceive. 
 But the hands that were played 
 
 By that heathen Chinee, 
 And the points that he made. 
 
 Were quite frightful to see- 
 Till at last he put down a right bowei". 
 
 Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 
 Then I looked up at Nye, 
 
 And he gazed upon me; 
 And he rose with a sigh. 
 
 And said, -Can this be? 
 We are ruined by Chinese cheap lalior;" 
 And he went for that heathen Chinee. 
 In the scene that ensued 
 I did not take a hand; 
 But the floor it was strewed 
 
 Like the leaves on the strand 
 With the cards that Aii Sin had been hiding. 
 
 In the game " ho did not understand." 
 In his sleeves, which were long. 
 He had twenty-four packs,— 
 Which was coining it strong. 
 Yet I state but the facts; 
 And we found on his nails, which were taper 
 What is f HMiuont in tjijiers,— that's wax. 
 Which is why I remark. 
 
 And my language is j)lain. 
 That for ways that arc dark. 
 
 MRS. JUDGE JENKINS. 
 
 THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO MAUD MULLER. 
 
 Maud Muller, all that summer day. 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay; 
 l''et, looking down the distant lane. 
 She hoped the Judge would come again. 
 But when he came, with smile and bow, 
 Maud only blushed, and stammered "Ha-owV" 
 And spoke of her -pa," and wondered whether 
 He'd give consent they should wed together. 
 Old Muller burst in tears, and then 
 Begged that the Judge would lend him -ten;" 
 Tor trade was dull, and wages low. 
 And the -craps" this year, was somewhat slow. 
 And ere the languid summer died. 
 Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride. 
 But, on the day that they were mated, 
 Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated: 
 And Maud's relations, twelve in all. 
 Were very drunk at the Judge's hall. 
 And when the summer came again. 
 The young bride bore him babies twain. 
 And the Judge was blest,but thought it strange 
 That bearing children made such a change: 
 For Maud grew broad and red and stout '. 
 And the waist that his arm once clasped about 
 Was more than he now could span. And he 
 Sighed as he pondered, ruefully. 
 How that which in Maud was native grace 
 In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; 
 And thought of the twins.and wished that they 
 Looked less like the man who raked the hay 
 On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain 
 Of the day he wandered down the lane 
 And, looking down that dreary track. 
 He half regretted that he came back. 
 For, had ho waited, he might have wed 
 Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; 
 For there be women fair as she. 
 Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. 
 Alas for maiden ! alas for Judge : 
 And the sent imental,-thal 's one-half -fudge . 
 For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, 
 With all his learning and all his lore. 
 Andlhe Judge would have bartered Maud- 
 fair lace 
 For more retinement and social grace. 
 If, of all words of tongue and pen. 
 The saddest are, - It might have been," 
 More sad are these we daily see: 
 - It is, but hadn't ought to be." 
 
 »- 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 181 
 
 JEAN KATE LUDLUM. 
 
 Born: New York City, Feb. 20, 1862. 
 Miss LuDLUM has written for the leading 
 periodicals of America, including- Demorest's, 
 Godev's Lailv's Book, Ladies' Home Journal, 
 
 JENNIE KATE LUI>LUiM. 
 
 and other equall.y prominent journals. Her 
 poems have received favorable notice from 
 critics and the press generally, and have been 
 widely copied. During 1890 three novels from 
 the pen of this lady were given to the public. 
 
 ©- 
 
 HOW MY SHIP CAME IN. 
 
 I stood on the shore at sunset 
 
 And watched the tide flow by. 
 Mirroring clear on its restless breast 
 
 The crimson and gold of the sky. 
 The boats that had entered the harbor 
 
 Were anchored safe in the bay 
 Lazily rocking, with white wings set 
 
 At rest till another day. 
 Faint on the far horizon 
 
 Glimmered a lonely sail. 
 And I watciied with eager, anxious eyes 
 
 To see if 'twould win or fail. 
 The wind was dead against it. 
 
 The tide flowed strong and still; 
 But steady and sure as the wind and tide. 
 
 And just as certain a will. 
 Tlie sail grew large and larger. 
 
 Wavered and faded awaj'. 
 
 Yet still I watched with anxious eyes 
 
 To see it re-enter the bay. 
 In the west the colors deepened. 
 
 And a golden sunset ray 
 Fell aslant the ocean and rested on 
 
 The ship that had entered the bay! 
 
 • ' My ship !" I cried out gladly. 
 
 Watching the shining sail 
 That was touched to a delicate, roseate hue 
 
 By that ray from the sunset pale. 
 " But how did it enter the harboi'";"' 
 
 I asked of a sailor hale. 
 "Why, child, it tacked 'gainst wind and tide. 
 
 And came in with glowing sail ! " 
 
 • ' But the wind and tide o'ercame it," 
 
 I. said, "as 'twas entering the ba3'." ["yes, 
 "Yes," answered this gray -haired sailor, 
 
 But, child, it tacked, I say I" 
 .. Tacked?" I repeated vaguely, 
 
 "Tacked'? And what is that, please?" 
 " Why," laughed the sailor, " why, my child, 
 
 'Tis coming in 'gainst the breeze!" 
 " But how is it done?" I queried, 
 
 Watching the stately ship; 
 "'Tis sailing hither and fro, my child," 
 
 Said the sailor, with smiling lip, 
 "Till at last, with stern endeavor 
 
 Gaining against the tide — 
 Tho' that and the wind may both be strong — 
 
 Into port 'twill certainly ride; 
 " For, child, a patient waiting 
 
 O'ercomes the strongest ill!" 
 As the sailor paused, the ship hove to. 
 
 At rest beneath the hill. 
 " In life," the sailor continued, 
 
 " The winds and tides of fate Lj'ield 
 
 Are strong and relentless for those who 
 
 To its swelling waves of hate; 
 " But, friend, there is One above us 
 
 Who watches with sleepless eyes. 
 Guiding the ship with loving hand 
 
 Thro' tides that are sweeping by. 
 " 'Tis true He calls to us often 
 
 To tack, and tack again ; [sail 
 
 But when harbor is entered with shining 
 
 We see 'twas not all in vain!" 
 The sunset colors faded. 
 
 The tide flowed steadily still. 
 Bearing away in its restless grasp 
 
 The seaweed and shells at will; 
 But the ship rode safe in the harbor. 
 
 Its white wings folded down; [the hills 
 While the strong, sweet breeze from over 
 
 Swept out thro' the quiet town. 
 
 No sail to be seen on the ocean — 
 
 All was peaceful and still; 
 But I'd learned a lesson grave and true 
 
 That evening under tlie hill! 
 
 -® 
 
GEORGE WALDO BROWNE. 
 
 BORN : DEERFIELD, N. H., OCT. 8, 1851. 
 
 AT the age of twenty Mr. Browne commenced 
 writing prose, of wliich he has written over 
 onehm^dred serials and three hundred short 
 stories that have received pubUcation. In ad- 
 dition to tliese stories lie has written numer- 
 
 THE KING OF KINGS. 
 The master sits behind his desk, 
 With a solemn mien and stern. 
 Declaring, " I'm the king of minds, 
 For the sons of men must learn." 
 The statesman sends abroad his word. 
 
 And tlie author plies his pen. 
 Each saying, " I'm the king of power, 
 
 For I shape the fates of men." 
 His Ijountcous stori^ the husbandman 
 
 (itithers with pride, and tlicn 
 He answers, ■> I'm tlie king of life. 
 
 For I feed the sons of men." 
 Tlu^ i)astor meek instructs liis lloclc 
 'I'd oliey the commandments, ten. 
 While tliinking, "I'm the king of liglil, 
 For I save the souls of men." 
 
 GEOKOE WALDO BHOWNE. 
 
 ous poetical productions, and has in prepara- 
 tion a book entitled Lyrics and Legends. 
 In 1883 Mr. Browne assumed editorial charge 
 of the American Young Folks, a position that 
 he still retains. 
 
 Alas! for scholar, sage and them 
 
 Of the saving prayer and pen; 
 The reaper Death spares none, but says: 
 
 .. I conquer the kings of men." 
 The Lord of Hosts looks calmly down 
 
 On his subjects great and small. 
 And says in terms well understood, 
 
 .. I'm the King of Kings o'er all. 
 
 THE WHITE STEED. 
 Like a meteor bright he flashed in sight 
 
 On the distant line of blue; 
 O'er the trackless green a rushing sheen. 
 
 Till in size and form he grew. 
 Swift as arrow sent from bow strong bent. 
 
 As the wild bird's airy flight. 
 As the ocean breeze from o'er the seas. 
 
 Came the matchless steed of white. 
 Then with nostrils glowing, mane outflowing. 
 
 And a restless, fearless eye. 
 With a proud-stepping grace, and tireless 
 pace. 
 Sped the white steed rushing by. 
 Let the bounding deer glance back with fear. 
 
 And the eagle gaze from yonder; 
 Never bird of wing nor fleeing thing 
 Can outmatch this prairie wonder! 
 Prom his unshod heel no ringing steel 
 
 Breaks the freedom of his glee; 
 While his footsteps airy, light as a fairy. 
 
 Leave no imprint on the lea. 
 Till a speck of white he fades from sight. 
 
 Where as one the bending blue 
 And the level green are dimly seen 
 On the far-sought western view. 
 Boast not of your steed with railroad speed. 
 
 Or your ships that plow the mam; 
 Even swifter far than sail or car 
 Is the white steed of the plain ! 
 Let the swift-footed deer live his career 
 
 And the eagle reach the sun; 
 While the earth we've span'd w.th an uon 
 band. 
 And the steam-king's reign is won. 
 Long my gallant steed with wondrous spciil 
 
 May you roam your native plaui ; 
 And your arching neck ne'er feel tlie cluvk 
 Of a master's cruel rein. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Distill the dew from roses. 
 
 Steal the starlight from above. 
 Bind with the breatli of morning, 
 
 And you've impii'^«»»''l Love! 
 As fades the dew at daylight. 
 
 Flee the stars before tlie sun. 
 As yonder wings the /.epliyr. 
 
 So is Love's illusion done. 
 
 ®- 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AJIEHICA. 
 
 m 
 
 133 
 
 MRS. E. 0. DANNELLY. 
 
 Born: Monticello, Ga., June 13, 1838. 
 
 This lady graduated from the Madison female 
 college in 1855, afterward spending a year in 
 New York City receiving- instructions in oil 
 Itainting. In 1863 she was married to Dr. F. 
 Olin Dantiellj% at that time a surgeon iii the 
 armv. After the war she removed to Balti- 
 
 MKS. ELIZABETH OTIS DANNELLY. 
 
 more, and in 1870 to Waxahatchi, and is now 
 left a widow. Mrs. Dannelly published in 
 1879 a volume of poems entitled Cactus, and in 
 1891 Wayside Flowers, from the press of the 
 American Publishers' Association. The poems 
 of Mrs. Dannelly have been well received, and 
 have been favorably noticed in Hart's Ameri- 
 can Literature and the Living Writers of the 
 South. 
 
 © 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Love is not a fleeting passion. 
 
 Born to cheer us but a day, 
 'Tis not love that comes to vanish. 
 
 Like the transient dews of May. 
 Strange and mystic is this feeling, 
 
 Noblest that survives the fall; 
 Like the soul, it is immortal. 
 
 Something we can ne'er recall. 
 Think not then thy hopes are vanished. 
 
 Though long years have passed away. 
 
 Though the blooming cheeks have faded. 
 And the raven locks are gray ; 
 
 Though another fondly loved her, 
 Tliough she knelt at Hymen's shrine. 
 
 If her heart was truly given, 
 Falter not, it still is thine. 
 
 Tell the same sweet story over. 
 Though together you've grown old. 
 
 And her heart 'twill touch and lighten. 
 E'en as when at first 'twas told. 
 
 Though the A'oice with age may tremble. 
 And the ear has duller grown. 
 
 If she loved thee when a maiden. 
 She will hear thy faintest tone. 
 
 For 'tis true that love's immortal. 
 
 And its essence is divine, 
 Though she may have drifted from thee, 
 
 Doubt no more her heart is thine. 
 
 Time, with all its cruel changes. 
 May have brought her care and grief. 
 
 Yet age yearns for love and pity. 
 In its sere and yellow leaf. 
 
 Widow's weeds her form ma.v cover. 
 And Iier face, the mourner's vail, 
 
 Y'et she'll listen, if thou'lt tell it. 
 To the same old lover's tale ; 
 
 And methinks her eyes will brighten. 
 
 With the love-light as of old. 
 If, with half the zeal of boyhood. 
 
 It should be as sweetly told. 
 
 IF IN THE vol' AGE OF LIFE. 
 If, in the voyage of life, dear Lord, 
 
 I've drifted far at sea. 
 Send gentle bi-eczes, fraught with love. 
 
 To waft me back to Thee; 
 Let not mj' fragile bark go down 
 
 'Mid waters dark, and deep. 
 But gently turn the wayward sails 
 
 From where the dangers sleep. 
 
 If storms It takes to rescue me. 
 
 Then, Savior, let them come; 
 I'll soon forget the billows' roar 
 
 When anchored safe at home; 
 The blood-djed streamers on my bark 
 
 Will float as glad and free. 
 As though in calmness they had waved 
 
 Above a placid sea. 
 
 If in the voj'age of life, dear Lord, 
 
 Weights have beset my bark. 
 To sink her down with burdens great. 
 
 Beneath the ocean dark. 
 Cast over-board the gathered freight, 
 
 Reject the worthless lore; 
 But let her, though in emptiness, 
 
 Land on the other shore. 
 
 -m 
 
WEDDED TO ART. 
 
 Tell me true, O son of Genius, 
 
 Devotee to ancient art. 
 Hath it satisfied thy longings, 
 
 Hath its pleasures filled thy heart? 
 As you've looked with admiration 
 
 On the sky's ethereal blue, 
 Hath it e'er suggested to thee 
 
 Love-lit eyes of brighter hue? 
 Does the face of radiant beauty. 
 
 Fair creation of thy brush, 
 Bring to mind some fadeless vision 
 
 Of a cheek with roseate blush? 
 Does the life-like form before thee. 
 
 Lacking but the human heart. 
 In its silent, pulseless beauty, 
 
 'Wake no yearnings, child of art? 
 Hast thou met no kindred spirit, 
 
 With its influence sweet, divme; 
 Hath no heart, with fond emotions 
 
 Beat in unison with thine? 
 Tell me true, O son of Genius, 
 Favored by the gods above. 
 Hast thou ne'er, with such endowments, 
 
 Felt the passion known as love? 
 Does not something, all unbidden. 
 
 Not the growth of human will, [ings 
 Though thou hush the whispered breath 
 
 Linger on and haunt thee still. 
 Are there not some tones or glances 
 
 That thy heart can ne'er forget; 
 Do they not like distant music, 
 
 Linger in thy memory yet? 
 Tell me true, O son of Genius, 
 Wedded, as you say, to art. 
 Does this fair, long-worshiped goddess 
 
 Always cheer and fill thy heart? 
 Does she smile serenely on thee 
 
 Through the long, long weary day? 
 Does she drive away thy sadness? 
 Art thou always briglit and gay? 
 Hath no fairer living mortal 
 
 Rivaled yet this ideal queen? 
 Does she reign, the only sovereign. 
 Strange and mystic, all unseen? 
 Far o'er distant seas you've wandered. 
 Where are daughters wondrous fair; 
 Hath thy heart been proof against them? 
 
 Have they made no impress there? 
 Tell me true, O gifted Genius, 
 
 With such wealth of mind and heart, 
 Can noluiman charms enchain thee? 
 Wilt tbou cleave alone to art? 
 
 ALL THINGS. 
 O can it be that all these things. 
 So fraught with mystery and woe. 
 
 These evils that beset my life, 
 
 These seeming ills that grieve me so 
 Must work for good to me ! 
 
 That all these strange, these wondrous things. 
 
 Wherein we can discern no good. 
 Must one day wear another phase. 
 Must one day all be understood. 
 And deemed the best for me! 
 Yes as the varied, scattered threads 
 
 Within the weaver's hands, combine 
 To form the fabric, slowly wrought. 
 Into the beauteous, chaste design. 
 From tangled, knotted floss. 
 So must these things together work. 
 
 To form a grand, harmonious whole. 
 Perfect our Maker's great design. 
 
 And fit on earth the immortal soul 
 For happiness and Heaven. 
 Beneath the chemist's skillful hand, 
 
 'Tis known that bitters sometimes meet. 
 And in a combination strange. 
 
 Unite to form a substance sweet. 
 And pleasant to the taste. 
 Then let me not refuse to drink 
 
 The bitter wormwood and the gall. 
 For e'en the dregs, were I compelled 
 
 In tears and grief, to drain them all. 
 Must yet to sweetness turn. 
 For all things work for good to me. 
 Not separate, they together meet. 
 And strana-ely too, they each combine 
 To make my life in Christ complete. 
 And consummate His will. 
 Then let me never more repine. 
 Or e'er indulge a vain regret. 
 While God's eternal Word proclaims 
 
 That all things whatsoever, yet. 
 Must work for good to me. 
 
 A CURIOUS FACT. 
 When old and young, the rich and poor. 
 
 In finery come out. 
 It, is a fact significant. 
 
 They seem to grow devout; 
 When all have spent their ready casn 
 
 To purchase something new. 
 You'll scarcely find in any church 
 
 A single vacant pew. 
 But when the outfit's been disph.yed. 
 
 The bonnet's wearing old. 
 How strange it is as ribbons fade. 
 
 Devotion, too, grows cold: 
 How very strange when pretty clothes 
 
 Appear no longer new. 
 That those who still frequent the church 
 Find worshipers so few. 
 
 —^ 
 
 5<- 
 
® 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 135 
 
 MRS. CELESTE MAY. 
 
 Horn: Lee Co., Iowa, Oct. 20, 1850. 
 Mrs. May has written and published a work 
 entitled Sounds of the Prairie, which has re- 
 ceived favorable notice from press and public. 
 She occasionallj' lectures in the cause of tem- 
 
 MRS. CELESTE MAV. 
 
 perancc, of which she is a stanch advocate. 
 She was married and lived for a number of 
 years in the state of Iowa, but now resides in 
 Nelson, Nebraska. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE LOST .. NARRATIVE." 
 
 Letters I've written, long and short — 
 Letters of love and of retort; 
 Letters of friendship, and all sort; 
 Letters to South and letters to Nortli ; 
 Letters to East and letters to West — 
 But never, no never, 'mong' all the rest. 
 Was accused of giving, to tliose I love best - 
 Not even to tliose T called but friend — 
 That part of ray time you call tlie •• tail-end. 
 Time flies! and, like Tam O'Shanter's mare, 
 Is tailless long ere one's aware. 
 Or reaches the running water, where 
 The witches of hurry and of care 
 Cease annojing us, and stare; 
 And there is only left us, there. 
 The bare escape ; while, everywhere. 
 Duties unpleasant and duties fair. 
 Burdens hea^-y and hard to bear. 
 
 Others pleasing and light as air. 
 
 Crowd, unfinished, plucking lime's hair; 
 
 Till we, in utter and blank despair. 
 
 Wonder if ever, or anywhere. 
 
 Before was seen such a tailless mare 
 
 As the flying steed, so bald and bare. 
 
 Which the penniless writer rides with care. 
 
 So accuse me not of giving to you 
 
 The narrative to which I've lost all clue; 
 
 I've plucked from Time's forelock some 
 
 moments new — 
 In which I could write some sentiments true; 
 Though poorly expressed, I iiope that a few 
 May revive my true image, in your heart, 
 
 anew. 
 That blessings on earth and in heaven accrue 
 To your share, is the wish of — adieu. 
 
 NOTHING "WORTH WHILE. 
 
 There is nothing worth while 
 
 Unless shared by another; 
 What is fortune's sweet smile 
 
 If it glads not our brother? — 
 It is nothing worth while. 
 The sweetest of song 
 
 The sirens can sing 
 Allures us not long. 
 
 Unless we can bring 
 Our best friend along. 
 The joy of beholding 
 
 A beauteous picture. 
 Loses half tlie unfolding 
 
 Of its soft-tinted feature. 
 To a lonely heart viewing. 
 And wisest tales known, 
 
 If they do not beguile 
 Other hearts than our own. 
 
 Are hardly worth while. 
 Though in Izard's sweetest tone. 
 
 The choicest of food. 
 
 To the one who prepares it. 
 Is not half so good 
 
 If nobody shares it. 
 And in silence he brood. 
 What a bauble is fame. 
 
 If there is none 
 To speak our own name 
 
 As the dearest one! 
 Ah! life is tame. 
 So there's nothing worth while. 
 
 If enkindles no eye 
 With a thought or a smile 
 
 At the same glad sky — 
 O there's nothing worth while. 
 'Tis companionship sweet 
 
 The heart most craves; 
 Love's glances meet. 
 
 And the spirit laves 
 In a honeyed retreat. 
 
 -^ 
 
-* 
 
 ^- 
 
 136 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. JEANIE OLIVER SMITH. 
 
 Bohn: Tkoy, N.Y. 
 
 THE girlhood of the subject of this sketch was 
 passed in Scotland, and on her return to this 
 country she was married to Horace E. Smith, 
 LL D of Johnstown, N.Y., who for ten years 
 was dean of the Albany law school. Mrs. 
 Smith hast\v<, beautiful daughters. Her writ- 
 
 MRS. JEANIE OLIVER SMITH. 
 
 ingshave appeared in nearly all of the first- 
 class magazines and .iournals of the country, 
 and in 1889 appeared Day Lilies, a magnificent 
 volume of poems from the pen of this writer. 
 Her versification is smooth, the rhymes good 
 and strong, and the work has been favorably 
 commented upon by competent critics 
 
 A MINOR SYMPHONY. 
 
 The winds liave cadences at eventide, 
 
 That pulseless lie 
 
 Ueneatli the morning sky; 
 Fi'oin reiilms of deepest mystery they glide. 
 Gr;iv(^ autumn hatl> a grand deep underlone 
 
 In anlliem times. 
 
 Which huighing, leaf-crowned Junes 
 In all tlieir clioral wealth have never known. 
 When harps that we have loved tliiough all 
 lliese years 
 
 In rhythmic flow 
 
 Sound oft the tremolo, 
 How broken our antiphony l)y tears'. 
 
 When far from shore sounds some melodious 
 psalm 
 Which once most near ^ 
 
 Entranced the listening ear, [calm. 
 
 How huslied we pray that wind and wave be 
 But far, oh, far the dark horizon line; - 
 Our comrades still. 
 To whom we call at will. 
 Held fast by love-chords from the sea's incline 
 And when the diapason swells at even. 
 Spell-bound we stand. 
 As by some border land 
 Where all the harmonies are caught from 
 heaven. 
 
 THE SECRET OF POWEK. 
 .. Kuler of men ! " W^hatever greatness lies 
 Wrapped in those three short words, 'tis born 
 
 of Mind. 
 No prowess stands for this. The brawny god 
 Of muscle and of limb may sometime swaj- 
 The gaping multitudes who court meanwhile 
 The bustle and the tumult and the fray. 
 The rushing, foaming, angry surface whirl 
 Of that great cauldron called Society; 
 But far below the troubled surface dwells. 
 Among space-deeps that only Mind can reach, 
 A pulsing heart that dominates the world! 
 
 SUNRISE FROM THE TOWER. 
 We breatbe at times a purer air. 
 And taste the joys of nobler birth; 
 As if 'twere given again to earth 
 Its pristine, Eden charm to wear. 
 And such an hour is this. The morn. 
 In white robes o'er the Orient hills. 
 Hies blushing, wliile the welkin fills 
 With song, from myriad sources born. 
 The winds of night are hushed to rest. 
 The clouds have vanished, fold on fo d. 
 This isle, "An emerald chased in gold. 
 Lies fair and bright on ocean's breast. 
 Far out to sea white sails are seen. 
 Where sky with ocean seems to meet. 
 Ah, yonder weird and mystic fleet 
 From out the heaven has sailed, I ween. 
 They float far off through ether seas. 
 Like thoughts of peace, on wings of prayer 
 Like doves that love's fond missives bean- 
 Sail on, riv'h freigliled argosies'. 
 
 MY LASSIE. 
 Bonnie lUue een. 
 Like stars tlieir sheen; 
 Stars in tlie lieaven o' a lovely face. 
 That flash sotil-liclit from tlieir secret place, 
 Fnmi tlie fountain o' he:ivenly ruth, 1 ween; 
 None but a flend could sudi licht efface. 
 Or bring ae cloud to that brow serene. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ©- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OV AMElilCA. 
 
 137 
 
 « 
 
 STEDMAX A.CHAPLIN. 
 
 Bokn: Baltimore, Vt., June:^, 18U9. 
 In 1842 this g-eiitk>man wusorchiined a Baptist 
 minisier; and later joined tlie Church of God. 
 All his life Mr. Chaplin has been a close stu- 
 dent, and has attained a fair knowledge of 
 langunfres. mathemntics, the sciences and 
 
 STE.-VDMAN A. CH U'L,IN. 
 
 biblical lore. He has l)eeii a teacher, farmer, 
 minister, and editor — occupying- the editor- 
 ial chair for thirteen years with marked 
 ability; and as a pastor was g-reatly beloved. 
 The poems of Mr. Chaplin have appeared 
 quite extensively in tlie religious and secular 
 press. He is now a resident of Plymouth, Ind. 
 
 S- 
 
 FADTNG LEAVES. 
 Cold Boreas breatlies and the shroud of white 
 
 rime 
 Wraps the deatli-stricken bloom at morn's 
 
 dawning pi-inie. 
 From petals of bloom h.js laded the hue 
 That yesterday smiled to the sun in the 
 
 blue. 
 The ice bands with crystal the bem of the 
 
 reef. 
 The crimson and yellow, deep color the leaf; 
 Sad wailings of autumn, deep requiem's 
 
 sound 
 O'er the rose and the lily that mix with the 
 
 ground. 
 Like the leaf we all fade — we blast like the 
 
 tiloom. 
 
 The form that is human, the chill from the 
 tomb 
 
 Blights as frost blights the verdure; the tem- 
 pest that wings 
 
 Its flight o'er our graves, our final dirge 
 sings. 
 
 How short is the summer for leaf ou the 
 
 spray; 
 How short like the leaf-life, humanity's day ; 
 Of the leaf — of the man — how soon it is told 
 That the frost-breath has come and both are 
 
 but mold. 
 
 PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE. 
 
 Sweet childhood hours — life's opening scenes 
 How fondly memory backward leans. 
 Toward its first dreams, and ardent prays, 
 Let me re-live those blissful days. 
 How gay was spring enrobed in bloom 
 And dewy pearls, when morn's perfume, 
 And bright aurora's crimson flush. 
 Were sweet as bridal beauty's blush. 
 'Neath summer's sun in sportive race, 
 I watched the light the shadows chase; — 
 Looked up to heaven's majestic blue. 
 That worlds of light were moving through,— 
 Then, in the streamlet's mirror glow. 
 Looked down on heavens that shone below. 
 How oft, before sins shadow black. 
 Had yet eclipsed life's shining track. 
 On mountain heights, I wondering stood, 
 In nature's awful solitude. 
 Before the painted foliage fell, 
 O'er rising peak, or sinking dell;— 
 E'er withering flowers were laid in death, 
 Cut down by winter's killing breath,— 
 And heard prophetic whispers saj\ 
 Youth's transient visions fleet away! 
 
 Those years are passed,— upon my brow. 
 
 The snows of time are falling now. 
 
 The scliool-house troops, with whom I played, 
 
 Are slumbering 'rieath tlie yew-tree's shade; 
 
 Parents, that saw my life-dawn day. 
 
 Are coffined yonder in the clay; 
 
 Green mounds are heaved above the breast 
 
 Of sisters in their dreamless rest. 
 
 And graven marbles, give the date 
 
 When children passed the stream of fate; 
 
 And she I name my youthful bride 
 
 Is sleeping by these children's side. 
 
 And brotliers, once beloved, are bound 
 
 In prison-house beneath the ground; 
 
 The grass has often grown above. 
 
 The saints, who taught me God to love. 
 
 And, while I wait the grave for me. 
 
 Is ready as once Job for thee. 
 
 For as 1 list with bated breath, 
 
 I hear thy steps, O coming death I 
 
 -)5 
 
5*- 
 
 138 
 
 LOCAI. A^'l) NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEK1CA. 
 
 ■>5 
 
 But Judah's seers foretell an hour. 
 When death shall lose his cruel power; 
 That one shall come with might to save 
 And break the holts that bar the grave. 
 When tliat dear dust on which we tread. 
 In deathless shape shall leave that bed; 
 They say upon fate's farther shore 
 No tempests beat, no billows roar, 
 Tliat fadeless Paradise s bloom 
 Beyond the deserts and the tomb; 
 That on those shores, Jerusalem 
 Has golden streets and walls of gem. 
 No sorrows there, no grief, no sigh. 
 For tears are wiped from every eye; 
 That tlie eternal raptures there. 
 The pure, the good, the holy share; 
 That sin shall ne'er invade our home 
 In the deliglitf ul world to come ! 
 Then Heavenly Father, me 1 pray 
 Give youth eternal in that day. 
 
 MRS. AMAI^DA J. SMART. 
 
 Born: Thornton, N. H., 1830. 
 At the age of twenty-one this lady was mar- 
 ried to Lewis B. Smart. For nearly a year 
 she lived in Kansas, but not liking the west. 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. AMANUA J. SMART. 
 
 she soon returned to her native state, wliere 
 she lias lived the gTe.-iter part of her life. Mrs. 
 Smart is now a resident of Pauvers, Mass., 
 where she expects to remain. 
 
 ODE TO BLACK MOUNTAIN. 
 
 O, wondrous Black Mountain, 
 
 Why such a dark name? 
 Why were you not christened 
 
 Tlie Mountain of P'ame? 
 Methinks this more fitting 
 
 A visuge like thine. 
 Beneath which is hidden, 
 
 Percliance, a rich mine; 
 Though rutlilesslj- clambered 
 
 By lady and brave. 
 Than dark appellation 
 
 Your god-father gave. 
 Your colors, moreover, 
 
 Presented to view. 
 When kissed by the sunlight 
 
 Are red, white and blue. 
 
 OUR HERO. 
 
 U. S. and G. — initials three, — 
 Familiar over land and sea. 
 With U. S. A. will live for aye, 
 Though nations rise and melt away. 
 For royal sons — the martyred ones. 
 Our counti-y sombre garment dons; 
 Then lol apace, with rev'rent grace, 
 For dauntless hero veils her face. 
 
 From favored mount could he recount 
 The glories of the Living Fount; 
 Like Muses, too, his eye could view 
 The nearing heights of pastures new. 
 Brave conq'ror he, amazed we see! 
 Henceforth his ruled spirit free; 
 No monarch's throne hath ever known. 
 More overwhelming- vict'ry shown. 
 
 Then U. S. A. forever may, 
 Witli loving pride her tribute pay; 
 And early plant, in world-wide haunt, 
 A laurel wreath for U. S. Grant. 
 
 TO MAD RIVER. 
 
 Who calls thee Mad, dear River, 
 
 Sees not thy smiling face 
 When summer sunbeams quiver, 
 
 Tliy bosom to embrace; 
 Nor as gray twilight neareth. 
 
 Athwart thy waters glad. 
 Yon shad'wy arch appeareth, 
 
 Shiill blindly call thee mad! 
 'Tis when dark summer showers 
 
 Down terraced hill-sides pour. 
 Or cloud of autumn lowers. 
 
 Till by the deaf'ning roar. 
 Of mad'ning waters swelling 
 
 Thy banks to overflow. 
 Thou teachest field and dwelling 
 
 Thy frantic name to know. 
 
 ^ 
 
©- 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 139 
 
 JACOB HUFF. 
 
 Born: Chatham Run, Pa., Jan. 31, 1853. 
 Jacob Huff's writiug-s g-eiierally appear un- 
 der the nom de plume of Faraway Moses. At 
 an early ag'e ho was employed in tlie lumber 
 woods of Pennsylvania. Mr. Hutf lias written 
 numerous liiiiiii)ri)us sketches and serial 
 
 JACOB HUFF. 
 
 stories, in which he is at present engaged. 
 Both his verse and prose have appeared from 
 time to time in the Detroit Free Press, Pitts- 
 burgh Post, Henry George's Standard, and 
 other equally prominent journals. 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 
 ^- 
 
 No one knows the secret sighing,— 
 
 Sobbing in a neighbor's heart; 
 No one knows the fond hopes dying — 
 
 Nd one knows the cruel smai't. 
 Nc^one knows the hungry yearning 
 
 Of a neighbor's cheerless soul ; 
 No one knows how grief is burning 
 
 In the heart where love grows cold. 
 None but God knows each desire; 
 
 He alone knows griefs untold: 
 Ah, He sees the heart's slow Are 
 
 Dying out as love grows cold. 
 Ah, I see your neighbor sitting, 
 
 Often with a low bowed head; 
 And I know how grief is flitting 
 
 Through his heart, where hope is dead. 
 
 BALM OF LIFE. 
 
 The greatest thing in life — 
 
 A balm for its sorrows and strife — 
 
 And this one tiling will prove 
 
 Better than all else to me: 
 
 'Tis merely to live and to be 
 
 With the people I love. 
 
 I love these bare, bald hills. 
 
 Where the song of the spring bird trills, 
 
 And I hear the coo of the dove; 
 
 But better than all to me. 
 
 Is to always live and be 
 
 Among the people I love. 
 
 Oh, what is wealth and fame? 
 
 Or, what is an honored name. 
 
 If from my friends I'm removed? 
 
 Give me my cot on the hill. 
 
 And the song of the whip-poor-will. 
 
 And the friends I have always loved. 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 Before the glass I stood this morning 
 
 Combing the hair of my frivolous head; 
 Then I beheld, oh, solemn warning! 
 
 A silvered strand of hirsute thread. 
 Firmly I grasp'd it with my fingers, 
 
 Pluck'd it out, but oh! the cold 
 Realization behind it lingers — 
 
 God in Heaven ! I'm growing old! 
 
 Then I noticed the crow-foot wrinkles 
 
 Deeply indented around each eye, [twinkles 
 And tears of regret down my sad face 
 
 While thinking how soon I must surely die. 
 
 I smooth out the wrinkles with careful 
 
 fingers, [grows cold; 
 
 And pluck out gray hair while my heart 
 For, oh! thai terrible thought still lingers — 
 
 God in Heaven ! I'm growing old! 
 Oh, this stern flat of nature 
 
 Under which all mortals lie! 
 Suspended over every creature 
 
 Hangs this sentence —all must die! 
 Execution day draws nearer. 
 
 And each gray hair I behold 
 Speaks of death and graveyards dreary — 
 
 Oh! my God, I'm growing old! 
 Soon these hands will cease their labor. 
 
 And upon this bosom lay, 
 Down beside a silent neighbor. 
 
 Flesh and bone and heart decay. 
 What comes after? Ah, the mj'stery. 
 
 Half of which has ne'er been told; 
 For the dead send back no history 
 
 To poor mortals growing old. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Take away those little dresses. 
 
 Gently lay them out of sight; 
 I am sad, and it distresses 
 
 Me to look at them to-night. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 140 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 JOHN J. MCGIRR. 
 
 Born : Youngstown, Pa., Makch 13, 1855. 
 The principal work of Mr. McGirr is the De- 
 struction of the World, a poem which was 
 published in 1886. Although comparatively 
 unknown as yet, he is a poet of no mean abil- 
 ity. His conceptions iuc lofty —his language 
 
 JOHN J. .M UIHK. 
 
 clear and musical. This work also contains 
 various other shorter poems that have been 
 well received. Mr. McGirr is a newspaper ed- 
 itor by profession, and now resides in 
 McKeesport, Pa. 
 
 AVE MARIA. 
 
 »- 
 
 Ave Maria! the evening shadows fail; 
 Ave Maria! We pray thee guard us all. 
 
 Over the land and the sea the night is coming 
 
 on; 
 Ave Sancti.ssima! guard us till the dawn. 
 
 Star of life's stormy sea, hear onr humble 
 priiyer. 
 
 And wlien the tempests rise, save \is from de- 
 spair. 
 
 Ouid(! onr wand'ring footstei)s tlirougli tliis 
 
 world ariglit; 
 Safely througli tlie darkness upward to the 
 
 light. 
 
 Ave Sanctissiraa! liear our earnest cry ! 
 Ave Maria! draw near us wlien we die. 
 
 THE AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 Sadly dies the autumn day. 
 In moaning winds and sunset gray; 
 The forest trees, with branches bare, 
 Upraise their arms as tliough in prayer. 
 While at their feet the dead leaves lie 
 Hushed and sad and silently. 
 
 The gray squirrel from his dizzy height 
 Perceives tlie fast approaching night. 
 And with quick and startled leap. 
 Scrambles to his nest and sleep. 
 While deep within the wood is heard 
 The plaintive cry of the midnight bird. 
 
 Now just above the western hills. 
 The gray clouds part, and suiiliglit fills 
 The forest, and the saddened scene 
 Is glorified in the golden sheen 
 Of the setting sun. 
 
 So, sweetly on my saddened life. 
 Dark witii sickness and with strife. 
 There falls the sunlight of God's love, 
 With hope that in His home above. 
 When life and sorrow both be past, 
 My weary feet sliall rest at last. 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 And now the lightning, as a storm of rain 
 Pours from the heavens, making all things 
 
 plain: 
 The cowering millions kneeling on the ground. 
 The beasts and reptiles gathered close around ; 
 The awful secrets of the mighty sea. 
 Which now are shown so plain and vividly; 
 The falling houses and the bursting rocks; 
 The trees uprooted, as by tempest shocks,— 
 All, all the horrors of this awful night 
 Stand out distinct befoi-e poor mankind's 
 
 sight. 
 Oh, God of mercy ! listen to that cry,— 
 Tliat cry of anguish unto Thee on liigh ! 
 That tliou would'st end the lives of those be- 
 
 k)w. 
 And thus cut short their agonies and woe. 
 As if in answer to that fearful cry, 
 Tlie lightning .streams the faster from the 
 
 sky. 
 The eartli in places ope's in fissures deep, 
 Wiiere man and beast sink in a writhing heap. 
 Tlien fi'om th' abyss there come despairing 
 
 cries; 
 Tlien a faint moaning, which in silence dies. 
 
 WOMAN'S TEARS. 
 More powerful tlian tlie sword or pen, 
 More potent than the fi'owns of men. 
 More tducliing than a lover's sighs, 
 Ai'e the tears that tiow frt)m woman's e.ves. 
 
 -m 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POJETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 141 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. CONSTANCE RUNCIE. 
 
 Bokn: INDlA^APOLIs, IND., Jan. 15, 1836. 
 Constance studied in Germany for six year.s, 
 and upon lier return to America, at the age of 
 twenty-flve, she was married to the Kev. 
 James Runcie, D. D. Mrs. Runcie lias led a 
 life of wonderful mental activity, and at an 
 early nge befran to compose music. Herg-reat- 
 
 MRS. COXsT.iXCE FAUNT 1,1, ]ii>\ id m | k. 
 
 est success in prose literatuie was Divinely 
 Led, a work which attained a wide popularity, 
 and was repeatedly quoted from by i^ress aiid 
 pulpit. In 1888 Poems Dramatic and Lyric ap- 
 peared, which met with still more gratifying 
 success. In person Mrs. Constance Faunt 
 LeRoy Runcie is very petite. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MEMORY'S PICTURE. 
 
 My love came through the door, and lo! 
 
 Her very form and face. 
 So purely simple, seemed to glow 
 
 With new, peculiar grace. 
 Her dress was black, and made of gauze. 
 
 Which veiled but did not hide 
 Her perfect arms, so softly white. 
 
 They with the lily vied. 
 The crimson flowers at her throat 
 
 Were all the jewels worn. 
 Except her eyes, which shone above 
 
 With light that was love-born. 
 
 She held within her graceful hands 
 
 Her hat, which, hanging down. 
 Broke, with its strings of ribbon bright, 
 
 The dead black of her gown. 
 She was a picture standing there, 
 
 Altho' she did not know it. 
 My love, with earnest, truthful brow, 
 
 My dreamer and my ijoet. 
 I would have fallen at her feet, 
 
 I could have worshiijed there. 
 So graceful in her flowing robes, 
 
 But that I did not dare. 
 I in my very soul and heart. 
 
 Would paint her if I could. 
 As coming through the door that night 
 
 We saw her as she stood. 
 
 BROKEN FRIENDSHIP. 
 I send no greeting; I do not even feel 
 Your name forgotten when in prayer I kneel. 
 You came into my life and passed away, 
 A troubled dream which flies before the day. 
 You ask too much. 
 
 There comes, at last, an end 
 Of what one ought to suffer for a friend. 
 It then becomes ignoble — self-abase,— 
 Not sacrifice - pure — holy - full of grace. 
 I suffered much where now I cannot feel; 
 I do not still pretend a friendly zeal 
 In what you do — or are — or where you go; 
 A calm indifference is all I know. 
 I am not angry even, nor doth there burn 
 Resentment in my heart! — No! 
 
 You must learn 
 How wholly I forgive and can forget. 
 The sun, upon two friends. 
 
 Hath simply set. 
 
 THIS WOULD I DO. 
 If I were a rose. 
 
 This would I do: 
 I would lie upon the white neck of her I love. 
 And let my life go out upon the fragrance 
 
 Of her breath. 
 If I were a star. 
 
 This would I do: 
 I would look deep down into her eyes. 
 Into the eyes I love, and learn there 
 How to shine. 
 If I were a truth strong as the Eternal One, 
 
 This would I do: 
 I would live in her heai-t, in the heart 
 I know so well, and 
 
 Be at home. 
 If I were a sin. 
 
 This would I do: 
 I would fly far away, and tho' her soft hand 
 In pity was stretched out, I would not stay, 
 but fly. 
 
 And leave her pure ! 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 142 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES H. ASHABRANNER. 
 
 Born : New Albany, Ind., Dec. 31, 1861. 
 Brought up on a farm, at eighteen years of 
 age James was apprenticed for one year to the 
 blacksmith's trade, subsequently teaching 
 school for al)(iui livf >(;ns. He was then 
 
 JAMES H. ASHABRANNER. 
 
 elected assistant secretary of the Y. M. C. A., 
 and is now city librarian of tlie public library 
 in liis native town. His poems have appeared 
 from time to time in the Current, Toledo 
 Blade, and other periodicals. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 How soon the joys which we have known. 
 
 The treasures of our greener years. 
 Become with moss and rust o'ergrown. 
 
 Till scarce the sculptured name appears. 
 
 The relics of the past, though'few. 
 Neglected lie within the heart ; 
 
 The weeds of time conceal their hue. 
 Or but reveal the tints in part. 
 
 The playtiiing of the prattling boy 
 
 Is all the world to him to-day; 
 To-morrow brings another toy. 
 
 For which he flings the old away. 
 
 But not alone to infant mind 
 But to the gray-haii-ed children too, 
 
 A toy appears of tair design. 
 Until replaced by something new. 
 
 And friends to wliom we said, adieu. 
 And wept to clasp the parting hand 
 
 Fade fi'om the memory, like the hue 
 Of words engraven on the sand. 
 
 The vows that made the parting sweet. 
 On memory's tablet yield their place 
 
 To words of love and smiles that meet 
 Reflection in a fairer face. 
 
 And love that we regard as true 
 Leaps into flame, and then expires. 
 
 Or bursts from other vents anew. 
 Relit by flames from other fires. 
 
 And yet I deem it weU, that such 
 
 Is life and all that it contains; 
 For memory comes with softened touch 
 
 And brings to mind our lessened pains. 
 
 And oh, the past! the silent past! 
 
 What-shudders seize the maddened brain. 
 When scarce we dare to think, at last 
 
 The past might come to light again. 
 
 For deeply buried in the dust. 
 Are secrets that we fain would keep. 
 
 Their tombs we guard with sacred trust 
 Till we, with them, lie down to sleep. 
 
 SONG OF SUMMER TIME. 
 
 The fields are bright with the golden grain. 
 That waves in the subtile breeze; 
 
 The partridge calls in his loud refrain. 
 To his mate from the apple-trees. 
 
 Sweet and low is the hum of bees. 
 And the hum of the reaper's tune. 
 
 As, one by one, thej' bind the sheaves 
 Beneath the skies of June. 
 
 Deep in the shade of the beechen grove. 
 Where the sun and the shadows play. 
 
 The oriole swings with his mated love. 
 And blends his tuneful lay. 
 
 Silent and grand with a lurid glow. 
 
 Behind the hills of the west. 
 The chariot of Sol is sinking low. 
 
 And bids the liarvester rest. 
 
 AMOR FATUM VINCIT. 
 
 I witnessed, last night, in a vision. 
 
 Two pathways trom opposite coves. 
 Converge in the regions elysian. 
 
 And wend through celestial groves. 
 As (ine single pathwaj they wandered, 
 
 Liki' I'ivcrs that flow to the main. 
 But while in my vision I pondered, 
 
 1 saw them diverging again. 
 And widely asuiidei' they tended. 
 
 As fashioned by ilestiny's might. 
 But in the dark valU'j- tin'y blended 
 
 And entered the realms of light. 
 Oh, loving hearts here disunited. 
 
 Look up through your iinguisli and tears. 
 For love now so cruelly blighted. 
 
 Will bloom thi-ough eternity's j'ears. 
 
 -® 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 143 
 
 -* 
 
 nellip: corinne bergen. 
 
 Born: Del^nco, N. J., Oct. 14, 1868. 
 When a child Nellie lived in Washing-ton and 
 Philadelphia, and at four years of age came 
 to East Saginaw, where she has lived ever 
 since. Graduating- in 1887 from the high 
 school, she continued her studies foroiie year 
 
 NELIilE CORINNE BERGEN. 
 
 at St. Clair, Michigan. Miss Bergen has made 
 elocution one of her principal studies, and 
 has appeared at several private concerts as 
 Parthenia in Ingomar. Her poems have ap- 
 peared in several prominent papers, and have 
 received favorable mention from the press 
 and public generally. 
 
 ©- 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES. 
 Fame! what, I pray is fame? 
 
 A thing to drive men mad! 
 And gold! 'tis but a curse. 
 
 To make our hearts more sad. 
 I'd rather a hundred times 
 
 Sit here and drub and write. 
 And have returned each poem 
 
 I send, than wear so bright 
 A crown, yet heavy, too. 
 
 As wealth puts on your head; 
 To drive you till you'd wish 
 
 You rested with the dead! 
 Why, man; it's awfully hard 
 
 To bear the burden Fame 
 
 Imposes. Better far. 
 To live, unknown by name, 
 
 Than be sought after, times 
 When you for I'est most long, 
 
 For autograph, or theme. 
 On which to write a song! 
 
 Here do I sit all day. 
 
 And none so poor to seek 
 My hiding- place secure. 
 
 Yes, here from week to week, • 
 
 I sit, and none molest; 
 
 While if the magazines 
 Should t;ike each poem I write. 
 
 What lively times and scenes! 
 
 This little room would be 
 
 Not large enough by far; 
 I'd have to move up-town. 
 
 And " run down " on the car. 
 
 Why Fame! it only means 
 
 No rest from morn to eve. 
 What's that— the postman's knock? 
 
 A check ! I scarcely b'lieve. 
 
 'Tis I. It's for same name 
 
 Perhaps; but — here — what's this? 
 "Ten dollars for your poem — 
 
 A Rosebud for One Kiss.' " 
 
 Strange, strange indeed! It was 
 
 My very poorest one — 
 And yet, for me, it has 
 
 The best and noblest done ! 
 
 Fame ! man, it's glorious good ! 
 
 The best born earth can give. 
 And money? That's good, too; 
 
 We must have that to live. 
 
 THE YELLOW ROSE. 
 The yellow rose,— I have it now; 
 
 The rose I sent my love ! 
 The beauteous rose once wet with dew. 
 
 The rose I sent my love! 
 
 The petals fine were emblems true. 
 
 Oh love I bore to her. 
 The tender flower a token true. 
 
 Oh love I bore to her. 
 
 And here it is all faded now. 
 
 She sent it back to me; 
 And here it is all dead and sere; 
 
 She sent it back to me. 
 
 STELLA, MY STAR. 
 Oh Stella, mj' star, bright star. 
 
 Say where are j'ou shining to-night? 
 If I, bj' my heart, could tell. 
 
 To you would I wing my flight. 
 
 -^ 
 
© 
 
 5< 
 
 144 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ELLA S. JOHNSON. 
 
 THIS lady is a resident of Houston, Texas, 
 where she is welL and favorably known by 
 her many admirers. She has written poetry 
 quite extensively for the periodical press, and 
 
 EI.LA S. JOHNSOM. 
 
 is represented in Gems From a Texas Quarry. 
 Her poems have been highly praised by tlie 
 press, and have been copied extensively 
 throughout the western states. 
 
 PEKDITA IN DEO. 
 In a dim and haunted forest 
 By a dark and silent lake. 
 Where the coral-hued flamingos 
 
 Come at eve their thirst to slake; 
 Where the blue-bird prinks its feathers 
 In the silence and the dark. 
 And the vivid red-bird flutters 
 
 Through the branches like a spark. 
 Sleeps my child-wife wee Perdita, 
 Underneath the moss and ferns. 
 With the giant trees above her. 
 
 Where the wind at midnight yearns. 
 In the evening, in the dark night. 
 
 Evermore my heart returns 
 To this dim atid mystic forest. 
 With its mosses and its ferns. 
 
 IHermit-liko I rove its vastness. 
 From the twilight till tlie dawn, 
 There's a new face in the city — 
 From the sky a star is gone. 
 
 © — : 
 
 A DREAM POEM. 
 
 WHITE VIOLET. 
 
 Thou small, exquisite flower, 
 
 Dyiug on my heart. 
 
 An thou of the universe 
 
 A spirit, or a part? 
 
 Thy fr;igrance is thy soul,— 
 
 O! breathe it into mine. 
 
 That tluiught may be divine. 
 
 Thy subtle odor thrills 
 
 Me with intense delight; 
 
 The day becomes a dream, 
 
 A memory the night. 
 
 Thou hast entranced me quite; 
 
 Thy sweet escaping soul 
 
 Hath mine in its control. 
 
 Now far, now near, it floats. 
 
 The voice that haunts my dreams. 
 
 Tender as winds that stir — 
 
 At midnight lonely streams; 
 
 All wildly, sadly sweet; 
 
 So fond and kind, so low. 
 
 And faint with happy woe. 
 
 My own, my own, it breathes. 
 
 And dies upon the air; 
 
 My pulses thrill to life — 
 
 Sweet is love's answered prayer — 
 
 O! most divinely sweet! 
 
 A spirit hiiunts the hour. 
 
 Thou wan, exquisite flower. 
 
 THE WOUNDED BIRD. 
 
 Upon the greenwood tree apart 
 
 I sang for thee my sweetest song; 
 Thy arrow almost struck my heart; 
 I fell the withered leaves among. 
 Why hast thou shot the little bird 
 
 That sang its sweetest song to thee? 
 Oh, when my heart by love was stirred. 
 
 That love burst forth in melody. 
 My little heart was full of love: 
 
 God's sunshine kept it strong and warm. 
 Oh, how couldst thou so cruel prove? 
 
 l' never did thee any harm. 
 No more across the bright blue sky 
 
 With bounding heart I'll speed my way: 
 No more my little mate and I 
 
 Will watch the breaking of the day. 
 The speckled eggs within my nest - 
 
 Oh, long ere this are cold -stone cold. 
 More painful grows my wounded breast. 
 
 And blood is on my plumes of gold. 
 Is that my wild mate's note T hear 
 
 Within the leafy tree close by? 
 My cry it heard and has flown near 
 
 Only, alasl to see me die. 
 Why hast thou shot the little bird 
 
 That sang its sweetest song for thee? 
 Oh, when my heart by love was stirred? 
 That love burst into melody ! 
 
 -© 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 145 
 
 « 
 
 HELEN LEE CAREY. 
 
 Born: Ipswich, Mass., September, 1857. 
 At the age of twenty Miss Carey became a 
 school teuclier. The first poem of this lady 
 appeared in the Cottag-e Hearth when she 
 
 HELKN LEE CAREY. 
 
 was eighteen years of age: and since that 
 time they liave appeared in the Boston Tran- 
 script, Youth's Companion and many other 
 periodicals of equal prominence. Miss Carey 
 is still a resident of lier native state at Mal- 
 den; 
 
 ® 
 
 SLEIGHING. 
 Here are we nestled, warm and snug-. 
 Within the cutter's perfumed rug-. 
 And swiftly o'er the light road skim 
 Toward the hills that far and dim 
 Lie on the cold horizon's rim. 
 Away, away! the snow is white. 
 The air is clear, the moon is bright. 
 To backward g-lance the village spires. 
 Tipped with their pale up-pointing- fires, 
 Fade as a holy thought expires. 
 Away! to-night our company 
 Tlie spirits of the frost shall be; 
 We'll chase the flying bells whose play 
 On moonlit meadows far away 
 Is softened to a murmur gay. 
 Away through villages that lie 
 Like silver jewels, gliding by 
 
 The river's gleaming- stream of steel. 
 Whose fringe of ice the waves conceal 
 Tliat echo back our sleigh-bolls' peal. 
 Here stands a quiet farm-house; there 
 A stretch of glistening- fields lies bare; 
 Here thickets, robed in v/liite array. 
 Climb the steep banks, and sliarply laj' 
 Dark sliadows o'er our rapid way. 
 The shaken trees their crystals fling, 
 Tliat shatter will) an airy ring; 
 And hark! a mocking ripple swells 
 From where the covered streamlet wells 
 And tinkles through its icy cells. 
 
 Awaj- again! yon pine-trees tall 
 
 Close round us a mysterious wall; 
 
 Through their great harps the solemn moan 
 
 Of winds is sweeping, long and lone. 
 
 In melancholy minor tone. 
 
 Away through spicy forests, hung 
 
 With mantles by the storm-winds flung, 
 
 Fi-om out whose solitude the sigh 
 
 Of breezes brings some weird, wild crj% 
 
 To scare us as we glimmer by. 
 
 Ah, see! the watch-fire on the lake. 
 
 Where merry skaters pleasure take! 
 
 Their voices, as we onward go. 
 
 Die to a light cadenza low. 
 
 As sounds through dreams of music flow. 
 
 The prospect widens; on before 
 
 Stretches the broad lake's dazzling- floor; 
 
 And far, where pearly vapors rise. 
 
 Shine through a mist the peaceful skies 
 
 And azure hills of paradise. 
 
 The distance shuts like wings behind; 
 
 Before, it opens silver-lined; 
 
 The angel of the radiant niaht 
 
 Leads ever on before our flight. 
 
 And past us stream its robes of liglit. 
 
 EXOTICS. 
 Thou! I love thee! cool, dim green and car- 
 mine, 
 Creamy, pure white and frail pink deep- 
 'ning- down — 
 Kare mingling forms and perfumed colors 
 mingling — 
 O sweetest soundless music that can drown 
 All feelings save this longing thou dost wake 
 Toward — I know not what! — Art thou a 
 key 
 To ope the door of the mysterious Life 
 
 Whose fire leaps into mj- heart through thee? 
 Ah! now I know the secret of thy power! 
 
 Poem of Nature! the Promethean flame — 
 The infinite Thought breathes in thy perfect 
 beauty. 
 And writes on thee the glory of a name. 
 
 -© 
 
SB 
 
 1^ 
 
 146 
 
 LOCAL A^V NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 ELIZA H. MORTON. 
 
 Bokn: Deering, Me., July 18,1853. 
 COMMENCING to leach school at the age of 
 sixteen, Miss Eliza Morton taught constantly 
 in the public schools of Maine until 1879, 
 meanwhile writing- quite a little poetry and 
 prose for prominent periodicals. In 1879 she 
 went to Michigan and taught for three years 
 in the normal department of Battle Creek 
 College, giving special attention to the sub- 
 
 51- 
 
 HIAZA H. MOKTON. 
 
 ject of geographical science; and as a result 
 she iMiblislied Potter's series of Geographies, 
 which were enthusiastically received, and 
 had a wide sale. In 1881 appeared a volume 
 from the pen of this writer entitled Still Wa- 
 ters. The subject of this sketch is also well 
 known as the author of The Songs My Mother 
 Sang. My Mission, 1 Glory in the Cross, and 
 many other hymns made popular in D. L. 
 Moody's revival meetings. Poor health ob- 
 liged Miss Morton to return to her native 
 state, where she now resides in Portland. 
 
 WEAKNESS. 
 
 In weakness held by hands unseen 
 
 I struggle with the strong. 
 And vaiidy strive to rise, to work. 
 
 To mingle with the throng. 
 Life looks so bright, so full of joy 
 
 To those who daily feel 
 
 The glow of health within their veins. 
 
 Of strength to work with zeal. 
 The days and weeks and months below 
 
 Are slipping from life's string. 
 Like pearls, and gliding from my grasp 
 
 Like summer birds on wing. 
 Like ghosts my wasted years arise 
 
 And haunt each passing hour; 
 They lift to me their spectral hands 
 
 And boast of wasted power. 
 In weakness sick and faint I wait. 
 
 And calmly bide the daj'. 
 When like the mist upon the hills 
 
 My pain will pass away. 
 
 THE SONG OF LIFE. 
 Life is a song, tender and low — 
 
 Baby on bi-east — 
 Prelude of joy, thrilling the heart. 
 
 Lullaby, rest. 
 Life is a song, merry and wild. 
 
 Sung in a day; 
 Chorus of fun, innocent glee. 
 
 Laughter and play. 
 Life is a song, rhythmic and sweet. 
 
 Love is its tune; 
 Treble and base blended in one. 
 
 Perfect as June. 
 Life is a song, solemn and sad — 
 
 Music most slow I 
 Death plays the harp when it is eve. 
 
 Anthem of woe! 
 Life is a song; sing it with smiles. 
 
 Sing it with tears. 
 Earnestly sing, prayerfully sing. 
 
 Months, days and years. 
 Sing for the poor, sing for the sick, 
 
 Sing for the sad. 
 Sing till some heart, catching the tune, 
 
 Groweth more glad. 
 What if the song floateth away 
 
 Into the air? 
 What if the earth holds in its arms 
 
 All we deem fair? 
 Lips that are dustonce more will sing, 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord!" 
 Jubilee songs once more will ring. 
 
 Glory to God! 
 
 WEARY. 
 
 Weary of self, weary of sin. 
 Weary of conllicts fierce within. 
 Weary of toil, weary of pain. 
 Weary of failure oft and again. 
 Weary of living, weary of life. 
 Weary of turmoil, noise and strife, 
 Weary of earth with all its woe. 
 Weary and homesick here below. 
 Weary of all but Him who died. 
 Weary of all but the Crucified. 
 
 m 
 
® 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 147 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. SADIE LEWIS. 
 
 Born: Pleasant Gap, Pa., Feb. 14, 1859. 
 S.\DiE commeut'cd wi'iting: poems at an eai'ly 
 age, many of wliich have appeared from time 
 to time ill the local daily and weekly newspa- 
 
 MRS. SADIE LEWIS. 
 
 pers of her native state. Mrs. Lewis was 
 married in 1879, and now resides in Lock 
 Haven, Pa. 
 
 «- 
 
 IN THE FIELDS. 
 I've been out in the fields to-day. 
 
 The fields around my home; 
 I have gathered the fern and flowers gay. 
 And drank from the watei's, 'neath Heav- 
 en's blue dome. 
 
 I have gazed on tlie golden beauty. 
 
 Of summer bravely drest. 
 Heard tlie chorus of feathered songsters. 
 
 And the chatter of woodland guest. 
 
 I hear the drowsy humming bee, 
 And the rush of the waterfall; 
 
 But the distant sound of chiming bells. 
 Stern thoughts of life recall. 
 
 And a prayer ascends for strength and 
 grace. 
 
 As I pass through the summer of life; 
 While the rustling leaves of autumn. 
 
 Foretell the winter's strife. 
 
 I stretch out my hand for guidance. 
 Through the darkness, mist and rain. 
 
 So tiiat n.y heart and I '11 find ri-st, 
 From our infinite .sorrow and pain. 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 Let your life be a book of light, 
 Each page a glittering gem; 
 
 No frowning fate, or task so great. 
 But you will conquer them. 
 
 In thought and deed, if you succeed, 
 
 On record true and wise. 
 Some day will light the way. 
 
 To the gates of Paradise. 
 
 THE FIVE SENSES. 
 
 To see God's green earth with myriad flowers, 
 
 The whispering ti-ees and climbing vines, 
 Churches, palaces, world-famed towers. 
 
 Compound a picture divine sublime. 
 The fields of waving grain, the hills, 
 
 The clear spring overflowing. 
 Thank God for sight— his law fulfills. 
 
 In nature bright and glowing. 
 
 To hear the song of singing birds. 
 
 The music of the mountain rills. 
 The humming noise of insect life. 
 
 The tramp of mighty western herds. 
 Machinery's rushing roar and sound. 
 
 Creates a din we love to hear. 
 It tells of pi-ogress the world around; 
 
 Thank God for hearing so much cheer. 
 
 To swell the perfumes God has given. 
 
 In countless flowers with dainty life. 
 The southwind's balmy sweetest breath. 
 
 Bring spices to our dwelling; 
 The fruit now ripe on tree and stalk. 
 
 Contend in luscious strife. 
 Unwritten poems who can tell. 
 
 But I thank God for the sense of smelling. 
 
 To touch the velvet petaled rose. 
 
 Or kiss the face of a little child, 
 Is a world of sweets in verse or prose. 
 
 Without a flaw or speck of guile. 
 To touch the silver hair of age. 
 
 In blessing kind with words of cheer. 
 Will reach the heart, God's eye engage. 
 
 Ah ! yes the sense of touch is dear. 
 
 To taste the sweetest nectared wine. 
 
 Or feel the glow of beauty thrill you. 
 Or hear a witching, tender sound. 
 
 Or see the star-gemmed sky of blue. 
 Then let us keep these graces given. 
 
 Pure as all thnigs in nature are. 
 Defile them not. Lord keep us clean. 
 
 That we may enter Heaven. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 148 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LEVI BEACH. 
 
 Born : Basin Harbor, Vt., Feb. 3, 1810. 
 The poetical productions of Mr. Beach have 
 been chiefly of a religious character, which 
 have been largely copied by the local press. 
 He has also contributed many campaign 
 poems. The verses of Mr. Beach are varied in 
 
 NATURAL GAS. 
 
 Deep in the eartli, rich treasures lie. 
 
 Men reach them with a drill, 
 
 With force they come forth unto them, 
 
 Their homes with comfort fill. 
 
 The hidden treasures now are found 
 
 Which long have been secret ; 
 
 Tliey spring forth now a rich supply, 
 
 Our many wants to meet. 
 
 No wood nor coal, now do we need 
 
 'Tis gas that takes the lead; 
 
 We will dispense with ax and saw 
 
 Of them we have no need. 
 
 We have no kindling to bring in 
 
 Or wood that is too green; 
 
 We hold the match and turn the key- 
 Then what a Are is seen. 
 
 It is too fine for eyes to see. 
 
 Our ears can hear the sound ; 
 
 It was a glorious day, indeed; 
 
 When this rich gift was found. 
 
 What wondrous changes I have seen 
 
 Since eighteen hundred ten. 
 
 What great discoveries there have been, 
 
 Since 1 that year began. 
 
 LEVI BEACH. 
 
 Character, and illustrative of his skill In de- 
 picting scenes and incidents. Lining in Paola, 
 Kansas known as one of the Natural Gas 
 towns, it is but natural that this fact should 
 eUcit a poem on that subject from his pen. 
 
 A FAITHFUL SHEPHERD DOG. 
 Will Pedro's voice be heard no more 
 To tell when rogues are at the door? 
 How oft we've left him all alone. 
 To guard the house, while we were gone. 
 How glad he was of our return 
 And proud to show what he had done; 
 His duties he did well perform. 
 And met us with affection warm. 
 He will no more come at our call 
 He'll fetch the cows no more at nil. 
 His age has freed him from his cares 
 But still he dotb our memory share. 
 'Twas in the field when all alone. 
 With no one near to hear his groans. 
 And no one knew where Pedro fell 
 Until the crows this fact did tell. 
 
 ® — 
 
 TO ROSA. 
 Thy name, dear Rose, cannot be beat. 
 Mid all the flowers, there's none so sweet. 
 Put all the flowers in one row. 
 There's none can with the Rosy show. 
 Buttercup, Tulip, Datfodil, 
 Or all that grows along the rill. 
 The rose still now doth take the lead. 
 And leaves the rest quite in the shade. 
 Now with the bunch still let her stay. 
 And beautify the whole bouquet. 
 Her fragrance will the whole pei'f ume— 
 What odor then will fill the room. 
 Now when this Rose shall pass away. 
 There may she bloom in endless day; 
 Where frosts and death can never come, 
 But there to have eternal bloom. 
 
 TO ANNA. 
 Now eighteen years have passed away- 
 Like former years they do not stay; 
 Now on your nineteenth year you start. 
 May God's rich blessing now impart. 
 May all you do be to His praise. 
 Who kindly lengthens out your days; 
 What e'er He bids that may you do. 
 And ever to your God prove true. 
 Siiould you like me, see seventy-eight, 
 Mav peace and joy then be your fate; 
 And all your works in Ilini be wrought. 
 Who hath for us our pardon brought. . • 
 
 -^ 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 149 
 
 •® 
 
 MRS. p:lLxV gay hull. 
 
 Born: Flint, Mich., July 26, 1858. 
 When but a few months old, Ella was left 
 fatherless, and lier mother took her to her 
 mountain home in Vermont, where Ella re- 
 mained until her twelfth year, when she was 
 bereft of her mother. She was then kindly 
 cared for by an uncle, George E. Pomeroy, 
 living' in Michigan. At the age of fifteen Miss 
 Ella taught school, applying her earnings for 
 her own education, graduating at the Michi- 
 
 MKS. ELLA (iAY HULL. 
 
 gan State Normal in 1883, and taking special 
 work at Albion college in the spring of 1886. 
 In 1884 a volume of her poems entitled A Score 
 of Thoughts, containing twenty selections, 
 was published, which met with a ready sale. 
 She was married to Dr. Philo Hull in 1887. The 
 prose writings of Mrs. Ella Gay Hull have ap- 
 peared under the nom de plume of Flossy. She 
 now is engaged in literary work, and resides 
 with her husband in Grand Rapids, Michigan. 
 
 88- 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Down through tiie vista of years. 
 
 Doth a beautiful memory stray, 
 Leaving each time in my heart. 
 
 When it goes, a golden ray. 
 
 'Tis the memory of one that T loved. 
 Yes, loved, in the long ago. 
 
 With a face as pure as the angels'. 
 And white as the drifted snow; 
 
 With hair that was soft and brown. 
 And eyes of heaven's own blue; 
 
 And hands that were gentle and kind, 
 My mother, so loving and true. 
 
 Oft-times, in dreams, I am kneeling 
 Again by the side of her knee. 
 
 And softly breathing the prayer 
 She taught so early to me. 
 
 But she's nearer me now than ever. 
 For now she is at my heart; 
 
 She's my beautiful "angel-mother," 
 With whom I shall nevei' part. 
 
 THE WHITE CANOE. 
 As down to rest I dropped 
 
 One night, I had a dream; 
 Methought I stood beside 
 
 A quickly flowing stream; 
 And while I stood and gazed 
 
 Upon its rippling tide, 
 A tiny white canoe 
 
 Was anchored at my side. 
 
 The boatman's silvery tones 
 
 Rang out >• I've come for thee;" 
 And then he stepped ashore. 
 
 And standing close by me. 
 He looked adown tlie stream. 
 
 Where clouds we hanging low. 
 And asked if I could trust 
 
 When all the light should g^. 
 
 I breathed to God a prayer. 
 
 Then quickly gave my hand. 
 And in that white canoe 
 
 We floated down the strand; 
 The way was sometimes dark. 
 
 But joy slept in my soul — 
 And strains from far-off choirs 
 
 Upon the breezes stole. 
 
 I've often wondered since. 
 
 What might the meaning be — 
 And who, the IjiJatman brave. 
 
 Who came that night for me; 
 But now I know 'twas Jesus 
 
 Who called me from the strand, 
 I've felt that same sweet peace 
 
 Since giving him my hand. 
 
 And down the strand of life, 
 
 1 safely sail to-night, 
 Witli Jesus at the oars. 
 
 To realms of joy and light. 
 I know that clouds are near. 
 
 And many an angry wave, 
 But I have naught to fear. 
 
 With such an arm to save. 
 
 ■^ 
 
®- 
 
 150 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 m 
 
 THE FOUNT OF LIFE. 
 Something of murmuring brooklets. 
 
 Over green mosses and stones. 
 Something of sunlight, and breezes 
 
 ChaTiting in low, sweet tones, 
 Fancy's mysterious web has now caught ; 
 How shall I, tell to me, bring you the thought? 
 Words, oh ! how little you carry ! 
 
 Depths there are you can not reach I 
 Down within nature's own heart. 
 
 Truth's lie that you can not teach ; 
 Out of the beautiful springtime, I pray. 
 Weave me a poem, just one, if you may. 
 Go to that sih'ery streamlet, 
 
 Bring a sweet lesson of life — 
 Paint me a beautiful picture. 
 
 Sunlight, with beauty all rife; 
 Give it, you may, just a touch of the shade. 
 Perfect, without that it can not be made. 
 Wander through long, winding footpaths 
 
 Leading past woodlands so wild. 
 Breathe, soft and low, some sweet secret. 
 
 Known to nature's own child; 
 Down in the heart of some gnarled old tree. 
 Truths may be buried of value to thee. 
 Drink from yon bubbling springlet, 
 
 Bursting its prison-house wall, 
 Up through the earth and the rocks. 
 
 Leaping at nature's first call; 
 Drmk, and great truths shall be thine hour by 
 hour, [power. 
 
 Giving you life with their strange hidden 
 Softly it tells of a well-spring. 
 
 Clear and more wonderful still, 
 Down in the depths of the spirit. 
 
 Moved but by man at his will; 
 Out of this curious spring may be bi'ought. 
 Power, affections, impulses and thought. 
 Speak and its waters shall issue. 
 
 Pure and yet purer shall be,— 
 Check not a (iod-givcn feeling. 
 
 Let them liow out full and free; 
 Out of this mystical spring down within. 
 Come at thy choice, either virtue or sin. 
 Open thy heart to the sunlight. 
 
 Purity comes with eacli ray; 
 Notliing of sin need remain there, 
 
 Jes\is can take tliat away: 
 Out of this spi'ing in the soul's de<'p cell, 
 Only the good and the pure siiould well. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 My friends: I find you everywhere. 
 Warm iiearts harmonious with my own; 
 A symi)athy s(j sweet and rare. 
 That comes to make my life less lone. 
 It matters not whei'e'ei' 1 roam, 
 Some loving heart gi\es me a home. 
 You gathei' for me sweetest Howers, 
 And strew them all along my way. 
 
 With brightness fill the darkest hours. 
 And turn my longest night to day. 
 This must be heaven-like, 1 know, 
 A foretaste of those joys, below. 
 O, precious ties of heavenly birth, 
 Our Father gives them every one, 
 More lasting than the things of earth, 
 For they I'cmain when life is done; 
 And with the white-robed throng on high. 
 These friendships may go on for aj'e. 
 
 OUR MAE. 
 
 Only a frail little bark; 
 
 Adrift on the sea of life, 
 
 VVhere rocks, and reefs and billows 
 
 And dangers great are rife. 
 
 Stretching her tiny sails. 
 
 She struggled against the tide; 
 
 Some times away up on the l^illows. 
 
 Then down in the furrows wide. 
 
 Until, one day, an angel. 
 
 Low hanging o'er our world. 
 
 Caught sight of the fairy vessel. 
 
 With its snowy sails unfurled. 
 
 And, wrapped in admiration. 
 
 The angel lingered long — 
 
 At length his face was saddened. 
 
 And ceased his joyous song. 
 
 For he saw a storm-cloud nearing, 
 
 He had heard the breakers roar. 
 
 And he knew that just beyond them 
 
 Lay a rough and rocky shore. 
 
 He snatched her from the water. 
 
 And he bore her far away; 
 
 In the harbor up in Heaven, 
 
 Floats our life-boat •> Mae." 
 
 And so we must not sorrow. 
 
 Kind friends and loved ones dear. 
 
 Although we long to have her. 
 
 And memory brings a tear. 
 
 For the waves of sin and sorrow. 
 
 Might hold her evermore; 
 
 And now, we trust, she waits us. 
 
 Beside the •• Golden Shore." 
 
 A LIFE BLOSSOM. 
 Down by the river of life, 
 
 A beat if ul flower grew — 
 White, with a touch of led. 
 
 And fresh as the evening dew; 
 Each day it grew more fair. 
 Each day became more rart>. 
 For a time it busked in the sun. 
 
 Earth's storms it did not know. 
 But one dark night they came. 
 
 And tierce the winds did blow,— 
 It drooped beneath the blast. 
 And ere the stortn was i>ast 
 Torn w;is that delicate robe. 
 
 Scattered the calyx of gold. • 
 
 * 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 151 
 
 -* 
 
 OLIVER W. BARNARD. 
 
 Born : Economy, Ind., Aug. 4, 1828. 
 The poems of Mr. Barnard have appeared 
 from time to time, during: the past decade, in 
 many pioniiiu'iit iiewspajiers, especially in 
 
 OLIVER W. BARNARD. 
 
 the states of New York and Illinois. He is at 
 present engaged in farming at Manteno, 111. 
 Mr. Barnard is of large stature, and is a very 
 pleasant and intellectual gentleman. 
 
 ®- 
 
 MOMENTS. 
 How the moments come and go! 
 Bright with joy, or black with woe. 
 Speeding on with tireless wing. 
 Life or death to all they bring — 
 To the wretched and the blest 
 Dark despair, or sweetest rest — 
 Through the sunshine, through the dark. 
 Moving like the lightning's spark — 
 Through the cottage of the poor — 
 Through the rich man's palace door; 
 To the living and the dying — 
 Swiftly on they're ever flying — 
 Here they plunge a soul in night. 
 There another's borne to light — 
 Here is born a household wonder," 
 There a household burst asunder — 
 Here they spread the earth with grain, 
 There their gift is want and pain — 
 Here they kiss the new-born child. 
 There they hiss with frenzy wild — 
 
 Here they cool the keen desire. 
 There they burn with fiercest fire — 
 Some they raise toa di^zy height — 
 Some they plunge in abysmal night. 
 Some they bear on beds of ease — 
 Some they scourge with dire disease. 
 Some they load with foulest shame — 
 Some they crown with glorious fame; 
 Some they hide in polar snows. 
 Some they soothe with sweet repose; 
 Some they rest on fruitful soil. 
 Some they curse with constant toil; 
 Some they bless with peaceful life; 
 Some they drive through ceaseless strife; 
 Thus their reign they ne'er give o'er — 
 Firm and steadfast evermore — 
 Thus through all the worlds of space. 
 Ever keeping time and pace — 
 Witness every act of man — 
 Every motion closely scan — 
 And forever in the past. 
 And while coming ages last. 
 All things thus are ever done 
 By the moments as they run. 
 
 MUSING. 
 I love to sit and muse upon the past, 
 When through the lighted chambers of my 
 
 soul [pure. 
 
 There come and go those gentle thoughts so 
 Like troops of fairy sprites with laughing eyes 
 That shine with love so full of lambent flame. 
 And through my soul difl'use their witching 
 
 power ; 
 Then backward floating comes to me again 
 The spicy breath of childhood's happy dreams- 
 The golden hours when life was young and 
 
 fresh. 
 And all the world was like a morn in May, 
 So fresh and sweet with odors of the spring — 
 The beams of morn shone bright upon the 
 
 hills Lhope, 
 
 And life's young day was glowing fresh with 
 Ere care had dulled the pulses of my heart. 
 Thence turning to the golden West, my gaze 
 I fix upon the setting sun of life — 
 Beholding now the grandeur that appears. 
 And casts a softer radiance o'er the scene; 
 The heat anc^ 'burden now of midday past, 
 Ambition'sflame has burned itself away. 
 And breezes cool from o'er the western seas 
 Pass calmly by and fan the faded cheek; 
 And when the sun has dropped into the sea. 
 And left a golden radiance on the sky; 
 Then hope, elate, doth fl.x his steadfast gaze 
 Intently on the far horizon's brim. 
 His wont to pierce the intervening space, [life. 
 Whence far has gone the source of light and 
 But no reward returns to bless the sight; 
 Yet, on the evening air is heard a voice 
 That falls upon the inner ear so sweet. 
 
 -© 
 
© 
 
 -m 
 
 152 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 Across that bourne whence Avon's bard has 
 
 said. 
 Once passed, '-No trav'ler yet has e'er re- 
 turned." 
 And soothes away the bitter pangs of doubt, 
 And satisfies the longing- of the soul — 
 Then high upon the mountain top of life 
 It comes again far sweeter than at first. 
 Unfolding all the beauties that are found, 
 Wherein the hope of childhood fresh and 
 
 strong, 
 Combined with wisdom's golden ray, serene. 
 Gives life fruition, full for hopes deferred. 
 And like the rising sun gives light and 
 
 warmth 
 To all the world, awakened fresh from sleep; 
 And thus my soul's refreshed with hope su- 
 blime, 
 While calmly treading life's uneven way. 
 
 a&- 
 
 MRS. ANNA R. HENDERSON. 
 
 Born: Cheraw,S.C., July 1,1853. 
 After leaving school Anna traveled with her 
 parents in South America, living over a year 
 on a coffee plantation near Rio Janeiro, Bra- 
 zil. After returning to the United States, sev- 
 eral years of her life were spent in Marietta, 
 Ohio; finally locating in Willianistown, W. 
 Va., she was there married in 1878, and is still 
 a resident of that place. Her poems have 
 found their way in various periodicals, and 
 for the past few years she has been a constant 
 contributor to Wide Awake, Pansy, Little 
 Men and Women, and others. In person she is 
 tall and slender witli dark brown eyes and hair. 
 
 BLOSSOMS. 
 When first the springtime's fair array 
 
 I n Northern lands I saw around me. 
 An apple tree, a great bouquet. 
 
 With showers of lilushing petals crowned me. 
 I shook them lightly from my brow; 
 
 "Your charms," 1 said, "Can never please me, 
 Weary with winter's cold and snow. 
 
 No Northern pleasure can appease me. 
 I h;irdly see, I cannot prize 
 
 Tlie l)eauty which each bloom discloses; 
 For, O, my heart is all in love 
 
 With orange flowi^rs and Southern roses. 
 Yea more, methinks I shall not find 
 
 Room in my lieart for Northern faces. 
 So closely are its tendrils twined 
 
 Round far-off friends with Sout hern graces." 
 Succ(>ssive years 'rn-alh Nortliern skies 
 
 Faraljseiit from my native bowers. 
 Have weakeiUMi not those blessed ties 
 
 That bind me to tlie land of flowers. 
 Yet am I changed, when blossoms fall, 
 
 I greet them with as true a blessing. 
 As those which crowned me at tne call, 
 
 Of coating South winds soft caressing. 
 
 My stubborn heart has larger grown. 
 
 And has a thousand sacred places. 
 Where Love shall evermore enthrone. 
 Most fondly cherished Northern faces. 
 With earnest love 1 gladly clasp 
 
 The palm where Northern flrmness^lingers. 
 But reach my other hand to grasp 
 
 Tlie precious warmth of Southern fingers. 
 The songs I sing shall breathe a strain 
 
 In praise of Northern vales and mountains. 
 But evermore the sweet refrain 
 
 Shall be of Southern palms and fountains; 
 And for the flowers I love the most 
 
 Their beauty in my heart enshrining; 
 With apple blossoms of the North 
 
 Shall Southern orange blooms be twining. 
 
 A CHILD'S FANCY. 
 My dear little girl climbed up on my knee 
 
 in the dusk, in the sunmier weather; 
 And as happy as two who love can be. 
 
 We quietly talked together. 
 We had stories of bees, of the birds, and the 
 trees. 
 
 Of the moon and the stars of even, [these. 
 But the little one's thoughts went beyond all 
 
 And she wanted to talk of heaven. 
 "O, mamma, they say it is far away, 
 
 The land where there is no dying; 
 And I wonder so how we ever can go 
 
 When we have no wings for flying." 
 " My little dear, we never should fear; 
 
 Our Father will not forsake us; 
 And when he doth care to have us there. 
 
 He will find some way to take us." 
 Then the eyes of brown looked dreamily down 
 
 O'er the question a sage might ponder. 
 A little while, then there came a smile. 
 
 Which was more of delight than wonder. 
 " O, mamma dear, I've thought of a plan. 
 
 As good as you ever can teach me, 
 I'll climb on the fence just as high as I can, 
 
 And the Lord won't have far to reach me." 
 Perhaps I smiled at the thought of the child. 
 
 But there flashed through my heart a feel- 
 ing [pie word 
 That its depths should be stirred by each sim- 
 
 Such a lesson to me revealing. 
 How much I had dreamed of the good which 
 it seemed 
 
 The Father might give or teach me. 
 And yet my feet had never been fleet 
 
 In climbing to help him to reach me. 
 And the thought of the child, sweet and unde- 
 liled. 
 
 Lisped out on that summer even. 
 Sank down like a seed in a soil which had need 
 
 Of a growth for God and heaven. 
 
 * 
 
SB 
 
 « 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 15:j 
 
 MINNIE C. BALLARD. 
 
 Born : Troy, Pa., 1852. 
 The first poem of this writer appeared in the 
 New York Eveuiug- Post about 1873. Since 
 that time she lias contributed to the Phila- 
 delphia Times, Cincinnati Enquirer, Louis- 
 
 Mi nnu: ( . BAr.LAKD. 
 
 ville Courier-Journal, Godey's Lady's Book, 
 Peterson's Magazine, St. Louis Mag-azine and 
 numerous other periodicals of equal promi- 
 nence. Miss Ballard still resides in her native 
 city. In person she is a little below the aver- 
 ag-e heig-ht, with lig-ht-brown hair and dark- 
 blue eyes. 
 
 SO MANY SHIPS. 
 So many ships sail on the main. 
 So many ships come home again. 
 But one ship lost no more for me 
 Shall any ship sail on the sea. 
 With it lie buried all my pearls. 
 My stock of hope and joy and love. 
 No richer freight the seaweed curls. 
 Or waves of ocean dash above. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SANCTITY. 
 They say beneath the ocean's breast 
 
 There is a place of perfect calm. 
 Where winds and storms dare not molest 
 
 The sea-folks safe from harm. 
 They say within the rude cyclone 
 
 There is a place revolving: not; 
 
 They say the fiercest flame must own 
 
 One cool, unburning spot. 
 So in the human heart should be 
 
 A place where cares may not intrude; 
 Where peace and love secure and free, 
 
 Maintain sweet solitude. 
 
 WHY I SING. 
 Mj' dearest heart in all the world. 
 
 What praise is praise enough for thee? 
 What words enough express thy worth? 
 
 What value in tiiis minstrelsy? 
 
 Yet as a bird unconscious sings. 
 
 Its own g-reat love compelling song', 
 I must assuage my heart with this 
 
 Or do my surging- spirit wrong-. 
 O. love more great than I can show. 
 
 My orient sun in splendor decked! 
 I must expel my longing so 
 
 Or be like ship o'erweighted, wrecked. 
 
 THE ROYAL LOVER. 
 
 If some most roj".il lover. 
 
 Come kingly to his own. 
 Should in his own discover 
 
 Some littleness unknown. 
 He in his love would hide her 
 
 And with his worth atone 
 For all her faults, would guide her 
 
 To heights himself hiid known. 
 And thus the two together — 
 
 She raised by his true strength — 
 Should tread the broom and heather 
 
 In firm accord at length. 
 
 CONTRASTED FATES. 
 Safe in the harbor your ship's at rest. 
 
 While mine is afloat on a stormy sea; 
 All things sweet are by you possessed. 
 
 Only the bitter remains for me. 
 " To you the haven, to me the shoal." 
 
 For soon shall the wreck of my ship goby; 
 One utterly lost, one g-aining tlip goal. 
 
 And the same white sta-rs aloft in the sky. 
 
 COULD I DO WITHOUT YOU? 
 Could I do without you, darling? 
 Earth could do without the sun. 
 Or the rosy clouds of morning- 
 Heralding- the day begun. 
 Could I do without you, darling? 
 Night could do without her stars. 
 Or the glorious moon adorning 
 All the atmospheric bars. 
 Could I do without you. darling? 
 I could liv^e in endless dark; 
 For you shine my star of evening-. 
 And the only sun I mark. 
 
 -® 
 
^■ 
 
 -* 
 
 154 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 JACOB G.GROSSBERG. 
 
 Born : Russia, April 10, 18T0. 
 The subject of this sketch emigrated with 
 his parents to America iu 1882, residing- for a 
 while in Cleveland and finally settled down in 
 Chicago. Mr. Grossberg has received a good 
 education, having studied Latin, French and 
 
 .JACOB G. GROSSBERG. 
 
 German. In 1888 he entered the Chicago 
 Union College of Law, and after graduating 
 became one of the attorneys for the Bureau 
 of Justice, in the city of Chicago. Ever since 
 his youth he has written verse, and in 1889 
 published a pamphlet of Poems, which was 
 favorably noticed by the press. 
 
 LOVE AND THE MUSE. 
 
 Now my pillow, tear-drenched nightly. 
 
 Is my throbbing temple's bath; 
 When a zephyr comes, that sprightly 
 
 Bears me off on scented patli • 
 Green and frsigrance l)alsam kindly 
 
 My heart'sdeep sore; — 
 Ne'er lias mortal wandered blindly 
 
 In an Eden such before: 
 
 To the right each crystal glittered — 
 
 Every droplet of the lake; 
 To the left tlie chorus twittered. 
 
 Followed chanting in my wake; 
 Rainbow hues, more lovely tinted, 
 
 Of each flower-bed. 
 
 In best beauty vying, hinted 
 To my ease a couch soft-spread. 
 
 And a Nymph came to me smiling. 
 
 In all grace and beauty robed; 
 With me soft the hours beguiling. 
 
 My most tender passions probed. 
 Leading me through lawns sweet-scented 
 
 To her proud throne. 
 To me her domains presented — 
 
 Grandeurs, wonders, all her own ! 
 
 At her bid spright fairies folded 
 
 Softest music on my soul, 
 Fore my eyes mailed heroes molded, 
 
 Wliose mien Virtue's graces stofe. 
 Then smiled on me, sweet, benignly. 
 
 Of these the queen: 
 " All here lovely, all divinely, 
 
 Mayst thou share, if so 1 mean." 
 
 Then did seize me one desire : 
 
 This, to woo the royal maid; 
 And when rose my scorned fire, 
 
 I with tresses golden played. 
 And to eyes the stars out-beaming, 
 
 My heart laid bare; 
 That my hours with dreams set teeming. 
 
 For bright visions changed despair! 
 
 THE WEDDING SONG. 
 My sister! this thy wedding-day 
 
 To me is such sweet sorrow; 
 Though joj-Qus, still my heart doth say, 
 
 I part with thee to-morrow. 
 
 Of faces first remembered dear 
 Thine 'tis I'm first to part with; 
 
 Of separations with those near, 
 'Tis thee I'm doomed to start with I 
 
 Ye players! pour some pensive strain,— 
 
 To me it is the sweetest; 
 For soothing my heai't's passing pain. 
 
 Your sadder note's the meetest. 
 
 O, why must happiness be bought 
 
 With years of separation ! 
 Is there not joy witliout the thought 
 
 It has a termination"/ 
 
 But since such must be human joy 
 Let not my gloom restrain it; 
 
 Reji)ice, my soul! do not destroy 
 Such gladness, wlien I gain it. 
 
 Forgive me, sister, pardon all. 
 
 This sadness of a monu'iit ! 
 Henceforth my spirits shall not fall 
 
 To gloom :— I have not .so meant . 
 
 And though we part with aching lieart, 
 
 'Tis for a hiippy future; — 
 Henceforward, though we're rent apart. 
 
 Still joined we're by love's suture. 
 
 «- 
 
 * 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIONAL POETS OB" AMERICA. 
 
 -ee 
 
 WILL WALLACE HARNEY. 
 
 Born: Bloomington, Ind.. June 30, 1831. 
 Five years Mr. Harney taught school, mean- 
 while study in "• law and graduating- in 1855. 
 He next was principal of tlie Louisville high 
 school, and for two years professor in the 
 Kentucky normal school at Lexington. Mr. 
 Harney was married in 1868, but lost his 
 wife two years later. For niof years he w;is 
 
 WILL WALLACE HAKNEV. 
 
 editor of tlie Louisville Democrat. In 1809 Mr. 
 Harney removed to Florida, and now resides 
 at Pinecastle, varying Ins ag-ricultural activ- 
 ity with occasional literary worlv. In addi- 
 tion to his poetical productions, he has writ- 
 ten several stories ; Who Won the Pretty 
 Widow, appeared in the Atlantic Monthly. 
 The poems of Mr. Harney have appeared in 
 the most prominent publications, and he is 
 ranked among the best poets of America. 
 
 SB- 
 
 THE STAB. 
 On the road, the lonely road. 
 
 Under tlie cold, white moon, 
 Under the ragged trees he strode: 
 He whistled, and shifted his heavy load,— 
 
 Whistled a foolisli tune. 
 There was a step timed with his own, 
 
 A figure that stooped and bowed; 
 A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone 
 Like a splinter of daylight downward 
 thrown, 
 
 And the moon went behind a cloud. 
 But the moon came out so broad and g-ood 
 
 The liarn cock woke and crowed; 
 Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood, 
 And the brown owl called to his mate in the 
 wood 
 
 That a dead man lay in the road. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The rain floats off; a crescent moon 
 
 Holds in its cup a round of dusk, 
 Like palm buds, in the month of June, 
 
 Half breaking from its vernal husk; 
 While breathes alow, sweet undertone. 
 
 Like brooks that grieve through beds of 
 fern ; 
 As if by curve and pebble stone 
 
 The moon had spilled her silver urn. 
 
 Night blooming agave's part the sheaf. 
 
 To catch the light distilled in showers. 
 Till overflowing cup and leaf 
 
 The cluster breaks in midnight flowers; 
 Like merchants breaking- kids of nard 
 
 And jars of olives, desert born. 
 Pineapples burst a pi-ickiy shard. 
 
 And show the seeds of fragrant corn. 
 Like Hebrew maids, the citrons hold. 
 
 Their pitchers to the vapor spring. 
 And All the hollow rind of gold. 
 
 With midnight's musky offering; 
 So once, I think, earth knew her Lord, 
 
 In lands like these of palm and vine. 
 When midnight knew the sweet accord 
 
 That turns the water into wine. 
 
 THE PHANTOM TRAIN. 
 
 In the dead of the night, the dead of the 
 night 
 
 There's a sound along the rails. 
 The creaking of a whirling crank 
 
 Like the flapping of iron flails. 
 
 With the long, low roll that heralds a storm. 
 
 Over sunburnt flelds of grain; 
 With the sullen roar of rain in the wood 
 
 Comes the Invisible Train. 
 
 It stops nor stands by station or town. 
 
 But sweeps in its viewless flight 
 To a citywho.se beautiful walls are hewn 
 
 From splendid quarries of light. 
 
 Unseen from the silent land, it comes 
 Where the mist lies low and deep. 
 
 In the beating- pulses like rolling di-ums. 
 While the passengers wake or sleep. 
 
 And dream till the morning- white and cold 
 
 Comes out of the shining- east. 
 And wakens the Lazarus sleep of night 
 
 With a touch, as of God's High Priest. 
 
 -SB 
 
©- 
 
 © 
 
 15G 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MILTON A.MCRAE. 
 
 This geutlemun has managed to spare a few 
 moments from a busy life to court tlie muse, 
 and poems from liis ])en liave occasionally 
 
 MILTON A. M KAE. 
 
 appeared in tlie periodical press. Mr. McRae 
 resides in Cincinnati, Oliio, where lie is well 
 known among- the journalists of that city. 
 
 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 
 Sleep on in peace, oh, honored dead, 
 Wliile flowers we strew upon each bed; 
 Surviving comrades honor claim. 
 But thine tlie true, undying fame — 
 Who bore the burden of the day 
 And fell in strife of blue and gray. 
 Each patriot heart will cherish thee 
 While honor lives and men are free. 
 No booming gun, no screaming shell; 
 No thrilling cheer, noanswering yell; 
 Nocharges, mingling with the foe; 
 No shouts of joy, no shrieks of woe. 
 Fair flowers of blue, and white, and red. 
 Now deck tlie warriors' verdant bed. 
 While 'neatli the sod, their trials past, 
 'I'licy wait tlie last dread trumpet's blast. 
 Though centuries come and pass away, 
 On this, our Decoration Day, 
 While proud and grand tlie old Hag waves. 
 We'll ])laiit sweet flowers round thy graves. 
 We'll jrntiipi. iioi-o from far and near, 
 While mournful music giwts the ear, 
 
 ©■ 
 
 And tread with awe the sacred ground. 
 And drop a tear on every mound. 
 Thy fame with us shall ever stand 
 In honored memory o'er our land; 
 Thy deeds in history shall remain, 
 Though countless ages wax and wane. 
 Sleep on, ye braves, while sad bells toll. 
 And anthems to your praises roll; 
 A myriad grateful hearts to-day 
 Combine to sound the lofty lay. 
 Rest till the last long- roll shall sound 
 To call you from the hallowed ground. 
 Till then our flag in memory wave 
 In honor o'er eacli hero's grave. 
 
 ONLY A BEGGAR! 
 
 Down through the bustling, busy street, 
 Witir echoing sound of horses' feet. 
 Across tiie curbstone, stopping to gaze, 
 Pausing, bewildered, g-lancingboth waj's — 
 His gray hair streaming; unkempt o'er his 
 
 face. 
 Again he strives to quicken his pace; [crowd. 
 He stumbles, he falls, 'mid the hurrying: 
 And lies in his agony, moaning aloud. 
 A crowd gathers round, the police help him 
 
 rise. 
 There's a wistful look in his fast glazing eyes. 
 He falls down again on the pavement so cold. 
 Ah me! small pity for one so old. 
 "Oh, he's only a beggar," the officer said. 
 He came to the station last night for some 
 
 bread. [gray! 
 
 What? Starving! And hurt! So feeble and 
 That's nothing new here. Sir; occurs every 
 
 day. 
 As over the road to the station they ride 
 He gasped out, " Dear Mary '." and turned on 
 
 his side. [skill 
 
 Stand back, oh physician, no need for your 
 On that poor, broken body, so worn and so 
 
 still. 
 In a small, cheerless room, both empty and 
 
 cold. 
 Lies a woman alone so feeble and old. 
 She rises, she calls, as she struggles with 
 
 pain; [again. 
 
 But slie never will hear those loved accents 
 Then back on the couch the sufferer falls. 
 Her soul goes out from those cold, barren 
 
 walls — 
 One gasp, all is quiet — the Fatlier has come. 
 No suffering now; "Tliy will be done." 
 They were only beggars.tlie old man and wife. 
 But still they were honest, in their liard 
 
 cliei'rless life; 
 But when they passed to the golden shore 
 They had riches forever; were beggars no 
 
 more. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 157 
 
 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY. 
 
 Born: Natchez, Miss. 
 Having lost lier motlier in infancy, Rosa was 
 adopted by lier maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, 
 by whose name slie was known. Miss Vertner 
 was married at seventeen to Claude M. John- 
 son, Lexington. Although assuming- at this 
 youthful age the domestic and maternal 
 cares of life, she wrote incessantly, and her 
 poems were readily accepted by prominent 
 periodicals. Her first volume appeared in 
 1859; Woodburn, a novel of southern life, was 
 brought out just at the beginning- of the 
 civil war; this was followed by Crimson 
 
 ^- 
 
 MliS. HUSA \'i:i!TXi:i! .lEFKKEV, 
 
 Hand, Daisy Dare, with other shorter poems. 
 Alexander Jeffrey, the present husband of 
 the subject of this sketch, is a gentleman of 
 Scotch descent, with whom she lives quietly 
 at her home in Lexington. Through all the 
 varied experiences of later life, not untouched 
 by sorrow and suffering, slie is gentle and 
 patient; and George D. Prentice speaks none 
 too highly of her, when he beautifully says: 
 
 "And thou hast that strange gift — 
 The giftof genius, high and proud and strong. 
 At whose behest thoughts beautiful and swift 
 
 Around thee throng." 
 
 GRECIAN POETRY vs. MODERN SCIENCE. 
 There dwelt a youth in ancient Tiirace, 
 
 Whose voice and lyre entrancing 
 Bewitched with song the human race, 
 
 And set creation dancing. 
 
 The gods and goddesses above 
 
 Heard him in silent wonder; 
 Juno forgot to lecture Jove, 
 
 And Jove forgot to thunder; 
 The sea-snakes heard and wagged their tails. 
 
 The porpoise burst with pleasure. 
 The fishes weighed it on their scales. 
 
 And founa a perfect measure; 
 The mermaids gathered round in flocks. 
 
 And strewed his path with corals; 
 The syrens heard, and from the rocks 
 
 Cast down their watery laurels; 
 The trees picked up their trunks and swayed 
 
 About in measures mazy; 
 The rocks rolled round and danced and played 
 
 In waltzes wild and crazy. 
 There comes a thrill down listening years 
 
 Throughout creation ringing. 
 Perchance the " music of the spheres " 
 
 Still echoes his sweet singing. 
 Now, Orpheus loved a maid who died 
 
 The day they were united; 
 He ruslied below to seek his bride. 
 
 And Pluto's realm delighted 
 By striking soft his "golden shell." 
 
 I never have forgiven 
 This seeking for his love in hell 
 
 Before he searched through heaven. 
 'Twas like a man to go there first. 
 
 And scarcely worth remarking, 
 But Tantalus forgot his thirst 
 
 And Cerberus ceased barking. 
 Things witliout motion swayed about 
 
 While Ixion's wlieel stopped turning; 
 The fire was stirred, but not put out. 
 
 And Orpheus left it burning. 
 The vulture even forgot to prey 
 
 While listening to that lyre: 
 Some creatui-es of the present day 
 
 Might show a like desire. 
 But truth must triumph. Lo! a glance 
 
 Our modern science merits. 
 She says no wonder rocks can dance 
 
 When they're possessed by spirits. 
 A savant gives mysterious hints 
 
 That modern quartz are leaking. 
 And that tlie fiery hearts of flints 
 
 With vinous streams are reeking. 
 
 Let modern humbug still increase: 
 
 I fling with fierce defiance 
 Tlie gauntlet of poetic Greece 
 
 At prosy modern science. 
 I swear the strains of Orpheus' lyre 
 
 Did cause the stones to frolic. 
 And left them all with hearts of fire 
 
 And nature's alcoholic ! 
 O shade of Bacchus! see with scorn 
 
 Thy purple glories flicker. 
 When mortals, drunk on rye and corn. 
 
 Press rocks for stronger liquor. 
 
 © 
 
©■ 
 
 158 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 *- 
 
 BABY POWER. 
 
 Six little feet to cover. 
 
 Six little hauds to fill. 
 Tumbling out iu the clover. 
 
 Stumbling- over the sill; 
 Six little stocking's ripping-. 
 
 Six little sboes half worn. 
 Spite of that promised whipping. 
 
 Skirts, shirts, and aprons torn: 
 Bugs and bumble-bees catching. 
 
 Heedless of bites and stings. 
 Walls and furniture scratching. 
 
 Twisting off buttons and strings. 
 Into the sugar and flour. 
 
 Into the salt and meal. 
 Their royal baby power. 
 
 All through the house we feel I 
 Behind the big stove creeping. 
 
 To steal the kindling-wood; 
 Into the cupboard peeping. 
 
 To hunt for .-somesin dood." 
 The dogs they tease to snarling. 
 
 The chickens know no rest. 
 Yet the old nurse calls them '■ darling 
 
 And loves each one •• the best." 
 
 Smearing each other's faces 
 
 With sinut or blacking-brush. 
 To forbidden things and places 
 
 Always making a rush. 
 Over a chair or table 
 
 They'll flght, and kiss again 
 When told of slaughtered Abel. 
 
 Or cruel, wicked Cain. 
 
 All sorts of mischief trying. 
 
 On sunny days in-doors. 
 And then perversely crjing 
 
 To rush out when it pours. 
 A raid on Grandma making. 
 
 In spite her nice new cap. 
 Its strings for bridles taking. 
 
 While riding on her lap. 
 
 Three rose-bud mouths beguiling. 
 
 Prattling the livelong day. 
 Six sweet eyes on me smiling. 
 
 Hazel, and blue, and gray,— 
 Hazel with heart-light sparkling. 
 
 Too happy, we trust, to fade — 
 Blue "neath long lashes darkling. 
 
 Like violets in the shade. 
 
 Gray, full of earnest meaning, 
 
 A dawning light so fair; 
 Of woman's life beginning. 
 
 We dread the noon-tide glare 
 Of earthly strife and passion. 
 
 May spoil its tender glow. 
 Change its celestial fashion. 
 
 As earth-stains change the snow! 
 
 Six little clasped hands lifted. 
 Tliree white brows upward turned. 
 
 One prayer thrice heavenward drifted 
 
 To Him who never spurned 
 The lisp of lips, where laughter 
 
 Fading away in prayer. 
 Leaves holy twilight after 
 
 A noon of gladness there. 
 Tliree little heads, all sunny. 
 
 To pillow and bless at night. 
 Riotous Alick and Dunnie, 
 
 Jinnie, so bonnie and bright! 
 Three souls immortal slumber. 
 
 Crowned by that golden hair. 
 When Christ his flock shall number. 
 
 Will all my lambs be there? 
 Now with the stillness round me, 
 
 I bow my head and pray, 
 "Since this faint heart has found thee. 
 
 Suffer them not to stray.' 
 Up to the shining portals. 
 
 Over life's stormy tide. 
 Treasures I bring— Immortal: 
 
 Saviour, be thou my guide. 
 
 EMILY ELIZA^HILDRETH. 
 
 Born; Chelsea, Mass., May 25, 1839. 
 Miss Hildreth has been an invalid for a 
 number of years, and is now living in the 
 quiet country town of Harvard, Mass. Her 
 poems have been published from time to time 
 in many periodicals of prominence. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 Hark, 'tis the chime of the midnight bell. 
 Resounding far over hill and dell. 
 Just to remind us. that to-day 
 Has passed forever from us away. 
 Nothing strange — yet each stroke brings 
 So many thoughts of so many things; 
 For the year is dying with the day. 
 And the Past is gone,— forever and aye. 
 What does the year carry forth for me. 
 To the wide embrace of Eternity? 
 What does it take from uiy life away? 
 — Not one thing, surely, that ought to stay. 
 
 Last year's green lies under the snow;~ 
 But the daisies are only waiting below. 
 
 Ring on to the end. Sweet, Hallowed Chime I 
 Thou art bringing to me a glad, new time; 
 For my heart hears this answer to every 
 
 doubt,— 
 • •The Father's arms leave none without I " 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I iisk of the stars their mystery. 
 
 As they wink In the distant blue. 
 And I could be content with all. 
 
 If I but life's mystery knew. 
 
 * 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 159 
 
 MxVBEL CRONISE. 
 
 Born: Tiffin, O., June 18,1860. 
 When nine years of age Mabel removed to To- 
 ledo, Ohio, her father having- died in the same 
 year. Ten year.s later she graduated, subse- 
 quently teaching Latin and universal histo- 
 ry for several years. In 188T Miss Cronise 
 went to Europe, and wrote letters from there 
 for various papers. She now is on the editnr- 
 
 MABEL CRONISE. 
 
 lal Staff of the Toldeo Commercial. Her writ- 
 ings have appeared in the leading periodicals, 
 including the Toledo Blade, Detroit Free 
 Press, Chicago Interior, Arthur's Home Maga- 
 zine, and many other equally prominent jour- 
 nals. In personal appearance Miss Cronise is 
 rather tall and slender, with dark brown hair 
 and eyes. 
 
 fr 
 
 LENTEN DAYS. 
 Lenten days! supreme revealment 
 Of the human and Divine, 
 When the soul's grand thoughts awakened. 
 Glow like water changed to wine. 
 When, in resurrection garments, 
 Nature writes upon the sod. 
 On the grass blade and the lily. 
 The Apocalypse of God! 
 Days of quiet and contrition; 
 Days of peace and joy and rest ! 
 Legacy of our Messiah ! 
 Holy days, forever blest. 
 
 LEGEND OF THE FLEUR-DE-LIS. 
 
 Sweetest of all the traditions 
 
 Burgundian annals hold. 
 Is one of the royal banner. 
 
 With its lilies white and gold. 
 
 Burgundian monks and writers. 
 Still the legend quaint repeat. 
 
 Of Clovis dauntless and daring. 
 And Clotilda fair and sweet. 
 
 This prayer before her altar 
 
 Clotilda offered each day : 
 " Oh Christ, appear to my husband. 
 
 Show him the Truth and the Way ! 
 
 " He worships his heathen idols. 
 
 Is blind to Thy love divine; 
 On his darkened, inner vision 
 
 Let Thy endless goodness shine! " 
 
 Months grew into years, but Clovis 
 
 Still bowed to his idols cold. 
 Scorning the Monarch of nations. 
 
 Adoring his gods of gold! 
 
 One day in a fateful battle 
 
 The Huns made a deadly raid. 
 The King saw his forces scattered 
 
 And his martial glory fade! 
 His men were falling like snowflakes. 
 
 On ev'ry side was the foe 
 Retreat meant death and dishonor. 
 
 Advance meant ruin and woe! 
 In vain he cried to his idols. 
 
 In vain imploi-ed lie their aid. 
 The jeweled Ishon was powerless 
 
 To check the terrible raid. 
 With despairing, hopeless courage 
 
 He rallied his troops that day,— 
 " Will you let our nation perish? 
 
 Charge on that savage array! " 
 Repulsed by myriad lances. 
 
 Forced back through heaps of the slain, 
 Wounded, defeated and helpless 
 
 He cried in his bitter pain: 
 •i Oh Christ whom the greatest worship, 
 
 Oh Christ of mercy and love. 
 Declare Thy marvelous goodness, 
 
 Send aid to me from above ! 
 ••The human is weak and erring, 
 
 I have not seen Thee aright. 
 Grant to me a clearer vision. 
 
 Give to me the inner sight! 
 •• I feel Thou art pure and holy, 
 
 Incarnate mercy and right. 
 Invisible pow'r and splendor. 
 
 Ruler of darkness and light! 
 " Avenge me of my aggressors. 
 
 Thy glance can put tliem to flight. 
 Speak! and their legions shall vanish 
 
 In the breath of Thy own might ! 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 160 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ©- 
 
 Lo I as he breathed this petition, 
 
 Halted the Huns in affrig-ht 
 And Clovis with heav'n-lent valor 
 
 Dashed on with resistless might! 
 
 Thousands were conquered hy hundreds, 
 For Christ nerved his hand that day. 
 
 And Burgundy's blood-stained banner 
 Waved high in the deadly array. 
 
 At night he knelt by Clotilda,— 
 "Oh wife, thy God shall be mine, 
 
 For He is able to succor. 
 He is mercy and love divine! 
 
 " The Son He sent to redeem us. 
 My brother and Priest shall be; 
 
 I know His boundless compassion, 
 His wondrous beauty I see. 
 
 "Oh Christ! by Burg-undy's standard, 
 I pledge to Tiiee service true. 
 
 Omnipotence, might and grandeur. 
 Thy mercy falletli like dew! 
 
 " Long suffering, kind and patient, 
 
 Tiiy promise never shall fail, 
 Supremest homage I yield Tliee, 
 
 My Sov'reign Divine I hail! " 
 
 His hand ligiitly grasped the standard 
 As he breathed his solemn vow, 
 
 But lo! a glory resplendent 
 Hath gilded that banner now! 
 
 A voice of surpassing sweetness 
 Speaks low to the startled king, 
 
 '• To my brother won from idols 
 Good tidings of joy I bring ! 
 
 " Your eyes once blind are now opened, 
 
 The truth eternal you see. 
 My peace that passeth all knowledge 
 
 On both of you henceforth be! 
 
 "Your standard shall bear my symbol 
 
 On its field of azure blue. 
 Celestial hlies I give you, 
 
 I bring you a banner new! 
 
 " Transcendently fair and holy. 
 Be pure as these flow'rs divine. 
 
 Be wortiiy to bear My eml)lem. 
 Be worthy too, to be Mine! " 
 
 A vision sweet and surprising 
 
 Tlie astonished monnrchs see: 
 Tlie bk)()d-stained biiiuicr gi-ows spotless- 
 
 And blossoms witii lleur-de-Iis. 
 Tlirec lilies stately and noble. 
 
 Power and comfort and love. 
 Type of the Tri-un*; God-head, 
 
 The Fat her, the Son. the Dove ! 
 
 In awe they knelt by the lilies 
 And worshiped the Christ of Love— 
 
 Wlio is king of all earths nations, 
 And king of the worlds above! 
 
 Still over a tranquil nation 
 
 The beauteous lilies wave. 
 The symbol of Him, our Brother 
 
 Whose arm is mighty to sa%-e. 
 Sweet lilies, so fair and stately. 
 
 The pledge of old ye renew. 
 For Christ was the Rose of Sharon, 
 
 But the Valley's Lily too ! 
 
 ROBERT D. DODGE. 
 
 Born: Warren Co., III., Dec. 16, 1838. 
 Mr. Dodge has written poems for the press 
 more or less for the past twentj'-flve years, 
 many of which have received favorable men- 
 tion. He now resides near Adel, Iowa, on a 
 fruit and seed farm. 
 
 MIDNIGHT REVERIE. 
 Dimly the languid planets glow, 
 Softly the dewy night winds blow. 
 Bearing perfume of leaf and flower 
 And dreamy sounds of midnight hour. 
 While over all like a m.vstie pall 
 The gath'ring shadows rise and fall; 
 Fantastic shapes before my sight 
 Come for a moment then take flight. 
 How sights and sounds of nature seem. 
 Now strangely mingling with my dream; 
 What mystic raptures do contend, 
 How earth and ether seem to blend. 
 When sounds of earth to dreamland soar 
 And faintly echo on the shore, 
 I hear them now, the watcli-dog's moan, 
 The chicken's long-drawn plaintive tone, 
 The little night-bug's tuneful strain. 
 Like to fall of a gentle rain. 
 Going — not gone, T hear them still 
 Calling in turn from hill to hill; 
 The stars sink deeper in the sky. 
 The blending shadows hover nigh. 
 At last oblivion's veil is drawn. 
 And dog and bug and chicken gone. 
 
 A PEEP INTO THK FUTI'RE. 
 
 Now all aboard the Edison lightning train 
 Of flying cars that cleave the starry main. 
 We .scorn the steam-car's crawling snail like 
 
 pace; 
 The storm cloud, too, makes such a sorry race. 
 It seems to turn and fly the other way. 
 As we pass by and swiftly onwai'd stray. 
 Away we fly athwart the sky. and soon 
 We leave behind the failing earth and moon; 
 The affrighted sun darts from his proper 
 
 place. 
 The flaming stars fly backward into space; 
 At last when past the f art! lest world we fly. 
 We dash and flatten 'gainst th' iiU bounding 
 sky! 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 161 
 
 -© 
 
 ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 
 
 Born: Johnstown, Wis., about 1850. 
 When thirteen years of age, Ella first began to 
 write poetry, but it was many j-ears before she 
 received any financial return for these early 
 efforts. Poems of Passion at once brought her 
 into prominence, and she is now in receipt of a 
 
 ELL\ WHEELER WlLtOX. 
 
 good income. She is married, and resides in a 
 beautiful home in the City of New York. In 
 speaking of past events, she says: "I had ceas- 
 ed to expect any sudden success in literature 
 when I published Poems of Passion. The in- 
 tense excitement th book caused, the hue and 
 cry against its alleged immorrjty, and the con- 
 seqviently rem.a-kable sales, wei-e all a stunnir.g 
 sui-prise to me." She has vv'ritteu a novel, and 
 still writes poetry for the leafiiiig periodicals. 
 
 ®- 
 
 EXTKACTS. 
 Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe. 
 Needs friendship's solid masonwork below. 
 
 Hearts are much the Fame; 
 The loves of men but vary in degree— 
 They find no new expressions for ihe flame. 
 
 But now I know that there is no killing 
 A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. 
 There is no hushing, there is no stilling 
 That which is part of your life and breath. 
 You may bury it deep, and leave behind you 
 The land, the people that knew j-our slain; 
 It will push the sods from its grave, and find 
 
 you 
 On wastes of water or desert plain. 
 
 How poor that love that needeth word or mes- 
 sage. 
 To banish doubt or nourish tenderness. 
 
 Daj-s will grow cold, and moons wax old. 
 And then a heart that's true 
 
 Is better far than grace or gold — 
 And so my love, adieu ! 
 I cannot wed with you. 
 
 Whoever was begotten by pure love. 
 And came desired and welcome into life, 
 Is of immaculate conception. 
 
 Life is loo short for any vain regretting; 
 Let dead delight bury its dead. 
 
 Laugh, and the world laughs with you; 
 Weep, and you weep alone. 
 
 Rejoice, and men will seek you : 
 Grieve, and they turn and go. 
 
 Be glad, and your friends are many; 
 Be sad, and you lose them all. 
 
 Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear. 
 
 Your head like the golden-rod. 
 And we will go sailing away from here 
 
 To the beautiful Land of Nod. 
 
 Waste no tears 
 Upon the blotted record of lost years 
 But turn the leaf, and smile, oh, smile, to see 
 The fair white pages that remain for thee. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE STORKS AND 
 BABIES. 
 Have you heard of the Valley of Babj'land 
 
 The realm where the dear little darlings stay 
 Till the kind storks go, as all men know, 
 And O so tenderly bring them away? 
 
 The paths are winding, and past all finding 
 By all save the storks, who understand 
 
 The gates, and the highways, and the intricate 
 by-ways 
 That lead to Babyland. 
 
 The path to the Valley of Babyland 
 Only the kind white storks know. 
 
 If they fly over mountains, or wade through 
 fountains. 
 No man sees them come or go. 
 
 But an angel, maybe, who guards some baby. 
 Or a fair.v, perhaps, with her magic wand, 
 
 Brings them straightwaj- to the wonderful 
 gateway 
 That leads to Babyland. 
 
 All over the Valley of Babyland 
 Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss ; 
 And under the fei-ns fair, and under the leaves 
 there 
 Lie little heads Uke spools of floss. 
 
 -m 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 162 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOESPH S. GITT. 
 
 BOKs: Adams Co., Pa., Sept. 9, 1815. 
 For several years Mr. Gilt taught school and 
 later was editor and proprietor of the Han- 
 over Democrat, Planet and Weekly News. 
 In 1841 he was married to Anna M. Bachman. 
 
 JOSEPH S. GlTT. 
 
 and has two children now living-. He has 
 held prominent railroad positions. During 
 his brief busy life Mr. Gitt has been a very 
 successful man, and has now retired. 
 
 *- 
 
 ODE TO PENNSYLVANIA. 
 
 Ai'ouse, and with spirit. 
 
 Frail Muse toucli the string. 
 Assist me the grandeur 
 
 Of Nature to sing, 
 Despel all tliy sadness. 
 
 Awake fi'oin thy dream. 
 Let proud Pennsylvania 
 
 Be niarlii'd as the theme. 
 First under the l)Oughs 
 
 Of the aged elm 1 ree, 
 Tliy founder in council 
 
 Did barter ft>r tlioe. 
 In friendsliip the compact 
 
 Was ordered and given. 
 And sealed with a vow — 
 
 Recorded in Heaven. 
 The war-whoop's shrill echo. 
 
 No more now is heard. 
 But sleeps in thy valleys, 
 
 Long, long since interred; 
 
 The scalp axe reposes 
 
 Within the dark tomb — 
 The calumet has given 
 
 Its last lingering fume. 
 Tlie silence tliat hovered. 
 
 In solitude dressed. 
 And in thy cool arbors 
 
 Young fancj- caressed; 
 Unbroken, except bj' 
 
 The Savage's tread. 
 Before the swift march of 
 
 Improvement has fled. 
 Thy mineral caverns. 
 
 Supplied and well stored, 
 Y'ield columns of riches, 
 E'en faintly explored ; 
 Thy mellow-breezed climate, 
 
 And rich fertile soil, 
 Reward in gi'eat plenty, 
 
 Tlie husbandman's toil. 
 A well-defined system 
 
 Is strung through the land. 
 By which education 
 
 All dare command; 
 Thy people have anchored 
 
 Within its great sea. 
 And cherished the motto,— 
 
 Let knowledge be free. 
 Philosophy, also. 
 
 Has boldly appeared. 
 And o'er thy wide vegas 
 
 Its canopy reared, 
 A Franklin has flourished. 
 
 Whose much-honored name. 
 Has long been thy passport 
 
 To regions of fame. 
 He rode on the tempest- 
 Reserved —undismayed — 
 When thunder and lightning 
 
 Their terror displayed; 
 And from earth's low bosom, 
 
 Taught men to converse, 
 In electrical signals 
 
 With clouds in their course. 
 And Poetry's lyre. 
 
 With elegance strung. 
 Already its ode of 
 
 Ascription has sung; 
 The tiniljrel has sounded, 
 
 And who yet can tell. 
 How far o'er thy confines 
 
 Its echo may swell? 
 God prosper the Keystone 
 
 Of freedom's firm arch, 
 And light her to glory 
 
 By liberty's torch; 
 I envy not scepters, 
 
 Nt)r wi-alth's hollow fame; 
 Content but to call thee 
 
 "My dear inttive home." 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 163 
 
 HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR. 
 
 BOKN IN England, May 5, 1850. 
 Whkn a boy, Henry wrote a Poetical History 
 of England. He was attached to the London 
 Telegraph and All The Year Round, and at 
 one time was amanuensis to Charles Dick- 
 ens. He was subsequently employed by 
 several prominent London and provincial pa- 
 pers, and wrote several able i)ami)lilets, soon 
 gaining a reputation as a forcible, witty, ele- 
 gant and entertaining writer. Mr. Ryder- 
 Taylor has edited various other publications 
 
 HENin HYI)LK-T VVLOK 
 
 of note; has filled several public offices; was 
 for a time professor of English literature and 
 elocution, and gave lectures on important sub- 
 jects. In 1881 he came to the United States, 
 settling in San Antonio, Texas, where he .soon 
 became an American citizen. He is now edi- 
 tor of the Texas World, and contributes to 
 several prominent journals. Mr. Ryder-Tay- 
 lor has a wife and a family of several children, 
 of whom he is very proud. 
 
 «- 
 
 THE BETTER BY AND BY. 
 
 As onward through the world we go. 
 
 We many trials see. 
 And troubles oft oppress us sore. 
 
 They seem so hard to be ; 
 But when the heart is lone and sad. 
 
 Then hope to us is nigh. 
 And shows a happy prospect 
 
 In the better by and by. 
 Tlie children think it very hard. 
 
 That elders bear the rule; 
 And harder still the lessons 
 
 They learn in life's great school. 
 Hope gives them courage as they think. 
 
 It sparkles in the eye — 
 
 They'll soon grow big and alter things, 
 In tlie better by and by. 
 
 The lovers often quarrel. 
 
 And think each other hard. 
 As often thej' make up their tififs, 
 
 And greater grows regard. 
 They think upon the future. 
 
 When bound by dearer tie. 
 And hope for wedded happiness, 
 
 In the better by and by. 
 
 When man and wife are parted, 
 
 As oft we see in life. 
 By cruel fate, or worse yet still. 
 
 Perhaps by cankerous strife : 
 If pure love in their hearts has burned. 
 
 This solace they apply,— 
 The hope of blessed reunion, 
 
 In the better by and by. 
 
 The widow, in her sore distress. 
 
 Is turned from lier grief. 
 To her dear, loving little child. 
 
 And in it finds relief; 
 By want and care she is oppressed. 
 
 And under ban doth lie. 
 Yet waits in patience and in hope. 
 
 The better by and by. 
 
 The rich man's often envied. 
 
 By reasons of his wealth; 
 He trials has, vexations too. 
 
 And often bad his health. 
 Surrounded by his riches. 
 
 His heart has .still its cry, 
 And even he looks forward 
 
 To the better l)y and by. 
 
 The poor man going forth at dawn 
 
 Toils very hard all day. 
 His wages small, his comforts few. 
 
 And very rough his way; 
 To make the most of humble means. 
 
 He and his wife doth try. 
 Encouraged l)y the goodly hope. 
 
 Of the better by and by. 
 
 The prisoner in his lonely cell. 
 
 As punished for crime. 
 Toils sadly on throughout the day. 
 
 And wears away his time : 
 He thinks of wife and loving friends. 
 
 And on them doth rely. 
 And longs for Freedom's happy hour,- 
 
 In the better by and by. 
 
 The sick man tossing on his bed. 
 Racked by the body's pain. 
 
 For him there seems but little hope 
 He may be well again ; 
 
 But when folks come to see him. 
 How welcome the reply, 
 
 " You are doing very nicely — 
 You'll be better by and by." 
 
 -© 
 
I 
 
 ©- 
 
 164 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ®- 
 
 But when we mourn our loved, our dead, 
 
 How bitter is tlie lieart! 
 'Tis then we feel the foi-ee of love — 
 
 How hard it is to part! 
 But hope stands by to cheer us, 
 
 While we with fate comply. 
 And says that we shall meet again 
 
 In the better by and by. 
 Since all of us, both rich and poor, 
 
 Of trials have a share, 
 To each let's give a helping hand, 
 
 And have a friendly care; 
 Let's do our duty in this world, 
 
 And when we come to die. 
 We'll surely be rewarded. 
 
 In the better by and by. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE WEARY. 
 
 I am weary, oh ! my darling. 
 
 Of this fell earthly strife. 
 That day by day I'm waging 
 
 Just to sustain our life. 
 But I struggle on still hoping 
 
 That Time will right the wrong; 
 And yet my weary heart will .sigh, 
 
 " How long. Oh ! Lord, how long?" 
 I am weary, oh ! my darling. 
 
 Of the sights I daily see. 
 Of vice in glorious splendor. 
 
 The poor in misery. 
 The gilded herd, with iron rule. 
 
 Oppress the common throng; 
 I'm patient, yet the heart will cry: 
 
 " How long, oh ! Lord, how long?" 
 I am weary, oh ! my darling. 
 
 Of the friendship that's not true. 
 And sigh that we no Damons find 
 
 To gild life's dreary hue. 
 I am weary of the love that comes 
 
 Just like a Syren's song; 
 And sadly does my heart repeat, 
 
 " How long, oh! Lord, how long?" 
 I am weary, oh ! my darling. 
 
 Of the fashions of the time. 
 That only make dressed dummies 
 
 Of womanhood sublime. 
 That make of young men noodles, 
 
 ElTeminate, not strong; 
 And, sickened, then 1 sadly cry, 
 
 "How long, oh! Lord, ht)w long?'' 
 I am weary, oh ! my darling. 
 
 Of pontic's shrewd game. 
 Where bosses rule in all tilings. 
 
 Defile the people's name; 
 Where the " sharp" and not the honest. 
 
 To power i)ass along; 
 And, heart-sick, 1 cry the louder, 
 
 " How long, oh I Lord, how long"?" 
 I am weary, oh ! my darling. 
 And I long to be at rest. 
 
 Where oppression cannot trouble. 
 In the haven of the blest. 
 
 I have fought the fight now fairly. 
 But I seem to be awrong 
 
 And waiting still 1 sadly cry, 
 •' How long, oh ! Lord, how long?" 
 
 MRS. JANE R.H. CARPENTER. 
 
 Born : Rockingham, Vt., Jan. 2, 1834. 
 This lady has written poems from time to 
 time for the past quarter of a century, many 
 of which have appeared in the local press. 
 She was married in 185.3 to Byron F. Carpenter ; 
 removed to Orient, Iowa, in 1874, where she 
 now resides with her husband and family. 
 
 FANCY'S PICTURE. 
 Beautiful moonlight over me falling — 
 Dearly loved scenes to my mind thou'rt call- 
 ing. 
 Scenes of my childhood, long gone though 
 
 they be. 
 Thou bringest these back in bright mem'ries 
 
 to me. 
 In the old home, nestled 'mong forest-crown- 
 ed hills, 
 I list to the music of swift dancing rills. 
 And musical voices far sweeter than these 
 Are floating to me on the soft evening breeze. 
 Over my heart, long shaded in sadness. 
 Softly there falleth a feeling of gladness. 
 For the dear old days have come back to me. 
 When I was a child so careless and free. 
 Here in their prime I find Father and Mother; 
 Once more I frolic with sister and brother. 
 Building a playhouse in some pleasant nook. 
 Or romp in the orchard or down by the brook. 
 Sweet as the flowers that bloom in the wild- 
 wood 
 Are the beautiful days of innocent childhood. 
 And like the fair flowers how short is their 
 
 stay. 
 The swift passing years soon bear them away. 
 E'en as I gaze, fancy's picture is fading. 
 Realities, stern my pathway are shading. 
 Life's bin-dens and years have furrowed my 
 
 l)r()w. 
 And my loved ones dwell not in the old home 
 now. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Many a time comes sorrow and care. 
 And trials tlie heart can scarcely bear.— 
 But seldom will come a uieasure of bliss. 
 In a world as cold and careless as this; 
 The strangest of things will sometimes befall 
 Yet the pleasures we know as the sweetest of 
 
 all 
 May come but once in a lifetime. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 165 
 
 -* 
 
 THOMAS O'HAGAN. 
 
 Born in Canada in 1855. 
 This gentleman has recei%'ecl a tlioiougli ed- 
 ucation, having become proficient in Latin, 
 French, German, and other languages, and is 
 oiieof the rising litterateurs of the new world. 
 In 1874 Mr. O'Hagan entered the profession of 
 teaching.and during the succeeding nine years 
 held positions of great prominence. Later 
 on the degrees of B. A. and M. A. were coii- 
 
 THOMAS O'HAGAN. 
 
 f erred upon him. The literary activity of 
 the subject of this sketch has been incessant. 
 His volume of poems entitled A Gate of 
 Flowers has won for him an honored place 
 among poets. Mr. O'Hagan has commenced 
 tlie study of law, and hopes also to soon re- 
 ceive the cou rse for the LL.B. degree; he will 
 certainly win increased distinction in his new 
 field. This gentlemen is a voluminous con- 
 tributor to the )>eri()iiical jires.s, and is now a 
 resident of Duluth, Minn. 
 
 ©- 
 
 A DREAM OF ERIN. 
 
 I dreamt a dream, 'twas Ireland seen 
 
 In distant years beyond, 
 
 Enthron'd and crown'd, a beauteous gem, 
 
 Earth's idol, cherish'd fond,— 
 
 And nations pass'd before her. 
 
 And courtiers grac'd her halls. 
 
 And the song of Mirth and Freedom 
 
 Prov'd her battlement and walls. 
 
 The wounds and scars of olden days 
 Had left her maiden brow, 
 And manly hearts stood by her side. 
 And swords spoke of a vow — 
 That Ireland, dear old Ireland, 
 Should forever more be free. 
 And her patriot sons in union 
 Drive the Saxon o'er the sea. 
 
 I saw the Shannon pour along 
 
 In joyous accents clear. 
 
 Its tide of music sweet and strong — 
 
 Each wave was filled with cheer; 
 
 And hast'ning on in proud acclaim 
 
 Swept Barrow Suir and Lee; 
 
 For a nation's heart was throbl)ing 
 
 In each wavelet to the sea. 
 
 land of woe and sorrow. 
 
 When shall come this vision bright? 
 When shall beam a glad to-morrow? 
 When shall fade thy starless night? 
 
 1 have watch'd and waited for thee, 
 I have hoped for thee in fear, 
 
 I have caught thy ray of sunshine 
 Tlirough the ocean of a tear! 
 
 RIPENED FRUIT. 
 I know not what my heart hath lost, 
 I cannot strike the chords of old; 
 The breath that charmed my morning life 
 Hath chilled each leaf within the wold. 
 
 The swallows twitter in the sky, 
 But bare the nest beneath the eaves; 
 The fledglings of my care are gone. 
 And left me but the rustling leaves. 
 
 And yet I know my life hath strength. 
 And firmer hope and sweeter prayer, 
 For leaves that murmur on the ground 
 Have now for me a double care. 
 
 I see in them the hope of spring. 
 That erst did plan the autumn day; 
 I see in them each gift of man 
 Grow strong in years, then turn to clay. 
 
 Not all is lost — the fruit remains 
 That ripen'd through the summer's ray; 
 The nurslings of the nest are gone. 
 Yet hear we still their warbling lay. 
 
 The glory of the summer sky 
 May change to tints of autumn hue; 
 But faith that sheds its amber light. 
 Will lend our heaven a tender blue. 
 
 O altar of eternal youth ! 
 O faith that beckons from afar! 
 Give to our lives a blossomed fruit — 
 Give to our morns an evening star! 
 
 •® 
 
® 
 
 -« 
 
 106 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL FOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARGARET A. GROWL. 
 
 Born : Canada, Sept. 14, 1849. 
 This lady was married in 1869 to Amus T. 
 Crowl, and now resides at Merriara Park, 
 Minn. Her poems )ia\e appeared in the Pio- 
 
 MUS. MARGARET A. CKOWL. 
 
 neer, Tracy Trumpet, Republican and the 
 local press generally. Personally Mrs. Crowl is 
 about the averag'c heiglit, rather slender, with 
 blacls hair and gray eyes. 
 
 «- 
 
 NETTIE. 
 Just a score of happy summers 
 
 Have passed over your dear head; 
 And you've brought us naught but blessing 
 
 With the years that now have fled. 
 May the hand of time touch lightly, 
 
 As the seasons come and go. 
 Your dear l)row; and may no sorrow 
 
 O'er your life its shadow throw. 
 May th(> coming years be freighted 
 
 Willi a love steadfast and tine, 
 Health, and friends, and every blessing. 
 
 Without number, come to you. 
 And when calls the voice of duty. 
 
 May you thoughts of self lay down; 
 Knowing we must bear Life's crosses 
 
 If we'd wear the victor's crown. 
 May you hear that welcome pliiudit. 
 
 When old age to you has come: 
 " Come yc blessed of my Father, 
 
 Welcome to your heavenly home." 
 
 SNOWFLAKES. 
 
 Oil ! ye tiny little snowtiakes 
 
 Falling softly to the ground. 
 Covering valley, hill and hamlet. 
 
 Yet not making any sound; 
 Ye remind me of the dewdrops 
 
 Falling in the silent night; 
 Watering this great earth-garden 
 
 Ere the dawning of the light. 
 Likewise sands of Time are falling 
 
 Through his hour-glass sure and slow, 
 Leaving not a trace of footprints 
 
 Of our pilgrimage below. 
 All are mighty ! yet how gentle ! 
 
 We can here a lesson find; 
 In the paths of love and duty. 
 
 Gently work with willing mind. 
 Work! until Life's sands have fallen 
 
 Through the hour-glass, the last time; 
 And our hearts has ceased its beating, 
 
 And the bell tolls its last chime. 
 Work until the gentle dewdrops 
 
 Water flowers above our dust ; 
 And the Autumn winds are sighing 
 
 A low requiem over us. 
 Then may gently-falling snowflakes 
 
 Wrap us in their snowy sheen; 
 And our sleep be calm and peaceful 
 
 Till the " Morning" dawn serene. 
 
 TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY. 
 In a quiet village 
 
 Down among the hills. 
 Two hearts were united 
 
 To bear life's joys and ills. 
 It was in the Autumn, 
 
 And was cold enough to snow. 
 But we heeded not the weather. 
 
 For 'twas twenty years ago. 
 Then this happy couple 
 
 Settled down in life; 
 Will was a loving husband. 
 
 And Jean a faithful wife. 
 They worked from early morning 
 
 Until the sun was low. 
 For people had so much to do 
 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 Their cup of joy has oft been full. 
 
 And sometimes running o'er; 
 They've also drank at sorrow's fount 
 
 'Till hearts were tired and sore; 
 But we're told with every gloomy cloud 
 
 Some silvt'ry linings go; 
 And they'll be happy as they were 
 
 Just twenty years ago. 
 And as the years fly swiftly by. 
 
 May they more trustful be; 
 Knowing a Heavenly Father's love. 
 
 Can all their troubles see. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 167 
 
 -® 
 
 SAMUEL PHELPS LELAND. 
 
 Born: Huntsbukg, O., March 4, 18:39. 
 After being admitted to the bar in LaGrange 
 county, Ind., Mr. Leland moved to Chicago in 
 1863, and thence to Aurora, Illinois. About 
 this time he published a book of poems, 
 which passed through two editions. In 1867 
 he went to Charles City, Iowa, where he prac- 
 
 SAMUEL PHELPS LELAND. 
 
 ticed law until 1880; thence he went to Europe 
 for a year. Entering the lectvire field in 1881, 
 he still continues to follow that profession. 
 Mr. Leland is in comfortable circumstances, 
 happy and content with his wife and a host of 
 friends, residing in Charles City in summer 
 and in Chicago in the winter months. 
 
 ©- 
 
 WHERE? 
 
 They tell of a land where pain is unknown. 
 Where sorrow and grief have no name ; 
 Where Eden flowers, when once they have 
 blown. 
 Bud, blossom eternal, the same; [burn. 
 
 Where no wild discontent in madness can 
 
 To pierce the proud heart to despair — 
 Where anguish on earth felt can never re- 
 turn — 
 O, where is that land? tell me where ! 
 They tell of a time in the distant To Come — 
 
 An age born of Wisdom and Peace — 
 When the poor shall not beg of the rich man 
 the crumb. 
 
 That might hunger's keen pang release; 
 The many shall not bow to the tyrannous few. 
 
 But all men be treated as men! [ing sue- 
 When the poor for their lives shall not kneel- 
 
 O, when is that time? tell me when! 
 Yes, there is a land where the weary can rest, 
 
 A home for the grief-laden heart; [pressed, 
 A time when true manhood shall not be op- 
 
 Nor groan under poverty's smart; [come, 
 A clime where no grief and no sorrow can 
 
 Where riches all shall alike share! 
 To reach it, with Christ we must enter the 
 tomb ; 
 
 With Him we must pass it,— 'tis there. 
 
 POSTHUMOUS APPRECIATION. 
 There grew a plant, the legends tell. 
 
 While many years went by ; 
 It held all fragrance, as a spell, 
 And mirrored earth and sky: 
 It garnered all the sweets of air, 
 
 From every wind that blew. 
 And in its life held treasured rare 
 
 Worth, more than wise men knew. 
 One day rough feet, with cruel tread 
 
 Had crushed it to the ground, 
 Lo! when 'twas crushed it fragrance shed. 
 
 And filled the air around. 
 Men marveled that to plant not fair 
 
 Such f ragi-ance had been given ; 
 Nor dreamed, till crushed, it was so rare 
 
 And held incense of Heaven. 
 
 GEORGE RUDDELL. 
 
 Born: Utica, Ind., April 1, 1868. 
 Removing to Paola, Kansas, at an early age 
 George was there educated, and later attended 
 the Baker university at Baldwin City, passing 
 examination in that in.stitution two years 
 later. About this time George commenced 
 teaching school, which avocation he has since 
 followed. 
 
 LIFE IS A RIVER. 
 We can fight a lively battle 
 To the end if we are true ; 
 We can make our firearms rattle 
 And the enemj- pursue. 
 If our cause is what it should be 
 And we do what we think right, 
 W^e shall live a life as happy 
 As the noonday sun is bright. 
 Can't we light the ever tempter 
 With a will and all our might. 
 For the joys the Savior's otter. 
 For the peace and truth and light? 
 We have but to push sin backward. 
 And our will then to control; 
 And we'ell find our path clear'd homeward 
 There with Christ our Savior stroll. 
 
 © 
 
gB- 
 
 168 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -« 
 
 WILL J. WEAVER. 
 
 Born : Mill Hall, Pa., Dec. 24, 1856. 
 At eighteen years of age Will taught school 
 in the winter months, attending the normal 
 school during the summer; he subsequently 
 graduated at the state normal school in 1880. 
 While attending the normal school Mr. Weav- 
 er was chosen editor of the Normal Gazette, 
 which position he filled for several terms, his 
 writings at that time appearing under the 
 
 will j. weaver. 
 nom de plume of Edgar A. Po-etic. At the 
 annual meeting of the Alumni association in 
 1880 lie was chosen poet for the meeting of 
 1881, whicli brought out his poem of Our Alma 
 Mater. Mr. Weaver's productions have ap- 
 peared from time to time in numerous publi- 
 cations, and have received favorable mention. 
 He is at present engaged in teaching school 
 in his native county. 
 
 *- 
 
 PERPLEXITY. 
 
 TO MY FELIiOW SHORTHAND STUDENTS. 
 
 Phonography's a lovely art. 
 
 Yet when I try to learn it, 
 I twist and squirm, for in a trice 
 
 I'm all mixed up; and "dern it" 
 Whene "er I try to study hard. 
 
 And ll.\ in memory clearly, [my guard, 
 Thes(! "hooks" and " crooks" onee ofl' 
 I'm vexed, so that I'm nearly — 
 
 If not quite all broke up; but still 
 
 I reason thus, and ponder. 
 If " pigs in clover " baffle skill. 
 
 Lord ! what does this, I wonder. 
 I start with "Pee," then "Ef" and 
 " Vee," 
 
 And travel on to "Eshon;" 
 I tangle " Ray " with " Dee " and ..Gay," 
 
 Regardless of discretion. 
 I strive to get the word-signs fixed. 
 
 But something .seems to blur them. 
 And all the ». hooks " and » curves " get 
 mixed. 
 
 Whene'er I try to ..Ster" them. 
 An.'Iss" with ..Tee" makes it a "Stee," 
 
 It seems most like a fable, 
 " Yeh-lay" with .. Bee " is " You-will-be," 
 
 And ..Bee" with ..El-hook" ..Able." 
 An ..Em "means ..me," ..my," ..him" 
 and ..may," 
 
 While ..Em" with .. Shon" means 
 .. motion," 
 '•Pee" stands for ..hope," ..Pee-el" for 
 play." 
 
 And .'Dee-Vee-Shon " ..Devotion." 
 A sign that's halved adds ..T" or .-D," 
 
 And lengthened .. t-h-r-ther " — 
 So ..Ef," which commonly means ..far," 
 
 Stretched out full length means 
 ..farther." 
 >. Em " widened adds a <.P" or ..B," 
 
 As .'Emb" with ..Dee" "Embody," 
 "Tee" shortened with the vowel ..e" 
 
 Transforms it into ..Toddy." 
 "Experience" wefind in ..Sprens," 
 
 ..Kend-Shon" for ..Condescension," 
 Along with many other blends 
 
 Too numerous to mention. 
 
 At night, in troubled dreams I see. 
 
 This science so fantastic. 
 So that my rest is constantly. 
 
 Confused and rhinoplastic. 
 
 And shall I ever reach the goal? 
 
 Will hoping make me stronger? 
 While crying from my inmost .soul. 
 
 How long, oh! how much longer! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 While sojourning on this tern^strial hall. 
 With trials and troubles to grieve us: 
 
 May this maxim be firmly impressed uixai i 
 .. Aspiramus Noblisinuis Itebus." 
 
 Like the, swift flying clouds are our dii 
 fleeting by — 
 
 Soon or later grim death will receive us; 
 Be not overcome, but this maxim apply,— 
 
 .. Aspiramus Noblisimus Rebus." 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilOA. 
 
 1G1> 
 
 -^ 
 
 JOHN HILL LUTHER,!). D. 
 
 Born: Wakken, H. L, June 21, 1824. 
 
 This g-ei>tleman was the prcsidentof the Bay- 
 lor Female Collefre of Beltoii, Te.xas, which 
 position lie has held since 1879. Mr. Luther 
 has had a g-roat deal of experience as a preach- 
 er, teacher and editor. In 1885 he published a 
 
 JOHN HILL LUTHER. D. D. 
 
 little volume of liis productions entitled My 
 Verses, and since that time in another neat 
 volume has appeared Souvenir Verses. Dr. 
 Luther is small in stature, with a keen, bright 
 eye, and dark hair sprinkled with silver gray. 
 He is a most entertaining- and scholarly gren- 
 tleman, and is beloved and respected wherev- 
 er he is known. 
 
 *- 
 
 THOU KNOWEST. 
 Thou knowest all, O Teacher, 
 
 My future as well as my past; 
 The clouds may be drifting- toward me. 
 
 The shadows gathering- fast. 
 But will) thee there is no dang-er: 
 
 Sunshine must come at last. 
 
 Thou knowest all. O Teaclicr, 
 
 How in weariness and fears 
 I have soug-lit Thee, found The, heard Tliee 
 
 Utter words that dried my tears. 
 
 O 'twere sin to doubt Thy goodness 
 After all the proofs of years. 
 
 Thou knowest all, O Teacher, 
 
 Better than my lips can tell, 
 How the world allures and mocks me. 
 
 And what foes witliiu me dwell — 
 Knowest all; yet in my weakness 
 
 Comes the message. All is well. 
 
 Thou Knowest all, O Teacher; 
 
 Knowest when mj- weary feet 
 Shall reach the pearly gates on liigh; 
 
 When loved ones gone before shall greet 
 The chastened spirit, longing- most 
 
 Thee, Oh my Prince, my Love, to meet. 
 
 Then I can wait, and waiting, watch, 
 And as I watch toil while 1 may; 
 
 For well T know He waits for me — 
 Nay, often meets me in the way, 
 
 Foresliadowing-, as he passes by, 
 Tlie glories of the latter day. 
 
 NOW — THEN. 
 I know not what may come, ere life 
 
 Runs to its close — 
 Defeat or triumph, 'mid the strife, 
 
 Tliat brings repose. 
 
 Fresh burdens may await the heart. 
 
 Now faint and worn; 
 And honors, deemed mine own, depart. 
 
 By others borne. 
 
 A gentle liand is holding mine 
 
 B.v day — by night ; 
 And paths, untrod before, now shine 
 With glorious light. 
 
 Oh soul, thy lot is princely now. 
 
 And ever more — 
 To toil, to wait, and then to know 
 
 Him gone before — 
 
 To watch and listen till He come. 
 
 To bear me where 
 The loved ones are, my Heaven, my home. 
 
 My Eden fair. 
 
 I only ask to share while here 
 
 Tlie toil divine; 
 To crushed and wounded ones to bear 
 
 The oil and w-ine; 
 
 Then 'neath the cross to lay me down 
 
 To take sweet rest; 
 And wake to wear tlie promised crown. 
 
 Forever blest. 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 170 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HELEN MAUD MERRILL. 
 
 Born: Bangor, Me., May 5, 1865. 
 During the last decade Heleu Maud Merrill 
 has foiitrlbuted numerous poems to the 
 St. Nicholas, Portland Transcript, and other 
 
 r 
 
 HELEN MAUD MERRILL. 
 
 equally prominent joui'nals. In person she 
 is a little below t he medium height, with blue 
 eyes and light-brown hair. Slie still resides 
 in the city of Portland, engaged in painting 
 and literary wofk. 
 
 ALL ALONE. 
 
 " Alone! " ah, well I know the word, 
 
 For I have .soi'rows of my own, 
 And in the broad highway of life 
 
 I, too, stand " all alone." 
 For who can tell the cai'eless crowd. 
 
 How slimild tlicj- know or iindiTstaiiil 
 That hiddt'n underneath this mask 
 
 Lie aspirations, high and grand. 
 Wliat matters it they i)ass nu' by. 
 
 Nor stay to oll'ei' comfort- crude, 
 .Since licre alone, 1 silently 
 
 Hold converse with a multitude. 
 
 ®- 
 
 Why should I care for those who gaze • 
 
 On me with cold, indifferent eye. 
 Since oft there comes a loving throng 
 
 Who never once have passed me by. 
 And yet, this human heart of mine 
 
 For human sympathy oft yearns; 
 Yet that in which deception lurks 
 
 My whole soul lises up and spurns. 
 For peace and truth and love are mine. 
 
 And wheresoe'er these powers are known 
 1 walk serene, content to know 
 
 That I am never all alone. 
 But human eye a limit has 
 
 Which may not penetrate the heart; 
 And so I clasp my faith more close, 
 
 And patiently I walk apart. 
 For well I know there'll come a time 
 
 When I'll no longer walk alone. 
 For in the home that is to be 
 
 My heart shall know and claim its own. 
 
 THE ANGEL WIFE. 
 
 Death's mystery is hers at last. 
 
 Through mystic portals she has passed 
 Into the limitless unknown, — 
 
 The journey each must take — alone. 
 What was the secret dying brought 'i 
 
 How was that icy stillness wrought':' 
 What were the visions, floating far. 
 
 That greeted her from the •> gates ajar':' " 
 For with that heavenly smile of peace. 
 
 When her pure spirit found release. 
 Bright angels in the azure dome 
 
 Were sent to guide her safely home. 
 Now to my waiting ear there seems 
 
 A voice to come, as in my dreams; 
 These are the words I .seem to hear 
 
 From the beautiful soul that hovers near: 
 " Life in the spirit world is sweet. 
 
 But needs j-ou, dear, to be complete; 
 Grieve not for that frail form of clay 
 
 Which mother earth enfolds to-day; 
 " Nor think that I am gone from you 
 
 To a far-off Iieaven, beyond the blue: 
 Tliought cannot bind this world, so fair. 
 
 It's 'many mansions' are ev'rywherf. 
 " And do not think, because your sight 
 
 Is wrapped in earth's gray mist of iiiglit. 
 That I forget my promise, deai-. 
 
 To come again your heart to cheer. 
 • ' With soul to soul, and mind to mind. 
 
 A closer union we shall Ihui; 
 Hut lives on earth are liviil alone. 
 
 But here we know as we are known ! 
 These are the words that come to me 
 
 From the beautiful soid I cannot see. 
 As I sit in the twilight shades alone, 
 
 To catch the sound of w. seraph's tone. 
 
 -© 
 
88- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL i'OETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 171 
 
 ALONZO L.RICE. 
 
 Born : Little Blue River, Ind., June 12, '07. 
 The poems of Mi-. Rice liuve appeared in tlie 
 Yankee Blade, Tndiiinapolis Ji)urnal. and the 
 periodieal press peueially. "S\i\ Uiee is known 
 
 ALONZO L. RICE. 
 
 as the Shelb.v eoup.ty poet, and his produc- 
 tions have attracted quite a little attention in 
 the world of literature, and he is undoubtedly 
 making- a name for himself. He is still a resi- 
 dent of his native place. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 THE DESERTED MANSION. 
 
 Deserted mansion, fallen to decay. 
 The marble lion on thy gateway sleeps 
 Serene; tlie hawk upon thy arras 
 sweeps 
 
 On never-wearj' pinions, and tlie prey 
 
 Is toiling upward, from the fields away. 
 In hope of vain escape; in tangled deeps 
 The weary. pan ting liound unchanging keeps 
 
 The wounded stag forevermore at bay. 
 All is unclianged, but never on tlie liills. 
 
 With dawnhig glimpses of the early morn. 
 Is seen Diana's god, as deep he tills 
 
 With rounded cheeks his loud and alien horn. 
 Nor evermore along- the sunset rills. 
 
 Return the reapers with the slieaves of corn. 
 
 DEAR LOVE, COULD I HOPE. 
 Dear love, could T hope in the future to know, 
 Tlie sun from the ocean of sorrow 
 
 Would rise in his splendor and inllow his glow 
 On the bosom of cloudless to-morruw : 
 The rim of the bubbles 
 Gives token of troubles. 
 And over tlie waste of the threatening- skj-, 
 Tlie sabre of cranes on its former couise 
 doubles, 
 Uncertain and doubtful as whither to lly. 
 The sun in his weakness lias sunk in the sea, 
 
 With clouds are his tributes remaining; 
 The sheep are gone liome, and the birds in the 
 tree. 
 The owl in the turret's complaining-; 
 And, in the dark thicket, 
 Anear, the lone cricket. 
 Forever is cliirping- and singing- his tuue; 
 The sentry of sorrow, the citadel's picket. 
 
 Awaiting- the orb of the rounded, red moon. 
 The day lias departed and calm is the night. 
 
 The elfins speed by on their rambles; 
 The glow-worms their lanterns have hung to 
 the sight. 
 On points of the grasses and brambles; 
 On pinions of leather. 
 Alone and together. 
 The bats are now -winging in reveland rout; 
 The owl in his bower sits wondering- whether 
 To dream or to waken the vale with a shout. 
 The insects are harping, the dark colonnade 
 
 Of tlie forest resounds to the revel; 
 And, Dian's red orb for an hour delayed. 
 Now gleams o'er the meadow's low level: 
 And. thro' her dominions 
 On fluttering- pinions. 
 The night-hawk is sailing- in ominous dread, 
 And over the vallej's and marshes the minions 
 
 Of darkness are trailing in mantles of red. 
 My heart and affection turns ever to thee. 
 
 And swerves like the needle's emotion; 
 Unknowing- the place where the fairest can 
 be. 
 So fervent and deep the devotion: 
 A hope that abideth, 
 Wliatever betideth, 
 Tho' dimmed like tlie glance of a glittering 
 star. 
 Is sought for the first, when the storm-cloud 
 divideth 
 Outshining the rest of tlie circle liv far. 
 
 ADIEU. 
 
 Out o'er the ocean of the mornnig- blue. 
 The wliite sail lessens in the misty haze; 
 And, on the lieadlands, weary watchers 
 raise 
 
 Their hands against the sun and peering- thro' 
 
 The intervening- vapors, cry : >• Adieu 
 To thy delightful presence; 'mid the days 
 The mem'ry of thy being- sweetly stays. 
 
 But grace and beauty fade away with you.' 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 ® 
 
 172 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ISAAC MCLELLAN. 
 
 Born : Portland, Me., May 21, 1806. 
 Several volumes of poems have appeared 
 from the pen of this writer. Three were pub- 
 lished in Boston, entitled Fall of tlie Indian, 
 
 ■riir Vr.ir. aihOruint Auburn. In is^ti lie pub- 
 
 J^^- 
 
 \^ 
 
 ISAAC M'[.E[.LAN". 
 
 lished a neat volume of some two liuiidred 
 and seventj'-two pages, entitled Poems of the 
 Rod and Gun, which has been well and favor- 
 ably received. Mr. McLellan is now a resident 
 of Long Island at Green port. 
 
 ®- 
 
 SEA-GULL. 
 
 Sea-bird, skimmer of the waves, 
 
 Whitlier doth tliy journey tend? 
 Is it to some soutliern sliore. 
 
 Where the meadow-rushes bend, 
 Wliere the orange-l)lossoms blow. 
 
 Where the aloe and tlie i)alm 
 Flourish, and magnolias glow. 
 
 Filling all the air with balm? 
 Katlier is thy pilgrim wing 
 
 Fleeting to some nortiiern bar. 
 Where tiie rocky reef juts out. 
 
 And the sand-beach strotciics far? 
 There in hot and silvery sand 
 
 All thy pearly eggs to lay. 
 There to teach thy little brood 
 
 O'er the t umbling surf to play, 
 llap'ly sailing o'er the brine. 
 
 Painted 'gainst a lurid sky, 
 
 On the gray horizon's verge 
 
 Thou dost even now descry 
 Some lone bark with shatter'd mast, 
 
 Bulwarks swept, and ragged sail. 
 Fighting with the ocean-blast. 
 
 Lost in shipwreck and iu gale. 
 Restless, roving, lonely bird. 
 
 Wanderer of the pathless seas. 
 Now where tropic woods are stirr'd, 
 
 Now where floating icebergs freeze; 
 Seldom doth the solid shore 
 
 See thy wings expand no more. 
 
 ON LONG ISLAND SOUND. 
 I wander daily by thy shore. 
 
 Thy rocky shore, Long Island Sound, 
 And in my little boat explore 
 
 The secrets of thy depths profound. 
 I trace the great brown rocks far down, 
 
 O'er which the salt tides ebb and flow. 
 Encrusted with their rugged shells. 
 
 Rocks where the ribbon'd seaweeds grow; 
 And there the glancing flsh I view. 
 
 The weakfish and the dusky bass: 
 The bergalls and the blackflsh schools. 
 
 And silvery porgees as they pass. 
 Fast-anchor'd in my swinging boat. 
 
 The welcome nibble to await, 
 I feel the sheepshead at the line. 
 
 The sea-bass tugging at the bait; 
 And as I gaze across the wave 
 
 I see the shining sturgeon leap. 
 Springing in air with sudden flash. 
 
 Then splashing, plunging to the deep; 
 I see the porpoise schools sweep by. 
 
 In sportive gambolings at their play, 
 PuflBng and snorting as they rise. 
 
 Wheeling and tumbling on their way; 
 And never wearied in my gaze 
 
 As o'er the blue expanse it roams. 
 Viewing the endless billows roll. 
 
 White-crested with the yeasty foams. 
 
 THE SHOT AT THE START. 
 
 The sun had tipt the horizon's edge. 
 
 Launching in air a shaft of gold. 
 Across tlie stream, athwart the sedge. 
 
 And where the rippling currents roU'd: 
 A boat was pushing from the shore, 
 
 A fowler's heart beat high with glee. 
 Yet ere the boatman touch'dan oar. 
 
 To reach the wooded island near. 
 An early flock, on rushing wing. 
 
 Flew o'er the stream's iH'Uucid face; 
 When sudden report did ring. 
 
 And ceas'd a wild duck from the race. 
 The artist hatli depicted well 
 Tha "Starting Shot," and what befell. 
 
 -® 
 
ee- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 178 
 
 -S 
 
 REV. DRYDEN WM. PHELPS. 
 
 Born: New Haven, Conn., 
 After gnuluatiiig at the Hopkins granimai' 
 scliool in liis native city, Dryden passed one 
 year in Yale college, and three in Brown uni- 
 versity, graduating at the latter institution in 
 1877. The three years following he was as- 
 sistant editor of tlie Christian Secretary, 
 when lie entered the Hai'tford theological 
 seminary, iu which he spent two years. In 
 
 ^^%^ 
 
 REV. DRYDEN WM. PHELPS. 
 
 1887 he was ordained as pastor of the Baptist 
 church in Wilmington, Vt., a position tliat 
 terminated in 1889. The poems of the Kev. 
 D. W. Phelps have appeared in the Christian 
 Secretary, the World's Crisis, Vermont Phoe- 
 nix, Our Home Guards, and other journals of 
 prominence. In person he is a little above 
 the average height, yet he weighs about 180 
 pounds, and is a very pleasant and intellectual 
 gentleman. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THOUGHTS AT THE WATER-SIDE. 
 
 Look at the bright blue sea, 
 
 Think of thy Father's care; 
 
 Child of mortality, 
 
 O look to Him in prayer. 
 
 He calleth thee to-day, 
 
 " My son, give me thy lieart." 
 
 How canst thou still delay? 
 
 Choose now the better part. 
 
 Then shalt thou joyful look 
 Upon the bright blue sea, 
 And read as in a book 
 Thy immortality. 
 
 TO THE MOURNER. 
 
 In hours of grief, oppressed with tribulation. 
 When storms beat sore within the troubled 
 breast. 
 How sweet to know the author of salvation 
 Said: "Come to me, and 1 will give you 
 rest." 
 Those words attend, O mourner sad and 
 lonely; 
 Our Lord on earth was often lone and sad. 
 When loved ones sleep, the thought of Jesus 
 only 
 Can dry our teai's and bid the heart be glad. 
 The day draws nigh — how joyous the reflec- 
 tion! — 
 When Christ shall come, ;ii j;l(.ry from 
 above. 
 The Lord Himself, our life ;uk1 resurrection. 
 Shall crow^n us His wlioni now unseen we 
 love. 
 
 THE LIGHTS OF THE EARTH. 
 Sun, thou king of day who sendest light to 
 
 our dwelling, 
 O how grand thou appearest at noon in fiery 
 
 splendor ! 
 Who can stand thy glare? 'tis not poor earth- 
 
 holden mortals: 
 No, thy bliudint!- gaze o'eiconies our shnii- 
 
 Sigbtea vision. 
 Thou art a work of God, and manifestest His 
 
 splendor. 
 'Tis no wonder that people of old, not knowing 
 
 their Maker, 
 Should have worshiped tliee, and paid their 
 
 devout adoration 
 Which belonged to God, to thee His horrible 
 
 emblem! 
 Moon, thou queen of tlie night, of thesvma 
 
 poor imitation, 
 Where would be thy light if the sun did not 
 
 freely be.'^tow it? 
 Yet thou art gentler far than tiie hot burning 
 
 day-king who lights thee. 
 And we love thy beautiful gentleness, pride 
 
 of the evening! 
 Stars, ye jewels who deck the lovely expanse 
 
 of the heavens 
 When the moon has come to whisper of love 
 
 and the angels. 
 Yes, we love ye the best, O bright magnificent 
 
 gold drops ! 
 And in ye the most can we praise the Eternal 
 
 Creator. 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 174 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 BIRCH ARNOLD. 
 
 Born : Delavan, Wis. 
 Birch Arnold is the author of Until the Day 
 Breals, au essentially American novel, which 
 has been verj' favorably received. Her poems 
 have aijpeared in tlie leading- periodicals of 
 
 birch arnolu. 
 America. This lady is a g-if ted conversation- 
 alist, a graceful elocutionist, and ably renders 
 selections from her writing's in a very pleas- 
 ing manner. She now resides in Armada, 
 Michigan. 
 
 ©- 
 
 FORGETFULNESS. 
 If, in the viewless haunts of time. 
 
 Some gift of fortune, treasured there 
 In garnered fullness, might be mine. 
 
 In answer to entreating prayer, 
 I scarce could claim a boon to bless. 
 
 To equal thine — Forgctfulness! 
 
 A haunting shadow sups with me, 
 To greet tlie morning's glad surprise. 
 
 With oidy .sense of misery 
 And bitter meaning in it's eyes; 
 
 Alas! I cannot se(>k redress 
 Except in thee — Forgetf ulncss ! 
 
 The summer suns may rise and set. 
 And blossomed fragrance fill the air, 
 
 I see thro' tears, nor can forget 
 That ever liovering wraith of caie; 
 
 Though sorrow makes the sunshine less. 
 They're one with thee, Forgetf uluessl 
 
 Each heart must know its day of grief. 
 All earthly things must fade and die. 
 
 Remembrance brings perchance relief. 
 Or bitterness of tear and sigh : 
 
 For me, no other boon can bless 
 Alike to thee,— Forgctfulness! 
 
 THE ROUND OF BLUE. 
 Oh, Maude, sweet Maude, with your golden 
 
 hair. 
 Your witching eyes, and your winsome air — 
 Do you know the mischievous things you do. 
 Crocheting the endless round of blue";:' 
 
 I have watched your taper fingers, white — 
 Now in, now out, now left, now right. 
 As the glittering needle willing flew. 
 Crocheting the endless round of blue. 
 
 At first my eyes you sought to chain 
 To the tangled threads of your azure skein; 
 At length, I think, you bolder grew. 
 Crocheting the endless round of blue. 
 
 For over my heart that tangled thread, 
 Over my eyes, and over my head. 
 In a filmy chain, you deftly threw. 
 Crocheting the endless round of blue. 
 
 I do not ask, sweet Maude, to be 
 From the pretty prison e'er set free; 
 I know full well there are jailers few 
 Like the one crocheting the round of blue. 
 
 If the fairy chain is woven strong. 
 To hold me fast, and hold me long — 
 Then, Maude, weave on, if this be true; 
 Weave ever on the round of blue. 
 
 A WIND-BLOWN SOUL. 
 
 "The deepest pang of hell? 
 
 'Tis this remembering 
 In present griefs, the joys of yesterday." 
 
 Aye, look upon me while I linger 
 
 Behind the prison bars of sin ! 
 I can no longer bear in silence. 
 
 Or shut the burning truth within. 
 
 I saw it speak in eye and gesture, 
 
 Tho' dead upon my lips it lay. 
 Until It burst its bonds asunder. 
 
 And found my soul the potter's clay. 
 
 That kiss! Oh, angels in yon heaven. 
 Is yours a deari-r joy than mine'? 
 
 Upon my tlirobbing lips it lingers. 
 And maddens me with love's strong wine. 
 
 And no remor.se! Ah, Jcsu! shrive me! 
 
 A dagger stroke my l)roken vow — 
 But deepiM- still lives unforgottcn 
 
 The love 1 had and might have now. 
 
 -« 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 REV. JOHN WESLEY ADAMS. 
 
 Born: May 23, 1832. 
 
 This gentleman is a lineal descendant of the 
 presidents of tliat name. In 1858 he joined 
 the New Hampshire Conference of the M. E. 
 church, and has held pastorates in Rye, 
 Derry, So. Xewmarkot, No. Salem, E. Canaan, 
 
 REV. JOHN WESLEY ADAMS. 
 
 Winchester. Gt. Falls— Hig-h St., Tilton, New- 
 port, Exeter, Keene, and in 1889 he took a 
 j'ear's rest at Chelsea, Mass., where he is still 
 located. For several years Rev. J. W. Adams 
 has been president of the trustees of the Con- 
 ference Seminary and Female College. 
 
 m- 
 
 OUR BABY. 
 
 Though babies count up by the million. 
 
 And all of them fit for ilie show. 
 Yet ours beats the sum total billion. 
 
 Because she is our baby, you know. 
 Her ringlets! O, their like never can be, 
 
 They all of them curl just so; 
 You ought not to smile at my fancy. 
 
 Because she's our baby, you know. 
 Her complexion out-rivals the fairest; 
 
 The cheeks have an ang-elic glow; 
 The dimples that fleck them the rarest, 
 
 Because she's our baby, you know. 
 Transcendant expression and lustre. 
 
 And clear as the waters that flow. 
 
 Are the eyes with which heaven hath blessed 
 her. 
 Because she's our baby, you know. 
 
 Herlips are like lilacs in blossom, 
 And the nectar with which tliey o'erflow 
 
 Is sweeter than hive-stores in autumn. 
 Because she's our baby, you know. 
 
 Her laughter is seraph-like music 
 
 Wafted through the dear home here below, 
 And her sayings more sage than the Delphic, 
 
 Because she's our baby, you know. 
 
 She's a darling, a picture, a pet, 
 A cherub from the crown to the toe; 
 
 She has ne'er found her equal as yet, 
 Because she's our baby, you know. 
 
 DEDICATION OF HEDDING CHAUTAU- 
 QUA HALL. 
 
 Chautauqua hall ! Tlie People's College, 
 Now offers to the million knowledge. 
 True Science, joined with classic lore. 
 For all doth open wide the door. 
 Chautauqua hall, all hail to thee. 
 The plebeian's university. 
 Where maid and matron, son and sire, 
 A broader culture may acquire I 
 
 To-daj' we enter and possess 
 
 This Temple in the wilderness. 
 
 Now with the sainted Hedding's name. 
 
 We liumbly, solemly proclaim 
 
 That it is herewith blest, baptized; 
 
 And thus may it be recognized. 
 
 Translated and regenerate, 
 This Ijuilding- we now dedicate 
 To God, for worship and for praise — 
 To man, tliat he may learn God's ways — 
 To science, as by God revealed — 
 To nature, now a book unsealed — 
 To preaching of the sacred Word — 
 To teaching- what may be inferred 
 Fiom all the Great Revealer writes. 
 Or by his Spirit's voice indites. 
 
 And may this good work so prevail 
 That its good fruit sliall never fail! 
 'Tis not too much to hope and pray 
 That, when we all have passed away. 
 Our children's children here shall crown 
 This alma mater as their own. 
 
 From henceforth this shall be a shrine — 
 
 A Mecca, hallowed and divine — 
 
 A fount of light, and life, and love — 
 
 A helper to the heaven above, 
 
 God bless this place, this work, this day: 
 
 So mote it be, let all now saj'! 
 
 •® 
 
*■ 
 
 17G 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 © 
 
 DEDICATION 2nd N. H. REGT, GETTYS- 
 BURG MONUMENT. 
 
 Ye martj'red braves, in whom the flame 
 
 Of ferveut patriotism glowed; 
 Who to avert your Nation's shame 
 
 Sinceritj- bj- valor showed, 
 
 If it is given j'ou to see 
 
 What here transpired, if from 
 The hills of immortality, 
 
 To join our ranks, once more you"ve come ; 
 
 As guests unseen, but ne'er forgot. 
 
 Chief honors we accord to you ; 
 And bid you welcome to this spot, 
 
 To join in mem'ry's grand review. 
 
 If still a comrade's mundane voice 
 
 May vibrate on the spirit's ear. 
 Ye host invisible rejoice. 
 
 The cause you died for triumphed here. 
 
 The Nation's verdict is "Well done!" 
 Tlie Union, Treason sought to sever. 
 
 Binds sixty millions into one. 
 And one they shall remain forever. 
 
 Your grateful country watches o'er 
 
 your mold'ring forms which round us lie, 
 
 And bids each patriot adore 
 Tlie names that were not born to die. 
 
 Among New Hampshire's rugged hills, 
 Tlie old and young your deeds rehearse; 
 
 Your memory like dew distills. 
 And poets praise you in their verse. 
 
 In our enduring granite, we 
 Have symbolized your worthy fame; 
 
 And we shall teach posterity 
 To honor j'ou the same. 
 
 A part of the old Granite State, 
 
 We bring this day atid rear to you ; 
 This comely shaft we dedicate 
 
 To those who died so brave and true. 
 Long as this monument shiill stand. 
 
 And cold and heat and storm defy; 
 May it tell where your honored band. 
 
 The heroes of the Second lie. 
 And now ye braves, once more adieu ! 
 
 Sleep on, ye torn and weary ones; 
 We'll meet you at the grand review; 
 
 Sleep on. New Hampshire's honored sons. 
 
 Ye sun, watch o'er them day by day: 
 
 Keep guard ye moon and stars by night: 
 Ye breath of morn and even play 
 
 Sweet requiems, where they won the fight. 
 Not for yourselves, ye lived and died; 
 
 Devotion so unselflsli still 
 Inspires us with a patriot's pride. 
 
 Our own great mission to fulfill. 
 Once more, O Gettysburg, to thee 
 
 We bid a long and sad adieu; 
 
 Thou w;:st our great Thermopyle — 
 Thou wast our bloody Waterloo. 
 
 We sigh o'er what thy victory cost; 
 
 But since the oblation was to be; 
 We count the life and treasure lost. 
 
 As naught to Union, Liberty. 
 
 Adieu then Gettysburg again I 
 To all these scenes which we review — 
 
 This sacred liill, where lies the slain. 
 Sublime, historic field, adieu. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 'Tls well to close the marts of trade. 
 
 To hush the din of bands and wheels; 
 In mournful columns to parade. 
 
 And speak the loss the nation fells. 
 
 Let the drum again be muffled. 
 And once more the dirge be chanted; 
 
 For in that long sleep unruffled. 
 Lie the loved and the lamented. 
 
 Clothe the flag with funeral emblems, 
 
 Toll the church bell softly, slowly, 
 Sweetlj' sing the solemn anthems. 
 
 Bend before your maker holy. 
 Daily o'er their quiet pillows. 
 
 May be heard the breezes sighing: 
 Morn and eve the dewy willows. 
 
 Wet the sod where they are lying. 
 O'er each unknown grave in glorj% 
 
 Waves the flag they loved so well; 
 O'er each battle field so gory. 
 
 Each star walks a sentinel. 
 Let us then like worthy brothers. 
 
 Who were with them when they perished, 
 Show that wLiile we love all others. 
 
 They are still most fondly cherished. 
 Bring for those in whom you trusted. 
 
 Spring-time's choiciest, virgin flowers, 
 Plucked from the old cherished liomestead. 
 
 Once to them familiar bowers. 
 Let their fragrance and their beauty. 
 
 Symbolize their noble vicing. 
 Virtuous in doing duty. 
 
 Virtuous in bravely dying. 
 Bring from God's conservatory. 
 
 Evergreens: Let wreaths and crosses 
 Tell again the wondrous story 
 
 Of Salvation, won by losses. 
 Pausing wliere the flags are found. 
 
 Lay them doM-n, where rest tiie braves; 
 Let each grave each year be crowned 
 
 Decorate the soldiers' graves. 
 And may you forevermore, 
 
 Guard the jewels they have won. 
 Till freedom reai'hes every slion' 
 
 Tliat the sun now shines upon. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 177 
 
 -© 
 
 BELLA FRENCH SWISHER. 
 
 Born in Georgia. 
 
 In 1867-8 Bella was engaged in the literary 
 departnaent of Pomeroy's La Crosse Demo- 
 crat. In 1869, with less than a hundred dollars 
 capital, she leased a newspaper office at 
 Brownsville, Minn., and there started the 
 Western Progress. Two years later she ac- 
 cepted a position on tlie St. Paul Pioneer, since 
 coiisolidatod with tli<> Pn»ss. Bella also edited 
 iiiul iiublislicil thf Uiisy Wfst, thr pioneer 
 
 ^ 
 
 MRS. BELLA F. SWISHER. 
 
 literary magazine of Minnesota. In 1874 she 
 began issuing at La Crosse, The American 
 Sketch Book, an illustrated historical maga- 
 zine of eighty pages, which publication was 
 removed to Texas in 1877, and was published 
 regularly until the year 18*3. Married in 1878 
 to Col. John M. Swisher, a well known Texan, 
 she now has a beautiful home surrounded by 
 every comfort. During 1889 two of her works 
 were published: Rocks and Shoals, a story 
 that shows fine ability, both in the carefully 
 constructed plot and style of the romance; 
 the other, Florecita, a poem-novel, is her 
 master-piece, which is written as plainly as 
 prose, yet having all the melody of true poet- 
 ry. The short poems of Mrs. Bella F. Swisher, 
 if published, would fill several volumes. She 
 now resides with her husband in Austin, 
 Texas, engaged in literary work. The career 
 of Mrs. Swisher has been a very eventful one, 
 in which she has shown great ability. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 FROM THE "SIN OF EDITH DEAN." 
 
 Though just above the hill-tops, shone the 
 
 sun, 
 The farmer's day of toil was well begun. 
 Slow-stepping oxen, patient and sad-eyed. 
 Moved in obedience by their master's side, 
 While going forth to drag the heavy plow. 
 Preparing land for later crops; and now. 
 Released from barnyards, here and there, a 
 
 cow 
 Went lowing down a path or lane to say, 
 To her companions, she was on her way 
 And soon would join them at the meadow 
 
 brook. 
 But, each and all, without a backward look — 
 Though pausing, now and then, to nip the 
 
 grass 
 Which offered tempting morsels, hard to pass 
 And touch not, trudged along, no thought in 
 
 mind 
 Of any mate, that, lowing, came behind. 
 
 The smooth-plumed pigeons circled in the air, 
 With full intent to gain an ample share 
 Of yellow grain which little Marguirite 
 Was scattering about for fowls to eat. • . 
 
 The glory of the spring was everywhere — 
 'Twas breathed forth in the sweetness of the 
 
 air. 
 Reflected from the cloud-flecked skies of blue 
 And from the rippling water's deeper hue; 
 It glistened in the thorn's sweet, snowy 
 
 flowers; 
 And in the May-blooms falling down in show- 
 ers. 
 When stirred by gust of wind, that bore along 
 The blossoms' fragrance and the wild birds' 
 song. 
 
 The scene was ever changing. Willows threw 
 Their shadows where the yellow cowslips 
 
 grew 
 Beside the placid pools ; and near to these. 
 Were less adventurous oaks and other trees: 
 And, here and there, were piles of maple keys ; 
 The Dutchman's breeches bent above the rills; 
 The pink arbutus trailed adown the hills; 
 And modest violets, both white and blue, 
 Which everywhere in great abundance grew. 
 Their fragrance, to the balmy breezes, tlirew. 
 
 As sunset neared, the hills became more 
 
 steep. 
 And the ravines proportionately deep. 
 A table-land was reached; from which high 
 
 plain. 
 Was seen, beyond the fields of growing grain, 
 A winding river. On the other side. 
 Arose the houses of the village Clyde, 
 Which nestled in a valley; and away 
 Toward the west, a range of mountains laj-. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WHAT WILL THE WEATHER BE TO- 
 MORROW. 
 " What will the weather be to-morrow? "— 
 
 Soft southern breezes and a cloudless sky ?— 
 Or will the sun, his beaming' face, be hiding- 
 While comes the storm-king rushing madly 
 by? 
 Or it may be the lightest clouds will gather. 
 
 And earth will be refreshed by gentle rain ! 
 Ah ! to this heart of mine may come to-morrow 
 
 A sweeter happiness or deeper pain. 
 " What will the weather be to-morrow? " — 
 
 If it be storm, we would not sit in fear. 
 Imagining a thousand nameless terrors. 
 
 Relentless and swift-winged, are drawing 
 near. 
 And if the sun of hope and joy is waiting 
 
 Another morning, on our path, to rise. 
 We would not ask lor some clairvoyant vision 
 
 To rob the morrow of its glad surprise. 
 •' What will the weather be to-morrow? " 
 
 Ah I it is well for us we do not know ; 
 For life has many, many storms that gather 
 
 And, breaking, lay our dreamland temples 
 low! 
 And Hope would oft be crushed beneath the 
 ruins — 
 
 Since she had not the strength to fight her 
 way. 
 If burdened with to-morrow's storm and 
 darkness. 
 
 While struggling with the burdens of to-day. 
 " What will the weather be to-morrow? " 
 
 Why should we care at all to know? 
 Our Father's loving will hath planned It, 
 
 And be it sun or storm, 'tis Ijetter so. 
 While we are peering with our clouded vision 
 
 To find what each to-morrow has in store. 
 He, with a clearer sight our feet is guiding; 
 
 And knowing this, why should we wish for 
 more? 
 
 O, many are the dark clouds, passing 
 Between the earth and glorious sun ; 
 
 And many ai-e the doubts, obscuring 
 The ligiit of the Eternal One. 
 
 Si 
 
 THE YOUNGSTER WHO SURVIVED. 
 Oft mothers speak and poets sing, 
 
 In tones of mournful pride. 
 Which to our eyi's the teardrops bring. 
 
 Of '. the little l)oy that died." 
 But far more real, though less sublime, 
 Will be the subject of this rhyme: — 
 The impish youngster who survived 
 And from his cradle grew and thrived. 
 He has more tricks than magic art; 
 
 More phases than the moon ; 
 Has neither conscience nor a lieai't ; 
 
 At work, an idle loon. 
 His stomach is of iron make. 
 Though, rubber like, it will not break; 
 And every mischief, yet contrived. 
 The youngster knows who has survived. 
 At sight of him dogs disappear 
 
 As though a cyclone came; 
 And kitty lifts her back, in fear. 
 
 At mention of his name. 
 E'en mamma oft is heard to sigh 
 And pant for breath when he is nigh; 
 For good resolves are all short-lived, 
 Made by the youngster who survived. 
 He worries, teases, snubs us all, 
 
 And, like a whirlwind, lays 
 Our hopes in ruins — great and small; 
 
 And, with our heart-strings, plays. 
 But answer this, all ye who can — 
 Who makes the darling duck of a man? 
 Why just the youngster who survived. 
 And from his cradle grew and thrived. 
 
 I've seen a plant, that might have raised 
 A form of grace the world had praised, 
 
 Encumbered by some foreign thing. 
 Until in reaching for the light. 
 Its shape became distorted, quite. 
 
 While meager was its blossoming. 
 I've seen a soul direct from God, 
 Encumbered thus, and downward trod 
 
 Ry cruel and unpitying feet. 
 Till it, as well, distorted grew. 
 And 'round it, little sweetness threw. 
 
 Before its ruin was complete. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM " FLORECITA." 
 
 CLAIRE TO PAUt,. 
 
 "Paul, mj' Cousin: 
 
 " It is long 
 
 Since you sent a scratch of pen. 
 Fearing something may be wrong, 
 
 I now write to you again. 
 " We will have a wedding soon! 
 
 Do you by my words abide? 
 On the thirtieth of June, 
 
 Papa takes another bride I 
 " He has won a noble heart — 
 
 She is rich and young and fair! 
 Mine were not a daughter's part 
 
 Did my face no pleasure wear. 
 
 " They have bidden me invite 
 
 You to see their happiness; 
 And although with teai-s I write, 
 
 I would have it be no less. 
 •I They are in each other lost — 
 
 They find sunshine everywhere! 
 I am lone and tempest-tossed. 
 
 Come — if but to comfort— Claire." 
 
 ■^ 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 179 
 
 THOMAS J. MACMURRAY. 
 
 BoKN IN Scotland, July 23, 1852. 
 As minister, lawyer, printer, poet, author, ed- 
 itor, Mr. Macmurray lias had somewhat of a 
 varied career, considering- that he Is yet but 
 comparatively a young- man. He came to 
 Canada when ten years of age, and was thor- 
 oughly educated, graduating- at a theological 
 college. He was connected with the Detroit 
 conference in 187", and four years later came 
 
 THOMAS J. MACMURKAY. 
 
 to the Wisconsin conference. In 1883 he was 
 admitted to the Wisconsin bar. He has pub- 
 lished several books, one of which is entitled 
 The Legend of Delaware Valley and Other 
 Poems, the titular poem being an intensely in- 
 teresting one, and is beautifully told by this 
 brilliant author. Many of his poems have re- 
 ceived especial recognition. Mr. Macmurray 
 has also lectured with great success. Person- 
 ally this editor, autlior and lecturer is of good 
 stature, with brown hair and eyes, and is 
 witiial a very pleasant gentleman. 
 
 88- 
 
 LIFE'S PROBLEM. 
 A rosy morn and a cloudless sky; 
 
 Hope in the heart; 
 
 No teardrops start; 
 Never a pain and never a sigh. 
 A child's sweet laugh, and its little kiss 
 
 Upon tlie check, 
 
 And voices speak 
 
 In tend'rest tones, and there's naught but 
 
 bliss. 
 Then come distress and corroding- care ; 
 
 The joy has gone, 
 
 The face is wan, 
 And there is an agonizing- prayer. 
 Blue eyes are closed, and the child's sweet 
 hymn 
 
 Is heard no more 
 
 On earth's dark shore, 
 And a mother weeps till her eyes are dim. 
 Then mem'ry calls back the long ago. 
 
 And hair g-rows gray. 
 
 While shadows play 
 Long- after the autumn evening's glow. 
 Folded the hands, and ended the strife 
 
 Of weary j^ears; 
 
 Dried are the tears ; 
 Thus closes the scene; and such is life! 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 Be wise to-day. Folly drags down 
 
 Its votaries to vice and shame; 
 But wisdom gives to man a crown 
 
 Of honor and a noble name. 
 Let justice guide thee every hour; 
 
 Nor let one narrow prejudice 
 Rob thee of moral worth and power 
 
 And fill thy soul with selfishness. 
 Be tender and affectionate 
 
 In all thy intercourse with men; 
 Harbor no jealousy nor hate. 
 
 Nor manifest a proud disdain. 
 Look up in faith to God above. 
 
 In recognition of his care. 
 And thank him for his boundless love 
 
 That comes to soothe thee everywhere. 
 So, having wisdom, justice, love. 
 
 And simple faitli in the unseen. 
 Thou shalt in manhood's beauty move. 
 
 With heavenward gaze and lotty mien. 
 
 EARNESTNESS. 
 Be earnest in this life; be true; 
 And whatsoe'er tliou hast to do. 
 Perform it with thy zeal and might, 
 For soon will come death's solemn night. 
 Success depends on earnest work; 
 The men -who daily duties shirk 
 Are cowards wlio will never rise; 
 For such there is no victor's prize. 
 Only the earnest, noble, brave. 
 Who battle with each wind and wave. 
 Nor ever heed misfortune's frown. 
 Attain tlie heights of fair renown. 
 This is no dreamland where we may 
 Shimber and dream the years away; 
 But 'tis the scene of active life — 
 The battle-field — the school of strife! 
 
 -* 
 
m- 
 
 -® 
 
 180 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Here the contestants rise or fall. 
 They soar in thoug-ht, or else they crawl; 
 But earnest souls, whose hearts are pure. 
 Shall rise, and their reward is sure. 
 
 Be earnest, then, for time is brief. 
 And brolsen hearts sigh for relief; 
 Work zealously while shines the sun. 
 If thou would'st hear the words "Well 
 done I" 
 
 SEPARATION. 
 Slowly the years creep l)y. 
 
 Since thou art g'one; 
 Around me shadows lie. 
 
 And I'm alone. 
 
 A fragment of a hj-mn — 
 
 A braid of hair — 
 A portrait old and dim — 
 
 A vacant chair- 
 Are all that speak to me 
 
 This lone midnight. 
 Telling their talc of thee. 
 
 Now out of sight. 
 
 Whisper thy love once more. 
 
 Nor silent be; 
 Send from that fadeless shore 
 Love's blessing- free. 
 
 Come back, bright days, long dead ■ 
 
 Come back again ! 
 Return, O joys that fled, 
 
 And ease my pain I 
 
 But why this anxious plea"' — 
 
 'Tis vain indeed ; 
 For by fate's stern decree 
 
 This heart must bleed. 
 
 JESSE T. CRAIG. 
 
 Born : Ray Co., Mo., Oct. 0, 1851. 
 Mr. Craig is an editor and publisher by i>ro- 
 fession, and his writings, including a number 
 of very fine poems, liave appeared from time 
 to time in his own publications and the local 
 press generjilly. He is now editor of the Bee, 
 publislied in Hunnewell, Mo. 
 
 «- 
 
 A VISION. 
 Tlie editor ate too mucli; the editor ate lot) 
 
 long; 
 Tlie turkey was fat and tender, tlie dressing 
 
 was ricli and si vong. 
 He went, (the editor did,, when tlie succulent 
 
 feast was o'er. 
 And sat by tlie parlor stove, and thereafter 
 
 began to snoi-e. 
 And lie dreamed this weiid (li-c;nii ; it seemed 
 
 that he was dead 
 
 And stood at the judgment place, and quaked 
 
 with horror and dread. 
 The place was a lofty hall, and it did not allay 
 
 his fear, 
 Tliat it looked unpleasantly like a criminal 
 
 court down here. 
 
 But the judge on the bench — Good lack I 
 
 What a strange uncanny sight? — 
 Was a turkey >• gobbler" lieree, just a hundred 
 
 feet in height; 
 And the jury in the box, sheriff, and state's 
 
 attorney,— all 
 Were "gobblers " like the judge, and equally 
 
 grim and taU. 
 He stood in the prisoner's dock (the editor did^ 
 
 and heard 
 The State's Attorney, a shrewd, a learned and 
 
 eloquent bird. 
 Say: "If it please the court, it becomes my 
 
 dutj' to read 
 The indictment as herein contained, after 
 
 which the prisoner may plead. 
 Whereas, heretofore, to wit: in November of 
 
 eighty-eight. 
 At the township of Jackson in Shelby, in the 
 
 commonwealth, (otherwise state | 
 Of Missouri, the defendant, one Richard Roe, 
 Whose proper appellation this affiant does not 
 
 know) 
 "Then and there being, on the aforesaid day 
 
 and date. 
 Maliciously, unlawfully, and feloniously kill- 
 ed and ate 
 One large adult male turkey, Johannes Doe 
 
 by name. 
 Violently and by force of arms; the same 
 
 " Being- directly and expressly against the 
 statutes made 
 
 And provided in such cases; and beyond the 
 slig-htest shade 
 
 Of doubt against the peace and dignity 
 
 Of the King of turkeys. His august and graci- 
 ous majesty. 
 
 "And we further pre.sent and charge that 
 the prisoner, Richard Roe, 
 
 Who committed this unholy crime was actua- 
 ted thereunto 
 
 By a false and frivolous pretext thai mi this 
 most cruel plan 
 
 lie was returning thanks to Heaven for its 
 manifold blessings to man." 
 
 His hair rose up (the editor's did, straight ui> 
 
 on t<ip of his head 
 
 For he saw the stern look of the jury and 
 
 judge when this iiidictnienl was read. 
 
 " Whal- is your plea'/ " said the judge to him, 
 
 and his voice was harsh when he spoke. 
 
 The editor tried to speak and — trying to 
 
 speak lie — woke. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -ee 
 
 181 
 
 A. J.SCHAEFFER. 
 
 UouN : Edgekton, Ohio, June 26, 1864. 
 
 FOK a while lie taught school, and in 1881 en- 
 tered Oberliii college. About this time he 
 contributed under the nom de plume of Hor- 
 ace Raven a number of poems and prose ar- 
 ticles to the Deti'oit Free Pr.ws and T.ile.lo 
 
 Hhlilr. Hi-- r\.--iL;lit l.-illili 
 
 A. J. SCHAEFFER. 
 
 for awhile, and from 188-4 to 1888 agaiti taught 
 school. He next became editor of The Earth, 
 a literary paper published in his native town ; 
 then held a similar position on the Clyde 
 Democrat; and in 1889 purchased the Spen- 
 eerville Journal. The same year Mr. Schaeffer 
 was married to Miss Flora Yackee. 
 
 * 
 
 THOSE BEAUTIFUL EYES. 
 
 Those beautiful eyes. 
 
 Their color vies 
 The tints of the sunset skies; 
 
 And purple and pearl. 
 
 And rainbow dj-es, 
 
 All mildly mingle 
 
 1 n those sweet eyes, 
 And light their blue depth mellowly. 
 Like moonlight on a summer sea; 
 Or like the glow in northern night. 
 When wanes Aurora's mystic light. 
 
 At dawn's soft surprise, 
 I think of those eyes; 
 And the day never dies, 
 But I dream of those eyes — 
 Those luminous, lucid eyes — 
 Those beautiful violet eyes. 
 
 TO BERENICE. 
 
 Bright black eyes and raven hair; 
 Face so wonderfully fair; 
 Heart so pure and looks so free, 
 That the angels envj' thee. 
 Berenice, ere we met, 
 
 I was free; but now I'm slave 
 To thy loveliness, and yet 
 I would not my freedom have. 
 
 'Tis a pleasure, not a pain, 
 With aflBiction's golden chain 
 To be bound to a soul like thiue — 
 Soul that seemeth half divine. 
 Well miglit monarch give his throne. 
 
 To be lord of such a heart; 
 For the common heart is stone — 
 Hardened so by social art. 
 
 Thy sweet, seraph spirit 
 All the virtues did inherit; 
 All the passions thou wert given. 
 And yet chaste thou art as heaven. 
 Paradise hath not an houri 
 
 Half so lovelj', I opine; 
 And never song or story 
 Told of nobler life tlian thine. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 Weep France! weep world! let every eye 
 
 Its tributes pay of tears 
 To him whose soul-inspiring words 
 
 Will echo down the years. 
 
 He's gone. The mighty brain of France 
 
 Has turned to worthless clay. 
 But thoughts that flowed from that great 
 brain 
 
 Will never pass away. 
 
 His name is deathless, and will live 
 
 Within the souls of men, 
 And from their hearts time cannot blot 
 
 The tracings of his pen. 
 
 He lived to help his fellow men. 
 
 His task at last is done; 
 And years will wreathe a crown for him 
 
 From laurels nobly won. 
 
 His requiem let angels sing. 
 
 While nations bow and weep 
 Their tears were never wept above 
 
 A nobler mortal's sleep. 
 
 ■m 
 
©- 
 
 182 
 
 LOCAI^ AXD NATIONAI- POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 COL. J. M. RICHARDSON. 
 
 Born : South Carolina, March 13, 1831. 
 After graduating at Harvard iu 1854 with the 
 degree of B. S., Mr. Ricliardsnii engaged in 
 teaching as a profession in Perry, Ga., in 
 1855; And in the same year he was married 
 to Miss La\inia E. King. Mr. Kiehardson 
 
 COIi. JOHN M. RICHAKD.-uiN,. 
 
 served in the confederate army and lost a leg 
 at Winchester, Va., in 1864. After the war he 
 returned to Georgia and resumed teaching; 
 removed to Texas in 1876, where he also con- 
 tinued teaeliing. In 1887 Mr. Richardson lost 
 his wife, wlio died in Daingerfleld, Texas, 
 whore lie now resides. In 1888 Col. Richard 
 son engaged in the newspaper business in 
 connection with his son. Col. Richardson is 
 a polished scholar, and lias written both 
 prose and verse for the periodical press. 
 
 m 
 
 A WISHING WORD. 
 
 Some MTOiips of merry girls and boys, 
 With laugli and siiout and gleeful noise. 
 Were playing just before my gate 
 As home I came one evening late. 
 Please, Sir, one said - slie held a book 
 Which gently from her hand 1 took — 
 Please, Sir, write me a wishing word! 
 So spake the winsome little bird. 
 I love Tlice. Lord, so grea,t, so mild I 
 I love Thy clioicest gift, a child. 
 
 Of Him, O Cliild, he ever blest. 
 Of every rarest gift possessed! 
 May all thy life, as now, be pure! 
 Thy days, as now, from care secure! 
 And at its peaceful close, be thou 
 A child of God. beloved as now ! 
 
 PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 " O Domine Deus 
 Speravi in Te !" 
 O Holy and Just God, 
 My hope is in Thee! 
 
 Jesus, Tliou Strong Rod, 
 
 1 lean upon Tliee! 
 
 My body with chains bound. 
 My spirit in pains found. 
 None love 1 but Thee! 
 Knees bending, eyes flending. 
 Sighs blending, heart rending. 
 Adoring, 
 Imploring, 
 O liberate me! 
 
 SOLDIER SOUTH TO SOLDIER NORTH. 
 
 Soldier North, of thee no plaint; 
 Tliou wast but man — no flend, no saint, 
 
 1 meet with thee without constraint. 
 
 And thouwastgen'rous, as all know. 
 At Appomattox to thy foe; 
 Tliat meed thou hast, come weal, come woe. 
 
 Thy duty didst thou? I did mine. 
 Defeat my portion, vict'ry thine. 
 At thee nor fate, will I repine; 
 
 Far nobler is It to endure 
 
 What skill of man can never cure; 
 
 Reward, though slow, is large and sure. 
 
 A soldier's rage with combats done; 
 He sheathes his sword, peace is begun; 
 To help the fallen doth he run. 
 
 Not so the laggard, coward ci'ew. 
 Who, safe, the battle would renew. 
 The prostrate rob, berate, pursue. 
 
 Those jaw-gun soldiers, I despise. 
 As, loaded down with hate and lies. 
 They'd strife renew in jiatriot guise. 
 
 Begone! As clouds that dim iho sun. 
 Cut off its light, embane, tiien run. 
 As conscience smit, God's eye to shun; 
 
 So they would veil the people's hearts. 
 So the.v would plant emjioisoncd darts. 
 So they should flee to hellish parts. 
 
 But for tlie soldier whose brave lieart 
 Would from defeat remove eacli smart. 
 My soul with love shall never part. 
 
 -© 
 
9 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 183 
 
 ® 
 
 JOHN NILAND HIGHLAND. 
 
 Born : Ireland, 1831. 
 
 Mr. Highland is now a lumber inspector in 
 Galveston, Texas. He is very fond of litera- 
 ture and has written quite a few poems whicii 
 
 JOHN NILAND highland. 
 
 have appeared In the local press. He was 
 married in New Orleans to Miss Mary Daley 
 in 1858, but is now a widower. 
 
 m 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD DAYS. 
 Give me back the sweet days of my childhood, 
 
 Wliere I oft with my schoolmates did roam 
 Among- the green trees in the wildwood, 
 
 That bloomed near my dear happj- home. 
 For there sung- the thrushes and linnets. 
 
 And the larks warbled in the blue sky, 
 The hours seemed as short as the minutes. 
 
 For joyous were my schoolmates and I. 
 
 But alas! we were doomed soon to sever, 
 
 Never more in loved Erin to meet. 
 Some are gone to strange countries forever. 
 
 Where none of their friends will them greet. 
 And here far away as I ponder. 
 
 And hear the waves break on the shore. 
 My love for my schoolmates grows fonder. 
 
 For I know I will see them no more 
 
 They are all gone away and forever. 
 Life's burdens with courage to bear. 
 
 And to meet them again I shall never. 
 They are gone and I cannot tell where. 
 
 In sorrow they left broken-hearted. 
 As they bade their beloved ones good-bye. 
 
 And forever and aye we have parted, 
 My fondly-loved schoolmates and I. 
 
 When at night in my peaceful slumbers, 
 
 1 revisit past scenes in my dreams, 
 I play with my schoolmates in numbers. 
 
 And call them all 'round by their names. 
 And hear the sweet notes of the thrushes. 
 
 As of yore in the cool sununer's breeze. 
 Among the wild flowers and bushes. 
 
 As we played neath the spreading beech 
 trees 
 
 ELIZA JANE M'GOWAN, 
 Fondly and remembered Eliza Jane, 
 
 Schoolmate of my earlj' days. 
 Sweet thoughts of you I well i-etain. 
 
 And all our sports and plays. 
 It is a long time since we parted. 
 
 And crossed the ocean's foam. 
 With grief and sorrow broken-hearted 
 
 For loved ones left at home. 
 
 Farewell sweet days of childhood's pleasure, 
 
 When we were going to school. 
 Rehearsing our lessons at our leisure. 
 
 Or working out some rule. 
 And away amongst the pale primroses 
 
 That grew on Drumfln brae. 
 And o'er the fields gathering posies. 
 
 All in the hour to play. 
 
 Do you remember green fields of Cloonlur- 
 ragh, 
 
 Where all our flocks did graze. 
 Or the blooming heather in the curragh. 
 
 When blossomed in those days; 
 And that green, pleasing, rushj' bottom. 
 
 That often we did cross. 
 1 know you can't have yet forgotten. 
 
 Its soft; silkj% curly moss. 
 
 How sweetly grew the hawthorn bushes 
 
 In the lovely month of June, 
 .\nd the loud whistling of the thrushes. 
 
 All 'round their rich perfume; 
 And the high soaring of the skylark. 
 
 With the notes of the cuckoo 
 Resounding through the groves of Newpark 
 
 And o'er tlie hills of Doo. 
 
 Do you think of the river meadows, 
 
 Where we many times did plaj'. 
 Romping through tlie winding windrows 
 
 Made of the new mown hay. 
 And that whitened field with daisies 
 
 Whei'e we first begun to spell. 
 In little books called Reading Made Easy,— 
 
 You must remember well. 
 
 -® 
 
m 
 
 -« 
 
 184 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE DUDLEY DODGE. 
 
 Born: Hampton Falls, N. H., May 4, 1836. 
 Graduating from the academy of liis native 
 village, George entered Brown university in 
 1853. He lias always i-esided in his native 
 place, with the exception of three years while 
 in trade in the state of Georgia, just before and 
 during tlie war. Since that time Mr. Dodge 
 has been engaged in cotton manufacture, and 
 as country merchant and postmaster, until 
 compelled by ill-heal III to seek the larger liber- 
 
 GI ()!{(. I 1)1 ni E '^ DOIX.I 
 
 ty of farm life. In 1880 lie was the nominee of 
 the prohibition party for governor; afterward 
 chairman of the state executive committee, 
 and chosen a delegate to the national conven- 
 tion of that party in 1884. As a writer, Mr. 
 Dodge is best known through his prose con- 
 tributions to the jiress, although his poems 
 have been widely copied and favorably com- 
 mented upon. Mr. Dodge conies from old 
 stock, dating !)ack to the sixteenth century. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THR FADKD LEAF. 
 
 Silently, softly, the faded leaf. 
 Downward flits to the earth beneath. 
 Oi' roughly wliirled Viy wintry blast, 
 In far off nook alights at last. 
 
 Its duty done, its season past, 
 To earth it finds its way at last. 
 Soon to mingle in common dust. 
 As all below at some time must. 
 In living green it nourished well. 
 The lofty tree before it fell. 
 In gorgeous colors glowing bright. 
 Touched bj' the frost, enrapt the sight. 
 Thus may we all our task perform. 
 In sunshine and in bitter storm. 
 And always show our beauty best. 
 When chill misfortune makes the test. 
 
 TEMPTED AND TRIED. 
 O kindest Father, friend and God, 
 O dear Redeemer, Brother, Lord, 
 O blessed Comforter divine, 
 O wond'rous three that one combine. 
 Let ev'rj' stormy wind that blows. 
 But drive me to thy side more close. 
 Then Satan's arts shall not prevail, 
 That oft my trembling heart assail. 
 So let me watch and pray each hour. 
 As threatening clouds around me lower. 
 That quickened faith with help divine 
 Shall all my steps aright incline. 
 
 PEACE BE STILL. 
 Tempest tost on the billows of life. 
 Weary and worn with struggle and strife. 
 Upward I glance to heaven above, 
 And list to words of tender love, 
 Peace be still, O weeping soul, 
 I will all thy grief console. 
 Hope would vanish and the giant Despair, 
 Would drag my soul to his dreadful lair, 
 But for the voice of tender love. 
 Speaking to me from heaven above. 
 Peace be still, O trembling soul, 
 I will ev'ry foe control. 
 Let the tempest roar and the billows roll. 
 Naught shall disturb my peaceful .soul. 
 While come to me from heaven above. 
 These cheering words of tender love. 
 Peace be still, O trusting soul, 
 I will ev'ry storm control. 
 God help poor souls on the voyage of life. 
 Weary and worn with struggle and .strife. 
 Who h(>ar no voice of tt'ndt'i- love. 
 Speaking to them from heaven above. 
 Peace be still, O weary soul, 
 I will all thy grief console. 
 
 MAYQITEEN. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, long live the Queen, 
 Whom we to-night have crowned, 
 May health, and wealth and peace be hers. 
 And ev'ry joy abound. 
 
 * 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 186 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. MILTON H. TIPTOX. 
 
 Born: Boone Co., Ind., in 1852. 
 The father of Milton eulisting into tlie union 
 army wlien his son was but ten years of age, 
 the subject of this sketch became the chief 
 stay of his niotlior, and at the age of twelve 
 cultivated tliirty-tive acres of corn in one sea- 
 son. Altliough he had little opportunity of 
 securing- an education, so persevering was he 
 in educating liimself that he became a teach- 
 er at the age of seventeen; later he studied 
 
 REV. MILTON H. TIPTON. 
 
 law in the office of his uncle, but before being 
 admitted to the bar he united with the chris- 
 tian church.in which he was ordained minister 
 in 1876. Rev. M. H. Tipton has had remark- 
 able success in his educational temperance 
 work, and has become extensively known and 
 highly esteemed alike for his courteous bear- 
 ing and his enterprise, especially in the direc- 
 twn of religious work. The poem of Rouse 
 Ye Soldiers has been set to music. He is now 
 president of a college in E.xcelsior, Minn. 
 
 m 
 
 ROUSE YE SOLDIERS! 
 
 Rouse, ye soldiers of the cross! 
 
 And put your armor on; 
 Bravely flght tor truth and right 
 
 Till victory is won. 
 C'HO.-Rouse ye! Rouse ye! Rouse ye, soldiers, 
 
 Brave and strong, (brave and strong,, 
 Boldly flg-ht for the truth and right. 
 
 And win the victor's crown, (crown., 
 
 Rouse, ye soldiers, brave and true! 
 
 L^nfurl your banner high! 
 Boldly stand at Christ's command. 
 
 For, see, the foe is nigh ! 
 Rouse, ye soldiers, to the charge! 
 
 Our Captain's gone before; 
 Grandly march with shout and song. 
 
 Until the war is o'er. 
 
 TO A DECEASED SISTER. 
 Dear Sister thou art gone to rest. 
 Thy earthly life is o'er; 
 Among the pleasant scenes of home, 
 We'll see thy face no more. 
 Those eyes from which thy soul hath looked. 
 No more will smile for me; 
 That soul itself, so pure and chaste, ' 
 Is from the flesh set free. 
 Is not thy spirit with the Lord? 
 And shall I meet thee there';' 
 When this frail flesh is still in death, 
 Away from pain and care? 
 Will not this body now so cold 
 Be brought to life again? 
 And you and I each other know. 
 And with the Savior reign? 
 
 FOR A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 
 Keep thy heart with earnest care ; 
 The issues of life are hidden there; 
 Bestow it alone on him who can 
 Give back the heart of a Noble Man. 
 
 HATTIE L. HORNER. 
 
 Born: Muscatine, Iowa, Feb. 5, 1864. 
 This lady is undoubtedly one of Kansas' most 
 gifted writers. She has published a neat Ut- 
 tle volume of some sixty poems, each a gem. 
 In addition to this work she has published Not 
 at Home, a book of travels, consisting of a 
 compilation of bright, sparkling and intense- 
 ly interesting letters written during her jour- 
 neyings. The fine poem, Kansas, was well re- 
 ceived in her adopted state, and has been 
 recited before many of the choicest literary 
 gatherings of the west, and is ever a favorite. 
 Personally she is a little below the medium 
 height, with brown eyes and luxuriant hair. 
 She now resides at Whitewater, Kansas, en- 
 gaged in literary work, and surrounded by a 
 host of friends and ardent admirers. 
 
 KANSAS: 1874 — 1884. 
 1874 — Per Aspera. 
 Cheerless prairie stretching southward. 
 
 Barren prairie stretching north; 
 Not a green herb, fresh and sturdy. 
 From the hard earth springing forth. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 186 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 Every tree Ijereft of foliag-e. 
 
 Every shrub devoid of life. 
 And the two great ills seemed blighting- 
 
 All things in their wasting strife. 
 
 As the human heart, in anguish. 
 
 Sinks beneath the stroke of fate, 
 So at last, despairing, weary. 
 
 Bowed the great heart of our State. 
 She had seen her corn-blades wither 
 
 'Neath the hot wind's scorching breath; 
 She had seen the wheat-heads bending 
 
 To the sting of cruel death. 
 
 She had seen the plague descending 
 
 Thro' the darkened, stifling air. 
 And she bent her head in sorrow. 
 
 Breathing forth a fervent prayer. 
 And the fierce winds, growing fiercer, 
 
 Kissed to brown her forehead fair. 
 While the sun shone down unpitying 
 
 On the brownness of her hair. 
 
 Then she looked into the future, 
 
 Saw the winters, ruthless, bold. 
 Bringing her disheartened people 
 
 Only hunger, want and cold. 
 Looking, saw her barefoot children 
 
 Walk where snow-sprites shrink to tread; 
 Listening, heard their child-lips utter 
 
 Childish prayers for daily bread. 
 
 Low she bowed her head, still thinking 
 
 O'er her people's woes and weal, 
 And the ones anear her only 
 
 Heard the words of her appeal. 
 Send that faint cry onward, outward. 
 
 Swift as wire wings can bear, 
 " Sisters, help me or I perish — 
 
 Heaven pity my despair!" 
 
 1884 — Ad Astra. 
 
 Verdant wheat-fields .stretching southward, 
 
 Fruitful orchards east and west; 
 Not a spot in all the prairie 
 
 That the spring-time has not blessed. 
 Every field a smiling jiromise. 
 
 Every home an Eden fair. 
 And the angels. Peace and Plenty, 
 
 Strewing blessings everywhere. 
 
 As the heart of nature quivers 
 
 At tbi^ touch of S])iiiig-tiin(> fair. 
 So along the State's wide being 
 
 Thrilled the answer to her prayer. 
 She has seen her dauntless people 
 
 Ten times turn and sow the soil; 
 She has seen the .same earth answer 
 
 Ten times to their faithful toil. 
 
 She has felt the ripe fruit falling 
 
 In her laj) from bended limbs; 
 She has heard lier hapiiy diildren 
 
 Shouting their tlianksgiving hymns. 
 
 She has seen ten golden harvests; 
 
 Now, with grateful joy complete. 
 She has ijoured tlie tenth, a guerdon. 
 
 At her benefactor's feet. 
 
 Thou canst not forget, O Kansas, 
 
 All thine own despair and woe; 
 Who hath long and keenly suffered 
 
 Can the tenderest pity show. 
 Not in vain the needy calleth — 
 
 Charity her own repays. 
 And thy bread, cast on the waters. 
 
 Will return ere many days. 
 
 Peace, thine angel, pointeth upward. 
 
 Where the gray clouds break away ; 
 And athwart the azure heavens 
 
 Shineth forth Hope's placid ray. 
 Look to Heaven and to the future — 
 
 Grieve no longer o'er the past; 
 Through thy trials, God bless thee, Kansas - 
 
 See, the stars appear at last. 
 
 THOUGHTS ADRIFT. 
 1. 
 
 As some lone bird that o'er the desert sailing. 
 Beholds a spot of green with waters fair. 
 
 And heedless of its mission, — fainting, failing, 
 Descends to drink, to live, to linger there. 
 
 E'en so my soul while o'er life's desert flying, 
 Belield the fount of love within your heart. 
 Forgetting fate it sank athirst and dying. 
 To live,— to love. Oh! will you say "De- 
 part"?" 
 
 II. 
 From his tiny nest aswing. 
 Sped the bird with southwaVd wing. 
 Lingering- there till fickle Spring 
 Returning, kept her vow; 
 Now he singeth soft and clear, 
 'Mong the apple blossoms near; 
 And our lilacs too are here, — 
 But where, O Love, art thou'? 
 
 On his winter path astray. 
 E'en the sun sheds colder ray; 
 Long the storm his -wrathful sway 
 The ocean sprites allow ; 
 May draws nigh, o'er hilltops steep 
 liO! the sunshine. On the deep. 
 Oil, tiie calm that bringeth sleep! 
 My loved one, where art thou? 
 IH. 
 The diver has sailed on the boundless sea. 
 
 O'er its wrecks and Its woes he doth -weep, 
 But he'll brave it and ride again with glee 
 For the pearl that he finds in the deep. 
 
 Oh, life is a wide and an untried sea. 
 And 1 weep o'er its storms and its strife, 
 
 And yet I will dare it, defy it, for thee. 
 Thou Pearl of my love and my life! 
 
 ■m 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 187 
 
 © 
 
 CLARENCE H.PEARSON. 
 
 Born: Ossipee, N.H., Feb. 21, 1859. 
 The subject of this sketch evinced a taste for 
 litcrut are at a very early age, and at four- 
 teen published for one year an amateur 
 journal. In 1883 lie was for a time city editor 
 of the Saginaw Herald. Subseciuently Mr. 
 I'earsoii was admitted to llic l>:ii'. :in(l in lw:> 
 
 (I, \I!l;.N( K H. I>E ARSON. 
 
 began tlie pi'actice of his profession at Glad- 
 win. In 1884 lie was married to Miss Flora O. 
 Biehn. Mr. Pearson has contributed to the 
 Detroit Free Press, Drake's Magazine, Texas 
 Sifting-s, and other prominent publications. 
 Suffering- much from rheumatism, Mr. Pear- 
 son removed to his old home at Laconia, N.H., 
 where, as he has humorously remarked, he is 
 dividing- his time between law, literature and 
 lumbag-o. 
 
 ®- 
 
 PENSEE. 
 They say the shades of those who pass 
 
 Death's mystic river o'er. 
 Anon return to scenes and friends 
 
 Beloved of them of yore. 
 Tliey tell of wondrous secrets learned. 
 
 From those whose souls abide 
 In that dim, distant land that lies 
 
 Beyond the Stygian tide. 
 I listen unbelieving still. 
 
 For were thy spirit free 
 To leave Death's realm, I know that thou 
 
 Would'st sometime come to me: 
 
 And hold some friendly token uji 
 To glad my yearning sight. 
 
 Or clasp tlie hand 1 sadly stretch 
 Into the empty niglit. 
 
 LIFE'S GAME. 
 We strolled across tlie moonlit fields. 
 
 The air was laden with perfume. 
 And all the earth seemed filled with mirili, 
 
 Moonlight and love and apple bleu in i; 
 She raised her eyes of azure liue 
 
 And all her soul was sliining tliro', 
 For hearts were trumps. 
 But ere the trees bore fruit there came 
 
 A rival suitor to her door 
 With jewels rare to deck her hair, 
 
 Of gold and silver muckle store. 
 She slew the love her lips confessed 
 
 And wore his gems upon her breast — 
 Diamonds were trumps. 
 Maddened with grief I rashly strove 
 
 To drown my woes in ruddy wine. 
 My wurldlypelf, my hopes, myself 
 
 I sacrificed at Bacchus' shrine. 
 My days were dregs, my nights were foam. 
 
 And every club house was my home. 
 For clubs were trumps. 
 Old Time and I sit vis-a-vis. 
 
 Outside the winter's wind doth moan. 
 No friend is near to aid or cheer 
 
 And I must play my hand alone. 
 The cards are dealt, the trump is turned. 
 
 Grim reaper, thou the stake hast earned. 
 For spades are trumps. 
 
 LLORENTA. 
 Thou wert a blossom beautiful and sweet 
 That bloomed a space to glad our worldly 
 
 sight. 
 But envious angels thought it was not meet 
 That earth should wear a flower so pure and 
 
 bright [fleet 
 
 And bore thee hence on noiseless wing and 
 To deck the bosom of the Infinite. 
 
 MY AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 My autograph she beggred the night 
 When first her beauty filled iny siglit; 
 
 Not just 3'our name, you know, quoth she, 
 
 But something nice beside, maybe 
 A poem or a maxim trite. 
 I yielded to the witching light 
 Of her soft eyes and did indite. 
 
 Entwined with flowers of poesy. 
 My autograph. 
 She perches on my knee to-night. 
 And in her eyes so clear and bright 
 
 The old light dwells— ah, woe is nie ! 
 
 My check-book in her hand T see. 
 
 And (nice again she begrs me write 
 
 My autograph. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 -® 
 
 188 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 R. G. SCOTT. 
 
 Born: Le Claike, Iowa, April", 1846. 
 Mr. Scott commeucod literary work at an 
 early age, aud his poems have appeared from 
 time to time in the Des Moines Register, Wo- 
 man's Public Opinion, New York Grapliic and 
 other periodicals of equal prominence. He 
 served in Company B, 34th Iowa, during tlio 
 civil war; was a member of Gov. Kirkwood's 
 staff, with rank of lieutenant-colonel; and 
 subsequently Mr. Scott was twice a member 
 of the Iowa legislature. For some time he 
 was engaged in the real estate bu.siness. In 
 1889 Mr. Scott became one of the editors of a 
 prominent Des Moines periodical, in which 
 city he now resides. 
 
 *- 
 
 EXTRACT FROM CHAUTAUQUA POEM. 
 Again on freedom's soil we stand 
 And greet with joy our native land; 
 Here English pride was made to feel 
 The shock of freedom's conquering steel. 
 'Twas here the "Cincinnatis of the west" 
 With freedom's heroes stood the test 
 Of battle's shock and war's recoil. 
 And planted deep in freedom's soil. 
 That starry flag, long may it wave. 
 O'er patriot hero's hallowed grave. 
 
 Yet not alone on sanguine field 
 Was British prowess forced to yield, 
 While Yankee heroes gained the day, 
 Yankee pluck and genius led the way. 
 And, in all the ranks of life and trade, 
 Tlu! grandest progress here was made: 
 And not alone was progress made 
 In gilded art and ranks of trade. 
 But men of letters paved the way 
 For higher life and grander day. 
 Here Cooper wove the legend strife 
 Of Indian war and border life; 
 While Whittier told of summer day. 
 Where "bare-foot maiden raked the hay;" 
 The " Psalm of Life" Longfellow gave; 
 And Bryant wrote of death and grave: 
 Wliile Morris bade us " spare that tree;" 
 Bret Harte went for the "Heathen Chinee:" 
 While 'mid it all most sweetly rang the 
 
 rhythmic flow 
 Of " Raven " song and " Bells " of Poe. 
 
 Thougli rich in all of beaut ies best. 
 
 By nature's liandso grandly drest. 
 
 Yet, we boast not all in grove or glen — 
 
 Our ricliest heritage is men — 
 
 Men wlio not alone resolve. 
 
 But men who meet and solve 
 
 The problems grand and great 
 
 Tliat mark the onward strides of ehurcli and 
 
 state ; 
 And not alone in men is all our pride; 
 
 Our women, too, stand side by side 
 With men of rank and high renown. 
 And give to us a triple crown. 
 No brighter names on history's page. 
 In any land or any age 
 In all the past— does histoi-y give 
 Than marks the age in which we live. 
 Our hope is this, as season's roll, 
 And time shall write on honored scroll 
 In burnished words on tablet high. 
 Names that were not born to die, 
 Chautauquan ranks may have their share. 
 Of honored names emblazoned there. 
 
 BE A WOMAN. 
 
 Be a woman, 'tis thy mission. 
 
 Love's every labor you must fill ; 
 Let the parlor, hall and kitchen 
 
 See the triumph of your skill. 
 For though duty call thee higher 
 
 Other spheres to grace and fill. 
 None the less will household duties 
 
 Claim your love and labor still. 
 
 PRAIRIE FLOWERS. 
 
 No fairy hand on magic loom 
 
 E'er wove for elfln bowers 
 A fabric fine as Nature spreads o'er west- 
 tern lands. 
 
 When decked with prairie flowers. 
 No poet's pen can e'er portray 
 
 The beauty of those wondrous bowers, 
 Where Nature paints in brilliant hues 
 
 Our western plains with prairie flowers. 
 No gilded hall by painter's hand 
 
 Can flU those hearts of ours. 
 With wonder and surprise like that, 
 
 When first we see those prairie flowers. 
 No sculptured work in bronze or stone. 
 
 In foreign land or ours. 
 Can so enchant our wondering gaze 
 
 As boundless fields of prairie flowers. 
 
 IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE. 
 Is marriage a failui-e? Aye, no. 
 'Tis the one sweet tie to mortal given. 
 The essence of all earthly bliss. 
 The tie that links our earth to iieaveu. 
 Man may fail, and rt^cri'ant prove 
 To all the ties of home and wife, 
 May sunder every golden l)and 
 That love entwines round wt>dded life. 
 Aye, lovely woman, too, reci'cant 
 To all iier vows of love may prove. 
 May sunder every silver tic 
 That binds her heart to home and love. 
 And yet 'tis they wlio fail, 
 .•\nd not the lieavenly rite 
 That in tiie bonds of perfect bliss 
 Two souls in mortal bonds luiite. 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 \m 
 
 LOUISE MCCLOY. 
 
 Born: Ridgeville, Ohio, June 15,1868. 
 Louise grraduated from the Elj-ria hig-li scliool 
 in 1888, and is now eng-aged as teaelier in the 
 pnlilic seliools of Lorain, near ritvcland. Her 
 
 J.OUJSE JICLUV. 
 
 poems have appeared extensively in the local 
 press, and have been favorably commented 
 upon. 
 
 ®- 
 
 POST TENEBRAS LUX. 
 
 Through the valleys slowly wending-, 
 Hope and doul5t forever blending-, 
 Prayer for g-uidance upward sending, 
 
 ■ We await the dawning day. 
 
 Through the darkness piercing never, 
 
 Held by bonds we can not sever 
 
 Still out-reaching, striving ever. 
 
 We are guided on our way. 
 
 Woe and gladness mingled meet us. 
 Voice of foe and lover greet us. 
 Upward still the pathways lead u-s. 
 
 On to joy, and peace and rest. 
 Weary hands shall soon be light. 
 Mortal vision dim grow bright. 
 Waiting hearts shall see aright. 
 
 Freedom comes to souls opprest. 
 
 Though the pathway be but drear, 
 See! the hill-tops grow more clear, 
 Draweth now the dawning near. 
 
 Heart, look upward, onward press 1 
 Still the beck'ning hand pursue; 
 Failing strength again renew; 
 Power will come to be and do; 
 
 Soon we'll wear Immortal dress. 
 
 And, at last, the journey ending. 
 We, the mountain tops ascending. 
 View the daybreak glories blending 
 
 With the scat'ring shades of night. 
 Free from all the chains that bound us. 
 Free from all the shadows 'round us, 
 Soon the sunrise shall have found us,— 
 
 After darkness comes the light. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 We stood upon a bluff, out-jutting bold. 
 The turbid waters dashed and broke below,- 
 And watched the cloudless western sky o'er- 
 
 swept 
 By slowly bright'ning beauty, till it grew 
 A glorious, gleaming mass of color rolled 
 From all the Universe. Tlie sun aglow. 
 Broad, brilliant, blinding.lower, lower stept; 
 The rolling lake cauglit on its face a hue 
 So marvelous our sight could grasp no more. 
 And tongue of power to speak it were bereft. 
 A dye as if the pulsing heart of Time 
 Eternity's relentless dart had cleft. 
 And let its blood gush out a sudden o'er 
 The heaving world, deep-stained with all its 
 
 crime. 
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR. 
 Let us broaden our hearts, O Brothers; 
 
 Let love grow up in our souls 
 Till over the whole wide, suffering earth. 
 
 The tidal wave. Charity, rolls. 
 
 Let us scorn not humanity. Brothers, 
 Out of Nazareth cometh the Christ, 
 
 For the lowly, the sinful, the weary. 
 Were his glory and life sacrificed. 
 
 Let us rise above selfishness. Brothers; 
 'Round us heaven showers its store. 
 
 There are many of earth who have nothing- 
 Can their poverty be at our door? 
 
 Aye, many and many, my Brothers: 
 
 Born to suffering, wretcliedness. shame. 
 
 O can we not reach them, and help them. 
 In His love and the power of His name? 
 
 "To the least of these," think, O my Brothers; 
 
 We living for self and for friend. 
 To our ears is the "Inasmuch " coming. 
 
 When life shall have rounded the end. 
 
 Tlien low at the feet of the Master, 
 In love and in shame let us bow; 
 
 "The world Thou hast died for, our Savior, 
 O, help us to live for it now." 
 
 ■© 
 
©- 
 
 190 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DOSSIE C. FREEMAN. 
 
 Born: Bainbridge, Ohio, Feb. 24, 1873. 
 At an early age the parents of Dossie remov- 
 ed to the southern part of Kansas. Desiring 
 to complete his education he was sent to the 
 Indiana SnlditTs' and Sailors' Home which is 
 located ;it Kniehtstowii, Iiidi;iii;i. where he 
 
 III ISSIK C. FHKKMAN 
 
 graduated in the class of l<s!tu. \\ liilr at this 
 liome lie has also been engaged in jjrintingthe 
 Home Journal published at tliat institution. 
 Considering the youth of Dossie, his poems 
 are indeed very commendable. 
 
 «- 
 
 SOMETHING FOR OUR GAIN. 
 
 All tliese years of waiting 
 
 All tliese liours of pain. 
 All the trials of this life- 
 Is something for our gain. 
 We cannot see the reason, 
 
 Wliile we try to still sustain 
 The many injuries we receive — 
 
 It's something for our gain. 
 While we wish for sunshine, 
 
 Others long* for rain, 
 Tlio' 'tis not wliat we wanted — 
 
 It's something for oui' gain 
 When we forget our disappointments 
 
 From our temptations to abstain 
 If wo can only become the victor — 
 
 It's something for our gain. 
 
 When we overcome some hal>it. 
 And our uprightness maintain, 
 
 Wlien we win our contests over, — 
 It's sometliing for our gain. 
 
 There are overwhelming troubles, 
 That makes us numb with pain. 
 
 But in the end, if we are faithful. 
 It willmalie us endless gain. 
 
 WANTED— ANEW SUBJECT. 
 
 If you would have me sing a tune 
 Of my troubles, I'll begin right soon; 
 Well then, to commence exactly square, 
 I fain would praise "the moon so fair," 
 I could comment on the •> blue vault," 
 ( »r the " )3 right and twinliling star " exalt, 
 lUit when I come to thinli it o'er. 
 It's all been done so well before. 
 
 1 might write " the world at Eventide " serene, 
 And tails of the many waters I have seen; 
 1 could probably sing of the '• rose's blush," 
 And describe the linnet, blue bird or thrush. 
 There are many subjects that are no more, 
 Because, you see they've been written on be- 
 fore. 
 
 I might turn moralist and to man explain, 
 That everything in life is fraught with pain; 
 1 miglit write the virtues of the elixir of life, 
 And discuss matrimony between man and 
 
 wife. 
 I >\\ " could I write a bools on vale and hill, 
 And eloquently talk of rock or rill? " — 
 Yes — I could, but it's sucli a bore 
 It's all been done so well before. 
 
 " Cupid's Darts " I could tell anew. 
 
 But rliymes for "love " are very few. 
 
 " Could I write love-stories that take the cake. 
 
 And such thrilling tragedies make? " — 
 
 But — people's passions have been expressed. 
 
 Yes, every one the very worst and Ijest. 
 
 Romances of old dukes — they are no more. 
 
 But it's all been done so well before. 
 
 WILL THE EARTHLY PARTING BE FOR- 
 EYER? 
 
 Shall this earthly parting be forever. 
 
 Will thcu-e be no future day. 
 When our souls shall be united. 
 
 In the bliss of the Eternal day? 
 
 Will the earthly parting be forever. 
 
 Will there not come a time. 
 When over that river of waters. 
 
 Away from the earth and crime — 
 
 Will this earthly parting be forever. 
 
 Can we not see that Day, 
 When we once more meet the loved ones. 
 
 That we lost along the way? 
 
 -® 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 191 
 
 -)5 
 
 JANE MARIA READ. 
 
 Born: Bakn.stable, Mass., Oct. 4, 18;>3. 
 For many years the poems of Miss Read have 
 appeared in the leading periodicals, and have 
 been extensively copied by the local press. In 
 1887 she issued a neat volume of poems enti- 
 tled Between the Centuries and Other Poems, 
 which has gained for her many laurels. In 
 person she is a little below the average height, 
 with dark brown hair and eyes, and is at pres- 
 ent engaged in literary pursuits and the study 
 and practice of art. Miss Read resides at Cold- 
 brook Springs, Mass., where her father, a bap- 
 tist clergyman, has a pastoral charge. 
 
 SINGING IN THE RAIN. 
 Outiu the rain, the dripping rain, 
 
 A little robin sings 
 A song of love, a sweet refrain 
 
 As to the twig he clings. 
 He sings, " Good-night, I go to rest, 
 Good-night, good-night, I seek my nest, 
 
 Secure I sleep. 
 
 In darkness deep. 
 My wing above my crest." 
 
 Out in the storm of care and pain, 
 
 My heart, O Father, sings 
 A pleading song, a sweet refrain. 
 
 And peace and trust it brings. 
 I sing, O Lord, I seek thy breast. 
 On thy sure promises I rest; 
 
 Thy power can keep. 
 
 In darkness deep. 
 And make that darkness blest. 
 
 ®- 
 
 WILFUL PEGASUS. 
 I hae a steed, wi' gleaming wings, 
 
 And mane as briclit as gold. 
 But oft, when I would take a ride, 
 
 He will na be controlled. 
 He comes to me, in storms that beat 
 
 Direct fra land of snaw; 
 And, neighing, shakes his coltish head; 
 
 And looks sae very brau, 
 I mind nor sleet nor biting wind. 
 
 But mounting at his ca'. 
 Full many bitter rides I liae. 
 
 Led by this steed awa'. 
 Again, when owls are out at nicht, 
 
 Pegasus neighs to me; 
 And, at his will. I take my ride 
 
 Across yon moonlit lea. 
 Then, when the summer roses smile. 
 
 And woo the zephyrs sweet, 
 I ca' in turn, but strange to tell. 
 
 He lifts his golden feet. 
 And skims across the fields, Indeed, 
 
 But leaves me far behind; 
 
 Ah! beautiful and winged steed, 
 
 I canna' make ye mind. 
 Then wonder not I sing sae oft 
 
 Of storms and driving snaw; 
 I tune my harp when, round my form. 
 
 The stinging tempests blaw. 
 I fain would ride when suns are warm 
 
 And sing a gladsome song. 
 Until the mountains, far awa'. 
 
 The echoed notes prolong. 
 I fain would ride in daylicht brau, 
 
 But, since I canna' then. 
 Just when that pony wills to gae 
 
 I take my rides, ye ken. 
 
 IN WINTER. 
 
 When winter fields are white with snow. 
 And forest boughs are brown and sere, 
 
 How oft we think our earthly life 
 Is, like the prospect, cold and drear. 
 
 But soon the spring shall wake to life 
 The flowers that sleep beneath the ground. 
 
 And even now some tended flower 
 Within the window may be found. 
 
 So heaven shall bring eternal spring. 
 With joys that ne'er shall fade again: 
 
 And e'en our saddest hours may yield 
 The tended flower of hope in pain. 
 
 IN THE WOODBINE. 
 Two little sparrows are building a nest, 
 
 Busily building and singing; 
 Here and away flits a crimson crest; 
 
 Each sparrow a straw is bringing. 
 Two little sparrows have finished their nest;— 
 
 Beautiful leaves droop above it; — 
 Lined with soft down from a living breast. 
 
 We see how the birdies love it. 
 Four little mouths for the sparrows to feed. 
 
 Eight little wings that are growing; 
 Patient, the parents supply their need. 
 
 While June's mellow sunlight is glowing, 
 Gone are the birds from the empty nest. 
 
 Vainly I list for their singing. 
 Vainly I watch for a crimson crest; 
 
 No bird to the vine is clinging. 
 Summer again with its June may come; 
 
 Birds may around me be singing; 
 None will return to the empty home. 
 
 Up there in the woodbine swinging. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Throb on, O Sea, in solemn woe. 
 Throb on, while storms shall o'er thee blow; 
 Throb on, while suns shall on thee glow. 
 Deep hidden 'neath thy heaving breast. 
 There seems a longing after rest. 
 However rough thy tossing crest. 
 
 * 
 
®- 
 
 192 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HARRY LYMAN KOOPMAN. 
 
 Born: Freeport, Me., July 1, 1860. 
 Graduating at the age of sixteen, Mr. Koop- 
 man has since supported himself chiefly with 
 his pen. He has published sevei-al books of 
 both prose and verse which liave attained fair 
 circulations. Mr. Koopman has been exten- 
 sively engaged in library worli. The Great 
 Admiral; Woman's Will, a love play of five 
 acts with other poems ; and Orestes, a drama- 
 tic sketch with other poems, are among his 
 principal published works. Mr. Koopman was 
 united in wedlock in June, 1889, and now re- 
 sides in Burlington, Vt. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE DEATH OF GUINEVERE. 
 
 The tale the abbess told, she that liad been 
 
 The little novice, maid to Guinevere. 
 
 It was the season when there falls no night. 
 
 But all the dusk, from sun to sun, is filled 
 
 With golden twilight deepening into dawn. 
 
 Then all the air is fragrance, all the earth 
 
 Fit carpeted for footstool of its King 
 
 With bloom and softness. Everj' hour is fair. 
 
 But fairest glows the even, when the west 
 
 Uplifts its gates of pearl, and over them 
 
 The roofs and towers and spires of ruby and 
 
 gold. 
 Then pious hearts think on the heavenly city. 
 And saintly eyes, wept dim o'er sins forgiven. 
 Now weep for rapture of the glory revealed. 
 But song of bird nor breath of blossom 
 
 touched 
 With any thrill the sick heart of the queen. 
 Upon her bed she lay. Around, her maids 
 Stood weeping, while her fevered dreams out- 
 brake: 
 " He loves me still, and now I go to him 
 
 To be his bride within the halls of light. 
 He loves me. But with earthly lips he spake. 
 Will he now love me in the spirit world. 
 Where hearts are undisguised, no beauty 
 
 shines 
 But of the soul, nor any charm allures, 
 Save only purity and holiness? 
 Are there not myriads in the world of bliss, 
 To be wliose handmaid I were all unmeet? 
 Consorts he not with these, and how tlirough 
 
 them 
 Should I win way to him? Far other thoughts 
 Than memory of me must fill his soul. 
 Who wronged him so and served him here so 
 
 ill. 
 He loves me; rather say he hates me not, 
 So at least unrebuked I may behold him. 
 Only to see liim, this were joy enough, 
 My Arthur. Nay, l)ut shall I be content 
 Only to see liim? Was it but for this [on 
 
 My soul hath yearned and hoped and struggled 
 
 These weary years! Hath he no kiss for me? 
 May I not clasp his knees, and in my love 
 Have him again all mine, my own? 
 
 But what 
 If in that world the sight of me were pain. 
 Despite his love? As how should it not be, 
 Seeing that sin o'erlived is not undone. 
 Nor can forgiveness blot out memory? 
 Were .sight of me to waken in his heart 
 Old woes, and quicken anguish of slain hopes, 
 Could it be love should lead me to his side? 
 Shall I buy joy again with pain to him? 
 Have 1 not wronged his love enough on earth. 
 But I must haunt him in the heavenly world, 
 And be his hindrance there? O Arthur, Ar- 
 thur, 
 Must I then see thee not? May nevermore 
 Thy kingly glance of love sink in my heart? 
 I love thee, love thee I All my penitence 
 Hath been made light bj- promise of thy love; 
 But do I love thee so that for love's sake 
 I will not see thee more; that for all years 
 Of all eternity I can deny 
 Myself thj- face, to spare thee sight of mine. 
 My love, mj- hope, my strength, my life, mj- 
 
 king? 
 Yea for thy sake I will." 
 
 Here ceased the queen, 
 And on her face a deadly pallor fell. 
 The light sank from her eyes;— then leaped 
 
 again. 
 And in her cheek the rosy flush of youth 
 Flashed, and a smile like summer bent her 
 
 lips; 
 She cried again >> O Arthur 1 " and the smile 
 Lingered, but she had gone to meet lier king. 
 Through the bowed window came the breath 
 
 of morn. 
 And high in heaven the bright lark sang for 
 glee. 
 
 PRINCESS EYEBRIGHT. 
 
 Princess Eyebright's seventeen. 
 
 No more princess but a queen 
 
 Who would ever guess 'twas she 
 
 Used to sit upon my knee. 
 
 Bid me tell of sleeping Kip, 
 
 Culprit Fay and flying ship. 
 
 Or, from old-world bi'ing her back 
 
 Pus.s-in-boots and cliniljing Jaek; 
 
 Then, when I had said my say. 
 
 Pouted her bright lips ft)r p:iy: 
 
 Though she's grown since tlieii, somehow 
 
 Her lips are farther from me now. 
 
 Yet she lifts in olden wise 
 
 Dusky veiled, violet eyes; 
 
 But the look they wear is new. 
 
 Shy, and yet so ti'ustful too, 
 
 That I swear the girl I miss 
 
 Charmed me never so as this. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 193 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 Bobn: West Hills, N. Y., May 31,1819. 
 Of English origin, the Whitmans have hved 
 three centuries in America. Walt, in one of 
 his poems, says : " My tongue, every atom of 
 my blood, formed from this soil, this air. Born 
 here of parents born liere, from parents the 
 same, and their parents the same." His youth 
 was passed in New York and Brooklyn, receiv- 
 
 WAIiT WHITMAN. 
 
 ing but a common school education. When a 
 young man he worked in a printing office. Dur- 
 ing the Rebellion he was a volunteer nurse 
 without pay, supporting himself during this 
 time by writing letters to various newspapers. 
 It is said that during the course of the war he 
 attended to the wants of a hundred thousand 
 wounded soldiers, treating both confederates 
 and federals alike. Walt Whitman's crowning 
 poetical work is Leaves of Grass, a record of 
 the author's thoughts, in song— solely of Amer- 
 ica and to-day. He has also written two vol- 
 umes of prose : Specimen Days and Collect, and 
 November Boughs. 
 
 ©- 
 
 WHAT AM I AFTER ALL. 
 
 What am I after all but a child, pleas'd with 
 the sound of my own name? repeat- 
 ing it over and over; 
 
 I stand apart to hear — it never tires me. 
 
 To you your name also; 
 
 Did you think there was nothing but two or 
 three pronunciations in the sound in 
 your name? 
 
 LOVE. 
 Blow again trumpeter ! and for thy theme, 
 Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solv- 
 ent and the setting. 
 Love, that is pulse of all, the sustenance and 
 
 the pang. 
 The heart of man and woman all for lo\o. 
 No other theme but love — knitting, enclosing, 
 all-diffusing love. 
 
 how the immortal phantoms crowd around 
 
 me! 
 
 1 see the vast alembic ever working, I see and 
 
 know the flames that heat the world. 
 The glow, the blush, the breathing hearts of 
 
 lovers. 
 So blissful happy some, and some so silent, 
 
 dark, and nigh to death : 
 Love, that is all the earth to lovers — love, that 
 
 mocks time and space. 
 Love, that is day and night — love, that is sun 
 
 and moon and stars. 
 Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with 
 
 perfume. 
 No other words but words of love, no other 
 
 thought but love. 
 
 THE WORLD BELOW THE BRINE. 
 
 The world below the brine. 
 
 Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches 
 
 and leaves, 
 Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and 
 
 seeds, the thick tangle, and pink turf. 
 Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, 
 
 white, and gold, the play of white 
 
 through the water. 
 Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, 
 
 gluten, grass, rushes, and the aliment 
 
 of the swimmei'S, 
 Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, 
 
 or slowly crawling close to the bottom. 
 The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air 
 
 and spray, or disporting with his flukes. 
 The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, 
 
 the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting- 
 ray. 
 Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in 
 
 those ocean-depths, breathing that 
 
 thick-breathing air, as so many do. 
 The change thence to the sight here, and to 
 
 the subtle air breathed by beings like 
 
 us who walk this sphere. 
 The change onward from ours to that of beings 
 
 who walk other spheres. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 The same old role, the role that is what we 
 
 make it, as great as we like. 
 Or as small as we like, or both great and small, 
 
 -© 
 
MARGARET MCRAE LACKEY. 
 
 Bokn: Copiah Co., Miss., Oct. 24, 1858. 
 The poems of Miss Lackey have appeared in 
 tbe New Orleans Picayune, Southern Culti- 
 vator and the periodical press generally. 
 
 MAliCAUKT .M'KAfc; r>A('KK.V. 
 
 She follows tlie profession of teaching, and 
 resides iu her native state at Crystal Springs. 
 Miss Lackey hopes soon to issue a volume. 
 
 EVEN THIS WILL PASS AWAY. 
 Of all the proverbs quaint and sweet, 
 That burdened .souls so often greet. 
 
 As some wise voice from ancient clay, 
 There sure is none in whose belief. 
 The worn heart finds such sweet relief. 
 
 As "Even this will pass away!" 
 When weary hands from early dawn 
 Till lengthening eve must labor on. 
 
 And know not surcease day by day; 
 How gladly comes the sweet refrain. 
 That echoes o'er and o'er again, 
 
 ..This, even this, will pass away." 
 When burdens that are hard to bear 
 Would sink the soul 'neath black Despair, 
 
 And whitening lips refuse to pray; 
 Faith's lovely face e'en then will glow. 
 And sweet her voice that whispers low, 
 
 .. Uut even tli's will pass away." 
 When earth to earth and dust to dust 
 Is read above our heart's best trust. 
 
 * 
 
 And we in anguish turn away: 
 The bitter cup less bitter seems. 
 When through its dregs the bright truth 
 gleams. 
 
 That even this will pass away. 
 Yea, even this ! With hearts bowed down 
 We stand before the new-made mound. 
 
 And long to greet the coming day. 
 When weary feet have found a rest; 
 When hands are folded o'er the breast; 
 
 And all life's woes have passed away. 
 
 V/HEN THE SUN GOES DOWN. 
 When the sun goes down, 
 And lengthening shadows round me fall, 
 And night enwraps the world in its dark pall, 
 I wonder if I'll sit at close of day 
 And backward glance along the dreary way. 
 And count with blinding tears its anguished 
 
 (blow 
 woe, . ^ 
 
 And mark the spots where adverse wuids did 
 And storms did lash me ere the sun went 
 down. 
 When the sun goes down, 
 I wonder if I'll weep o'er graves we made. 
 O'er brightest hopes so dear within them laid; 
 O'er friends who left me e'en at morning's 
 
 dawn. 
 To bear the burden of the day alone. 
 O'er others who beside me fainting fell. 
 When naught could noontides scorching heat 
 dispel, td'^wu. 
 
 And sought the shade before the sun went 
 
 When tho sun goes down. 
 And crimson glory floods the western skies. 
 And veils th' eternal hills in beauty's guise. 
 I wonder if this glad, entrancing light 
 Will fill my earth-worn soul with such delight. 
 That I'll forget the day was long and drear. 
 Forget each blasted hope, each idle fear. 
 That saddened life before the sun went down. 
 
 When the sun goes down, 
 I think I will not sigh because the day 
 Had more of Winter's chill than smiles of 
 
 May; 
 Because 'twas crowded full of weary toil. 
 And griefs that made the aching heart recoil; 
 Because so many blinding tears were shed. 
 Above low mounds which held my cherished 
 
 dead. 
 Who left me lonely ere the sun went down. 
 
 When the sun goes down, 
 I think the twilight rest will be so sweet. 
 Which gre(>ts the tired heart, the restless feet. 
 That I will gladly fold these weary hands. 
 And thinking naught of this past day's de- 
 mands, t""»'-"' 
 Will gaze enraptured toward tbat C(nning 
 To which my longing soul shall soon be borne, 
 And his eternal sun shall ne'er go down 
 
 SB- 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 195 
 
 -m 
 
 LOTTIE CAiMERON EFNOR. 
 
 Born: Liverpool, N. Y. 
 Mrs. Efnor is best known by lier poems and 
 letters published in the leading papers of 
 Texas for the past twenty years, although she 
 has contributed quite extensively to the east- 
 
 AMERON EFNOR. 
 
 ern press. She will doubtless publish her en- 
 tire works in book-form at an early date. Per- 
 sonally she is of medium height, with black 
 hair and eyes. 
 
 88- 
 
 THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE. 
 
 Ah ! joyously murmur of life's brightest side, 
 
 The side we deem nearest the sun ; 
 A well-spring of joy they tell us we'll tind. 
 
 If in earnest the search is begun. 
 Yea, it is true! there is a bright side of life 
 
 When little feet patter the floor, 
 And sweet, childish laughter out on the lawn 
 
 Comes " rollicking" in at the door. 
 But how can we say there is a bright side of 
 life 
 
 When these sunny echoes are o'er. 
 And little feet turning to mold in the grave 
 
 Will gladden these hauntings no more? 
 Can the mother well look on the bright side 
 of life — 
 
 Whose anguish and meanings are heard — 
 When her heart and arms are empty and bare 
 
 As winter's cold nest of a bird? 
 
 A lover will call it the bright side of life 
 When he looks in the eyes of his love. 
 And reads in their depths the return of his 
 hopes. 
 The truths that his happiness wove. 
 Her smiles like the moonbeams appeal to his 
 soul, 
 Her laughter, like ripples of pearls. 
 Keeps filling his heart with the rarest of gems, 
 
 As it playfully floats through her curls. 
 But his mind is all changed when the bright 
 side of life 
 Has turned the dark side to his view; 
 And eyes that looked up to his own manly 
 face 
 Will never be those that he knew 
 In days that are fled with the bright side of 
 life, 
 While leaving him only its pain ; [own — 
 New lovers have taken the heart once his 
 
 The heart now no longer his fane. 
 A lord of the earth finds the bright side of life 
 
 In thousands that add to his store; 
 And his proud-stepping dame but adds to its 
 light. 
 While driving her carriage and four; 
 The masses throng by and each giving his hand 
 
 'Though many wear treachery's smile. 
 For him it is truly the bright side of life 
 
 His own heart is happy the whUe. 
 But changes have come to his bright side of 
 Ufe, 
 Misfortunes have reached him at last; 
 The friends that so warmly extended a hand 
 
 Seem scarcely to know he has past : 
 His heart being tender, his pride being bowed. 
 
 He feels in his soul for the poor; 
 And wonders if follows the dark side of life, 
 
 The many once turned from his door. 
 Ah ! Well may we deem it the bright side of 
 life 
 When all of life's blessings are near, 
 When beauty and wealth, like a glorious boon. 
 
 Shelter the eye from a frown or a tear. 
 The world is so bright when the laurel-crown- 
 ed brow 
 Grows calm and content with its rest; 
 When the fruitage of toil to the weary, worn 
 soul 
 Has anchored its hopes in the breast. 
 But when these have all sunk in life's dark- 
 ened sea. 
 And blessings gone down with the tide; 
 Or heartaches and sorrows assume their con- 
 trol. 
 And loving ones sickened and died ; 
 'Tls then we look out on the dark side of life, 
 
 Well knowing its shadows are here; 
 And better it were to take burdens of life 
 With seldom a murmur or tear. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 196 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 L. A. MARTIN. 
 
 Born: Fayette Co., Ohio, Jan. 14,186.5. 
 After receiving' a good education, Mr. Martin 
 entered tlie profession of a scbool teaclaer. In 
 1889 he was seiiool commissioner of Livingston 
 county, and also editor of the Teachers' Re- 
 
 ®- 
 
 Li. a. martin. 
 
 view, an educational journal published at 
 Chillicothe, Mo. The poems of Mr. Martin have 
 appeared from time to time in the periodical 
 press. 
 
 THE WITHERED FLOWER. 
 I saw a withered flower. 
 On a low disheveled lK)wer, 
 
 Fading fast; 
 For the north wind then did blow. 
 And tlie skies with clouds of snow 
 
 Were o'ercast. 
 "iJut its leaves were folded quiet 
 On its tiny stem so light. 
 
 So resigned ; 
 To await the Reapei''.s call. 
 As fate has for us all 
 
 So designed. 
 Oh, I .almost slicd a tear, 
 As I gazed upon tl\e bier 
 
 Of tliat flower; 
 Tliough its leaves were sere and brown, 
 'Twas as sweet as when spring's down 
 
 Decked its bower. 
 
 And its humble dying smile 
 Seemed so calm and free from 
 
 That its death 
 Showed signs of brightest hope. 
 Fulfilled when spring shall ope 
 
 I ts sweet breath ; 
 Oh, a lesson it me taught. 
 That with use is deeply fraught. 
 
 Oh, may I, 
 As that humble dying flower, 
 On its low, disheveled bower. 
 
 Live and die. 
 Let me e'er, as it, when spring 
 Verdant beauties o'er all fling. 
 
 Sweetly bloom. 
 And contented dwell alone 
 In my humble cottage home 
 
 With no gloom. 
 And when life's end is near, 
 And the frosts of death appear. 
 
 Let me hope 
 That bright again once more. 
 When the winter death is o'er 
 
 Spring will ope. 
 
 uile. 
 
 AMOUR PRIMUS. 
 O, evening long ago. 
 When first we love did know. 
 When first we told love's tale. 
 As over the dewy dale, 
 
 We passed along; 
 Sweet zephyr ceased to blow. 
 The blushing stars did glow. 
 And shone with crimson pale, 
 Wliile hushed the nightingale 
 
 His gladdening song. 
 O, love that young hearts speak. 
 When first the crimsoned cheek 
 Bears plain the tell-tale hue 
 It is immortal true: 
 
 It never dies ; 
 Tliough vain may be its flame, 
 Fond memories it reclaim; 
 And where fond treasured lie 
 The thouglits that cannot die. 
 
 It there dotli rise. 
 
 MEMORIAL. 
 We stand upon death's tlireshold. 
 
 With the olive wreath of peace. 
 As o'er the dear dead fallen. 
 
 Fond tributes of love increase; 
 And we lay the hei'o's laurel 
 
 Above each nnmarl)U'(l gi'ave, 
 Wliile we sing love's Ijurning anthems 
 
 In memorials of the brave. 
 The bi'ave and the bold we honor, 
 
 We love the true and the tried. 
 And glory's green garlands blossom, 
 
 Where the heroes fought and died. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 -)5 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 197 
 
 JUNIUS L.HEMPSTEAD. 
 
 Born: Dubuque, Ia„ Nov. 14, 1842. 
 Always studious and fond of art, music and 
 literature, Junius when a youth secured tiie 
 blue riljbon two successive seasons at the St. 
 Louis fair, and also two premium prizes of 
 seventy-five and one hundred dollars for the 
 best original statuettes in marble. Drifting 
 into booli-keepiug-, Mr. Hempstead has follow- 
 ed that profession until about 1886, since which 
 
 JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD. 
 
 time he has devoted himself entirely to litera- 
 ture. He has written five good serial stories, 
 besides a number of short poems, reviews and 
 scientific articles, all of which have received 
 publication. He has now in preparation a 
 novel, which he hopes to publish in 1890. His 
 poems are certainly vei-y fine, and show much 
 genius and study in their composition. 
 
 CREDO. 
 I believe that should I die. 
 To lie within the eartli's dull mold, 
 Every laughing breeze would sigh, 
 And every flower unfold 
 To fatten on decay. 
 
 I believe that should I die. 
 To mingle with the clay 
 Every changing shrub would vie. 
 And claim me for its praj' 
 When I am dead. 
 
 ©- 
 
 I believe that should I die. 
 To dreamless melt in dust. 
 My mother earth will beautify 
 The autumn's tinted rust 
 Through me. 
 
 I believe that should I die. 
 This mortal part will bloom. 
 The quickening seed will vivify 
 Yet slumber in the toml). 
 To blossom in the sky. 
 I believe that should I die. 
 To lie in earth's deep mold, 
 The chrysalis will sanctify 
 The Psyche's perfect mould. 
 
 A TEAR. 
 
 Was this a tear? ah ! well, 
 A crystal drop that fell 
 From sorrow's trembling lid, 
 To soothe the aching spell 
 Where silent grief lay hid. 
 Beneath the desert's barren swell. 
 Where crumbling stone and pyramid 
 Their tear-stained stories tell. 
 
 Is this a tear? ah! me. 
 
 That trembles on mj^ cheek; 
 
 'Tis not the sign of glee. 
 
 But woe too dumb to speak. 
 
 That finds on bended knee 
 
 A lonely heart too bleak 
 
 For other eyes to see. 
 
 Is this a tear? why! yes, 
 
 A crystal drop that wells 
 
 From healing springs to bless 
 
 The woe that hath a voiceless knell. 
 
 And with feolian strains to cheer 
 
 The heart whose bolted citadel 
 
 Is opened by a tear. 
 
 HOPE. 
 Hope is a sea, whose tideless unrest 
 Sweeps o'er the soul, with a zephyrs soft 
 
 balm. 
 An ocean of pleasure, where sirens becalm 
 The barks, that drift o'er its bright crested 
 
 breast. 
 Ladened with wishes, beautiful dreams to be 
 
 blest. 
 Its waves may be kissed by sweet islands of 
 
 palm — 
 Beneficent isles, where our memories embalm, 
 FadedJiopes we so fondly caressed. 
 The mystical shore of this boundless sea 
 Receding, retreating, and ever beyond. 
 Is strewn with the wrecks of the never to be. 
 But Hope is a slave, whose gold woven-bond 
 Is the dream of to-day, a quaint jubilee. 
 Where voices are singing, while spirits re- 
 spond [sea. 
 From out of the depths of the shimmering 
 
 ® 
 
m- 
 
 -)3B 
 
 198 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 PROCRASTINATION. 
 A startled gaze, and burning' glance. 
 Flashed from the deep-brimmed hat, 
 His bloodless fingers, soft and fat. 
 Were tightly clasped. The deathly trance 
 Of agony chilled the warm blood, while the 
 
 semblance 
 Of a rigid statue, grimly sat 
 Upon the moveless form that 
 Bended o'er the dial's sunlit utterance. 
 The shadow swept the plUar'd mark. 
 Where Time had called the turn, 
 While Pleasure, in her gilded l)ark. 
 Had frittered Life's sojourn. 
 To kiss the specter of a dark 
 Unwelcome guest, whose gift, a marble urn. 
 
 8&- 
 
 THE SONG OF DEATH. 
 I ride on the wings of the storm, 
 I float in the soft summer air, 
 I breathe, while I move without form, 
 I smite and the reaper is there. 
 In the midst of the battle so fell. 
 In the leaden balls' shower of deatli. 
 With the hissing of shot, and the bursting 
 
 of shell, 
 I sweep them away with a breath. 
 In the crash of the swift-coming train. 
 That sinks thro' the bridge o'er the 
 stream, [vain. 
 
 The shrieks of the dying, each praying in 
 And I count them by thousands again. 
 Old ocean with turbulent waves. 
 Its billows of death sweeping o'er. 
 Countless and drear are the graves, 
 The dirge of my song ever more. 
 I kiss with a poisonous breath. 
 High fever, dull stupor, and pain, 
 Tlie fair cheek of slumbering health. 
 As I gloat o'er my victims again. 
 I lurk in the wine cup and smile. 
 As each sip quickly steals to the brain. 
 Young innocence thus 1 beguile. 
 While they falter, but turn not again. 
 I darken the earth with a storm, 
 I flash in the cloud-ladened air. 
 To strike from my pathway eacii form, 
 As I bound fnjm my desohite lair. 
 I rusli in tlie roar of the river, 
 Wliile it sweeps from tlie craig to the sea. 
 To strangle the wretch with a shiver. 
 As he pays his last tribute to me. 
 All life is a harvest to claim. 
 From the gnat to the sweet-scented flower. 
 E'en the mammoth that sports in the main. 
 Succumbs to my death-dealing power. 
 I live in the hope of despair. 
 To crush, to slay and to kill. 
 
 To madden, till death seems so fail'. 
 
 To die, is to shorten the ill. 
 
 A stranger to mercy and love. 
 
 Compassion, tenderness, tears. 
 
 My arrows of death from above, 
 
 Mark the flight of the numberless years. 
 
 ART THOU A FRIEND. 
 
 Art thou a friend to me? 
 Oh ! no, it cannot be. 
 Or did the heart grow cold 
 With time's neglect. The mold 
 Of years has in the buried past 
 Grown greenly to break at last 
 Tlie ties that bound us then. 
 Art thou a friend in need? 
 "Tis not the summer shine we heed, 
 Whose brightness shimmers all; 
 And golden May day showers fall 
 Upon the heart where fortune smiled. 
 While fleet-wiug'd pleasure time be- 
 guiled. 
 The hours that then belonged to thee. 
 Art thou a friend indeed. 
 To nourish \varm and feed 
 The hungry heart whose wintry tears 
 Are rustecj leaflets of the years. 
 That have so quickly flown? 
 Can you be true in woe, as weal. 
 To bind our hearts with hooks of steel? 
 
 GREAT THOUGHTS CAN NEVER DIE. 
 Great thoughts are monuments upon the 
 
 shores of time, [blime. 
 
 To cast long shadows from their heights su- 
 Their fadeless luster is the deathless cycle's 
 
 roll, [fading scroll,— 
 
 To light with vivid splendor the world's un- 
 Tliey live beyond the deeds with knightly val- 
 or crowned, [nowned. 
 The marbled bust by sculptor's hand re- 
 The crumbling walls, the king's embattled 
 
 tower, [ruthless power. 
 
 The conquering squadrons and the tyi ant's 
 They live beyond the mitred churches' creed. 
 Beyond the truth, from papal error freed. 
 The earth does move, and grand Galileo dead. 
 His thought is ma.stcr though his soul has 
 
 fled. 
 They live beyond the martyr's torturiiigdealh. 
 The .sacred ashes, and the fleeting breath, 
 A crowned king, upon the globes empyrean 
 
 throne, 
 To gather untold harvests from the seed that 
 
 thought has sown. 
 They live beyond the i)at riot's glorious grave. 
 The rich liliatlons, the willing blood he gave. 
 That future years should halo living thought. 
 And dim the stars with deeds such valor 
 
 wrought. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAI^ AND NATIONAI, POETS OF AMEIllCA. 
 
 199 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. L. R. BETHEL. 
 
 This lady bas written both prose and verse 
 extensively under the nom de plume of 
 Monnie Moore. She is a member of the 
 
 MRS. Ij. R. bethel. 
 
 Western Authors' and Artists' Association, 
 and is a regular contributor to sevtnal prom- 
 inent newspapers and magazines. 
 
 ®- 
 
 A HEART'S SONG. 
 Oh! autumn rain, so gently faUing, 
 Alike some spirit softly calling. 
 
 In measured tones of scenes that were, 
 My heart in unison, is now besting. 
 My thoughts tiie days now gone repeating. 
 
 Those happier days with love so fair. 
 
 Oh! life, why must ye change so grimly? 
 Or, will the future showing dimly, 
 
 Some sweeter recompense bestow? 
 Some solace for the heart-aclie borne, love. 
 Some joys known in this life we live, love. 
 
 Ere to the seraph's land we go? 
 
 Soft falls the rain on dying leaves, dear. 
 Like a knell my aching heart must hear. 
 
 Of liopes that rest as dying leaves — 
 But as those leaves fair blooms may cover. 
 So may I through life's gloom discover 
 
 The joy for which my spirit grieves. 
 
 So may thine arms some day entwine me, 
 Tliy very soul as mine, mine with thee 
 
 In heaven to be, if not while here; 
 Foi', though this life nuiy part us ever. 
 Tile vows we pledged sweetheart can never 
 Be broken, we will hold tliem dear. 
 
 E'en as the rain out side is falling. 
 We may in future years recalling. 
 
 The days of gloom, our liearts have known, 
 Know that the sun somewhere was shining 
 Behind a cloud with silver lining. 
 
 And from each lieart will grief have flown. 
 
 Know that this life holds much of gladness. 
 That sweetest joy is born of sadness, 
 
 As trodden blooms yield perfume sweet; 
 Know that our waiting found award here, 
 When heart with lieart, may beat as one dear,. 
 
 And souls in joyous union meet. 
 
 WITHIN MY FATHER'S CARE. 
 
 Within my Father's care 
 Have I bestowed one flower; 
 From off my loving breast 
 'Twas plucked one dreadful hour. 
 Rebellion thrilled my being then — 
 And grief, untold by voice, or pen. 
 At first I would not have it so; 
 Proud was my neck beneatli its woe. 
 While flinching 'neath the rod. 
 
 She was mj- all; the first — 
 Sweet gift from lieaveii sent, 
 I murmured; " Why, dear Lord, 
 Was this sweet bud lent. 
 Until mine arms had twined around 
 Her baby form; and love profound — 
 Sweet mother-love my heart had filled? 
 Why was it, dearest Lord, thus willed. 
 And I must give her up?" 
 
 But time with soft'ning touch 
 
 Hath soothed, not healed, the wound; 
 
 In faith, a solace sweet, 
 
 My saddened heart hatli found. 
 
 And, Oh! how sweet by trust to feel 
 
 Slie's safe with Christ, through woe oi 
 
 weal, 
 'Tis tlius I make no half-way gift. 
 Nor have witliin the lute one rift. 
 To mar its perfect lone. 
 
 So sweetly faitli has taught 
 
 This boundless trust in God. 
 
 I cannot murmur now. 
 
 But bow beneatli the rod; 
 
 Nor could a doubt of Him imply 
 
 To ask her spirit from on iiigli. 
 
 So in my heart I liold her there. 
 
 Through days and years, a memory fair,— 
 
 A presence, sweet and dear. 
 
 -® 
 
®- 
 
 200 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 
 
 Born: Hanover, N. H , April 4, 1810. 
 From 1833 till 1840 ho was pastor of the Untari- 
 an church in Louisville, Ky., also editing the 
 Western Messenger during part of this time. 
 He then returned to Boston, where in 1844 he 
 founded the Church of the Disciples, of which 
 he was pastor for forty-five years. He has 
 written about two score of different works of 
 prose, and many fine poems have appeared 
 from bis pen. 
 
 HOW TO JUDGE. 
 J udge the people by their actions —'tis a rule 
 
 you often get - 
 Judge the actions by their people is a wiser 
 
 ma.\im yet. 
 Have I known you, brother, sister? have I look- 
 ed into your heart? 
 Mingled with your thoughts my feelings, taken 
 
 of your life my part? 
 Now I hear of this wrong action — what is that 
 
 to you and me? 
 Sin within you may have done it — fruit not 
 
 nature to the tree. 
 Foreign graft has come to bearing — mistletoe 
 
 grows on your bough — 
 If I ever really knew you, then my friend I 
 
 know you now. 
 
 »- 
 
 VINETA. 
 
 A TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Under ocean evening bells are swinging. 
 
 Muffled by the waters, faint and slow — 
 Telling by their wild, unearthly ringing 
 
 Of a strange old city down below. 
 Looking downward, mid the currents darkling. 
 
 Spires and towers and walls are dimly seen ; 
 Radiance from tbeir roofs of silver sparkling 
 
 Glitters upward through the waters green. 
 He, whose bark above that sunken city 
 
 Through the evening twilight once has gone. 
 Drawn henceforth by secret love and pity. 
 
 Steers forever to that mystery lone. 
 So within my heart the bells are swinging. 
 
 Faint and slow they sound on memory's 
 shore. 
 Ah ! I hear their strange, unearthly ringing. 
 
 Telling of the Love which comes no more. 
 Dearest hopes therein are sunk forever. 
 
 Through the tide of time their memory 
 gleams; 
 Faith and Truth, whose glory faileih never, 
 
 Glitter through the current of my dreams. 
 And those dear illusive echoes falling 
 
 From an unseen world, so far apart, 
 Sound like angel-voices, ever calling 
 
 From that sunken city, In my heart. 
 
 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 Born: Salem, Mass., Feb, 13, 1819. 
 Graduating at Harvard in 1838, and also at 
 its law department two years later, he was ad- 
 mitted to the bar, and at once devoted himself 
 In compiling and publishing law works. At 
 the same time he contributed both prose and 
 verse to the Boston Miscellany and other peri- 
 odicals. His first volume of Poems was pub- 
 lished in 1847. In 1848 his fondness for art led 
 to his going to Italy, where he has since resid- 
 ed, devoting his attention chiefly to sculpture. 
 
 PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE. 
 A thousand silent years ago. 
 
 The twilight faint and pale 
 Was drawing o'er the sunset glow 
 
 lis soft and shadowy veil ; 
 When from his work the sculptor stayed 
 
 His hand, and turned to one 
 Who stood beside him, half in shade. 
 
 Said, with a sigh, " 'Tis done. 
 "Thus much is saved from chance and change. 
 
 That waits for me and thee ; 
 Thus much — how little ! — from the range 
 
 Of death and destiny. 
 " Phryne, thy human lips shall pale. 
 
 Thy rounded limbs decay,— 
 Nor love nor prayers can aught avail 
 
 To bid thy beauty stay. 
 " But there thy smiles for centuries 
 
 On marble lips shall live,— 
 For art can grant what love denies. 
 
 And fi.x the fugitive. 
 " Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade 
 
 The youth of this cold bust; 
 When this quick brain and hand that made. 
 
 And thou and I are dust! 
 " When all our hopes and fears are dead. 
 
 And both our hearts are cold. 
 And love is like a tune that's played. 
 
 And life a tale that's told, 
 " This senseless stone, so coldly fair, 
 
 That love nor life can warm. 
 The same enchanting loolc shall wear. 
 
 The same enchanting form. 
 "Its peace no sorrow shall destroy; 
 
 Its beauty age shall spare 
 The bitterness of vanished joy. 
 
 The wearing waste of care. 
 " And there upon that silent face 
 
 Shall unborn ages see 
 Perennial youth, perennial grace. 
 
 And sealed serenity. 
 " And strangers, when we sleep in peace, 
 
 Sliall say, not (luite unmoved. 
 So smiled upon Praxiteles 
 
 The Phryao whom he loved." 
 
 -® 
 
Si 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 201 
 
 ALEXANDER H. MORRISON. 
 
 Born: Jefferson Co., 0.,Aug. 18, 1841. 
 The pnTns ot Mr. Morrison liave apitt'ai'ed in 
 the Stiubciiville Gazette, Herald. Oliio Press 
 
 ALEX.-iXDER HENRV MORRISON. 
 
 and tlie local press generallj'. He was mar- 
 ried in 1863 to Miss Mary Elizabeth Taylor, 
 and now resides on a farm in Fayette Co., Pa. 
 
 THE EAGLES AND THE INDIAN'S 
 GRAVES. 
 With sweeping wing-s, from the far gloomy 
 ledges 
 Of cataract and pine — 
 Where -Allegheny rears its broken ridges, 
 
 Beneatli the cold sunshine — 
 From where those icy summits.rent and riven 
 
 Stand, ghost-like, clad in white — 
 Plunged midst the wrecked and stormy clouds 
 of lieaven. 
 The eagle wheels her flight. 
 
 Long has she lingered 'round those moniitaius 
 towering 
 On which their aeries rest, 
 Througli wintry gloom and summer's storm- 
 cloud lowering. 
 For her mate's dauntless breast; 
 Till now. despairing of his e'er returning. 
 
 She mounts tlie snowy cloud. 
 And, with tierce anguish in lier bosom burn- 
 ing. 
 Shrieks to the winds aloud. 
 
 SB- 
 
 Dashed on the tempest's breath, she does not 
 ponder 
 
 But wildly sweeps away— [yonder 
 
 Where dead pines' skeleton fingers point her 
 
 Toward the setting day. 
 
 She leaves their moldering aeries on the 
 
 mountains. 
 Their eaglet broods now grown to full estate. 
 And by Ohio's gold and silver fountains. 
 
 She comes to seek her mate — 
 O'er broad Ohio's frozen bosom sweeping, 
 Wlieremany apine its funeral branches waves 
 She seeks her mate, wLere he his grave is 
 keeping 
 
 Beside the Indian graves. 
 Like the red man of the forest. 
 
 The eagle's reign is o'er; 
 He is dying on the mountain. 
 
 And from the ship-haunted shore; 
 He plumed the Indian's quiver. 
 
 And he shared his woodland prey, 
 And from forest, plain and river 
 
 Thej- have sternly past away. 
 
 And here this wandering eagle 
 
 Has sought her resting place. 
 By tlie green mounds and moldering bones 
 
 Of the lost Indian race. 
 Here let them sleep together. 
 
 And sacred be their rest! 
 The hauglity Indian chieftain. 
 
 And the bird of haughty crest. 
 
 Their doom is like, and let them sleep 
 
 In peace in our great land; 
 Let the Great Spirit o'er them keep 
 
 His merciful strong hand. 
 Here lies the Indian and his mate, 
 
 Their arrows by tliem rust; 
 And the lonely Eagle, smote by fate. 
 
 Here joins her mate in dust. 
 Like the stern Indian chieftain 
 
 When all his tribe were gone. 
 Calmly and firmly waited he 
 
 Beside the desert stone. 
 Sadly, without a tear, he gazed 
 
 Upon their rounded graves. 
 Waiting for the Great Spirit 
 
 Who sends his death and saves. 
 Until at length, from roiling clouds. 
 
 He heard liis voice in storms; 
 And in the sunny hunting grounds 
 
 He joined his fathers' forms. 
 Farewell! farewell! proud emblem 
 
 Of the mighty and the free. 
 There's many and many a luiman heart. 
 
 That's emblemed well by thee. 
 For their hearts are buried in the graves 
 
 Of those who've gone before. 
 And they fly to meet them, o'er the earth. 
 
 Upon the " sliining shore." 
 
 ee 
 
n 
 
 ®- 
 
 -^ 
 
 202 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HARRIET p. SPOFFORD. 
 
 Born : Calais. Me., April 3, 1835. 
 In her youth Harriet was taken by her parents 
 to Newburyport. Mass.. which has ever since 
 been her home. She received a good education, 
 and at an early age contributed to the story- 
 papers of Boston, earning small pay with a 
 great deal of labor. Her first notable hit was 
 a sparkling story of Parisian life, which ap- 
 peared in 1859 in the Atlantic Monthly, under 
 the title of In the Cellar; and from that day 
 she was a welcome contributor, of both poetry 
 and prose, to the chief periodicals of the coun- 
 try. A volume of poems appeared in iaS3. and 
 Ballads About Authors in 1888, in addition to 
 which she has written numerous prose works. 
 
 MOTHER MINE. 
 When by the ruddy Are I spelled 
 
 In one old volume and another. 
 Those ballads haunted by fair women. 
 
 One of them always seemed my mother. 
 In storied song she dwelt, where dwell 
 
 Strange things and sweet of eld and eerie. 
 The foam of Binnorie's bonny mill-dams, 
 
 The bowing birks, the wells o' Wearie. 
 All the Queen's Maries she did know. 
 
 The eldritch knight, the sisters seven, 
 The lad that lay upon the Lomonds 
 
 And saw the perch play in Lochleven. 
 Burd Helen had those great gray ejes. 
 
 Their rays from shadowy lashes flingmg; 
 That smile the winsome bride of Yarrow 
 
 Before her teai'S were set to singing. 
 That mouth was just the mouth that kissed 
 
 Sir Cradocke under the green wildwood; 
 Fair Rosamond was tall as she was 
 
 In those fixed fancies of ray childhood. 
 And when she sang — ah, when she sang ! 
 
 Birds are less sweet, and flutes not clearer - 
 In ancient hallo I sr.w the minstrel. 
 
 And shapes long dead arose fo hear her! 
 Darlings of song I've heard since then. 
 
 But no such voice as hers was, swelling 
 Like bell-notes on the winds of morning. 
 
 All angelhood about it dwelling. 
 No more within those regions dim 
 
 Of rich romance my thoughts w(juld place hei 
 Her life itself is such a poem 
 
 She does not need old names to grace her. 
 Long years have tied, but left her charm 
 
 Smiling to see that years are fleeter. 
 Those ballads are as sweet as ever. 
 
 But she is infinitely sweeter. 
 For love, that shines through all her ways. 
 
 Hinders the stealthy hours from duty, 
 A soul divinely self-forgetful 
 
 Has come to blossom in her beauty. 
 
 While the low brow, the silver curl. 
 
 The twilight glance, the perfect features. 
 The rose upon a creamy pallor. 
 
 Make her the loveliest of creatures. 
 Now with the glow that on the face 
 
 Like moonlight on a flower has found her. 
 With the tone's thrill, a faint remoteness. 
 
 Half like a halo hangs around her. 
 Half like a halo? Nay. indeed. 
 
 I never saw a picture painted — 
 Such holy work the years have rendered — 
 
 So like a woman that is sainted. 
 
 »- 
 
 COL. THOMAS W. HIGGINSON. 
 
 Born: Cambridge. Mass.. Dec. 22. 1823. 
 This great anti-slavist, minister, soldier, and 
 author has had a varied career. He is an earn- I 
 est advocate of woman sufFi-age and of the 
 higher education for both sexes. He has con- j 
 tributedlargely to current literature.and is the i 
 author of a score or more volumes of prose, 
 besides editing several large and important 
 works. Col. Higginson was also a member of 
 the Massachusetts legislature in 1880 and 1881, 
 serving as chief of staff to the governor at the 
 same time; and in 1881-83 was a member of the 
 state board of education. 
 
 DECORATION. 
 
 MANIBUS DATE LILIA PLENIS. 
 
 Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand 
 Bearing lilies in my hand. 
 Comrades I in what soldier-grave 
 Sleeps the bravest of the brave? 
 Is it he who sank to rest 
 With his colors round his breast? 
 Friendship makes his tomb a shrine; 
 Garlands veil it; ask not mine. 
 One low grave, yon trees beneath. 
 Bears no roses, wears no wreath: 
 Yet no heart more high and warm 
 Ever dared the battle-storm ; 
 Never gleamed a prouder eye 
 In the front of victory. 
 Never foot had firmer tread 
 On the field where hope lay dead, 
 Than are hid within this tomb. 
 Where the untended grasses bloom; 
 And no stone, with fcign'd distress. 
 Mocks the sacred loneliness. 
 Youth and beauty, dauntless will. 
 Dreams that life could ne'er fulfill. 
 Here lie buried; here in peace 
 Wrongs and woes have found release. 
 Turning from my comrades' eyes. 
 Kneeling where a woman lies, 
 I strew lilies on the grave 
 Of the bravest of the brave. 
 
 © 
 
s- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 203 
 
 -® 
 
 LYDIA A.PLATT RICHARDS. 
 
 Born : Malone, N. Y., Oct. 5, 1844. 
 The poems of this lady have been published 
 in the Chicag-o Times.Tribune and Inter-Ocean, 
 and otiicr papers of equal prominence, from 
 which llicv havf been copied extcnsi\rly liy 
 
 LYDIA A. PLATT lilCHARDS. 
 
 the local press. The lineage of Mrs. Piatt 
 Richards dates back to the English nolDility. 
 and her American ancestors were officers and 
 prominent in all our wars. She is now a widow, 
 and resides on her property in Momeuce, 111. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE OUTCAST. 
 She may have sinned I never knew. 
 There were reports — how false, or true, 
 I had no cause to ask, or know — 
 The world condemned, and made it so. 
 She may have sinned — the reckless child, 
 Or been deceived, mistaught, beguiled; 
 Judge not, —the measure which you mete, 
 You shall receive at Jesus' feet. 
 She may have sinned — is sinning yet. 
 These least, these low ones you forget. 
 Are God's own children, whom you spurn; 
 They sin no more than you who turn. 
 She may have sinned — tliere is no doubt, 
 Her sins have someway found her out; 
 Who has no sin — may cast a stone — 
 By sinless hands, no stones are thrown. 
 
 She may have sinned — O, womankind. 
 Are you so stupid— doubly blind — 
 To cast her out — is Satan's joy. 
 He would doom her — and you destroy. 
 
 LOVE'S VAGARIES. 
 FIRST voice: 
 In pride and wrath I fled his side. 
 Yet loved him so; his promised bride — 
 For lying tongues had sown the seed 
 Of rank distrust, that venomed weed, 
 From sea to sea; we dwell apart — 
 Though sundered far, yet near at heart, 
 He wed another, .so did I — 
 Both learn too late, love will not die ; 
 The years fly past; my hair is gray — 
 My one mad-love is young to-day. 
 Age does not reach the heart they say. 
 Nor love grow old or fade — decay. 
 While vengeful wrath will cool, subside. 
 And love, alone, remain, abide. 
 I feel his warm breath on my brow. 
 Past thirty years ; it seems as now. 
 His strong arms, too ; they haunt my waist. 
 Persistent, as his last embrace; 
 His soft, sweet tones, I hear them still. 
 And shall, till heart itself, grows chill. 
 Ah, saddest fate! I hopeless cry. 
 That woman's love can never die. 
 
 SECOND voice: 
 
 I wed my love of the tender tone. 
 Him that I loved, and loved alone. 
 His kisses now are few and cold. 
 His arms have ceased to clasp, enfold — 
 I saw him kiss my servant-maid. 
 And know that love was doomed— be- 
 trayed. 
 The vile saloon, the billiard hall. 
 The club and lodge, I hate them all. 
 Too late, I learn, the pure in heart 
 From vicious comrades stand apart. 
 Who flirts with vice, and sin and shame. 
 No wifely hand can e'er reclaim; 
 Divorce and courts are useless, vain; 
 Confiding love, no laws regain. 
 Rough, cruel words are often mine; 
 Foi- tender tones I've ceased to pine; 
 Wliile want, and taunts and even blows. 
 Have taught me much of wedded woes. 
 Deep, burled down from sneering eye. 
 Where human jackals dare not pry: 
 I .shroud that old love, stark and dead. 
 And o'er its grave, lone tears are shed. 
 Ah, saddest fate! I mournful cry. 
 When woman lives, and love, will die. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 A noble purpose kept her strong, 
 While taint of labor seems so wrong. 
 As though her labor was a shame ; 
 
 ■® 
 
®- 
 
 204 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL AKD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ALICE W. ROLLINS. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., June 12, 1847. 
 Alice Wellington was taught by her father, 
 and completed her studies in Europe. She 
 taught lor several years in Boston, and in 18T6 
 married Daniel M. Eollins of New York. The 
 Ring of Amethyst is the title of her volume of 
 poems. She has written several prose works. 
 
 SB- 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Linger, O day ! 
 Let not thy purple haze 
 
 Fade utterly away. 
 The Indian summer lays 
 Her tender touch upon the emerald hUls, 
 
 Exquisite thrills 
 Of delicate gladness fill the hlue-veined air. 
 
 More restful even than rest. 
 The passionate sweetness that is everywhere. 
 
 Soft splendors in the west 
 Touch with the charm of coming changef ulness 
 
 The yielding hills. 
 
 O linger, day ! 
 
 Let not the dear 
 Delicious languor of thy dreamf ulness 
 
 Vanish away! 
 
 Serene and clear. 
 The brooding stillness of the delicate air. 
 Dreamier than the dreamiest depths of sleep 
 
 Fall softly everywhere. 
 
 Still let me keep 
 One little hour longer tryst with thee, 
 
 O day of days ! 
 
 Lean down to me, 
 In tender beauty of thy amethyst haze 
 
 Upon the vine 
 Rich clinging clusters of the ripening grape 
 
 Hang silent in the sun, 
 
 Butin each one [wine. 
 
 Beats with full throb the quickening purple 
 Whose pulse shall round the perfect fruit to 
 shape. 
 
 Too dreamy even to dreaii. 
 I hear the murmuring bee and gliding stream; 
 The singing silence of the afternoon. 
 Lulling my jielding senses till they swoon 
 
 Into still deeper rest. 
 
 While soul released from sense, 
 
 Passionate and intense. 
 With quick exultant quiver in its wings, 
 Prophetic longing for diviner things. 
 
 Escapes the unthinking breast; 
 Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist. 
 But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed 
 By burning stars; delirious foretaste 
 Of joys the soul — too eager in its haste 
 To grasp ere won by the diviner right [bear. 
 Of birth through death — is far too weak to 
 
 Bathed in earth's lesser light. 
 Slipping down slowly througli the shining air. 
 Once more it steals into the dreaming l)reast, 
 
 Praying again to be its patient guest. 
 
 And as my senses wake, 
 The beautiful glad soul to take, 
 
 The twilight falls: 
 
 A lonely wood-thrush calls 
 
 The day awaj-. 
 "Where hast thou been to-day, 
 O soul of mine? " I wondering question her. 
 She will not answer while the light winds stir 
 And rustle near to hear what she may say. 
 
 Thou needst not linger, day ! 
 
 My soul and I 
 Would hold high converse of diviner things 
 Than blossom underneath thy tender sky. 
 
 Unfold thy wings; 
 Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze. 
 And gliding down the slowly darkening ways, 
 
 Vanish away I 
 
 JOHN BURROUGHS. 
 
 Born: Roxbury, N. Y., Aprils, 1837. 
 After receiving an academic education, John 
 taught school eight or nine years, and then be- 
 came a journalist in New York. For ten years 
 he was a clerk in the treasury department at 
 Washington, and at the end of that time was 
 appointed receiver of a national bank. In 1874 
 he settled on a farm in Esopus, N. Y., devoting 
 his time to literature and fruit cultui-e, except 
 the months when his duties as bank-examiner 
 called him awaj*. He has issued several vol- 
 umes of prose, and has contributed largely 
 both prose and verse to periodicals. 
 
 WAITING. 
 Serene, I fold my hands and wait, 
 
 Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; 
 I rave no more 'gainst time or fate. 
 
 For lo! my own shall come to me. 
 I stay my haste, I make delays. 
 
 For what avails this eager pace? 
 I stand amid the eternal ways. 
 
 And what is mine shall know my face. 
 Asleep, awake, by night or day 
 
 The friends I seek are seeking me : 
 No wind can drive my bark astray. 
 
 Nor change the tide ot destiny. 
 What matter if I stand alone? 
 
 I wait with joy the coming years; 
 My heart shall reaji where it has sown. 
 
 And garner up its fruit of tears. 
 The waters know their own and draw 
 
 The broolv that sjirings in yonder height; 
 So flows the good with equal law 
 
 Unto the soul of luire delight. 
 The stars come nightly to the sky: 
 
 The tidal wave unto the sea; 
 Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor higli. 
 
 Can keep my own away from nie. 
 
 -® 
 
s 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 205 
 
 JOHN GOSSE FREEZE. 
 
 Born: Lycoming Co., Pa., Nov. 4, 1825. 
 John received a common school and academic 
 education, including- Latin and Greek, taught 
 school for several years, studied law and was 
 admitted to the bar of Columbia county, Penn- 
 sylvania, in 1848. Mr. Freeze has resided in 
 Bloomsburg: since that date, in the constant 
 practice of liis profession. This gentleman 
 was married in 1851; has had five children, all 
 of whom are dead. In person Mr. Freeze is 
 about five feet nine inches in height, of spare 
 build, weigliingabout 130 pounds, eyes of gray 
 color, hair and beard darls in youth, but now 
 gray. His life, the life of a lawyer, has been 
 uneventful, and the reports of the supreme 
 court of the state attest liis .standing in his 
 profession. He has been register and recorder 
 of his county, was elected a member of the 
 Pennsylvania constitutional convention of 
 1873, from which body he resigned; is a mem- 
 ber of the episcopal church, and chancelor of 
 the diocese of Central Pennsylvania. He is the 
 author of a History of Columbia county, Penn- 
 sylvania, and of a volume of verse entitled A 
 Royal Pastoral and Other Poems. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SPIRIT MELODY. 
 The spirit said •' Sing,'' as I wandered 
 
 Alone by the babbling brools, 
 Wliose music welled up as I pondered, 
 
 Entranced o'er some magical boolj ; 
 The days glided by me unheeded. 
 
 Their coming no pleasure could bring. 
 For the (fay and the night which succeeded 
 
 Unceasingly whispered me, "Sing." 
 That voice was the first in the morning,— 
 
 It came with the sun o'er the hill. 
 It seemed like a spirit-land warning 
 
 Mysteriously working its will ; 
 The wind bore that voice to me often. 
 
 It came with the zephyrs ot spring. 
 Low breathing, "The best way to soften 
 
 The harshness of life is to sing." 
 It came in the cool breeze of noontide, 
 
 While nature was musing at rest; 
 Though deep silence reigned o'er the hillside. 
 
 My ear with its music was blest; 
 Tlie notes of the birds, as they wended 
 
 Away on the swift speeding wing. 
 With the hum of the bright insect blended. 
 
 And whispered me gently to " sing." 
 As comes a sweet love-tale at evening 
 
 To the heart, it thrillingly came. 
 Still into my willing ear breathing 
 
 Its story of greatness and fame. 
 I listened with joy, though I trembled,— 
 
 It seemed the behest of a king: 
 I doubted no more, nor dissembled, 
 
 "Twas certain the voice bade me " sing." 
 
 When the stars in their beauty were pouring 
 
 A silvery sheen o'er the niglit. 
 My soul, with that spirit-voice soaring. 
 
 Was off in far regions of light: 
 Its music was in and around me. 
 
 Pervading each visible tiling; 
 Like a low, distant echo it bound me. 
 
 Repeating that mystic word, "Sing." 
 
 The song of the syren subdued me, — 
 
 I boast no Ulyssean art, — 
 With all of itself it imbued me. 
 
 Enshrining itself in my heart; 
 With Fate I could struggle no longer, 
 
 The air seemed with music to ring. 
 Each moment the soft voice grew stronger. 
 
 Till it bade me, in thunder tones, " Sing." 
 I sang — but how lame was the metre ! 
 
 I sang — but how common the theme ! 
 Oh, teach me some strain that is sweeter, 
 
 And grant me pure poesy's dream. 
 Since now to thy mandate I bow me, 
 
 Deign o'er me thy mantle to fling; 
 With all of thy spirit endow me,— 
 
 Enable me truly to "sing." 
 
 TO MARGARET. 
 Have thou a care, most trustful Margaret, 
 Who comes a-wooing to thy garden gate; 
 Keep him a suppliant. 
 Nor grant a favor thou canst not recall. 
 It is enough that he in Eden walks. 
 And the sweet perfume of its shrubs inhales, 
 Nor let him cross the stream 
 That keeps the way twixt him and Para- 
 dise. 
 Oft shall he circle the forbidding walls. 
 Oft seek the breeze that wantoned with thy 
 hair. 
 Reach for thy absent self. 
 And think he sees thee though thou be 
 not there. 
 Thou unessayed art ever fair and pure, 
 A kiss, a touch, a step may break the charm. 
 Then keep thee to thyself — 
 The sought for gem is ever prized the 
 most. 
 While thus he stands an humble suppliant. 
 Thou art the mistress of his fate and thine; 
 Pass but the Rubicon, 
 He is the Ca?sar, thou the fallen Rome. 
 Therefore beware, most trustful Margaret, 
 Who comes a wooing to thy garden gate; 
 While ignorance is bliss 
 The Tree of Knowledge grows in Paradise ! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Why do I love thee'? It is naught to me 
 That high estates are wanting unto tliee. 
 That jewels flash not o'er thee brilliantly- 
 Mere dross are they ! • • • 
 
 ® 
 
®- 
 
 206 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 
 
 Born: Bokdentown. N. J., Feb. 8, 1844. 
 Beginning life with a clerical engagement in 
 a railroad oiiice, he pushed on into the sanc- 
 tum, and soon found his way into the editorial 
 chair. Mr. Gilder succeeded Dr. Holland as 
 editor-in-chief of the Century Magazine. All 
 this time Mr. Gilder was singing the songs of a 
 trvie poet. Mr. Gilder's life is indeed a success, 
 and his happiness is crowned by a beautiful 
 ^vife and four children, for an ideal American 
 home is the next place to heaven. 
 
 AT NIGHT. 
 
 The sky is dark, and dark the bay below 
 Save where the midnight city's pallid glow 
 Lies like a lily white 
 On the black pool of night. 
 
 O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way 
 Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay, 
 To where the eddying tide 
 Strikes hard the city's side! 
 
 For there, between the river and the sea. 
 Beneath that glow,— the lily's heart to me,- 
 A sleeping mother mild. 
 And by her breast a child. 
 
 «- 
 
 THE POET'S FAME. 
 Many the songs of power the poet wrought 
 To shake the hearts of men. Yea,he had caught 
 The inarticulate and murmuring sound 
 That comes at midnight from the darkened 
 
 ground 
 When the earth sleeps; for this he framed a 
 
 word 
 Of human speech, and heart were strangely 
 
 stirred 
 That listened. And for him the evening dew 
 Fell with a sound of music, and the blue 
 Of the deep, starry sky he had the art 
 To put in language that did seem a part 
 Of the great scope and progeny of nature. 
 In woods, or waves, or winds, there was no 
 
 creature 
 Mysterious to him. He was too wise 
 Either to fear, or follow, or despise 
 Whom men call Science,— for he knew full 
 
 well 
 All she had told, or still might live to tell. 
 Was known to him before her very birth: 
 Yea, that there was no secret of the earth. 
 Nor of Uie waters under, nor the skies. 
 That had been hidden from the poet's eyes; 
 By him there was no ocean unexplored. 
 Nor any savage coast that had not roared 
 Its music in his ears. 
 
 He loved the town,— 
 Nor less he loved the ever-deepening brown 
 
 Of summer twilights on the enchanted hills; 
 Where he might listen to the starts and trills 
 Of birds that saug and rustled in the trees. 
 Or watch the footsteps of the wandering breeze 
 And the birds" shadows as they fluttered by 
 Or slowly wheeled across the unclouded sky. 
 All these were written on the poet's soul, — 
 But he knew, too, the utmost, distant goal 
 Of the human mind. His flery thought did run 
 To Time's beginning, ere yon central sun 
 Had warmed to life the swarming broods of 
 men. 
 
 In waking dreams his many-visioned ken 
 Clutched the large, final destiny of things. 
 He heard the starry music, and the wings 
 Of beings uufelt by others thrilled the air 
 About him. Yet the loud and angry blare 
 Of tempest found an echo in his verse. 
 And it was here that lovers did rehearse 
 The ditties they would sing when, not too soon. 
 Came the warm night,— shadows, and stars, 
 
 and moon. 
 Who heard his songs were filled with noble 
 
 rage. 
 And wars took fire from his prophetic page: 
 Most righteous wars, wherein, 'midst blood and 
 
 tears. 
 The world rushed onward through a thousand 
 
 years. 
 And still he made the gentle sounds of peace 
 Heroic,— bade the nation's anger cease ! 
 Bitter his songs of grief for those who fell — 
 And for all this the people loved him well. 
 
 They loved him well, and therefore, on a day, 
 They said with one accord : " Behold how gray 
 Our poet's head hath grown! Ere 'tis too late 
 Come, let us ci'own him in our Hall of State: 
 Ring loud the bells, give to the winds his praise, 
 And urge his fame to other lands and days! " 
 
 So was it done, and deep his joy therein. 
 But passing home at night, from out the din 
 Of the loud Hall, the poet, unaware. 
 Moved through a lonely and dim-lighted square 
 There was the smell of lilacs in the air 
 And then the sudden singing of a bird. 
 Startled by his slow tread. What memory 
 
 stirred 
 Within his brain he told not. Yet this night — 
 Lone lingering when the eastern heavens were 
 
 bright — 
 He wove a song of such immortal art 
 That there is not in all the world one heart- 
 One human heart unmoved by it. Long! long! 
 The laurel-crown has failed, but not that song 
 IJorn of the niglit and sorrow. 
 
 Where he lies 
 At rest beneath the ever-shifting skies. 
 Age after age, from far-off lands they come. 
 With tears and flowers, to seek the poet's tomb. 
 
 -© 
 
« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 2U7 
 
 ELLA CHANDLER. 
 
 Born: Chestnut Level, Pa. 
 The poems of Miss Chandler have appeared in 
 the Lancaster Inlellig-encer, Philadelpliia Free 
 
 ELLA CHANDLER. 
 
 Press, and other papers of prominence. Miss 
 Chandler is still a resident of her native place, 
 where she has numerous friends and ardent 
 admirers. 
 
 ©- 
 
 WIFE JENNIE. 
 Jennie we two are old and useless, 
 
 Wrinkled skin and sallow g-rown. 
 And to look at our seamed faces 
 
 With the crows' feet thicklj- sown ; 
 Who would think we loved each other 
 
 With a love that lasts for aye? 
 Who would think I loved you better 
 
 Thau upon our wedding- day? 
 
 But our love has braved the billows 
 
 That would wreck a lighter craft; 
 Now we float in peaceful waters 
 
 And our pleasures cometh oft. 
 I've often thought that man's broad shoul- 
 ders, 
 
 After all, were weak and small. 
 Compared with the patient toiling 
 
 Of those fingers for us all. 
 
 And in the evening, wife and mother. 
 With the babies on her knee. 
 
 Tells some quaint old Scottish story 
 
 Of a cottage by the Dee. 
 For my wife was a Scotch lassie. 
 
 And she loves old Scotland's hills — 
 Here and there a low-thatched cottage — 
 
 And its gently flowing rills. 
 
 And some day we'll wander there. 
 
 Bride and bridegroom, old and gray. 
 With our comic old-time costumes 
 
 That have seen a better day. 
 But what care we for things in fashion? 
 
 Jennie'll look so bright and glad 
 That I'll think I'm wooing the lassie 
 
 In her highland checkered plaid. 
 
 WAITING. 
 Only waiting for the evening 
 
 With its twilight soft and sweet, 
 Only waiting for the shadows 
 
 Till we meet at Jesus' feet. 
 
 Only waiting till the stars come 
 In their brightness, one by one. 
 
 Missing not the light of day time. 
 Or the rising of the sun. 
 
 Sweetest time for recollection 
 When the day draws to a close. 
 
 When the crickets sing their night song 
 And the bees forsake the rose. 
 
 Only waiting till the birdlings 
 
 In their tiny home of nest. 
 Find a shelter, helpless creatures. 
 
 Find a safe and grateful rest. 
 
 Waiting, what a time of waiting — 
 
 Will we ever cease to wait? 
 Will our Savior, to rebuke us. 
 
 Will he say, alas, too late? 
 
 'Twas the same in ancient ages 
 With the poet, priest and king. 
 
 And the vaults of rocky caverns. 
 With their echoes ever ring. 
 
 And the walls give back the echoes. 
 With their sound reverberate; 
 
 Pause not in life's journey waiting 
 Lest you be forever late. 
 
 MAN'S MOUSTACHE. 
 Wonderful! Mystical! Etherial creature, 
 
 From whence comest thou? 
 Didst thou spring from some medieval age? 
 
 Pray answerest now 
 
 Methinks a moss from the land of Ctopia, 
 
 Soft as a damsel's eye-lash. 
 Has in some mysterious way come forth 
 
 To mold thy moustache. 
 
 ■« 
 
*- 
 
 ^08 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. SALLIE B. HARRIS 
 
 Born: Todd Co., Ky., 1840. 
 The poems of tliis lady have appeared for the 
 past quarter of a century iu the papers of her 
 native state. She has heen an invalid for a 
 
 MUS. SALLIE U. llAKlilS. 
 
 number of years, and whenever she wishes to 
 admire the worlds of nature she is obliged to 
 be moved in a rolling: cliair. Mrs. Harris is 
 now a resident of Greenville, Kentucky. 
 
 ©- 
 
 COMMUNION WITH THE ROSES. 
 I sat 'neath a loved vine-clad bower, 
 
 Inhaling- the soft and balmy breath of May, 
 Listening for a voice from the opening flowers 
 
 To tell of pain of sorrow and decay, 
 Of autumn winds, and wintry snows, 
 
 That scatters the roses far, far, away. 
 But alas! not a whispering voice e'er came. 
 
 To tell of blighted breath, or faded leaves. 
 Of summer's fleeting liours, that went away. 
 
 Of November's winds that shook the leaves. 
 And bore them from their parent stem. 
 
 To witlier, to molder, and cease to bloom. 
 No, in their wliispering tlie ro.ses ne'er spake. 
 
 Of bitter despair, of fading or dying; 
 Their murmurings were of beauty and hope. 
 
 Of cheerful greeting, and not of sighing; 
 They came, their bcuiuty and fragrance to 
 bring. 
 
 To linger for a sliort season, then leave. 
 
 They came with greeting to the morning air. 
 
 Not to tell wliy summer roses fade. 
 But peeping through pearls of dewdrops fair. 
 
 That on the blushing rose cheeks lay. 
 To quaff the fragrant early breath of May, 
 
 And woo the sunshine to their feet. 
 From earth's carpet of green they spring 
 
 To deck the bower with roses rare and 
 bright. 
 And revel in the music the cat-bird trills. 
 
 To sip from the chalice pure nectar of de- 
 light. 
 To wave o'er the graves of loved ones gone. 
 
 And wreathe fresh garlands for their tombs. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 The warm sweet month of June is near. 
 
 The soft breathing zephyrs I now can hear; 
 And nature spreads in bounty and gorgeous 
 array 
 Her beauteous tribute of blessings each day. 
 
 'Tis morn, all nature seems lovely and fair; 
 
 The leaves sip sweet nectar from the air. 
 The rose, kissed by the sunbeams at play. 
 
 Mingles its fragrance with fresh blooming 
 hay. 
 How lovely at eventide! doth nature seem. 
 
 The trees all decked in foliage so green 
 Reaching out their shadowy arms for light. 
 
 And to catch the soft-falling dews of night. 
 
 FOR THE ECHO. 
 
 Vanished the gilded dreams of youth may be. 
 
 And buried my many fond hopes, untold. 
 The pleasures of other days I ne'er maj- see; 
 
 But my heart shall never grow old. 
 Tho the summer of life's now upon me. 
 
 And the bliss of youth I'll feel no more; 
 Tho the shade of life's winter is near me. 
 
 My heart shall never, never, grow old. 
 Tho the wings of time may onward sweep, 
 
 And bend this form and its strength witii 
 hold. 
 And leave a heart all torn, to bleed in grief; 
 
 Yet my heart shall never grow old. 
 The snow of age may fall upon me now. 
 
 And silver my hair with its icy hold ; 
 And lines of sorrow enstamp my brow. 
 
 But my heart shall never grow old. 
 Friends may be scattered, and I left alone 
 
 To drink from the chalice that's full of woe; 
 With a lieart all chilled from fate's stern 
 frown. 
 
 But it shall never, never, grow old. 
 Tho' I'm tossed on misfortune's billowy baik, 
 
 And am called through deep waters of woe; 
 Or ruthlessly forced from loved ones to part. 
 
 Yet my heart shall never, never, grow old. 
 
 -® 
 
s- 
 
 ® 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 209 
 
 THOMAS E.TATE. 
 
 Born: Saint Tamany Parish, La. 
 This gentleman has written quite extensive- 
 ly for the periodical press, and has received 
 three prizes for best poems. In person Mr. 
 Tate is six feet in height, of fine stature, and 
 resides in Osyka, Miss. 
 
 CHARITIES. 
 
 The charities and kindnesses 
 
 That flow from regal hands, 
 Are heralded both far and wide 
 
 And published in all lands. 
 While simple deeds of christian love 
 
 That every day are done. 
 Accomplished by the humble poor 
 
 Are rarely ever known. 
 We praise, we honor, we exalt 
 
 Small deeds by noble's done, 
 While noble deeds from humble hands 
 
 Are known to heaven alone. 
 Oh! may each virtuous action rest 
 
 On inner worth alone, 
 Alike let prince and peasant share 
 
 For all their kindness done. 
 
 ©- 
 
 FARMERS ODE. 
 The sun, great orb of beaming fire. 
 
 Dyes the horizon red. 
 And all Night's sable shades retire 
 Where'er his banners spread. 
 The grass appears 
 Like angel tears 
 Upon it had been hung. 
 Or fairy hands 
 From crystal lands 
 A pearly shower had flung. 
 The woodland songsters sport and sing 
 
 In every gay-green tree. 
 And soon the emerald forests ring 
 With bursts of minstrelsy. 
 Then farmers gay 
 At dawn of day 
 To grassy fields repair. 
 While maidens bright 
 At morning light 
 To milk the cows prepare. 
 Bright, laughing boys with iiappy looks 
 
 Drive in the lowing herds, 
 While little misses con their books. 
 Or watch the fleeting birds. 
 And some it suits 
 To gather fruits; 
 Some help to dust the house — 
 Some guide the reel 
 Or spinning wheel. 
 While some in play carouse. 
 
 And now the morning work all done. 
 
 The breakfast o'er at last. 
 Out to the fields the boys all run 
 To ply their daily task. 
 
 Beneath the sky 
 
 Of bright July 
 They toss the shining hoe, — 
 
 No idle hand 
 
 In all the band 
 Fails to keep up his row. 
 At length the dinner horn, glad sound. 
 
 Peals through the heated air. 
 The hoes are tossed upon the ground 
 And homeward all repair. 
 
 And many a jump 
 
 And many a bump 
 Our little worker takes, 
 
 While the old man 
 
 With steadier plan 
 A soberer journey makes. 
 The house now reached, the thirsty horde 
 
 Rush to the water shelf. 
 With life elixir filled, the gourd. 
 Dispenses living health. 
 
 No epicure 
 
 I'm very sure 
 E'er quaffed his rich champaigns 
 
 With such a pride 
 
 As they imbibe 
 This nectar from earth's veins. 
 And now, in right old country style. 
 
 They take their frugiil dinner. 
 Each face wears just that jovial smile 
 So ill becomes a sinner. 
 
 The meal now done 
 
 Away they run 
 To sport, to climb or swim. 
 
 While true pleasure 
 
 Without measure 
 Is found in every whim. 
 
 When these two blissful hours are spent. 
 
 Again they seek the field,— 
 Till darkness shrouds the continent 
 Their hoes they nimbly wield. 
 
 No cares annoy 
 
 The Farmer Boy 
 No troubles can depress. 
 
 Who toiling still 
 
 With iron will 
 Subdues a wilderness. 
 All honor to our Farmer Band, 
 Our nation's crown are they. 
 And when stern war assails our land 
 They proved that nation's stay. 
 
 To their lasses 
 
 Fill your glasses 
 To the foaming brim and drain. 
 
 Our toast shall be 
 
 Our Country Free, 
 And her noble Farmer Men. 
 
 -® 
 
®- 
 
 210 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. JULIA A. A.WOOD. 
 
 Born: New London, N. H. 
 In 1849 this ladj' was married to William Wood, 
 a lawyer and journalist. Two years later she 
 removed to Sauk Eapids, Minn., where Mr. 
 Wdod w;is ;ii>iinintod T^. S. rt'cciver of jnihlic 
 ril(iiir\-. II.T liu^h:iiiil ;il-.. Iictv cslabli-^lird 
 
 MHS. JULIA A. A. WOOD. 
 
 the Sauk Rapids New Era, the literary depart- 
 ment of which was edited by Mrs. Wood. This 
 writer is tlie author of several books, Tlie 
 Heart of Myrrha Lake, Brown House of Duf- 
 fleld, Story of Annette and Basil, and Beatrice. 
 
 © 
 
 TWO NIGHTS IN AUGUST. 
 
 Tlie night is dark and full of storms. 
 Near thunders roll most deep and loud. 
 Fierce liglitnings leap from cloud to cloud 
 
 Displaying- strang-e and weirdly forms. 
 
 My soul is full of wild unrest; 
 True memory a gate doth ope. 
 Revealing' down a shaded slope, 
 
 A scene that in my life is prest, 
 
 I had a noble, fair-haired boy; 
 Like every first-born did he grow. 
 The dearest idol earth can know, 
 
 A constant, precious, untold joy. 
 
 When darkened o'er the Heavens liigh, 
 Wil-h thunder-clouds all dark and stern. 
 And vivid liglitniiig- 'gaii to burn 
 
 Its imagery in the frigiitened sky: 
 
 When all our smiles with fear were laid. 
 And whispers took of words the pluce,— 
 He lifted up his fair young- face. 
 
 And said, "O, Willie's not afraid." 
 
 Four years ag-o, this sad, sad night, 
 The stoim raged fierce and wild. 
 Within my heart more fierce and wild, 
 
 A bitterer storm put out the light. 
 My boy was stricken in an hour; 
 Convulsed with torture was bis brain; 
 Our prayers, our tears, all, all were vain — 
 
 Death claimed my blossoming flower. 
 
 The thunder o'er us solemn stole — 
 I knelt beside his cold, white form. 
 And thought how never had the storm 
 
 Brought terror to his dauntless soul. 
 
 And that as his dear feet should near 
 The fearful waves of death's dark river. 
 His sweetest lips should know no quiver. 
 
 As said he, " Willie doth not fear." 
 
 Nor would be journey far alone. 
 But, loving-, clasp the Savior's hand. 
 Till his pure sotil should spotless stand. 
 
 And calm, before the great white Throne. 
 
 Thus Peace stole to me in that hour; 
 But O, how oft, how oft since then. 
 In doubt and agony and pain, 
 
 I miss and mourn my perished flower. 
 
 O, thou whoread'st these lines of mine. 
 Forgive the tears that in them melt; 
 Perhaps it has been thine to have knelt 
 
 Before some broken, earthly shrine; 
 
 To have wept thine idol lying low; 
 O let us gather Hope and Faith, 
 That shall be stronger even than Death, 
 
 Triumphant over evei-y woe. 
 
 BABY MAY. 
 My daughter one — my baby May! 
 What shall I say this natal day 
 Unto my darling- Baby May'/' 
 With thoughts of thee I seem to see 
 As .yesterday dear baby May, 
 A little girl; a golden curl. 
 Doth shade a face whose sunny grace 
 . Is fair to see and sweet to me. 
 And beautiful as aught can be. 
 Her eye is blue, her smile is sweet. 
 Her mouth a rosebud fresh with dew, 
 And O, the music of lier feet! 
 The little Elf, she keeiis herself 
 Within my waj', fair baby Ma.v, 
 A cheery sunbeam all the day. 
 Thus dot h it seem — ah me — I dream ! 
 'Tis many a day since baby May 
 A sunbeam brightened all my way. 
 A woman now, of thoughtful brow. 
 In form a queen, in face serene. 
 Somebody's wife, all, let me dream! 
 
 ^ 
 
m 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 211 
 
 REV.JAMES W. D.ANDERSON. 
 
 Born: Coffey Co., BLvn.. March 3, 1859. 
 Rev. J. W. D. Anderson is a minister of tlie 
 Methodist Episcopal cliureli, and is now en- 
 gaged ill liis professional calling at Elk City, 
 Kansas. His writing's have appt'aicd i>i the 
 
 rev. JAMES W. D. ANDERSON. 
 
 leading periodicals of America. Mr. Anderson 
 is a lover of poetry, and has delivered exten- 
 sively a popular lecture on Kansas Poets and 
 Poetry. In 1890 he published a book entitled 
 The Kansas Metliodist Pulpit. 
 
 MORTITA. 
 They told me yesterday that she was dead. 
 And, at the word, the scalding, blinding tears 
 Gushed from tlieir fount. Stricken 1 bowed 
 
 my head 
 Wliile Memorj- brought again the by-gone 
 
 years. 
 When, at a distance, I had walked and loved, 
 But never dared to make my loving known. 
 So coldly looked she on me. Un reproved 
 Because unnoticed, worshiped I alone. 
 Gods, how I loved I As Eastern Devotee 
 Finds in Nirvana all his soul's desire. 
 So found I in her. Life she was to me. 
 And heavenly manna and celestial choir. 
 Soul, body, mind and spirit owned tlie thrall. 
 Found satisfaction where her presence shed 
 Its radiant glory. Yet, throughout it all, 
 I knew she loved me not ; and she is dead. 
 
 And this is saddest: If the Priests say true. 
 Somewhere there lies a fairer land than this. 
 Where lovers meet, and skies bend ever l)lue. 
 And earthlj- sorrows end in heavenly bliss: 
 But in that world my .soul will still make moan. 
 Nor know a hope, tnougli ages shall have fled; 
 In life she gave to me no loving tone; 
 Eternity is powerless: She is dead! 
 
 BY THE RIVER. 
 
 We walked on the banks of a beautiful river. 
 
 And slowly and idly we loitered along; 
 Its musical murmurs made melody ever. 
 
 Harmoniously blending in low.rippling song. 
 We whispered of love as we walked by the 
 river. 
 Of love that found joy just in loving, alone. 
 And our hearts, as we spoke, throbbed with 
 tremulous quiver, 
 111 unison throbbed with each gladdening 
 tone. 
 We sat on the banks and tossed flowers in the 
 
 river. 
 And said, as we watched them float lightly 
 away: 
 " So our lives will flow on, full of praise to 
 the Giver, 
 And crowned with bright flowers as we crown 
 thee to-day." 
 
 But the death angel carried her over a river 
 More dark than the one where I claimed her 
 as mine. 
 Spake she softly while crossing: "Death only 
 can sever 
 My soul but a moment, my darling, from 
 thine." 
 So, with heart full of longing, and eyes full of 
 weeping, 
 I look toward that river on whose farther 
 shore 
 My loved one is waiting. And life's shadows 
 creeping 
 Toward sunset give comfort : I soon will be 
 o'er. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MY IDEAL. 
 A being bright from Paradise, 
 So seems she to my vision. 
 Whose presence gladdens earth-dimmed 
 eyes. 
 And tempts to fields Elysian. 
 A stately form of perfect mold. 
 
 Yet often lowly bending, 
 A face whose beauty grows not old 
 
 Since passing years are lending 
 Charms ever new. Bright eyes that hold 
 
 A score of nymphs contending. 
 A mind that holds by conqueror's right 
 The wisdom of the ages, 
 ® 
 
©- 
 
 212 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 Triumphant climbs the dazzling- height 
 Where stand the world's great sages, 
 Yet in that book takes most delight 
 
 Where human hearts are pages. 
 A soul completely purged from sin 
 
 By God's all-cleansing Are, 
 That all its spacious courts within, 
 
 Holds not one base desire. 
 And fit, by innate worth, to win 
 A place in heavenly choir. 
 From Paradise, a being bright, 
 So seems my fair Ideal 
 Who sits beside me as I write, 
 A soul sufficing real. 
 
 THE MOUNT OF VISION. 
 
 Before us loomed the towering Mount of 
 Vision; 
 We stood together at the very base. 
 And, looking upward, made the firm decision 
 We'd test the rough ascent with even pace. 
 We saw the beetling crags and deep recesses 
 
 O'erwhicliourway must lie.but we were told 
 That he who to the highest summit presses 
 
 Will see the gates to Elysian fields unfold. 
 Hand joined in hand, we climbed the lofty 
 
 mountain; 
 We passed the jutting crags and threatening 
 peaks ; 
 No pleasant grove was there, nor cooling 
 fountain. 
 Nor rest, .save that which high ambition seeks. 
 Yet sweet companionship made labor lighter. 
 And obstacles surmounted trained the feet 
 For fresh exertions,and the way grew brighter 
 Illumed by hght tliat shone from Victory's 
 seat. 
 We stand together on the Mount of Vision, 
 
 And now we know the iiath our feet have trod 
 
 Has led to Duty's fields, not fields Elysian, 
 
 And far above us stretch the heights of God. 
 
 But toward those regions i)ure we turn our 
 
 faces. 
 
 Oh comrades ! May our life-work, just begun. 
 
 Though other hopes the liaiul of Time erases. 
 
 Receive at last the crowning word: Well 
 
 doiu>! 
 
 ®- 
 
 MARIA LOUISE ICVR. 
 
 Born: Augusta, Ga. 
 The first literary success of Miss Eve was an 
 essayentillcdTluniglits About Talking, which 
 rec«'ived the prize of one hundred dollars ofl- 
 ered by Scott's Monthly of Atlanta, and in 
 187il the i»oem Concpiered at Last received a 
 prize. Tlie sliort poem of A Brier Rose also 
 received a prize in 1KH!( from the Augusta 
 Chronicle. Mi.ss Eve ho|)es soon to publish a 
 complete book of her jioems. 
 
 A BRIER ROSE. 
 Is this the boon desired so much. 
 This thorny rose we cannot touch, 
 But we are wounded for our pains, 
 Yet clasp it while the thorn remains? 
 For Love did once in Eden dwell, 
 Ere yet among the tliorns it fell. 
 That now is but a brier rose 
 Amid the wilderness that grows. 
 No sweeter rose was ever seen ; 
 But ah ! her thorns, how sharp and keen, 
 How deep they pierce, how long abide, 
 How closely in her beauty hide. 
 For every rose a thorn, a tear — 
 Who wants a flower that costs so dear? 
 For Love is but a brier rose, 
 A thing of joy, beset with woes. 
 But ah ! how rich and red and rare 
 Her roses are. Who would not dare 
 The wounding of her thorns to bear 
 This fairest earthly rose to wear ! 
 For there is nothing sweeter liere, 
 Tho' full of thorns and costing dear; 
 And it will bloom one day, be sure, 
 A brier rose no more, no more. 
 
 DADDY JIM. 
 
 "Daddy Jim? Daddy Jim! are you deaf and 
 blind';"' 
 
 The boys are shouting it loud and clear; 
 
 But faintly it falls on the old man's ear. 
 Like a muffled bell, that we hardly mind. 
 
 Daddy Jim stood still, and he looked so good. 
 With his old hands crossed on his oaken staff. 
 That the boys all stopped and forgot to 
 laugh, 
 
 And gathered around where the old man stood. 
 
 •' Nay, boys, I am not deaf," said Daddy Jim, 
 "Though very faint and far your voices 
 
 sound. 
 And I am not blind, though everythitigurouna 
 
 Is fading on my sight and getting dim. 
 
 " I have gone so far on the wide, wide river. 
 That the shores of earth are a melting vieAv, 
 And the sounds that reach me are faint and 
 few ; 
 
 Tliey'll come to me soon no more forever. 
 
 " But neither deaf nor blind is Daddy Jim. 
 When his name is called from the nearer 
 
 shore, 
 Where the hearts that loved him are gone 
 before. 
 And their white hands beckon across to him. 
 
 " So I strain my eyes and ears no longer 
 For the sights and sounds of that fading 
 
 shore; 
 But I fix tliem full on the Land before. 
 
 And every day they are getting stronger.' 
 
 -© 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 213 
 
 -« 
 
 THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 
 
 Born: Philadelpia, Pa., June 29, 1819. 
 Receiving a good education he graduated in 
 medicine in 1839, but after a short practice 
 studied law in Philadelphia, and was admitted 
 to the bar in 1842. In 1814 he edited a daily pa- 
 per in New York, and the foilowing year began 
 the publication of a literary magazine, of which 
 only a single number was issued. He is the 
 author of several novels, and of more than 
 twenty dramas. Ben Holt, the popular song, is 
 from his pen. American Ballads appeared in 
 1883, and in 1886 Book of Battle Lyrics. 
 
 © 
 
 OUT IN THE STREETS. 
 The light is shining through the window-panes; 
 
 It is a laughing group that side the glass. 
 Within, all light; without, pitch-dark and rain, 
 I see, but feel no pleasure as I pass, 
 Out in the streets. 
 Another casement, with the curtain drawn; 
 
 There the light throws the shadow of aform- 
 A woman's, with a child — a man's, all gone! 
 They with each other. I am with the storm. 
 Out iu the streets. 
 There at the open window sits a man. 
 
 His day's toil over, with his pipe alight: 
 His wife leans o'er him with her tale began 
 Of the day's doings. I am with the night. 
 Out in the streets. 
 All these have homes, and hopes, and light, and 
 cheer. 
 And those arou nd who love them. Ah I for me 
 Who have no home, but wander sadly here. 
 Alone vnth storm, and night, and misery, 
 Out in the streets. 
 The rain soaks thi-ough my clothing to the 
 skin; 
 So let it. Curses on that cheery light 1 
 There is no light with me and shame and sin; 
 I wander in the night and of the night. 
 Out in the streets. 
 You who betrayed me with a loving kiss. 
 Whose every touch, could thrill me through 
 and through. 
 When you first sought me did you think of this'? 
 My curse — but why waste time in cursing 
 you. 
 
 Out in the streets? 
 You are beyond my hati-ed now. You stand 
 Above reproach; you know no wrong nor 
 guile; 
 Foremost among the worthies of the land. 
 You are all good, and I a wretch all %ilo. 
 Out in the streets. 
 You have a daughter, young and innocent; 
 
 You love her. doubtless. I was pure as she 
 Before my heart to be your lackey went. 
 
 God guard her! Never let her roam like me. 
 Out in the streets. 
 I was a father's darling long ago; 
 
 'Twas well he died before my babe was born ; 
 And that's dead, too — some comfort in my 
 woe I 
 Wet, cold and hungered, homeless, sick, for- 
 lorn, 
 
 Out in the streets. 
 How the cold rain benumbs my weary limbs ! 
 What makes the pavement heave? Ah! wet 
 and chill, 
 I hear the little children singing hymns 
 In the village church — how peaceful now 
 and still 
 
 Out in the streets. 
 But why this vision of my early days? 
 Why comes the church-door in the public 
 way? 
 Hence with this mocking sound of pi-ayer and 
 praise I 
 I have no cause to praise — I dare not pray 
 Out in the streets. 
 What change is here? The night again grows 
 warm ; 
 The air is fragrant as an infant's breath. 
 Why, Where's my hunger? Left me in the 
 storm? 
 Now, God forgive my sins ! This, this is death. 
 Out in the streets. 
 
 MINOT JUDSON SAVAGE. 
 
 Born: Norridgewock, Me., June, 10, 1841. 
 Educated at Bowdoin, he graduated at Ban- 
 gor theological seminary in 18(54, and became 
 a congregational missionary in California. He 
 has been pastor in several prominent churches, 
 and now has charge of the Church of the Unity 
 in Boston. In addition to his volume of poems 
 published in 1883, he has written numerous 
 volumes on religious subjects. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 Beside the ocean, wandering on the shore, 
 
 I seek no measure of the infinite sea; 
 
 Peneath the solemn stars that speak to me 
 I may not care to reason out their lore; [o'er 
 Among the mountains, whoso bright summits 
 
 The flush of morning brightens, there 
 may be 
 
 Only a sense of might and mystery; 
 And yet, a thrill of infinite life they pour 
 Through all my being, and uplift me high 
 
 Above my little self and weary days. 
 
 So in thy presence, Emerson, I hear 
 A sea-voice sounding 'neath a boundless sky. 
 
 While mountainous thoughts tower o'er 
 life's common ways. 
 
 And in thy sky the stars of truth appear. 
 
^■ 
 
 -fS 
 
 214 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLA E. RANDALL. 
 
 Born : Momence, III., Oct. 5, 1853. 
 Under the uom de plume of Eglantine, this 
 lady has written extensively for the Chicago 
 Inter-Ocean, Ledger and the local press gen- 
 erally. She was married in 1875 to George M. 
 Randall, who is now engaged in the loan and 
 insurance liusiness at Stockton. Kansas. As 
 
 MRS. ELLA. E. RANDALL. 
 
 an editor's wife Mrs. Randall has been a type 
 setter; as a postmaster's Ivifo has assisted in 
 the distribution of the mail; as a grocer's 
 wife, at weighing out goods, and is at present 
 occur)ied on a Remington typewriter. Mrs. 
 Randall is a very close student, fond of litera- 
 ture, and hopes to attain some prominence as 
 a writer. 
 
 fiB- 
 
 AT BITTER COST. 
 Tliere is something I miss from my liappy 
 life, 
 I can scarcely tell you its name; 
 Tliere is nothing between us of scorn or of 
 .Kirifc, 
 Thcic is nowliere to lay th(> blame. 
 
 He promised to cherish and love me ahvay, 
 
 I complain of no broken vow; 
 Yet the life T once fancied a summer day, 
 
 Lieth oft in the shadows now. 
 
 I know that a husband has struggles fierce. 
 For the fortune which he must gain. 
 
 And he knoweth naught of the sorrows that 
 pierce 
 My heart with a weary pain. 
 
 Where then is the blame? Where lieth the 
 fault? 
 
 More can I ask? Perha))s I'm weak. 
 But my heart seems locked in an iron vault 
 
 And my life is a desert bleak. 
 
 I know that he loves me! Ah, yes, indeed! 
 
 His lips tell a love sincere: 
 His arms caress me; " What more do I need, 
 
 While of honor I have no fear?" 
 
 Ah ! the arms about me but carelessly press, 
 The lips brush but lightly my own ; 
 
 His heart is not in the careless caress^ 
 The love is gone from his tone. 
 
 And so, as I answer, with tender smile. 
 The words with their meaning lost, 
 
 Do you wonder I cannot but think the while, 
 "Wealth comes at a bitter cost?" 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 You ask if I remember — 
 
 Do you think I could e'er forget? 
 Each "hour we have spent together 
 
 Is fresh in my memory yet. 
 Since the summer day I met you 
 
 You've held in my heart a place. 
 And the darkest days grow brighter 
 
 At the sight of your welcome face. 
 
 What our future hath in its trust. 
 
 Dear Alice, we cannot know; 
 It holds in merciful silence 
 
 Our portions of weal or woe; 
 But though leagues may lie between us. 
 
 In the years that come and go, 
 Tiie flame of our holy friendship, 
 
 Tho' the wild chill winds may blow. 
 
 Shall burn but the brighter, clearer. 
 
 In brilliant and changeless ray; 
 For ours was no girlish friendship 
 
 To spend its strength in a day, 
 But a meeting of liearts maturer 
 
 In a love wlueli shall last for aye; 
 A love whicli sliall scatter fragrance 
 
 Like roses along our way. 
 
 Though roses and thorns together 
 
 In tliesheaves of our lives may be bound 
 Tlio' silence may fall between us, 
 
 Tiie world's cares hedge around; 
 Though a narrow and beaten circle 
 
 Our stern eartlily d\ities bound; 
 Still, deep in the hearts' recesses 
 
 Will sweet memory's bells resound. 
 
 * 
 
•s- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 215 
 
 ■© 
 
 JOHN A.WEBSTER. 
 
 Born: Putnam Co., Ind., July 9,1863. 
 After graduating' at Central colleg-e, Dan- 
 ville, Indiana, Mr. Webster taught school for 
 five years, and entered upon a journalistic ca- 
 reer in 1887, first publishing- the Gazette in 
 Golden, Kansas. In the same year he pur- 
 
 JOHN A. WEBSTER. 
 
 chased the Eclipse in Johnson City, and in 1889 
 boughtthe World of the same place; both of 
 the latter papers have been consolidated into 
 the Journal, which he still publishes. Mr. Web- 
 ster is also postmaster of the same town. 
 
 g&- 
 
 CLASS POEM. 
 Man's existence — the chain of life. 
 
 Is joined by links of precious worth; 
 Time ever onward in his strife. 
 
 Weaves each a chain while here on earth. 
 
 Our childhood days, so dear to all. 
 Our childish thoughts so innocent, 
 
 Pleasantly each of us recall 
 With many a happy incident. 
 
 Bright was the morn and fair the day— 
 The great, wide world glowed anew, 
 
 Tlie blackbird chirped its merry lay 
 As from branch to branch it flew. 
 
 Thick by the roadside, blooming near. 
 Were the sweetest and gayest flowers, 
 
 Tlie hum of the bee, still I can hear. 
 As it sped from bower to bower. 
 
 Little I knew of the Heaven above. 
 Little of the earth's wide sphere; 
 
 The stars to me were lamps of love, 
 The dewdrop one of God's tears. 
 
 The fair blue canopy above, 
 
 So inviting seemed to be, 
 And all nature, wliose song is love. 
 
 Whispered wonderful things to me. 
 
 I sorrowed when any doubted this, 
 
 To me it all seemed plain, 
 The good would have eternal bliss. 
 
 And the wicked have endless pain. 
 
 Our childhood days are with the past. 
 
 Memory is all that's left us now. 
 We fondly hoped they'd longer last, 
 
 A vision is all time will allow. 
 
 Next came youth ever bright and gay. 
 With golden days without a tear; 
 
 Other fancies then led the way. 
 And life's pathway again was dear. 
 
 'Twas then the light of sunny days. 
 Brought brighter beauties to our view, 
 
 'Twas then our feet were wont to stray, 
 Whei-e taller, gayer flowers grew. 
 
 The prize of life was then to win. 
 Our hearts and hands seemed strong. 
 
 And our ears caught the far off din. 
 Echoing low the welcome song. 
 
 But time has hurried us along. 
 
 To youth we bid a sad adieu. 
 We enter college firm and strong-. 
 
 And other beauties we pursue. 
 
 Pleasant to us has been the work 
 
 Assigned by teachers dear; 
 "'E%^er Onward " is our motto— to shirk 
 
 We have long learned to fear. 
 
 Mathematics we've pondered hard. 
 Triangles right, obtuse, acute, 
 
 Have taught us e'er to be on guard 
 Their sides or angles to compute. 
 
 Next came Latin, hardest of all, 
 
 Illud, amabamus studere. 
 The wooden horse witliin the wall 
 
 Offered sacred to Minerva\ 
 
 Mistakes we have made, it is true. 
 Though these we always tried to shun; 
 
 Errors — mirabile dictu, 
 Were frequent, not always in fun. 
 
 The Sciences perfect, complete. 
 We've foUow'd from flower to star. 
 
 The Heaven, like a silver sheet. 
 Its beauties to us has unbarred. 
 
 The pebble now in beauty abounds: 
 The flowers new beauties impart; 
 
 The world in harmony resounds 
 Its Maker, itself a counterpart. 
 
 •© 
 
®- 
 
 -© 
 
 216 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 j^- 
 
 How pleasant have been our school days 
 Within these dear and agred walls. 
 
 We'll think of theuion our journeys 
 As future years around us fall. 
 
 Together we've walked life's pathway, 
 Culling flow'rs from Wisdom's garden fair, 
 
 The summons to part we must obey, 
 And with others our pleasures share. 
 
 These cherished days are ended. 
 They are numbered with the past; 
 
 Time, in his ever onward tread. 
 Holds them forever in his grasp. 
 
 How oft we will think with pleasure 
 Of the school room —our friendly ties. 
 
 No clouds their luster can obscure. 
 They'll dearer grow as in our minds they 
 rise. 
 
 We've clambered gaily the liills of truth. 
 Hand in hand 'long the radiant way. 
 
 To teachers, kind guardians of our youtli, 
 We bid a sad farewell to-day. 
 
 A hope is left us, a solace great. 
 To cheer our hearts of grief and pain, 
 
 'Tis this, as our pathways separate. 
 We part some time to meet again. 
 
 Glad in strength of new found youth, 
 Glad in the thought of other days. 
 
 We'll climb the coveted hills of truth. 
 And live again our happiest days. 
 
 Deeper will grow our love of faith, 
 In things we're unable to prove, 
 
 In a life that is free from death. 
 And a power that works by love. 
 
 The future is ours with hopes untold. 
 
 New fields of labor yet remain. 
 New beauties in nature we'll behold 
 
 If " Onward and Upward " is our aim. 
 
 Time will bring some shadows, too. 
 Cares and pleasures that'll never fade. 
 
 Life is a picture, old yet new, 
 A commingling of light and shade. 
 
 But while the thoughts of other times 
 So bright, so free, we wander o'er, 
 
 Tliere comes a thought, in another clime 
 We'll meet again to part no more. 
 
 By and by in a world that's new, 
 
 In a life that is all untried. 
 We'll pluck with pleasure, glad and true, 
 
 Flowers eternal on the other side. 
 
 Teachers, friends, it is hard to leave 
 The i)lace wo have loved so well, 
 
 But tlie hour has come when we must 
 breathe 
 The i)arting words, farewell, farewell. 
 
 ROSAWYATT. 
 
 This lady has a prose work which she hopes 
 soon to place upon the market. Her poems 
 have appeared from time to time in the peri- 
 odical press. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S MESSAGE. 
 An angel came from Heaven one day, 
 
 Dowu through the realms of space. 
 He sought a nearer -view of earth. 
 
 It seemed a lovely place. 
 
 When he had reached the home of men 
 
 What anguish filled his heart ! 
 He saw 'twas sorrow, guilt and sin 
 
 Kept Heaven and earth apart. 
 
 Where'er he turned a scene of woe 
 
 Fell on his wondering sight. 
 Of helpless ones as cowering slaves 
 
 Crushed 'neath the heel of might. 
 
 He saw the world in sorrow steeped, 
 
 He knew 'twas caused by sin ; 
 The germs of Satan's vicious seeds 
 
 Sown in the hearts of men. 
 
 He saw the tempter weave a net, 
 
 A wilj' subtle snare; 
 And in its meshes saw entrapped 
 
 A maiden young and fair. 
 
 He saw him place a shimmering screen 
 
 Before the face of truth ; 
 And in this filmy flattering guise 
 
 Presented it to youth. 
 
 At last, with pity, grief and love, 
 
 His angel lieart o'erflowed; 
 The story of those wrongs he bore 
 
 To the great heart of God. 
 
 And that same hour in Heaven w^s born 
 
 A gem of purest light; 
 The child of virtue joined to Truth, 
 
 Its christening name was Kight. 
 
 The watching angel saw with joy 
 
 Its glorious nature mold 
 The livening rays from out its heart. 
 
 Brighter than burnished gold. 
 
 Then to the one whose heart was touched, 
 
 With grief for sins of men. 
 Was given the message sweet to bring 
 
 Back to the earth again. 
 
 The loving angels gathered 'round — 
 They knew its priceless worth ; 
 
 In Heaven all things arc Right, they said. 
 Go bear it to the eartli. 
 
 Then hold it up and hold it liigh. 
 
 And keeii it e'er in sight ; 
 An attribute from Gml's own heart, 
 
 Tlie precious name of Right. 
 
 ® 
 
®- 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 217 
 
 TOM MOORE. 
 
 Born: Piketon, Ohio, March 1, 18G1. 
 The father of the subject of this sketcli being- 
 an attorney and a man of refined and cultivat- 
 ed literary tastes, tlie son had not only the ad- 
 vantage of a good education, but also the ad- 
 vice and instruction of his gifted father. Mr. 
 Moore, Jr., studied law, and was admitted to 
 the practice of that profession at the age of 
 
 TOM MOORE. 
 
 twenty-two. He is still a member of the pro- 
 fession, and engaged with his father In active 
 practice. The poems of this rising young bar- 
 rister have been published from time to time 
 in the local press, and have been favorably 
 commented upon. He was married in 1881 to 
 Mary L. Tripp, and now lives in Jaclsson, in 
 his native state. 
 
 ©- 
 
 AUTUMN DAYS. 
 Far off or near, in woody copse or hedge. 
 The stately sumach's beacon flames 
 Defiance to the sun. 
 From fallow land where waves the tufted 
 
 sedge, 
 A myriad-tongued voice proclaims 
 The autumn days begun. 
 
 A dreamy haze enshrouds the landscape wide ; 
 Tall golden-columned liickories gleam 
 On many a wooded steep. 
 
 On wand'ring winds, the wood-elves laughing 
 ride 
 
 Tlieir oak-leaf steeds of russet sheen. 
 
 And down tlie air-tide sweep. 
 
 Where ivy tendrils bind yon mossy rail, 
 
 I see the pretty chipmunk flee 
 
 Trembling- to her brood. 
 
 I hear the mellow whistle of the quail, 
 
 And list'ning Echo wakes for me 
 
 Her sylvan solitude. 
 
 The air is rich with smell of walnut trees, 
 
 And odorous balsam of the field 
 
 Its faint aroma shares. 
 
 Gay primiosp ships sail o'er the pasture seas 
 
 And gt)ld dust freight, reluctant yield 
 
 To rainbow-winged corsairs. 
 
 From distant sloping hillsides brown, 1 hear 
 
 A drowsy tinkling sound of bells, 
 
 'Tis silvery, low and sweet. 
 
 I see the white flocks sweeping o'er the sere 
 
 Expanse,— their plaintive voicing tells 
 
 Of rest and calm retreat. 
 
 Afar, the golden-rod bends to the breeze. 
 
 The aster lifts its modest face. 
 
 And Clematis spreads her sail ; 
 
 I hear the sobbing phiint of forest trees. 
 
 Where in each distant woodland place. 
 
 The winds of autumn wail. 
 
 I feel the spirit of the changing year 
 
 Close by my side, his quiet tread 
 
 Responsive to my own; 
 
 I touch his icy luind, I have no fear. 
 
 For me lie bears no fateful message dread. 
 
 Of autumn days to come. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 Who huth touched the stars with liis hands. 
 
 And lighted their waving fires. 
 Who hath numbered the ocean sands, 
 
 And smote the mountain lyres? 
 Who planted the pillars of the sky, 
 
 And swung the earth in air. 
 Who limned yon boundless canopy 
 
 With colors rich and rare? 
 What high immortal hand controls 
 
 The dreamy cloudland l)rigiit. 
 What vast, stupendous power unrolls 
 
 The curtain of the night? 
 I wandered earlj' yester morn, 
 
 Across the barren fields. 
 
 And lo ! a thousand blades of corn 
 
 To day the dai-k ground yields. 
 What potent power hath touched the earth. 
 
 With fairy finger light. 
 And caused the still, mysterious birth. 
 
 While I reposed at night? 
 A gentle mist hangs on the hills, 
 
 A thousand kine are lowing, 
 I hear from many falling rills. 
 
 The sound of waters flowing. 
 I drink the sweet music, but why do they flow 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 -© 
 
 218 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Down to the pathless sea? 
 No more can I tell why the fierce winds blow 
 
 Across the grassy lea. 
 I sit me down on the craggy shore. 
 
 And vainly wring my hands, 
 I watch the wan gulls hover and soar 
 
 Above the gleaming sands. 
 The answer I crave, from the starry deep, 
 
 Comes never — oh, never, to me! 
 I question the winds, the visioned sleep. 
 
 And waves of the throbbing sea; 
 Silent the winds, silent the waves, 
 
 Voiceless the realms of dream; 
 Silent all as the dreary caves. 
 
 By Lethe's rolling stream. 
 But as I ponder, a fiash of light 
 
 Gilds the bars of the golden east. 
 As forth from its portals like spirit bright. 
 
 Or flower-crowned maiden for bridal feast, 
 Tlie full moon mounts the sky. 
 
 And her echoless voice seems to breathe in 
 my ear. 
 As her radiance sleeps on the sea. 
 
 Let your soul, troubled thinker, be free from 
 care. 
 For being, and music, and thought shall still 
 be; 
 
 Their source, the Almlght.v, — most High, 
 Truth rides in the train of the sailing moon, 
 
 She sweeps with the whirling wind. 
 She blazes in the torrid noon. 
 
 And he who seeks shall find. 
 Loud o'er the boom of the sullen wave. 
 
 Her trumpet notes resound. 
 And deep in the heart of the gloomy grave. 
 
 Are her guarded secrets found. 
 
 ®- 
 
 MORNING ON THE HILLS. 
 1 stood upon a wooded hill 
 'Mid ling'ring shadows dark and chill; 
 The wan stars shed a fitful light 
 Athwart the rim of circling night. 
 When lo! a miracle, the dawn! 
 O'er forest, field, and jeweled lawn, 
 Aurora smiles; straightway retires 
 The dark-robed night, and sylvan choirs 
 Awake; their tuneful voices rise 
 In rliythmic chorus to the skies. 
 Ah, never through cathedral aisle. 
 Or lofty monumental pile. 
 Was heard such music as the while 
 In liquid notes. 
 Swelled peal on peal, from out those 
 
 wiIdw(K)d throats. 
 And see, hard by in hazel bush 
 The lithe-limbed s<juirr<'I, playful rush 
 To gaml)()l in the daisied grass, 
 Or, bounding upward tlirough the mass 
 Of emerald shade, securely rest 
 Within the shadow of liis nest. 
 Ha! there amid the dewy leaves. 
 
 Her net, the patient spider weaves. 
 While from yon distant mountain tree, 
 A turtle moans her monody; 
 And from the valleys far and near, 
 Is heard the mead-larks chee-ar-cheer. 
 From glade and thicket, sweet and clear. 
 The minstrelsy 
 
 Of joy, tumultuous joy, is borne to me. 
 Around me high on everj- hand. 
 The giant woodland monarchs stand. 
 And now the sunbeams slowly creep 
 To kiss the flow'rets as they sleep, 
 And I, low kneeling on the sod. 
 Lift up my heart to nature's God. 
 Oh, how I love the sweet wildwood. 
 The bursting bloom, the brown quail's 
 
 brood. 
 The wren, the thrush, the saucy jay; 
 What joy to hear the robin's lay. 
 When from the snowy bough of thorn. 
 He wakes the echoes of the morn 1 
 I love the sun-glint on the corn 
 In far off fields. 
 And feel, for me, these sweets sweet 
 
 Nature yields. 
 Oh, who would not forsake the town. 
 The busy mart, the student's gown. 
 For morning on the wooded hills. 
 For sylvan pipe and crystal rills, 
 For whisp'ring grass and singing birds. 
 The vital air, the voiceless words 
 Which greet the ardent soul alone. 
 As wind-kiss greets the rugged stone? 
 Oh, bliss! to bathe in curling mist, 
 Or wander freely where we list. 
 Enchanted by the mystic spell 
 That lingers o'er each silent fell. 
 Each pulsing stream and shady dell ! 
 Then i'way, away! 
 To the wood-nymph's arms in the forest 
 
 gray. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 O bard divine! 
 Thy ancient shrine, 
 'Neath Tliracian skies. 
 Neglected lies. 
 
 No more thy music's soft sad swell 
 May echo through the leafy dell. 
 Or from cool grotto sounding. 
 Charm the wild stag bounding, 
 O son of Apollo! 
 Through broken strings. 
 The night wind sings; 
 Thy golden sliell. 
 Whose mystic spell. 
 Did charm the wild beasts of the wood. 
 And calm the rising of the tkwd. 
 Moans by the falling fountain. 
 Alone on the desolate mountain, 
 Oson of Apollo! 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 219 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. CLARA V. EASTLAND. 
 
 Born: Rutland, Vt., June 16, 1835. 
 The poems of this Itidy have appeared in 
 Deniorest's Monthly and other papers of equal 
 prominence, from whii-li they have been ex- 
 tensively copied hy the local press. In jierson 
 
 CLAHA k\ EA8TLAND. 
 
 she is very small and frail, with auburn hair 
 and hazel eyes. Mrs. Eastland is now a resi- 
 dent of Muscoda, Wisconsin, wliere she is well 
 known and highly respected. 
 
 ©- 
 
 OLD SONGS, AND OLD FOLKS. 
 Come sit in the twilight with me my dear. 
 
 And I'll sing tlie old songs for you; 
 While curtains of night are drawing around, 
 
 And only the stars peeping through. 
 Bring a lamp? Oh no! For there soon will be 
 
 A night-lamp hung up in the sky; 
 Its soft light will blend with the old refrain. 
 
 Of " Lang Syne " and •• Sweet By and By." 
 With the dear old songs comes the sweet per- 
 fume. 
 
 Ever born on mystical wings; 
 Of Mignonette, Pink and Sweet Brier Rose, 
 
 And groves where the Mourning Dove sings. 
 The wild apple blooms I gathered in youth, 
 
 And twined with the buds in my hair; 
 And thought, with a smile, a Queen might be 
 glad 
 
 To be crowned with a chaplet so fair. 
 
 Do fragrance and beauty again take tlie form 
 
 They wore in the gardens below; 
 Are frost-flowers traced on the window pane, 
 
 Their pictures remodeled in saow? 
 In essence perhaps, they're a counterpart, 
 
 Of the beautiful flowers above; 
 Only sent to us here for a little while, 
 
 A token of Infinite Love. 
 My flowers are faded, but new ones are sweet. 
 
 And the old ones ever shall be,— 
 With old songs and old friends in memory 
 shrined 
 
 As I sing " Do they think of me? " 
 " Oft in the stilly night" then "Bonnie Boon," 
 
 " Sweet Afton," and " Sweet Home " at last, 
 I'll sing nothing sad we're all going home. 
 
 And moments are flitting by fast. 
 Come in the twilight and join in the songs. 
 
 To you it will be something new; 
 Old sougs,like old folks, are old-fashioned now, 
 
 And the songs that they sing are but few. 
 
 THE WORLD AS I'D HAVE IT. 
 Oh! this world is a beautiful world, I know. 
 And a blessing to all who will have it so; 
 It is just as I'd have it — only in life, 
 I would banish all discord, anger, and strife. 
 
 'Tis a beautiful world with its lofty hills, 
 Its valleys green and its rippling rills; 
 'Tis just as I'd have it if evil would cease. 
 And weapons of war become emblems of 
 
 peace. 
 Oh ! this world is a beautiful world to me,' 
 From flowers of earth to the birds on the tree; 
 It is just as I'd have it — only I'd seek 
 To disarm the mighty, who injure the weak. 
 
 Oh! this world is a beautiful world and good 
 If " discord is harmony not understood ;" 
 It is as I'd have it — except, if you please, 
 I'd banish all sorrow, discontent, and disease. 
 
 'Tis a beautiful world in spite of our fears. 
 Our gloomy foreboding, disorder and tears; 
 'Tis just as I'd have it — only leave out the 
 
 wrong. 
 Helping each to grow better, and all to be 
 
 strong. 
 'Tis a beautiful world and its glory appears 
 In flowers looking up through spring's gentle 
 
 tears. 
 In summer's full harvest of rich golden 
 
 sheaves. 
 In the bright tinted showers of autumn 
 
 leaves. 
 Oh! this world is a beautiful world to all, 
 Whose hearts are not deluged with wormwood 
 
 and gall; 
 It is just as I'd have it — only please " Do 
 As you would have others do unto you." 
 
 -® 
 
«- 
 
 220 
 
 ^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 'Tis a beautiful world ia spite of Its jars. 
 Darkness onlj' makes brighter the glimmering 
 
 stars ; 
 'Tis just as I'd have it if all were at peace, 
 If virtue would prosper, and wickedness cease. 
 
 The merry stream sparkles in swift dashing 
 glee. 
 
 As she dances along to the restless sea; 
 
 Yet she speaks not a word in her wild free 
 gracev 
 
 Of the King she must meet, or the cold em- 
 brace 
 
 Wliich fetters her freedom and hushes her 
 
 voice; 
 Though silent awhile, with new strength she'll 
 
 rejoice. 
 When life the giving current retouches once 
 
 more 
 This beautiful earth from the hitherward 
 
 shore. 
 
 The bare earth was robed in not-work of 
 
 frost, 
 'Till spring's busy shuttle on t he zephyr was 
 
 tossed ; 
 Wea\nng of sunbeams some joy for each heart 
 Nature does her work well, it is only our part 
 
 Which hangs in the loom, soiled, ragged and 
 
 torn. 
 And wrings forth the crj-, I am weary and 
 
 worn;" 
 'Tis just as I'd have it — if I could but feel 
 We all did our best with our knowledge and 
 
 zeal. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 My bark is out onjife's dark sea, 
 
 The wild-winds murmur and rave; 
 The Storm-King threatens and revels free. 
 He whistles and dances in savage glee. 
 
 But I'm not alone on the wave. 
 
 Many sail on the same rough tide. 
 
 Sighing lor glory and sti'ifc; 
 To wr(ing and oppression they're allied; 
 They sail without anchor, compass or 
 guide. 
 
 And sink in the combat of life. 
 
 Some embark in a night of gloom. 
 
 But hope with resistless sway 
 Bears them o'er deserts, beyond the tomb. 
 Where souls in immortal beauty liloom 
 
 In the light of Eternal day. 
 
 There is a light that guides me on, 
 
 And I will not pause to weep; 
 With a hopeful heart and cheerful song. 
 In tlie Battle of life I will be strong. 
 
 For I'm not alone on the deep. 
 
 EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 
 
 Born: Henxiker. N. H., Oct. 10, 1838. 
 She received her early education in Concord, 
 N. H., subsequently removing to Brooklyn, N. 
 Y., where she has since resided. Her volumes 
 of verse are Poems, and A Russian Journey. 
 She has contributed largely to periodicals. 
 
 MOSCOW BELLS. 
 
 That distant chime '. As soft it swells. 
 
 What memories o'er me steal I 
 Again I hear the Moscow bells 
 
 Across the moorland peal ! 
 The bells that rock the Kremlin tower 
 
 Like a strong wind, to and fro, — 
 Silver-sweet in its topmost bower. 
 
 And the thunder's boom below. 
 They say that oft at Eastern dawn 
 
 When all the world is fair, 
 God's angels out of heaven are drawn 
 
 To list the music there. 
 And while the rose-clouds with the breeze 
 
 Drift onward, — like a dream, 
 High in the ether's pearly seas 
 
 Their radiant faces gleam. 
 O when some Merlin with his spells 
 
 A new delight would bring. 
 Say: I will hear the Moscow bells 
 
 Across the moorland ring! 
 The bells that rock the Kremlin tower 
 
 Like a strong %vind, to and fro, — 
 Silver-sweet in its topmost bower, 
 
 And the thunder's boom below! 
 
 FORWARD. 
 Dreamer, waiting for darkness with sorrowful, 
 drooping eyes. 
 Linger not in the valley, bemoaning the day 
 that is done ! 
 Climb the eastern mountains and welcome the 
 rosy skies — 
 Never yet was the setting so fair as the ris- 
 ing sun! 
 Dear is the past; its treasures we hold in our 
 hearts for aye ; 
 Woe to the hand that would scatter one 
 wreath of its garnered flowers; 
 But larger blessing and honor will come with 
 the waking day — 
 Hail, then, To-morrow, nor tarry with Yester- 
 day's shostly hours! 
 Mark how the sunnners hasten through blos- 
 soming fields of June 
 To the purple lanes of the vintage and levels of 
 
 golden corn; 
 ••Splendors of life I lavish," runs nature's ex- 
 ultant rune, 
 " For myriads press to follow, and the rarest 
 are yet unborn." 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 221 
 
 % 
 
 GAY WATERS. 
 
 Born: London, Eng., 1856. 
 The literary aspirations of Gay Waters, the 
 western poet and lecturer, were first awaken- 
 ed by a boyish habit of rambling- among- the 
 famous burial places of old English writers. 
 During- the past five years he has been chosen 
 poet for Alumni societies, college commence- 
 ments, decoration days and fourth of July 
 celebrations. His works have the enviable 
 distinction of liaving received more distin- 
 guished considciatioii from t lie crowned heads 
 
 ©- 
 
 GAY WATEHS. 
 
 of Europe than any other western poet. He 
 is of average height, rather slender, and in 
 features somewliat resembles Hartley Camp- 
 bell, the playwright. In addition to his two 
 published books, Wicota, and Alma, which ap- 
 peared in 1887 and 1888, another poetical work 
 The Love of Pocahontas and Other Poems, is 
 in preparation for the press. He is .33 years of 
 age, and at this writing, in connection with 
 his poetical work, his name appears on the 
 editorial page of the St. Louis Critic as the 
 humorist of that paper, for whicli periodical 
 he is now supplying from four to six columns 
 of humor weekly. 
 
 NEGRO OPTIMISM. 
 Woodpecker on de oak keeps on a tappin', 
 Sparrow-hawk flies a swoopin' 'nd drappin", 
 Yo' darkies don't 'eer 'em whinin' ! 
 
 Brook still laughs when weathers' sneezin', 
 'Spects ter sing when things ez a freezin', 
 Zez de Brook, "I'se gwine ter still keep 
 pleasin' 
 
 De sun'U soon be a shinin' !" 
 Yallarhammers clothed in goren yallar, 
 Snappin'-turtle coat looks kin' o' sallar, 
 
 Yo' darkies doan' 'eer 'em whinin! 
 Field-mouse jumps from his nest a peepin', 
 Lizard takes aU his care out in sleepin', 
 Black snake keeps on wriggUn' 'nd creepin', 
 
 Desun'llsoou be a shinin' I 
 Lilies sit in de streamlet dreamin'. 
 Silver stars shinin' 'nd streamin', 
 
 Yo 'dai'kies doan' 'eer 'em whinin' ! 
 Robins' al'ays th' music bringing. 
 Cat-bird keeps on screechin' 'nd ringing, 
 Winter bells ez al'ays a singing, 
 
 De sun 'ill soon be a shinin'! 
 Trouble is only part ob our growin', 
 Ole book zez dat when yo's hoein' 
 
 Yo' darkies shouldn't be whinin' ! 
 Lijah wuz fed when he didn't have a dollar. 
 Prayed so loud de ravens 'eerd 'em holler. 
 Good Lawd lifted 'im out by de collar, 
 
 De sun 'ill soon be a shinin ! 
 
 THE FALLS OE NIAGARA. 
 
 Savage, King and Sages, 
 Bronzed in winds that roared in music from 
 the Gates of Long Ago, 
 Gates of Long Ago, 
 Harkened to tliy beck and calling! 
 At thy wave in thunder falling! 
 As the dews of Ancient Morning mingled with 
 thy mighty How ! 
 Mighty waters leaping 
 With a roar that breaks in foaming on the 
 ashes of a world ! 
 Ashes of a world ! 
 Sun, as maiden throwing 
 Passion red and glowing 
 On thy foam of wrath and glory where thy 
 majesty is hurled! 
 Hoarse majestic teacher. 
 Of the nations of the ages, as tliy whilom wis- 
 dom pours. 
 Whilom wisdom pours; 
 Fame in shrieking hunger. 
 War in sanguine thunder. 
 Hath no voice to warn the ages like thy mil- 
 lioned-passioned roar! 
 Tliy foamy breakers 
 Swirl on the moaning shores with deepening 
 cry 
 With deepening cry. 
 Clamorous and plashing. 
 Thundering- and crashing. 
 As loom the singing worlds in pallid sky! 
 On booming ever! 
 
 © 
 
m 
 
 -flS 
 
 222 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 Born : Ogden, N. Y., Sept. 18, 1827. 
 At fourteen years of age, while at the plow, he 
 began to make verses, and in the evening 
 wrote them, down; two years later The Tomb 
 of Napoleonappeared in the Rochester Kepub- 
 lican. Farm work becoming' distasteful to the 
 rising young author, he entered a classical 
 school at Lockport, where he began the study 
 of Greek, and improved his French and Latin. 
 After a while he returned to farming, and 
 later became a schoolmaster. However, his 
 heart being set on literature, at nineteen yeai-s 
 of age he went to New York, where he support- 
 ed himself by his pen. Mr. Trowbridge's work 
 has been divided between verse and pure fic- 
 tion. 
 
 PEWEE. 
 
 « 
 
 For so I found my forest bird,— 
 
 The pewee of the loneliest woods, 
 Sole singer la these solitudes. 
 Which never robin's whistle stirred. 
 
 Where never bluebird's plume Intruder. 
 Quick darting through the dewy morn. 
 The redstart trilled his twittering horn. 
 And vanished in thick boughs : at even. 
 Like liquid pearls fresh showering from heaven 
 The high notes of the lone wood-thrush 
 Fall on the forest's holy hush: 
 But thou all day complainest here, — 
 "Pe-wee! pe-wee! perrl " 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 AN ODIOUS COMPARISON. 
 
 When to my haughty spirit I rehearse 
 
 My verse. 
 Faulty enough it seems; yet sometimes when 
 I measure it by that of other men. 
 
 Why, then — 
 I see how easily it might be worse. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Women can do with us what they will: 
 'Twas only a village girl, but she. 
 
 With the flash of a glance, had shown to me 
 The wretch I was, and the self I still 
 Might strive to be. 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 Learn patience from the lesson! 
 
 Though the night be drear and long. 
 To the darkest sorrow there comes a morrow, 
 
 A right to every wrong. 
 
 HARUIET BEECH ER STOWE. 
 
 She loosed the rivets of the slave; 
 
 She likewise lifted woman. 
 And proved her riglit to share with man 
 
 All labors pure and human. 
 
 Women, they say, must yield, obey. 
 Rear children, dance cotillons: 
 
 While this one wrote, she cast the vote 
 Of unenfranchised millions! 
 
 When all is lost, one refuge yet remains. 
 One sacred solace, after all our pains: 
 Go lay thy head and weep thy tears, O youth I 
 Upon the dear maternal breast of Truth. 
 
 CULTURE. 
 
 And men are polished, through act and speech. 
 
 Each by each. 
 As pebbles are smoothed on the rolling beach. 
 
 Men call him crazed whose eyes are raised 
 
 To look beyond his times ; 
 And they are learned, who too fast 
 Are anchored in the changeless past. 
 
 To seek Truth's newer climes! 
 Yet act thy part, heroic heart! 
 
 For only by the strong 
 Are great and noble deeds achieved; — 
 No truth was ever yet believed 
 
 That had not struggled long. 
 
 MARY MAPES DODGE. 
 
 Born: New York Ciiy, in 1838. 
 Married early in life to William Dodge, a law- 
 yer of high standing, she was soon left a widow 
 with two sons. She wove her fireside stories, 
 told to her boys, into the tales which have made 
 her famous, and has been the editor of St. 
 Nicholas from its first number. Much of her 
 poetry has been gathered into two volumes: 
 Rhymes and Jingles, for children; and Along 
 the Way, for adult readers. Her prose works 
 are much more voluminous. 
 
 INVERTED. 
 Youth has its griefs, its disappointments keen. 
 
 Its baffled longings and its memories; 
 Its anguish in a joy that once hath been; 
 
 Its languid settling in a sinful ease. 
 And age has pleasures, rosy, fresh and warm, 
 
 And glad begiiilomciits and expectancies; 
 Its heart of boldness for a tlircatencd storm; 
 
 Its eager launching upon sunny seas. 
 
 Youth has its losses, sad and desolate; 
 
 Its wreck of precious freight where all was 
 sent; 
 Its blight of trust, its helpless heart of fate. 
 
 Its dreary knowledge of ilhisicMi spent. 
 For life is but a day; and, dawn or eve. 
 
 The slia<lows must be long when suns are low. 
 Old age may be surprised and loth to leave. 
 
 And youth may weary wait and long to go, 
 
 © 
 
SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 223 
 
 -* 
 
 ALBERT BRACHT. 
 
 BoKN IN Mexico, Oct. 3, 1866. 
 The poems of Mr. Braeht have appeared in 
 the Rockport Transcript, and the periodical 
 
 ALBERT BRACHT. 
 
 press generally. He is a printer by trade, and 
 is now in business at Rockport, Texas, where 
 he is well known and highly respected. 
 
 © 
 
 FISHERMEN'S LUCK. 
 A happy jovial Ashing party, 
 
 Went out their luck as fishermen to try. 
 When on the pier, long did they tarry 
 
 For a whale to catch they could not carry. 
 The whale— as with fear — did not appear. 
 Nor could the fish be charmed with music 
 sweet. 
 And as they were not hungry, no bait would 
 they eat. 
 But at last a cat-flsh was hauled out on the 
 pier. 
 Never heeding or minding the ill luck. 
 On this beautiful night over the waters 
 dreary. 
 Excepting that one of the party, with a cat- 
 flsh fln, was stuck. 
 The lonely and only one treasured so dearly. 
 And with the ill luck home they went. 
 
 The party of fishermen and fisher girls seven 
 With lines all broke, and hooks all bent, 
 But all happy as angels in Heaven. 
 
 " Home, Sweet Home " the dearest place, 
 In the parlor they came to a halt. 
 
 And as Miss to the piano paced 
 
 The walls resounded with music sweet. 
 
 GOSSIP. 
 Gossip, gossip the livelong day, 
 
 There is never an end to the lies you say. 
 From morning till night, 'tis every day. 
 
 In spite and deceit must have your way. 
 
 Gossip, gossips you know very well 
 That the people will listen to all you tell. 
 
 No matter who, and where they dwell. 
 In Heaven, on earth or in hell. 
 
 Gossip, gossips the day will come. 
 
 When nothing whatever will be left undone, 
 Your hard-earned share you'll surely get. 
 
 Never you mind you're somebody's pet. 
 
 Gossip, gossips an advice I give. 
 
 If you, a life long happiness want to live. 
 Listen to all, but never carry nor take. 
 
 Or else some day you'll make a mistake. 
 
 KIND FRIENDS. 
 A merry, merry Christmas, 
 
 To one and all of you 
 In this little city on the coast of Texas. 
 
 Happily spend the day, and kindness strew 
 On the poor and needy true. 
 
 To gladden their hearts on Xmas. 
 
 This night, a chance you'll see. 
 Whereby your kind nature can show; 
 
 A Christmas-ship there will be 
 At the Methodist church you know; 
 
 Those who a present from you will get 
 Will never forget, no matter how old they 
 may grow. 
 
 Sweet music also there, will be 
 Orations, speeches, large and small ; 
 
 Come all you good people it is free 
 And see the ship in holy hall. 
 
 She will arrive from the roaring sea 
 This eve, so say consignees and all. 
 
 CHARMING CREATURES. 
 
 Darling, charming little creatures. 
 In mischief are they smiling. 
 
 Which is seen in their "Cute " features, 
 And their life with joy shining. 
 
 Their mischief is tremendous. 
 And the boys get fooled you bet 
 
 With their sweet stories enormous, 
 When they believe and do not forget. 
 
 Their smiles of mischief captures you, 
 When first you see without delaj', 
 
 Like spiders, flies in cobwebs catch. 
 And with crippled wings you fly away. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 224 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA . 
 
 WILLIAM J. DAVENPORT. 
 
 Born in 1834. 
 In 1879 Mr. Davenport published a small vol- 
 ume of poems. He lias been afflicted for ma- 
 ny years with nervous depression of the brain, 
 owing- to injury of the spine. He has had a 
 good education, and takes great interest in 
 literature. Mr. Davenport hopes to publish a 
 complete volume of his poems in the near fu- 
 ture. He now resides in Bethany, in the state 
 of Louisiana. 
 
 J AROSE. 
 I arose in my night-clothes, looked out on the 
 
 night, [eye ; 
 
 Wlien there came unbidden, a tear to mine 
 Oh! what a sad world, in what a pitiful plight! 
 When the night-winds gave me a sigh for a 
 
 sigh. 
 And does my love ride on the misty cold air? 
 With the warmth of an angel clothed is she? 
 Was that her that sighed, so sorrowful there? 
 And the niglit-wiuds gave me a sigh for a sigh, 
 I loved my love, as she whispering told me. 
 All yet will be well, in the land o'er the sea. 
 Ah! when will that rest, in its beauty enfold 
 
 me? [sigh. 
 
 When the night-winds g-ave me a sigh for a 
 
 *■ 
 
 THE SNOW SPIRIT. 
 The snow spirit whispered as he passed. 
 By the poppies that in the sunlight basked. 
 To an unco' spirit covered and masked. 
 You may ride your shining coal-black steed ; 
 Though you spur and spur, spur and speed; 
 You cannot come, it can never be. 
 With the snow spirit over land and sea. 
 He alight where the red rose lovelit shines. 
 Amid daffodils and jessamines. 
 Sweet-scented pinks and trellis vines: 
 This when spring nor summer was not; 
 You can never find that very spot; 
 You cannot come, it can never be. 
 With the snow spirit over land and sea. 
 The snow spirit trucked in the mountain 
 
 lieight. 
 Where the angels did sometimes alight. 
 From missions of love in their starry flight; 
 Out of the snow they brought Are and wood. 
 Honey and cream, and sweet manna food : 
 You cannot come, it can never be. 
 With the snow spirit over land and sea. 
 You may leap the crag, the wild torrent; 
 Ride the air, till your force is siieiit. 
 With your red-beaded plume still unbent; 
 You may push and i)ush your coal-black steed, 
 Till lie sliivci's and iniivers like any reed; 
 You (•!iiiiio( conie, it can never be. 
 With the snow spirit over land and sea. 
 
 My garment is made of the rainbow gleams, 
 Of the ocean mist when morning Ijeams, 
 Like a blood-red banner with g-olden seams; 
 It sparkles and shines the livelong- day; 
 And as pretty at night with a milder raj": 
 You cannot come, it can never be. 
 Witli the snow spirit over land and sea. 
 
 LAND OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 O land of the south, what sweet, soul-stirring- 
 visions 
 
 Arise at the call of love and of feeling; 
 
 Though mournful the strain of time's painful 
 incisions. 
 
 Sleep has its waking, and time has its healing. 
 
 O visions of rapture that in fancy are glowing-, 
 
 Though time's cruel waves oft have covered 
 us quite; 
 
 We would come forth with birds when the 
 flowers are blowing. 
 
 And sing- all elate in the new morning light. 
 
 We mourn not for glory that now is departed; 
 
 Of bright smiles and sweet faces laid in the 
 grave ; 
 
 Though oft we've wandered almost broken 
 hearted ; 
 
 When their spirits above us their laurels do 
 wave. 
 
 Thy land to my heart is wrapped in g-lory ; 
 
 Thy fields, meads and flowers and smooth 
 rolling streams 
 
 With sweetest emotions are enameled in story 
 
 That break o'er the heart like life's young 
 morning dreams. 
 
 When time shall have failed us, and life is de- 
 parting, 
 
 A soft vision of thee would steal t)'er my 
 frame ; 
 
 My heart's last sigh, the last of its harping. 
 
 Would bethatGod's blessing on thee would 
 remain. 
 
 I WOULD I WERE. 
 I would I were a careless child 
 
 Unknown to wretched fame. 
 To roam along the woodland wild 
 
 In mind and heart the same. 
 To climb upon the rocky steep 
 
 And watch the dawning day, 
 To see the shadows .softly creep 
 
 Along- their sun-biight way. 
 The glow of life to burst upon 
 
 My cheerful happy heart. 
 The happy days sliould swift roll on 
 
 And never sliould depart. 
 Unless it were, O! happy thought, 
 
 Otdy in heaven to dwell. 
 Where love with bliss supi-eine is fraught 
 
 Anil hath no parting knell. 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 I.OCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 225 
 
 ^ 
 
 WILL CARLETON. 
 
 Born : Hudson, Michigan, 1845. 
 Will Carleton is a master-hand in sounding- 
 the human heart-strings, and no one among the 
 younger American jtoets is better known or 
 monf universally admired. It is a singular 
 fact that the western poets seem always to 
 strike a new vein of thought or feeling. 
 Brought up as farm boys usually are, his 
 
 WILL CARLETON. 
 
 desire for knowledge led him to walk five miles 
 to the district school. In 1866 he entered col- 
 lege, graduating four years later. He then 
 joined the editorial staff of a Chicago paper, 
 and later became editor of the Detroit Weekly 
 Tribune. In 1868 Will Carleton wrote his first 
 poem, and three years later appeared his mas- 
 ter work, Betsey and I Are Out. Then followed 
 Farm Ballads, Farm Legends, Farm Festivals, 
 etc., all of which are handsomely illustrated. 
 
 » 
 
 Cover them over with beautiful flowers; 
 Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours 
 Lying so silent, by night and by day. 
 Sleeping the years of their manhood away: 
 Years they had marked for the joys of the 
 
 brave ; 
 Years they must waste in the sloth of the grave. 
 
 Cover them over— yes, cover them over — 
 Parent, and husband, and brother, and lover: 
 Crown in your heart those dead heroes of ours. 
 And cover them over with beautiful flowers. 
 
 APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 
 Underneath an apple-tree 
 
 Sat a maiden and her lover: 
 And the thoughts within her he 
 
 Yearned, in silence, to discover. 
 Round them danced the sunbeams bright. 
 
 Green the grass-lawn stretched before him; 
 While the apple blossoms white 
 
 Hung in rich profusion o'er them. 
 
 Naught within her eyes he read 
 
 That would tell her mind unto him; 
 Though their light, he after said. 
 
 Quivered swiftly through and through him; 
 Till at last his heart burst free 
 
 From the prayer with which t'was laden, 
 And he said, •> When wilt thou be 
 
 Mine for evermore, fair maiden? " 
 
 " When," said she, " the breeze of May 
 
 With white flakes our heads shall cover, 
 I will be thy brideiing gay — 
 
 Thou Shalt be my husband-lover " 
 •■ How," said he, in sorrow bowed, 
 
 " Can I hope such hopeful weather? 
 Breeze of May and Winter's cloud 
 
 Do not often fly together." 
 
 Quickly as the words he said. 
 
 From the west a wind came sighing. 
 And on each uncovered head 
 
 Sent the apple-blossoms flying; 
 " > Flakes of white! ' thou'rt mine," said he, 
 
 " Sooner than thy wish or knowing! " 
 " Nay, I heard the breeze," quoth she, 
 
 "When in yonder forest blowing." 
 
 BETSEY AND I ARE OUT. 
 Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em 
 
 good and stout; 
 For things at home are crossways, and Betsey 
 
 and I are out. 
 We, who have worked together so long as man 
 
 and wife. 
 Must pull in single harness for the rest of our 
 
 uat'ral life. 
 "What is the matter?" say you. I swan it's 
 
 hard to tell ! 
 Most of the years behind us we've passed by 
 
 very well; 
 I have no other woman, she has no other man — 
 Only we've lived together as long as we ever 
 
 can. 
 So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has 
 
 talked with me, 
 And so we've agreed together that we can't 
 
 never agi-ee : 
 Not that we've catched each other in any terri- 
 ble crime; 
 We've been a-gathering this for years, a little 
 
 at a time. 
 
 -m 
 
OJ- 
 
 -© 
 
 226 
 
 I.OCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 There was a stock of temper we both had for 
 
 a start, 
 Althoug-h we never suspected 'twould take us 
 
 two apart : 
 I had my various failings, bred in the flesh 
 
 and bone; 
 And Betsey, like all good women, had a temper 
 
 of her own. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 And so I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey 
 
 has talked with me , 
 And we have agreed together that we can't 
 
 never agree ; 
 And what is hers shall be hers, and what is 
 
 mine shall be mine; 
 And I'll put it into the agreement, and take it 
 
 to her to sign. 
 
 Write on the paper, lawyer— the very first 
 
 paragraph — 
 Of all the farm and live-stock that she shall 
 
 have her half; 
 For she has helped to earn it, through many a 
 
 weary day. 
 And it's nothing more than justice that Betsey 
 
 has her pay. 
 
 Give her the house and homestead — a man can 
 
 thrive and roam: 
 But women are skeery critters, unless they 
 
 have a home ; 
 And I have always determined, and never fail- 
 ed to say. 
 That Betsey never should want a home if I 
 
 was taken awa'y. 
 There Is a little hard money that's drawin' 
 
 tol'rable pay: 
 A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy 
 
 day; 
 Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get 
 
 at; 
 Put in another clause there, and give her half 
 
 of that. 
 Yes, I see you smile. Sir, at my givin' her so 
 
 much; 
 Yes, divorce is cheap. Sir, but I take no stock 
 
 in such ! 
 True and fair I married her, when she was 
 
 blithe and young; 
 And Betsey was al'ays good to me, exceptin' 
 
 with her tongue. 
 Once, when I was young as you, and not so 
 
 smart, perhaps, 
 For me she mittened a lawyer, and several 
 
 other chaps; 
 And all(jf them was flustered, and fairly taken 
 
 down. 
 And I for a time was counted the luckiest man 
 
 In town. 
 
 Once when I had the fever — I won't forget it 
 soon — 
 
 ® 
 
 I was hot as a basted turkey and crazj- as a 
 
 loon; 
 Never an hour went by me when she was out 
 
 of sight — 
 She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to 
 
 me day and night. 
 
 And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitch- 
 en clean. 
 
 Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever 
 seen; 
 
 And I don't complain of Betsey, or any of her 
 acts, 
 
 Excei)tin' when we've quarreled, and told each 
 other facts. 
 
 So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home 
 
 to-night. 
 And read the agreement to her, and see if it's 
 
 all right ; 
 And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a tradin' 
 
 man I know. 
 And kiss the child that was left to us, and out 
 
 in the world I'll go. 
 And one thing put in the paper, that first to 
 
 me didn't occur: 
 That when I am dead at last she'll bi-ing me 
 
 back to her; 
 And lay me under the maples I planted years 
 
 ago. 
 When she and I was happy before we quarreled 
 
 so. 
 
 And when she dies I wish that she would be 
 
 laid by me. 
 And, Ijin' together in silence, perhaps we will 
 
 agree; 
 And, if ever we meet in heaveu, I wouldn't 
 
 think it queer 
 If we loved each other the better because we 
 
 quarreled here. 
 
 The foregoing poem was soon followed by How 
 Betsey and I Made Up, from which is given 
 below an extract of two verses: 
 
 And after she'd read a little she give my arm 
 
 a touch, 
 And kindly said she was afraid I was 'lowiu' her 
 
 too much; 
 But when she was throiigii she went for me. 
 
 her face a-streaming with tears. 
 And kissed me for the first time in over twenty 
 
 years ! 
 
 I don't know what you'll think. Sir — I didn't 
 
 come to iiKiuire — 
 But I picked up tliai agieement and stuffed it 
 
 in the fire; 
 And I told hcr-\\.'d bury the hatchet alongside 
 
 of the cow ; 
 And we struck an agreement never to lunc 
 
 another ix)w. 
 
 S 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 227 
 
 ® 
 
 WILLIAM CUNDILL. 
 
 Born in England, July, 1816. 
 Mk. Cl'nuill, with liis wife, emigrated to Clin- 
 ton county, Iowa, in 1850, which at that time 
 was considered the far west, and sparsely 
 settled — in fact quite a, wilderness. The 
 poems of this gentleman have ai>peared from 
 
 WILLIAM CUNDILL. 
 
 time to time in tiie periodical press, and have 
 been extensively copied and favorably com- 
 mented upon. The city of Maquoketa has 
 been the residence of Mr. Cundill since the 
 year 1855. 
 
 BURT'S CAVE. 
 
 NEAR MAQUOKETA, IOWA. 
 
 Ages have roU'd the endless wheel of time. 
 Since first was heard the zephyr's whispering 
 
 chime 
 Among those rocks; 
 Nature has fashion'd in her rudest form. 
 In all the wildness of her wildest charm, 
 
 Those moss-grown blocks. 
 Some huge upheaval in long years gone by. 
 When this great world was in its infancy. 
 
 Ere order reign'd; 
 Those rocks, this arch, the chasm and the 
 
 stream, 
 While Nature yet was a chaotic dream, 
 
 All were design'd. 
 Seasons since then have pass'd iind left their 
 
 trace 
 
 * 
 
 Of winter's frost and summer's verdant face, 
 
 By this lone grot; 
 And form'd a fit recluse for timid deer. 
 In quietude to drink those waters clear. 
 
 In this rude spot. 
 
 Save when the red man came with gun or bow. 
 Searching with stealthy tread both high and 
 low, 
 
 Those haunts to find; 
 Then with undaunted step from rock to rock. 
 The cunning- footsteps of their foe they mock, 
 
 And leave behind. 
 
 Or when the trapper in this far-off west. 
 In whom no social harmony could rest — 
 
 Silent, alone — 
 Would wander 'mong those forest trees to 
 
 seek 
 Shelter from summer's sun or winter's bleak. 
 
 In moody tone. 
 
 Here could he rest in lonely quietude. 
 With naught to break the solemn solitude 
 
 By nature made; 
 Nor think of far-off homes, but set his snare, 
 To trap the otter, coon, or elk, or deer 
 
 That here had stray'd. 
 
 Such are the pictures that my thoughts im- 
 press. 
 
 While gazing on the charms of this recess. 
 So weird, serene; 
 
 While high above, amid the topmost trees. 
 
 The gentle sighing of the spring-time breeze 
 Add to the scene. 
 
 BURT'S CAVE REVISITED. 
 
 Changes have come across the march of time 
 Since first was heard the zephyr's whispering 
 chime 
 
 In this lone spot; 
 For now in joyful mirth and merry tune. 
 Along the flowery month of sunny June, 
 
 The sward we dot 
 With festive sport and spread the picnic fare, 
 In ringing shouts and laughter till the air 
 
 With joy and glee, [rest. 
 
 The aged 'neath the shade trees take their 
 The young with dance and music do their best. 
 
 So merrily; 
 While quietly the lovers' footsteps stray 
 Where rill and rock mark out with devious way 
 
 Fresh scenes to find. 
 The zephyr's whispers blending with a charm 
 Of shady nooks love's untuned notes to warm 
 
 With accents kind. [roam. 
 
 Thus since the red man o'er this spot would 
 Or the lone trapper made his sheltering home 
 
 From wind or rain, 
 The march of modern wealth and beauty flings 
 A halo o'er the scenes, and nature brings 
 
 A majesty serene. 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 228 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 OUR COUNTRY. 
 Our country spreads from east to west, 
 
 A graud three thousand miles; 
 Her wide-spread land is happ'ly blest 
 
 With verdure's pleasant smiles. 
 The laws throughout her wide domain 
 
 Are made so just and wise, 
 The poor can live in rich content 
 
 And share industry's prize. 
 Her wood-crowned hills, her prairies green, 
 
 The springs and rivers great. 
 Tell all who have our country seen 
 
 How great can be her might. 
 Her mineral wealth and rich deep soil. 
 
 Her grains and fruits in store. 
 Reward the poor for all their toil, 
 
 And still there's room for more. 
 Our country's laws do well provide 
 
 For all who want a home. 
 And all who on her lands reside 
 
 Need never have to roam. 
 And those who wish for liberty 
 
 As freemen join our band. 
 We all invite across the sea. 
 
 To this, our wide-spread land. 
 
 BE A MONEY MAN. 
 There's some adore the goddess love. 
 
 And some the god of wine, 
 Some high sounding names approve, 
 
 'Midst martial glory shine; 
 But all agree with one acclaim. 
 
 Whichever way you scan. 
 The highest pinnacle of fame 
 
 Is — be a money man. 
 No matter if you're plebian stock — 
 
 Big headed or pug nose — 
 Thousands at your door will flock, 
 
 liid gloves and silken hose; 
 They heed not if you're imbecile. 
 
 And little tricks liave done, 
 Tliey'll greet you with their sweetest smiles 
 
 If you're a money man. 
 So I advise you all to try — 
 
 Remember this and me. 
 No matter how you monej' buy, 
 
 Nor heed not who you be; 
 For all agree with one acclaim. 
 
 How great or small your plan. 
 The highest pinnacle of fame 
 
 Is — be a money man. 
 
 « 
 
 SUNSET HOURS. 
 An old man siglicd o'er moments gone, 
 
 And wishing for one hour of joy — 
 While thinking over pleasures flown. 
 
 Would like to be again a boy. 
 Sighing for cliildhood .scenes to come. 
 
 And strew his lliorny path with flowers — 
 He wished through youthful hours to roam. 
 
 And woo again in maiden bowers; 
 And yet he wished to be a man. 
 
 With husband's love and father's joy; 
 Forgetting life's mysterious plan. 
 
 Could youth and age the hours employ: 
 And thus he sung his plaintive tune: 
 
 " One youthful hour again I pray — 
 Turn back the wheel and let the sun 
 
 Give for one hour life's morning ray. 
 Oh guardian angel fill the cup. 
 
 Youth's blissful nectar let me quaff. 
 And as with aged lips I sup. 
 
 In flaxen boyhood let me laugh." 
 Could youth and age for once agree. 
 
 We, too, would wish in maiden's bower. 
 To live in sinless ecstacy 
 
 Of youthful love, one sunny hour; 
 We, too, would live life's youthful hour. 
 
 And see the rays of morning beam — 
 And as the clouds of sunset lower. 
 
 Would like to feel it all a dream. 
 But youthful hours will pass away. 
 
 And life is a reality. 
 And when we lose life's morning ray. 
 
 Our manho(xl hours, our life should be. 
 So, dear old man, sing not your lay. 
 
 Nor wish to be again a boy ; 
 But think the sun's last setting ray 
 
 Can bring your heart its greatest joy. 
 
 WOOED AND WON. 
 He said to win me was his pride. 
 
 I thought his love would ever be. 
 While pledging him his lawful bride, 
 
 A paradise on earth to me. 
 Will Carleton says, "'Tis often best 
 
 If you would know of heaven well, 
 To give your heavenly love a zest, 
 
 To live a little while in hell." 
 Well, be it so! If such is true, 
 
 I hope of heaven to have my share; 
 But 'twill no pleasure be to know 
 
 That men like mine will visit there. 
 The " wee sma' hours " of night pass on 
 
 Before he comes to home and me. 
 His breatli I try my best to shun ; 
 
 His wine-song look I loathe to see. 
 
 My mother, in my girlhood, taught 
 Tliat marriage vows are pledged in 
 heaven ; 
 And from on liigh the bonds are brought. 
 Each otlior's love on earth to leaven. 
 'Twas thus I gave myself as wife. 
 
 And thus I tliought he came to me. 
 I gave my vows on earth through life. 
 
 And onward through eternity. 
 My luisband gave his vows like mine. 
 
 And breaks them to our God and me. 
 And if in other realms I shine, 
 1 never hope his face to see. 
 
 * 
 
^ 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIOKAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 229 
 
 TRESSIE E.MOSETTE. 
 
 Born: Morrison Co., Minn., Jan. 7, 1870. 
 Commencing to write at a very early age, the 
 poems of Tressie have always been gladly re- 
 ceived by the county papers. Memories of 
 
 Monterey was written on returning home af- 
 ter a winter's visit at that famous resort. 
 Grand Forks I Love Thee Best was written 
 when she was but eleven years of age. 
 
 MEMORIES OF MONTEREY, CAL. 
 
 While skies above all azure blue 
 
 Looked down on flowers bedecked with dew, 
 'Neath classic shades and sj'lvan bowers, 
 
 I wandered on through happy hours; 
 Beneath, on grassy turf I tread, 
 
 The graceful pines towered overhead, 
 While on my right broad hills arrayed — 
 
 Some in sunshine and some in shade. 
 And on my left below, cliff and sands 
 
 With foaming waves and tumult grand 
 The Pacific l^eat on its rock-bound coast 
 
 With many a ceaseless surge and boast; 
 The tide ebbing in from sea to bay 
 
 As it will till the old world wears away; 
 My path curves 'round the base of a hill. 
 
 Sloping e'en to the sea by nature's will. 
 And half way up in dark decay. 
 
 The Mexican fort in ruins lay. 
 Tlien further still on the summit's crown, 
 © 
 
 With whitewash'd walls and barracks brown, 
 The brave old forts of Fremont stand. 
 
 Frowning o'er harbor, foe and land,— 
 One dark mouth'd cannon covering still. 
 On the foemen's fort just down the hill, 
 Traces of days when brave men came 
 
 From o'er the Rockies and o'er the plain. 
 And bought through the trials of travel and 
 toil 
 In weary marching and war's turmoil. 
 And presented a title which long will stand 
 
 Allying this coast to our native land. 
 And now when the days of strife are past. 
 And peace reigns over our land at la.st; 
 There are grassy graves where the old fort 
 towers, 
 Where the foeman and stranger scatter 
 flowers, 
 And hand clasps hand where those brave ones 
 fell. 
 And the zephyrs whisper " All is well." 
 But as I emerg^ from the shades of the hill 
 Where those warriors brave lie so silent and 
 
 still, 
 A vision of beauty and life meets my glance ; 
 'Tis a sunlighted valeon whose grassy expanse 
 
 The turrets and cots of abode still lay 
 In this quaintest of cities, famed Monterey. 
 As a vision of grandeur and power from the 
 past, 
 The gems of the ancient with modern are 
 cast. 
 The remains of broad homes built by sons 
 of fair Spain,— 
 Their proud walls the victims of weather and 
 rain, 
 The green moss still mantling their roofs 
 and decay 
 Fed by sea fog each morn all these years pass- 
 ed away. 
 And then grim and snow-capped guarding 
 the town 
 The Gabilan mountains majestically frown. 
 
 Surrounding this vale even down to the bay ; 
 From their base to their summits tall pine 
 trees arrayed. 
 Shaking down their dry burrs as in scorn to 
 provoke 
 Their less fortunate brothers, gnarled and 
 bearded live-oaks. 
 To the left of the town at the foot of the hills 
 Rears a zenith of architectural skill, 
 Contrasting so strange with the quaint an- 
 cient town, 
 Is the hotel Del Monte, a resort of renown. 
 
 The goal of each tourist who far, far away. 
 Dreams of heavens of sunlight in fair Mon- 
 terey ; 
 But e'en as I ponder, I see 'neath my feet. 
 As I walk o'er the foot-bridge which leads to 
 a street, 
 
 ® 
 
©- 
 
 230 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Bright mosses and shells from their ocean 
 bed torn. 
 And cast in this gulch which the liigh tide 
 has worn. 
 On a hank of the gulch just a step to my 
 right, 
 I see a plain cross standing lonely and white, 
 
 "June 3rd, 1770," ])ainted I see 
 On its gaunt, stretching arms I know it to be. 
 
 That here Missionary Serra then came 
 And planted the cross and the standard of 
 Spain. 
 And now o'er my head as I walk up the 
 street 
 Tlie blue gums are shedding aroma so sweet; 
 Commingling their scents with the blossoms 
 so rare 
 Of the rose and the flg tree, the almond and 
 pear. 
 While tliat rich southern beauty " flora fon- 
 da" so white 
 Nods her head to her brother, the pepper tree 
 bright. 
 While from one cottage roof with green moss 
 for a bed. 
 Hang three double roses, a pink, white and red, 
 And there 'round a house that has gone to 
 decay. 
 In a hedge row of callas in blooming array. 
 Then I walk past the wharf where scores of 
 small boats. 
 Tied strong by the fishermen, now idly float. 
 While far out on the bay the white sails of a 
 bark 
 And a Chinaman's fishing junk, clumsy and 
 dark ; 
 To my right the old custom house left to its 
 fate. 
 Near a battered afl^^air, first brick house in the 
 state. 
 Gem of antiquity, how dare my frail powers. 
 Attempt to describe thy sweet zephyrs and 
 flowers? 
 How can I portray the clear songs of tliy 
 birds. 
 The grace of thy dark soutliern children in 
 words? 
 The first capitol Innldnig where wise men 
 once sate. 
 Dealt justice, passed sentence niid framed 
 laws of state. 
 The strong iron bars of the grim jiiil of 
 stone, alone. 
 
 The spot where the convent stood wall'd in 
 And the crumbling walls of the old quartel. 
 Where the Mexican ollicers used to dwell. 
 With their .swords and their armor in wait 
 f(»r the fray. 
 And prayed for by maidens of Monterey. 
 
 Tlien beyond the town and a century old, 
 Its adobe walls in a cypress fold, 
 
 The San Carlos mission from evergreen 
 bower 
 Chimes forth from its turret the noontide 
 hour. 
 To the mariners far o'er the billows and 
 brine. 
 To the quiet townspeople sounds the chime; 
 
 It reaches the ears of society's throng. 
 Who at Del Monte Park idly wander along 
 Lagunita del Suenos, peaceful and calm. 
 Catches the echoes and wafts them along; 
 
 Out through the woodland and far, far away, 
 Methinks I can hear them in fair Monterey. 
 
 GRAND FORKS, I LOVE THEE BEST. 
 There's a town on the banks of Red River, 
 
 Far, far out in the west. 
 And of all the towns I know 
 
 I like Grand Forks the best. 
 There in summer the steamboats pass 
 
 On the river as smooth as glass; 
 As the cars come whistling in 
 
 And still go further west. 
 I came to this town in its infancy. 
 
 About three years ago. 
 And few thought at that time 
 
 This town would .so rapidly grow; 
 And now where stands our depot neat 
 
 Was then a waving field of wheat. 
 Then for miles and miles around 
 
 Scarcely a farm house could be found. 
 But now go as far as you will 
 
 You will find farm houses still. 
 Of all the towns in the northwest 
 
 Dear Grand Forks, I love thee best. 
 The Black Hills may boast of its gold so 
 bright, 
 
 Fisher's Landing may boast of its flour so 
 white. 
 Turtle River may boast of its fertile ground ; 
 
 But the equal of Grand Forks can't be 
 found. 
 
 FAREWELL TO A FRIEND. 
 A long fai'ewcll, my friend. 
 
 We must utter the word at last; 
 For a few short iiours our pathways blend 
 
 Moments that cannot last. 
 A few short hours in a lifetime. 
 
 They'll be only memories now,— 
 Onlj'a stanza in life's rhyme 
 
 Neath whose .sorrows or joys we bow. 
 
 Only a mystic line or two 
 
 On the record of our fates; 
 A shadow of moonlight comes to view 
 
 O'er the ice where we used to skate. 
 A ha|)py whirl in the mazy dance, 
 
 A fragment of nnisic low, [glance 
 
 Will come to our minds in each backward 
 
 At the happy long ago. 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 231 
 
 -© 
 
 JOHN B.KETCHUM. 
 
 Born: New York City, July 11, 1837. 
 In the year of his birth John removed with 
 his parents to Cayuga count}-, N. Y., where 
 the first twelve years of his early life were 
 passed, when the family again returned to 
 New York City. In 1856-57 he worked as a report- 
 er and writer on the staff of the New Yorker 
 and New York Leader, and had the friendship 
 of many literary young men of tliat day. In 
 1860 he proposed to read law, and was offered 
 the freedom of the office otthe late Hon. Wm. 
 Noyes, but tlie outbreak of the war in 1861 
 aroused his latent patriotism and interrupted 
 
 S 
 
 JOHN B. KETCHUM. 
 
 his studies ; and he became associated with 
 various movements for the temporal welfare 
 and religious benefit of union soldiers — 
 serving, at the close of the war, with the late 
 Vincent Colyer upon the staff of Governor R. 
 E. Fenton in the reception and care of return- 
 ing N. Y. state troops. In 1866 he aided in the 
 formation of a new organization for the moral, 
 religious and temporal welfare of the troops 
 composing tlie regular army of the U. S., and 
 it is in connection with this patriotic work 
 that he is best known to liis countrymen — 
 having been corresponding secretary of the 
 society for nearly a quarter of a century. Mr. 
 Ketchum was married in 1858 to Miss Raehelle 
 A. Terliune of New York. In 1879 he moved 
 to the township of Ramapo, in his native state, 
 
 where he led a kind of pastoral life for nearly 
 nine years; but in 1888 he became a resident 
 of Brooklyn. The poetry of Mr. Ketchum is 
 very tender and melodious, and will always be 
 cherished by every lover of the true poet. 
 
 THE LAST GUEST. 
 
 Alone !— and have all gone from hence? 
 
 Those forms that gaily paced 
 These silent floors, these spacious halls. 
 
 But now so richly graced! 
 Gone! ah, my sad and lonely heart, 
 
 'Tis thine, at last, to know 
 That even liere the steps of joy 
 
 Are tracked by those of woe. 
 Alone! no more I meet them now. 
 
 Where'er I turn mj' gaze — 
 Gone are the greetings and the smiles 
 
 That blest the earlier days! 
 Alone, low, sadly on my ear 
 
 Falls autumn's wailing song! 
 While 'round my steps the faded leaves 
 
 Of summer sadly throng. 
 Adieu, ye transient, fading forms. 
 
 We may not meet again; 
 Joy go with you, while memory haunts 
 
 My heart with tender pain ! ' 
 
 Regret nor tears can aught avail 
 
 These dear scenes to renew. 
 To which my lonely, lingering heart 
 
 Must also breathe adieu ! 
 
 OLD WOODEN CHURCH IN THE GROVE. 
 A song for the old wooden church in the 
 grove. 
 
 And that hour of hallowed repose. 
 When the Spirit comes down within the old 
 walls. 
 
 In the hush of the Sabbath-day's close; 
 When the sun sinks low in the far distant west 
 
 And the shadows of night are falling. 
 As the calm of the even steals over all. 
 
 And the bell is lovingly calling. 
 In fancy I sit in the pew by the wall. 
 
 And my spirit is pensive and grieves;— 
 And I hear the low prayers that trembled and 
 rose 
 
 As the summer-wind sang thro' the eaves:— 
 I hear the same voices that chanted in tune 
 
 In the days of the long, long ago. 
 Yet singing those hymns as the eve closes in. 
 
 And the music comes sweetly and low. 
 Though absent and distant an exile I roam, 
 
 I will think of those hours and the time. 
 And memory keep green the little, old church. 
 
 And ijreserve it in story and rhj'me: — 
 Let them bury me where the tones of the bell, 
 
 There my spirit forever will move, [praise, 
 Where the voice of worshiper riseth in 
 
 From the old wooden church in the grove. 
 
 1^ 
 
©- 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 Sleep, lady, sleep! it is the hour of rest; 
 
 The sun sinks deep a-down the distant west; 
 
 The nig-ht-winds rock the wild-bird's freighted 
 nest, — 
 Good-night, Good-night! 
 
 Sleep, lady, sleep ! naught hreak thy soft re- 
 pose! 
 
 The whip-o-will proclaims the evening's close; 
 
 And nature over all her hush-hush throws,- 
 Good-night, Good-night ! 
 
 Sleep, ladj-, sleep! thy love and sentinel 
 
 Will ^igil keep; — and soothe thy slumber well 
 
 With mystic music from Apollo's shell, — 
 Good-night, Good-night ! 
 
 SUNSET. 
 Softly underneath Hesperian curtains 
 
 Crimson-hued, with gold and purple f ring'd. 
 Fades away the cloud of pleasant sunshine, 
 
 Leaving all the fair west ruby-tinged. 
 Sweetly from its white tent of June blossoms. 
 
 Shaking out their fragrance in the air, — 
 Swells the eve-liymn of the joyous wild-bird. 
 
 Chasing from the burdened heart its care. 
 Slowly in the silver-tinted heavens 
 
 Wakes the first star, faint with dazzling 
 light; 
 Growing stronger in the thick'ning shadows, 
 
 Settling fast before the closing night. 
 Majestatic — with sudden shimmer. 
 
 Comes the white moon out the Orient sea ; 
 Scatt'ring blessings from the distant region — 
 
 Light and promise and full liberty. 
 When the sunlight of my life is sinking 
 
 O'er the Hesper hill of twilight time, — 
 May God's angel ever then be near me. 
 
 Leading where tliere is no sunset clime. 
 
 *- 
 
 FOREVER THINE. 
 Forever thine, though hills and seas divide — 
 
 Though storms combine ; 
 Though stars withdraw, or deserts part us 
 wide — 
 
 Forever thine. 
 Forever thine! In all the waste of years. 
 
 Love's Mecca-shrine! 
 When frii'nds forsake — through sorrows, cares 
 and tears. 
 
 Still ever thine. 
 Forever thine ! 'mid swell of woi'ldly ,)oys — 
 
 In pledge of wine! 
 Thou angel voice above earth's wliir and 
 noise — 
 
 1'liiiic, fondly thine. 
 Forever tliincl unto high Heaven's control, 
 
 Tliysflf resign ; 
 Point the worn spirit to its matchless goal — 
 
 Pi'edcstined thine. 
 
 WHERE?— IMPROMPTU. 
 How have these well-known scenes renewed 
 
 The thoughts and hopes of earlier hours. 
 When life — a desert now — was strewed 
 With fairest flowers? 
 
 Then life was young, and thou wert fair; 
 Now flowers are faded — joys are fled - - 
 And youth and love are with the dead, — 
 And thou art — where? 
 
 THE SPELL OF SONG. 
 
 Sing on, sweet maid, thy witching strain, for 
 
 it hath joys for me ; 
 And I would hear ihy rich-toned voice utter 
 
 its melody ; 
 Bringing to mind my boyhood's hours, when 
 
 in the woods we stray'd. 
 And life's pathway was strewn with flowers, 
 
 ere fate our hopes betray'd. 
 
 No power, or wealth, can ever buy a simple 
 strain like thine. 
 
 Yet both would I most willing give, if by- 
 gone days were mine ; 
 
 And list'ning to that simple song, I feel my 
 bosom swell. 
 
 The warm blood leap within my veins, be- 
 neath the potent spell. 
 
 There's wondrous power in that sweet strain, 
 tho' simple is its art. 
 
 For it is tuned to reach the chords that vibrate 
 in the heart; 
 
 Its magic bursts the bright sun forth, illum- 
 ining my track. 
 
 And on the dial of my soul the shadow has 
 gone back. 
 
 OH, TAKE THE LUTE. 
 
 Oh, take the lute away, — no nnire I'll sing;— 
 
 The minstrel here must breathe liis last 
 farewell ! 
 Like winter's bird o'ertakeii by the spring. 
 
 My lyre is silenced by a mystic spell. 
 Tliese old, old songs tliat I have sung to-night, 
 
 In otlier days awoke the i>uri>st joy: 
 But time can give to fondest hope a bligiit, 
 
 And fill all raptures with a base alloy. 
 
 Youth's laurel-wreatli lies sprinkled o'er with 
 dust; 
 Corroding cares liave doni- the work of 
 years ; 
 Vainly I watcii witli tendei', lingring trust,— 
 
 No promise of lost yinith or hope appears. 
 
 Fond meni'ries of long vanish'd years return; 
 
 And visions sweet come to the failing sight :- 
 
 No more with .song this bosom proud siiali 
 
 burn,~ 
 
 The fragile lute's unstrung for aye to-night. 
 
 « 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 233 
 
 -© 
 
 JACOB C.JOHNSON. 
 
 Born: Pamlico Co., N. C, Feb. 20, 1865. 
 Jacob grarluated in 1887 at the university of 
 North Carolina at Chapel Hill, since which 
 time he has been enfiaged in teaching- and do- 
 
 . <;'^,-f- 
 
 -X^ 
 
 JACOB C. JOHNSON. 
 
 ing newspaper work. Mr. Johnson's poems 
 have appeared in the Raleigh News and Ob- 
 server, and other local papers. 
 
 GROWTH. 
 
 A germ — a bud — a leaflet then, 
 A little flower and next a seed — 
 Then all as if it had not been 
 Save but a worthless weed. 
 But no, there will in some place be 
 A soil wherein the seed may grow. 
 And others will on some day see 
 A beauteous flower blow. 
 A shape, a vague intelligence, 
 A youth, a man, a mind, a bloom 
 Of human love, a higher sense — 
 And then the lifeless tomb. 
 But no, I wist a germ is there 
 Which, kissed by heavenly light. 
 Will be revivified, and fair 
 Will bloom in beauty bright. 
 
 IB- 
 
 QUESTIONINGS. 
 If I should die to-night, my love, 
 If I should close my eyes. 
 If I should softly fold my hand 
 
 And in a few faint sighs 
 
 Breathe out my breath; 
 
 Would any one be sad, my love. 
 Would any tears be shed? 
 Would any friends come reverently 
 About my quiet bed 
 
 And weep at death? 
 
 I fear me very few would come, 
 I fear me very few. 
 But then I know that those, my love, 
 Are the truest of earth's true 
 And love me well. 
 
 Among them too a face would be 
 Half-marred by sorrow's stain. 
 And yet so beautiful and pure 
 It makes description vain— 
 Too sweet too tell. 
 
 And gazing on that one loved face 
 Would cozen death's dread sting. 
 And grasping that soft kindly hand 
 Would nearer heaven bring 
 My eriing soul. 
 
 And those true eyes beaming on my own 
 With the haze of death all dim. 
 While on their crj'stal tides I see 
 Celestial blessings swim. 
 And joys unroll. 
 
 THAT LASS OF MINE. 
 My love she is a cunning lass — 
 She's past all comprehension; 
 Her wit it does my own surpass 
 By infinite extension. 
 
 To me she vows her kisses mine, 
 I never will dispute it; 
 If 'tis a fault I am too kind - 
 To her dear heart impute it. 
 
 But then they say that others too 
 Receive the same sweet favor. 
 And breezes which do lightly blow. 
 Bear much that cutting savor. 
 
 And so one day I made so Ijold 
 To ask about that rumor: 
 She flashed upon me her dark eyes 
 In sweet, coquettish humor. 
 
 " Oh, well," she said, "Suppose I do— 
 You still have kisses plenty. 
 For every one I give to them 
 I save you one and twenty." 
 
 My love is such a cunning lass — 
 She always does out-do me. 
 For then the kisses that she owed 
 She promptly gave them to me. 
 
 Did I forgive? How could I else 
 When eyes so tender pleaded. 
 And lips gave kisses which by far 
 All other sweets exceeded? 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 © 
 
 234 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY C. WOODWARD. 
 
 Born: Jersey Shore, Pa., July 3, 1833. 
 This lady takes great delight in everything 
 that is beautiful in nature and art. She is 
 passionately fond of flowers and of their cul- 
 ture, and in her collection she has forty-four 
 
 Mi;S. MARY C. WOUUWAKl). 
 
 varieties of the rose. Literature also occupies 
 a great deal of her time, and the poems from 
 her pen have been widely copied by the press. 
 
 RETROSPECT. 
 
 Another year my dear friend has flown. 
 Swallowed up in the boundless eternity. 
 
 And our feet still press these mundane sands. 
 Our bark is yet tossed on life's billowy sea. 
 
 How many have passed to the unseen shore. 
 And their tenantless forms lie cold and still; 
 
 They have entered the grander life beyond. 
 And others their vacant places fill. 
 
 Tlie year that is dead and is gone, for aye, 
 To some has brought i)leasures and calm 
 delight. 
 
 While others have drank of the cii]) of woe. 
 And morning has vanished in deepest night. 
 
 How many in billows of smoke and flame. 
 In agony bitter, and anguisli dire, [mained. 
 
 While naught but the blackencKl forms re- 
 Have yielded tlieir lives to the dcMuoii flre. 
 
 'Mid the foaming billows mad and wild. 
 In the shadowy depths of the ocean wave, 
 
 How many have sunk 'neath the waters cold. 
 
 And the forms uncofiined have found a 
 grave. 
 Destruction and death have been left behind. 
 
 In the storm-king's devasted path 
 The homes laid waste by his ruthless hand, 
 
 He has scattered wide in his furious wrath. 
 Farewell old year; to the stern behest 
 
 Of Infinite Power we all must bow; 
 Our paths are marked to life's furthest bound. 
 
 And Destiny's seal is on every brow. 
 He holds us all in his iron grasp. 
 
 Along each pathway lurks seeming ill; 
 But the end is good, let us calmly wait, 
 
 " Each cloud has a silver lining" still. 
 It must all be best, the hope deferred. 
 
 The wish unfulfilled, the vanished dream. 
 In the clearer light we shall sometime see. 
 
 That the shadows obscured the sunlight's 
 gleam. 
 And sometime my friend, when the New Year 
 comes. 
 
 We'll be anchored safe on the further shore. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 My youthful friend, now in life's glowing 
 
 morn 
 Set careful watch and guard upon thy life. 
 For know that every wrongful act will leave 
 A stain indelible upon thy soul. 
 After the wound is healed, the scar remains — 
 The storm-king leaves his devastating track; 
 So ever wrongful action of our lives — 
 Howe'er regretted or repented of. 
 Will mar the spirit by its darkening shade. 
 O! if mankind but fully realized 
 This, Nature's holy truth, and all could feel 
 That every sin will stain and scar the soul. 
 How 'twould restrain fi'om wrong; and there 
 
 would be 
 Less grief in human hearts, and more of joy. 
 And earth would be a happier dwelling place. 
 
 FOR MY COUSIN'S ALBUM. 
 In the after yi'ars, dear Emma, 
 In the sometime far away. 
 When your cheek has lost its freshness 
 And your locks are tinged wifli gray; 
 When your children stand around you 
 In tlie strength of manhood's pride — 
 Strong in lofty aim and purpose 
 As adown life's stream they glide, 
 Yon may chance to turn those pages 
 And this earnest wish I'll trace: 
 Thal^ through all life's weaiy .iourney 
 As the years liave fldwn apace, [ing — 
 
 You'll have walked with strength unfaltei^ 
 Nobly wrought in word and deed. 
 Have fought bravely life's great battles 
 And may claim the Victor's mead. 
 
 -© 
 
s- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEK1CA. 
 
 235 
 
 -® 
 
 FRANKLIN F.PHILLIPS, A.M. 
 
 Born: Searsmont, Me., Dec. 21, 18.53. 
 
 When Franklin was four years old his parents 
 went to S.Montville,where he lived till 1871. He 
 graduated from Nichols Latin school of Lew- 
 iston in 1873, and from Bate's college with 
 high honors in 1877. After leaving college he 
 was engaged in teaching for six years, five of 
 them as principal of Kockland high school. 
 
 FRANKLIN F. PHILLIPS, A.M. 
 
 He was commissioned sta,te assayer of Maine 
 in 1880, and served in that capacity three years. 
 Since 1883 he has been engaged in a very suc- 
 cessful business, which has allowed him to 
 gratify his taste for scientific investigation. 
 He is by nature a poet, and has written an 
 amount of spirited and graceful poetry that 
 promises much for the future. 
 
 SB- 
 
 SNOW-FALL. 
 
 With crystal eyes 
 
 Ope'd in the skies, 
 With wings of sparry spangles. 
 
 In ghostly plight, 
 
 A habit light. 
 That loosely round me dangles, 
 
 I fill the air 
 
 With visions rare. 
 And blanch the sombre meadows; 
 
 My woolly feet 
 
 The cold earth meet 
 As noiselessly as shadows. 
 
 From frith and bay 
 
 And ocean's way 
 I climbed the sunbeams golden; 
 
 O'er mountain walls, 
 
 In castle halls. 
 By dewy hands was holden. 
 
 A pompous king 
 
 Bade menials bring 
 Me robes of downy feather; 
 
 Then called me snow. 
 
 And let me go. 
 To grace the winter weather. 
 
 O'er field and down 
 
 And road and town 
 I toy and twirl and flutter; 
 
 Fair cheeks I kiss 
 
 Of lad and miss. 
 But praises never utter. 
 
 The fen's meek crest. 
 
 The marsh-grass nest, 
 By waterfowl forsaken, 
 
 I cover o'er 
 
 With wrappings hoar. 
 Till spring their life shall waken. 
 
 Caressing now 
 
 The mountain's brow, 
 I court the spectral stillness; 
 
 From one lone bird 
 
 A note is heard 
 To trill the air in shrillness. 
 
 Through woods T wend, 
 
 The branches bend, 
 I make an arch and ceiling; 
 
 The pine's low boughs 
 
 Whisper their vows 
 'Mid incense heavenward stealing. 
 
 I nestle round 
 
 The grassy mound. 
 The sere blades stoop and shiver, 
 
 And sadly sigh 
 
 That life's fond tie 
 Is sundered by its Giver. 
 
 From turret gray, 
 
 At break of daj'. 
 The startled pigeon's cooing, 
 
 And sparrow's prate 
 
 Unto his mate 
 Proclaim my magic doing. 
 
 As night shades fall. 
 
 My silent call 
 Is made at every dwelling. 
 
 The plenty-blessed. 
 
 The want-oppressed. 
 Alike my steps repelling. 
 
 The cliff's dun verge 
 
 My feet would urge. 
 To meet the bounding billows; 
 
 I go to sleep 
 
 Within the deep. 
 On soft and foam-white pillows. 
 
 -© 
 
®^ 
 
 236 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 THE SILENCE AT MOUNT McGREGOR. 
 
 Mute midnight the Mount is holding-, 
 Forest, glade and fount enfolding, 
 Sentry-pace the stars are keeping. 
 Round the silent soldier, sleeping 
 On his country's bosom, throbbing 
 'Neath the low boughs' stifled sobbing. 
 Silent forest, silent fountain, 
 Silent midnight, silent mountain. 
 Silent stars, O witness ye, 
 Silent death and victory ! 
 Think we on the world's commanders. 
 On the Caesars, Alexanders, 
 On the Corsican's campaigning. 
 With ambition's glory waning. 
 Freedom, through the ripening ages. 
 Names of thine fill brightest pages. 
 Silent forest, silent fountain. 
 Silent midnight, silent mountain, 
 Silent stars, O witness ye. 
 Silent Grant's great victory! 
 Battles fought and states-toil ended, 
 World-round our Ulysses wended. 
 Bane of lotus quick discerning. 
 Siren voices ever spurning. 
 Home the way he fain would single — 
 With our dust his ashes mingle. 
 Silent forest, silent fountain. 
 Silent midnight, silent mountain. 
 Silent stars, O witness ye. 
 Silent loving victory! 
 Lo! a blest transfiguration 
 Thi'ows its halo round the nation! 
 Alienation, to devotion 
 Turning Uke the tide of ocean. 
 Sees above the pale corse shrouded 
 Mighty virtues all unclouded. 
 Silent forest, silent fountain. 
 Silent midnight, silent mountain, 
 Silent stars, O witness ye. 
 Silent crowning victory ! 
 
 ©- 
 
 BOREAS. 
 A hardy and brusque Titan, born 
 Of the sweet, rosy Goddess of morn. 
 From my wild, rock-ribbed cavern I go 
 To wantonlj' buffet tlie snow; 
 
 But I sigli and sob and sough 
 On the moss and fir-clad bluff 
 O'erlooking the gray, salt sea 
 I have vexed uproariously. 
 
 My father, stern Astreaus, frowns, 
 Wlieii he ponders what kingdoms and crowns 
 Could be bouglit witli the wealth i have strewn 
 In the ocean depths soundless and lone. 
 Then I sigh and sob and .sough 
 On tiie moss and fli'-chid blutl'. 
 For the stubborn, gray, salt main 
 Will not give it back again. 
 
 My brothers — the fairest, I ween. 
 Have Auster and Zephyr e'er been — 
 And my sisters, loved stars in the sky. 
 Oft reproach me with look and with sigh ; 
 And I sigh and sob and sough 
 On the moss and fir-clad bluff. 
 For, down the gray, salt strand 
 There's a blanched corse on the sand. 
 The mariner knows my slirill voice. 
 Now cheering the way of his choice, 
 Now calling the storms on his path. 
 Provoking his fear and his wrath; 
 
 But I sigh and sob and sough 
 On the moss and flr-clad bluff, 
 O'erlooking the gray, salt waves 
 That fashion my victim's graves. 
 Disdaining all guile and intrigue. 
 But regardless of treaty and league. 
 Many good ships and stores I've destroyed. 
 As with war's fitful fortunes I've toyed. 
 Still I sigh and sob and sough 
 On the moss and flr-clad bluff. 
 For round the gray, salt deep, 
 The slave and exile weep. 
 Though far from my dim, mountain home 
 On most mischievous missions I roam. 
 From the blest Hyperborean lands 
 I withhold mj- rough, riotous hands; 
 And 1 sigh and sob and sough 
 On the moss and flr-clad bluff. 
 And gaze o'er the gray, salt way. 
 On their long and gladsome day. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 FROM "THE EAGLE AT LAKE GEORGE." 
 
 Fi-om some dim height may be thy glance 
 Oft runs the mazy water-way along. 
 
 At thought that yet again perchance. 
 In pomp, with bugle note and martial song, 
 
 Down forest ways, through lake and gorge. 
 
 Shall come the bannered host of George. 
 
 FROM "ODE TO HOPE." 
 
 Now is, glad Hoi>e, thy way 
 Imbosomed in the fondness of the spring, 
 
 Cheered for the livelong day, 
 Till eve's dull eyes behold night's spreading 
 wing. 
 
 And flowers enfold the dew, 
 
 To wait tlie morrow new. 
 
 FROM " MEMORIAL DAY." 
 
 O wilderness of bloom, O day 
 
 To loyal lieai'ts an lionored trust! 
 How tltly do je meet and l)lend 
 
 Above tli(! brave boys' silent dust 
 And asiies dull, that fell beneath 
 Fair Freedom's fervid altar flames. 
 While they, cheering tlie Union grand, 
 Went the star way witli deathless names. 
 
 •)S 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 23^ 
 
 -)5l 
 
 JULIA CARTER ALDRICH. 
 
 Born: Liverpool, Ohio, 1835. 
 Commencing to write prose and verse for the 
 local papers in her youth, it was not long be- 
 fore the contributions of the subject of this 
 sketch were g-ladly accepted bj' Godey's Lady's 
 Book, Arthur's Magazine and otlier well known 
 magazines. At seventeen years of age she 
 taught scliool, and three years lattT was mar- 
 
 ried. 
 
 MRS. JULIA C. ALDRICH. 
 
 Mrs. Aldricli is now engaged in prepar- 
 
 ing a volume of poems that will probably ap- 
 pear in 1890. She has three sons who have be- 
 come prominent respectively as civil engi- 
 neer, judge and minister. Maple Grove Home, 
 the residence of this lady, is a beautiful rural 
 retreat with spacious lawns, and groves with 
 ferns and plants and flowers and vines. 
 
 * 
 
 RONDEAUX. 
 
 A brilliant thought leaps out and glows. 
 
 Or scatters fragrance like the rose. 
 Nor needs an artisan's design 
 To plan and shape to make it shine,— 
 
 Not all is brilliance in rondeaux. 
 
 The labored effort plainly shows 
 
 The mind has passed through mighty throes 
 To give the world with stamp divine 
 A brilliant thought. 
 
 That music wins which sweetly flows. 
 
 Not that which falls like stunning blows. 
 
 And ease and grace with sense combine 
 To clothe with elegance the line 
 Where genius gives, in verse or prose, 
 A brilliant thought. 
 
 YOSEMITE. 
 With bumbled heart, subdued and awed I 
 look on thee, [rapt 
 
 Thou time-defying granite pile ; with senses 
 I see thee, grand and world-renowned — 
 Yosemite — 
 Thy spray-enwreathing stream — 
 Thy rock-walled vale and sunset clouds, all 
 glory capped 
 With evanescent gleam. 
 Aye, see, and wondering gaze, until the cen- 
 turies swing 
 Their massive doors ajar, and glimpses give 
 
 when earth was young; 
 
 But farthest grasp of human thought but 
 
 weakling reasons bring 
 
 To solve thy problem vast; [hung 
 
 In vain we ask the voiceless silences that 
 
 Their mysteries o'er the past — 
 The far, dim past, that wrapped our sphere in 
 
 shoreless sea — 
 The mantling gloom, that swathed its Infancy 
 in mist, [cree 
 
 While yet the sun did wait Omnipotent de- 
 
 To bless the world with light — 
 Ere Day's first smiling morn, with rosy beams 
 had kissed 
 Away the brooding night. 
 What engine wrought in Nature's great com- 
 pleting plan [deeps? 
 To ope for thee thj- chasm's broad, abysmal 
 Was it the glacier's ponderous plow, that 
 smoothed for man 
 Tlie verdant fertile plain. 
 Or, rolling waters, that through circling eons 
 wore thy steeps 
 With solemn, sad refrain? 
 Or, from earth's central fires, did fierce vol- 
 canic throes 
 Expel, in molten mass, the elemental rock, 
 That o'er the wilds to mountain majesty arose. 
 And while yet warm with throbbing strain, 
 Did earthquake rend with pole-disturbing 
 shock 
 Thy mighty walls amain? 
 Oh, puny mind, be still and catch the chant 
 
 sublime. 
 Of Nature's psalm, that here is poured in 
 never-ending praise; [did raise 
 Accept the truth, that God by His right hand 
 These templed rocks, to stand through an 
 eternity of time. 
 An altar place of worship, where [lays 
 
 All nations come and every heart an offering 
 Of mingled praise and prayer. 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 238 
 
 LOCAL A>JD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GILBERT LORD WILSON. 
 
 Born: Center Point, Iowa, March 4, 1856. 
 
 Mr. Wilson was a close student, and has a 
 good knowledge of Greek, Latin, German and 
 Hebrew. For the past decade he has been a 
 prolific writer, contributing to a number of 
 the best publications of the United States. In 
 18TT Ml'- \\'il<()ii was niaiiifil In Miss F.mnia 
 
 (ill.UERT LORD WILSON. 
 
 Beaman; and in 1887 the union was blessed 
 with a son. Mr. Wilson has taken numerotis 
 prizes in literary contests, and is now engaged 
 on several works. He is a member of the Am- 
 erican association of writers, and also of the 
 Iowa state pharmaceutical association. Mr. 
 Wilson still resides at the place of his birth. 
 
 ffi- 
 
 A TIME THAT IS GOLDEN. 
 There's a time that is golden ! 
 
 A time of all times: 
 When the wedding bells olden 
 
 In annual cliiines 
 Ring fifty returns of the day; 
 
 When the love that was plighted 
 In days of the past 
 
 Groweth stronger; not blighted 
 By frost time lias cast, 
 
 Tho' our locks become silvery gray. 
 When the moments are treasures 
 
 More precious than gold. 
 
 Which the hand as it measures 
 
 Is wont to withhold. 
 As treasures are held 'neath the wave; 
 
 When the love that's to brighten 
 Our way never dims, 
 
 Tho' our loads never lighten. 
 And, trembling, our limbs 
 
 Bear us, tottering, down to the grave. 
 
 There's a time that is golden 
 
 More glittering, far. 
 Than the brightest ones holden 
 
 In early days are, — 
 As ripens the fruitage of right; 
 
 When we gather the blessings 
 Of life's endless day, 
 
 With the doubtings and guessings 
 All vanished away. 
 
 As darkness recedes from the light. 
 
 When the growth of the roses 
 
 Each side of death's stream 
 Interlaces and closes 
 
 O'er death; — the thorns seem 
 To flee at the wave of love's wand; 
 
 While tlie shuttle, close wedging 
 'Twixt threads that are gray. 
 
 Form a silvery edging 
 For life's golden day: 
 
 The sunset is sunrise beyond. 
 
 AS A SUNBEAM DRAWS THE DEW. 
 
 'Mid the petals of the roses 
 
 Trembling dewdrops hide apart. 
 Till the morning soon discloses 
 
 Sunbeams mirrored in each heart; 
 
 Till each heart is warmed and lightened 
 And its sphere of action heightened ; 
 Ah, the lieart of hearts doth woo 
 As a sunbeam draws the dew. 
 
 Thou, my sunbeam, warming, gleaming. 
 Art the someone of my heart; 
 
 With thy heav'n alluring beaming 
 Blessing of thy joy impart! 
 
 To thy somewliere heaven take me; 
 What thou liopest of me make me; 
 
 Lo! my hand and heart are thine; 
 
 In mv lieiirt, too, thou art mine. 
 
 STANZA FROM SUBTRUDERE. 
 If I were a king in a kingdom. 
 
 If 1 were a prince with a crown. 
 If 1 were a duke in a dukedom, 
 
 1 f I were a wit or a clown, 
 ] f 1 were a poet or author. 
 
 If I were a sawyer of wood. 
 If T were a ricli man or pauper, 
 
 I'd simply do what 1 could. 
 
 -» 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 239 
 
 -© 
 
 HEXRY F. O'BEIRXE. 
 
 BOKN IN Ireland, May 5, 1857. 
 At ill! early ag-e Henry left his home to enlist 
 in the Texas Rangers. He commenced his lit- 
 erary career in 1870, and at the same time was 
 engaged by Chambers Journal to write up 
 Texas. Four years later Mr. O'Beirne entered 
 on the career of a plainsman in western Texas, 
 for years followed the buffalo, and scouted for 
 Uncle Sam. We next find him in Texas and 
 New Mexico fighting Comanchcs and Apaches. 
 In is.s:.> 111. tnuk cliargc'iif the ('lioctaw and 
 
 HENRY F. O'BEIRNE. 
 
 Chickasaw national organ, published at Atoka, 
 Indian Ter., which newspaper he ran siccess- 
 fully for four years. He then experienced a 
 series of startling events in which he took part. 
 Since 1890 H. F. O'Beirne has been connected 
 with the American Publishers' Association of 
 Chicago, l)eing engaged In collecting material 
 and data for a work entitled The Leaders and 
 Leading Men of the Indian Territory. This 
 work will comprise three volumes, the first 
 volume of which has just been published. 
 The greater number of the poems of this au- 
 thor have been published anonymously, but 
 he has now a volume in preparation that will 
 appear under his own signature. 
 
 © 
 
 BELLA STARR. 
 A cowboy hat, and underneath. 
 Two weapons flashing from a sheath 
 Of knitted brows — brows that are clear 
 
 Of storm and wrath p'rhaps once a year. 
 
 A woman she, and with such eyes 
 
 Like watch dogs kenneled in her brain. 
 
 Woe to the fool who gapes, likewise 
 
 To him who views her with disdain. 
 
 A queen self-crowned, by self-reliance, 
 
 The laws — she holds them in defiance. 
 
 Laughs long and loud at Sheriflf's writ. 
 
 And somehow that's the last of it. 
 
 But who is she, so indiscreet. 
 
 Who overrides you on the street. 
 
 Not caring who the hell you are? 
 
 That's Bella Starr. 
 
 Brunette with raven hair is she. 
 
 And calls Herself a Cherokee; 
 
 But who would dare dispute her claim, 
 
 Or even question whence she came? 
 
 The timid press reporter sneaks 
 
 Closer and closer to her gown. 
 
 She turns abruptly, seldom speaks. 
 
 But always checks him with a frown 
 
 Which plainly means, "down, Pompey down." 
 
 Arrest her, ah! you try that game; 
 
 In Dallas many years ago 
 
 Tlie county sheriff tried the same; 
 
 One rapid shot — the rest you know. 
 
 Still Bella loves to air her name; 
 
 Please let me have your best cigar — 
 
 I'm Bella Starr. 
 We knew her when her fingers strayed 
 O'er ivory keys. How well she played 
 In Texas, nights long, long ago. 
 But things have changed since then you know. 
 Once, while we sought her out next day. 
 She laughed full fifty miles away, 
 At Dallas, fashions and the fools 
 Who followed after social rules. 
 To see her mounted and with speed 
 Ride far into the setting Sun, 
 Meant simply this — a daring deed 
 Scarce thought of ere the deed was done. 
 With lawless men the most at ease 
 She bets and gambles, but you'll please 
 Observe she never goes too far. 
 
 That's Bella Starr. 
 Who says she never loved — he lies. 
 A woman's heart in such disguise 
 Must surely be the wreck that bides 
 When love drifts outward with the tides. 
 Alas I for those who live to feel 
 The months and years around them reel 
 And crumble into space, with still 
 Tlie same old yearning to fulfill. 
 Be merciful, condemn her not 
 By scornful word or evil thought. 
 For should you strike her mountain glen 
 Where only bide the roughest men, 
 And tap the door some stormy night, 
 A voice will bid you to alight; 
 " Come in. I care not who you are, 
 I'm Bella Starr." 
 
 ■® 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 240 
 
 LOCAIi AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ® 
 
 SUNRISE IN THE SOUTHWEST. 
 From far gray ridg-es bald and bare 
 Bewildered darkness glides away; 
 The gaunt wolf shrinking to his lair, 
 Howls dismal in the face of day. 
 The Eagle from his misty height 
 Surveys the dawn with sanguine eye, 
 Beyond the distant shores of light 
 He sees the star of morning die; 
 He spreads his wings above the peak, 
 The smoky vapors round him curled, 
 And rising with exultant shriek 
 Defies the featliered world. 
 As hope disperses human care. 
 So morning clears the mist away; 
 There is a freshness in the air, 
 A vigor in the dawning day. 
 The clam'rous flocks beside the aood 
 Fly from the timid footed fawn; 
 The whirhng wreck of drifted wood 
 Rolls, and the river rumbles on. 
 And whereso'er the eye may rest, 
 From North to South, from East to West, 
 Rock, river, lake and mountain height 
 Are wrapped in universal light. 
 Sublimest work of Master hand. 
 The sunrise in a lonely land 
 With naught that's human to impair 
 The luster, and the glory there. 
 King of the Choir — the mocking bird 
 Remote in shadowj' cedars heard, 
 Tells to the breeze with swelling throat 
 The wonders of his varied note. 
 Ere first the shadows have reclined 
 On waters brisk with morning wind. 
 Before the sunbeam reaches there, 
 A thousand voices fill the air; 
 Yet, not a single bar is wrong 
 In all that wilderness of song. 
 What melody where every throat 
 Is gifted with a native note! 
 The very liawk on deadly trail 
 With stormy music fill the gale! 
 Whilst we, in voiceless wonder stand. 
 Dumb dreamers in a desert land. 
 
 Tlie longing eyes — the lips compressed. 
 Do well betray the yearning breast; 
 Our naked thoughts like fledgeless birds 
 Still flutter for tlieir winged words; 
 Yet ne'er to mortal doth Ix'long 
 The art to reacli t lie depth of song. 
 We live, and with sublime distress. 
 Behold and feel what none express. 
 
 The poot 'rapt in metric lore. 
 Is nature's mimic, nothing more; 
 Poor mote of heaven's central beam, 
 He reaches forth to grasp the dream 
 As though his very soul were drawn 
 Beyond the red expanding dawn. 
 
 OUR HOPES. 
 We nurse our hopes as mothers do 
 
 Their infants at the breast. 
 For they — the children of our dreams — 
 
 Were born to be caressed ; 
 And as they grow we long to find 
 
 Fulfillment of their youth, 
 And laugh to see them loiter round 
 
 The blossom-fields of truth. 
 Devoted parents, while we watch 
 
 Their fast maturing powers, 
 The buoyant step, the brightening eye. 
 
 The love of Life is ours. 
 Not so — when sorry seasons come — 
 
 When smiles and tears are vain — 
 To lure the lovely truant ones 
 
 Back to the heart again. 
 Ah? then the light of life dies out. 
 
 The singing birds grow sad. 
 And neither hill, nor vale, nor sky. 
 
 Can ever make us glad. 
 They came to us as children come 
 
 To bless our lonely lives. 
 And blest is he who hath one hope 
 
 That all the rest survives. 
 For ah ! the saddest gifts are they 
 
 That God did ever send, 
 When hopes that we have nourished long 
 
 Desert us in the end. 
 
 WE TWO ARE ONE. 
 
 Oh ! let it never more be said 
 
 Our lives are far apart. 
 
 Despite the law we two are wed 
 
 Who claim a kindred heart. 
 
 By whom can we be dispossessed 
 
 On earth — in heaven above? 
 
 Can aught divide us — we who rest 
 
 Upon each other's love? 
 
 Thou gav'st thine all without regard 
 
 To self, nor gave amiss ; 
 
 Tile love that seeketh no reward — 
 
 There is no love like this. 
 
 Thou art beloved, and from this hour 
 
 Let peace perch on thy brow. 
 
 Misfortune hath no subtle power 
 
 To separate us now. 
 
 Tliough far apart — we two are one, 
 
 Our hearts are ever near; 
 
 The sorrows thou hast wooed and won 
 
 But make thee doubly dear. 
 
 Living or dead, beneath — above — 
 
 By every right divine 
 
 That's based iii>on the laws of love 
 
 I hold that thou iirt mine. 
 
 I care not whose the prior claim, 
 
 Or in whose trust thou art; 
 
 No legal tic — no change of name 
 
 Can counterfeit a heart. 
 
 -© 
 
 Kll 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 241 
 
 ^ 
 
 THOMAS ADDISON PUGH. 
 
 Born : Fairfield Co., Ohio, Oct. 8, 1853. 
 This g-eutlemau has been a regular correspon- 
 dent to the Lancaster Gazette since 1882, and 
 lias written various articles for that paper, 
 and mNi) the Normal Teacher and other jour- 
 nal Mil (■(lucatiniial toiiics. Mr.Pu^h has a flue 
 
 THOMAS ADDISON PUGH. 
 
 library; he is still engaged in teaching, and 
 was married in 1879 to Marguerite Ann Kagay, 
 Mr. Pugh is the possessor of a well and finely 
 organized mind. The style of his poetry lias a 
 peculiar sweetness which lingers upon the 
 memory like a half-forgotten dream. 
 
 ®- 
 
 EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 
 There are hours in the lives of all. 
 
 When recollections cluster thick. 
 Around our troubled minds they fall. 
 
 And gather till the heart is sick. 
 But after all 'tis joy to know 
 
 That such hours quickly pass away, 
 And bright sunshine fills the soul 
 
 With soothing penetrating ray. 
 I am reminded now of one. 
 
 With whom I used to play, 
 Tn pleasant fields and meadows green. 
 
 On almost every summer day. 
 Adown the foot-path by the stream. 
 
 We walked in silence, hand in hand. 
 
 The setting sun beyond the hills. 
 
 Had cast a halo o'er the land. 
 The green rich pastures, far and wide 
 
 In floods of mellow sunlight lay; 
 Before us on the steep hill-side 
 
 The shadows told the dying day. 
 A glorious picture — light and shade 
 
 And hill and vale and stream were there; 
 No artist's hand hath e'er portrayed 
 
 A scene so marvelously fair. 
 Tlie cattle browsing on the hill. 
 
 Gazed on us with wide, dreamy eyes. 
 While from the tiny, murmuring rill 
 
 We watched the soft gray haze arise. 
 How fleetly passed those happy hours ! 
 
 How far away their memory seems, 
 When she and I, amid the flowers. 
 
 Watched the last fading sunset gleams ! 
 In silence and alone I pass 
 
 Along the footpath grown so dear; 
 That silent form beneath the grass 
 
 Hath lain in rest for many a year. 
 And still the shadows climb the hill. 
 
 And yet I hear the lowing kine, 
 Where now the fair horizon shows 
 
 In one unbroken, cloudless line. 
 Where first the happiness arose. 
 
 Born of the soft, calm summer eves, 
 Where still that little streamlet flows 
 
 Beneath the golden autumn leaves. 
 
 MRS. ROSA BUNKER. 
 
 The poems of this lady have appeared :"n the 
 local press generally. She is now a resident of 
 the town of Kirksville, in Missouri. 
 
 MEMORY'S MUSIC. 
 
 Memory plays upon my heart-strings 
 Melodies so sweet and low, 
 From her gentle finger touches 
 Chords of music softly flow. 
 Now she sings of happy childhood, 
 And in strains so glad and free. 
 Children's voices ever mingle. 
 Swelling loud the harmony. 
 Now the music joyful, joyful. 
 Rises high, and clear, and strong, 
 Telling all of love's sweet story, 
 And a merry bridal throng. 
 Now a cadence, sad and mournful, 
 Falls upon my listening ear, 
 Like a wail of sufi'ering mortal. 
 When grim death is drawing near. 
 Memory chants in solemn measure. 
 And the hymn now speaks of rest. 
 Pointing forward to the future, 
 And a home among the blest. 
 
 -® 
 
»- 
 
 242 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 — >B 
 
 JAMES EDWIN CAMPBELL. 
 
 Born: Pomeroy, Ohio, Sept. 28, 1867. 
 Graduating in 1884 James soon after made 
 his first political speech, and has since been 
 actively engaged as a speaker during- cam- 
 paigns. He follows the profession of teaching 
 and still resides in his native town. In 1887 
 
 SI 
 
 JAMES EDWIN CA.MPBELL. 
 
 the poems of Mr. Campbell were published in 
 book-form under the title of Drif tings and 
 Gleanings. He has gained quite a reputation 
 both as a speaker and as a writer, and his 
 poems have appeared in some of the leading 
 periodicals. 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 List! Did ye hear that dreadful sound, 
 
 That shook the earth with its awful roar. 
 Causing the heart to leap and l)ound? 
 
 'Twas the wind, and notliing more; 
 Only the wind, as it sighs 
 
 Tiirough the trees, like tiie moan of some 
 sad heart, 
 Only the wind, tliat, ceasing, dies 
 
 Away, only to blow in some other part. 
 Rut it has cea.sed, and a perfect calm. 
 
 Like tliat which precedes the swift hurri- 
 cane; 
 So (juiot and still that not even the palm 
 
 Moves a leaf, but motionless doth remain. 
 Like the hunter, who. eager for game, 
 
 Into dense thicket doth anxiously peer, 
 
 Or the frightened stag, which, when hearing 
 the same. 
 Stops like a statue ere flying with fear. 
 But hark! it rumbles again so earn. 
 More threatening than grind of the huge 
 avalanche. 
 When it bursts 'pon the ear of the Swiss moun- 
 taineer. 
 And causes his cheek with terror to blanche. 
 Ha! is it only the wind? More fearful still. 
 Is it an earthquake under our feet which 
 rolls? [fiU 
 
 No, more dangerous far are the sounds which 
 
 The air like groans from damned souls. 
 Awful it is, when Enceladus old. 
 Doomed forever to lie 'neath ..Ena's broad 
 side, [hold. 
 
 With a turn which naught on earth can with- 
 
 Pours destruction dire, both far and wide. 
 Awful it is when the fire fiend starts. 
 
 And consuming all, destroj'ing and fierce, 
 Hurls flre-brands high, which, likeflery darts. 
 Seem the Heavens again and again to pierce. 
 Awful it is when the torrent breaks o'er. 
 
 The dam which, yielding, is swept awaj', 
 And the flood rushes out with the fearful 
 roar. 
 Of an angry buil when brought to bay. 
 And horses, and cattle and even man, 
 'Neath its seething, warring waves are 
 whirled; 
 And oaks which could the storm's might 
 stand. 
 Before Its sweep are downward hurled. 
 But far more dreadful, when men oppressed 
 And ground 'neath tyranny's steel-clad 
 heel, 
 And wrongs which centuries go unredressed. 
 
 Arise and gird on glittering steel. 
 Then mad revenge spurns all control. 
 
 And Mercy, strangled, gasps and dies. 
 And Lust, and Hate, and Greed for gold. 
 
 To carnage rush with gleaming eyes. 
 And houses burning, in ruins fiill. 
 
 And plantations rich witli waving grain 
 Are stroycd by flames, which, like billows 
 tall. 
 Roll far and wide o'er southern plain. 
 O, men of the south! ye fools and blind! 
 
 Who of seasons can so wisely tell. 
 But scanning close yet will not find 
 
 The dangers wliich the times foretell. 
 The bull-whip and the tightening noose. 
 
 Murders most foul, outrages vile. 
 Night raids and sway of passions loose, 
 Cori'uptcd courts, all mi>;ins of guile. 
 The pistol-sliot, tlie reeking knife, 
 
 IIne(iu:il laws and hitter liate. 
 Man slain before iiis iileading wife, 
 liv all tliese you your malice sate. 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 -1* 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIOXAL i'OETS OF A.MKlilCA. 
 
 13 
 
 LEONA ANNIK KNIGHT. 
 
 Bokn: Ascension Pauish, La., April 30, 1851). 
 Under the nom de plume of tlie Bay Leaf 
 Miss Kiiig'htlias coat libii ted quite extensively 
 to the iK;ri()dicai press. In IKS:) slie published 
 
 LEONA ANNIE KNIGHT. 
 
 a neat volume of poems entitled Gems of 
 Thought. Miss Knight has written two no- 
 vels and has anotlier v^olunie of poems ready 
 for the press, entitled Ferns of Fancy, which 
 will shortly appear. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 A SKETCH OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Whata silent hush is brooding- 
 Over the busy world so still, 
 While in pensive meditation 
 
 Tlioughts come and go at will; 
 The surroundings 1 will try to paint. 
 Though my sketch be dim and faint. 
 Quietly seated on a lonely bit 
 
 Of shaded river bank all green. 
 Facing me a languid flow 
 
 Of clear, brown water in a stream, 
 Whei'e minnows play and mottled frogs 
 Proclaim they are happ.v as young lords. 
 The long grass flags rustle their leaves 
 
 In echo to the wind's long sigii, 
 And bend protectingly to shield 
 
 The white-cupped lilies blooming by. 
 Whose heart is wooed by the lioney l)ee. 
 
 In buzzing notes of loud flattery. 
 Above me looms a giant old elm 
 
 With dark-green plumes and mosses gray. 
 
 Fanned by a gentle summer breeze. 
 
 Quivering through the uppermost sprays. 
 Sounding like the whispered notes of song 
 Repeated in the days long gone. 
 
 MYRA. 
 
 There is a simple, rustic cross 
 
 Heading a grave in the churchyard near, 
 'Tis decorated with old, gray moss, 
 
 Inscribed with the simple name, •» Myra:" 
 Some kind hand carved it years ago,— 
 The inscription tells a tale of woe. 
 Perhaps she was a frail young bride. 
 
 That some one loved and early wed; 
 A mother's joy or fond father's pride. 
 
 That death stole for this lonely bed. 
 Where gentle breezes softly steal. 
 As if the tale they would reveal. 
 
 A few bright flowers and dafi'odils, 
 
 With purple cups and golden Iiearts 
 Tlie air with perfume sweetly fills, 
 
 With the blossom of one forget-me-not 
 Recently pruned with taste and care. 
 As if the mourner still lingered there. 
 One sweet bay tree, with broad, fresh leaves. 
 
 Where the wild winds are mournfully sigh- 
 ing 
 Tlirough the branches emblematical. 
 
 That never change but In dying. 
 In bleak winter or young spring. 
 Like grief to memory ever greeu. 
 
 FANCY'S RAMBLE. 
 
 Night has thrown her sable mantle 
 
 Over the earth, wliile nature sleeps; 
 Fancy steals those hours to ramble 
 
 O'er memory's hidden retreats; 
 First, it seeks the glen of childhood. 
 
 Careless in its happy glee. 
 Roving over fields and wildwoods. 
 
 Resting 'neath some shady tree. 
 Then we reach girlhood so joyous. 
 
 Garlanded with hope's rainl)ow fair. 
 Like a promise spread around us. 
 
 Hallowing this season rare. 
 Here we pause to think, then listen 
 
 To some voice of former years. 
 While the pearly teardrops glisten. 
 
 Reviving memory witli tears. 
 Then we look in Time's large mirror. 
 
 At a patient, pensive face; 
 Surely I make no error. 
 
 Girlish blushes still are traced. 
 Thougli the cheeks still bloom with roses. 
 
 And the eyes are liquid bright. 
 Those pale lips never exposes 
 
 A heart somber as the night. 
 Then we lift the vail and gaze afar, 
 
 Down the long vista of future years. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 244 
 
 LOCAI. A^TD NATIONAL TOETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 -1^ 
 
 On tlie liorizon beams Faith's star, 
 A beacon liglit, its softened rays; 
 
 Back to tlie jireseut we retire. 
 To find in thought the night far spent, 
 
 The embers dead of a glowing fire. 
 The aslies left in warm content. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF BAYOU LONG. 
 The dusky shadows of evening 
 
 Are gathering soft and dim. 
 The rippling waves of the water 
 
 Are chanting a low requiem. 
 The landscape, clothed in grandeur 
 
 By Nature's lavish liaud. 
 Has built an Eden, to be found 
 
 On the banks of Bayou Long. 
 A white cottage is built by the shore. 
 
 Around it the harvest is green. 
 But the faces and voices, light before. 
 
 Wear a look that is laden with pain. 
 There is a face missed from the circle, 
 
 A footstep youthful and light, 
 Tliat will echo with musical laughter 
 
 No more 'midst the cii'cle at night. 
 There is a hush in the holy quiet 
 
 Of the oak with its outstretched arms. 
 That is hung with heavy, trailuig moss. 
 
 That's braved the winds and storms. 
 A wail of the watch-dogs' howling 
 
 Is borne on the stilly breeze, 
 As the boat comes not with their master. 
 
 Who raised them here 'mid tlie trees. 
 Each wind that sweeps through the wood- 
 Murmurs a sigh as itwhistles along, [land 
 The night birds singing tlieir vespers 
 
 Recalls his favorite notes of song. 
 Oh, beautiful isle of fair Eden, 
 
 From the busy world I fled to thee; 
 But sorrow, draped in sable mantle, 
 
 To these haunts have followed me. 
 Fairest hopes, like summer roses. 
 
 Crushed my heart that withering lies, 
 Dreams of joy liave all departed. 
 
 Alike the day in silence dies. 
 Darkness shades the earth with gloom, 
 
 Like death that left my youth o'ershadow- 
 ed. 
 And on the banks of Bayou Long 
 
 Would that I could dwell forever. 
 Here no eyes can note my sorrow. 
 
 But would blend their grief with mine; 
 And the world that worships fashion 
 Will not inti'udc on Bayou Long. 
 
 WOULD THAT I WERE WITH THEE. 
 Would that I were with tliec, 
 
 And none wei'e near, 
 Tliy flute-like voice 
 
 Fall on no ear 
 
 But mine, that drinks in every word, 
 
 Like chords of rich music that fall. 
 Miserly each note I treasure up. 
 
 Through love I hold them all. 
 Would that I were with thee, 
 
 In this holy, silent hour. 
 Yet when I behold thee. 
 
 Mute-like I feel the power 
 That thou has cast upon my heart, 
 
 Unconscious of the spell 
 That love can bind with magic art. 
 
 While sweet influence aiound me 
 
 dwells. 
 Yes, would that I were with thee. 
 
 And tender thoughts that burn 
 Within this love-lit soul of mine 
 
 Thou would'st not coldly spurn; 
 Thy presence would be so dear to me, 
 
 I would hourly worship at thy shrine. 
 From all else earthly would I flee. 
 
 Oh, would'st that thou were mine! 
 
 THE KISSES OF NATURE. 
 The sunset is kissing the mountain adieu. 
 
 Ere it sinks for slumber to-night. 
 The zephyrs ai-e softly fanning tlie fountain. 
 
 To kiss the opening flowers at twilight; 
 The pearly dewdrop is seeking the rose. 
 
 On her downy bosom of fragrance to rest, 
 Tlie birds sing as homeward they fly 
 
 To their mates snugly housed in the nest. 
 The moon meets the anxious old ocean. 
 
 Impatiently awaiting her dreamy light. 
 And it kisses the frowns of that ruffle, 
 
 The billows all crested with white; 
 The stars twinkle out in their beauty. 
 
 Their light kisses the bosom of the lake — 
 While all Nature is silently wooing, 
 
 Tlie stealthy steps of Time take flight. 
 
 ^■ 
 
 MATILDA A.ANDERS. 
 
 Born: Plymouth, Iowa, Sept. 9, 1871. 
 The poems of Miss Anders have appeared in 
 the Northwood Anchor, Indiana Oliserver 
 and other local papers. She is still a resident 
 of her native place. 
 
 BARLEY LOAVES. 
 Five liarley loaves, three fishes small,— 
 
 And shall I offer these poor gifts 
 To Christ, the Lord of all? 
 
 To Christ who stills the angry wave, 
 And who controls tlie storm; 
 
 Surely he hath no need of me. 
 And these, my gifts. He'll scorn! 
 
 Yes! He hath need of thee! 
 Come, bring thy loaves of bread: 
 
 Behold! With them, when Jesus speaks, 
 Tlie multitude is fed. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 24-5 
 
 -* 
 
 HENRY A. LAVELY. 
 
 Born: Pittsbukg, Pa., Jan. 16, 183L 
 The poems of Mr. Lavely have appeared in 
 Our Continent and other well known maga- 
 zines. The Heart's Choiee, a volume from 
 his pen, has been highly praised by press and 
 l)ublic. Mr. Lavely is now the manag'er of 
 the ^tna Life insurance company at Pitts- 
 burg, where he is well known and highly re- 
 pectod. 
 
 UNFULFILLED. 
 
 The sweetest songs are never sung; 
 The fairest pictures never hung; 
 The fondest hopes are never told,— 
 They are the heart's most cherished gold: 
 For in the empire of the heart. 
 There is a realm from this apart. 
 Whose pictures are too pure for earth. 
 Whose language is of heavenly birth. 
 
 ATTAINED. 
 We may not sing a song so soft 
 
 As angel voices sing-. 
 Nor catch the notes of love which they 
 
 On golden harps do bring. 
 
 We may not write the burning thoughts 
 
 Which through our being roll. 
 Nor thrill with rapture pure and sweet 
 
 Another longing soul. 
 We may not take a brush and paint 
 
 The pictures of the mind. 
 Nor touch with rainbow hues the hopes 
 
 Which round the heart are twined. 
 But to the weary ones of earth 
 
 We words of cheer may give. 
 Which in their hearts shall brightly burn. 
 
 And there forever live. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE HEART'S CHOICE. 
 A Painter quickly seized his brush, 
 
 And on the canvas wrought 
 Tlie sweetest image of liis soul,— 
 
 His heart's most secret thought. 
 A Minstrel g-ently struck his lyre. 
 
 And wondrous notes I heard, 
 Which burned and thrilled and soothed by 
 turns. 
 
 And all my being stirred. 
 A Singer sang a simple song,— 
 
 An echo of his soul; 
 It vibrates still through all my life. 
 
 And lifts me to its goal. 
 A Poet took his pen and wrote 
 
 A line of Hope and Love; 
 It was a heaven-born thought.and breathed 
 
 Of purest joys above. 
 
 A man of God, what time my heart 
 
 Was weighed with sorrow down. 
 Spoke golden words of Faith and Trust, 
 
 And they became my crown. 
 I see the Painter's picture still; 
 
 I hear the Minstrel's lyre. 
 The Singer's song, the Poet's thought 
 
 Still g-low with sacred fire; 
 But in my heart's most hallowed realm 
 
 The good man's words do live. 
 And through my life a perfume breathe 
 
 That naught of earth can ^i^■e 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Into its lap the treasures of the year 
 Are gladly thrown. The royal golden-rod, 
 Fresh from the kind and gracious hand of 
 God, 
 Puts on a brighter garb. And far and near 
 The wonders of the autumn hues appear. 
 The balmy air with ecstacy is rife; 
 All nature grows in plentitude of life. 
 And breathes deep with the bounties of good 
 
 cheer. 
 The morning- clouds are full of beauty, too, 
 And dash their richest crimson o'er the 
 scene. 
 While in the range of sunset's purple view 
 There glows the glory of its changing- sheen— 
 The tints of earth and sky foi-ever new; 
 The grandeur which forever rolls between ! 
 
 THE THREE STAGES. 
 
 The .scent of apple blossoms filled 
 
 The balmy evening air. 
 As Sue and I walked hand in hand,- 
 
 A trusting-, happy pair. 
 The scent of golden apples filled 
 
 The dreamy autumn air. 
 As Sue and I walked hand in liand,- 
 
 A wedded, happy pair. 
 The scent of apple-butter filled 
 
 The cosy dining-room. 
 As Sue and I danced hand to hand. 
 
 Around the kitchen broom ! 
 
 UNATTAINBD. 
 I saw a child one summer day. 
 
 Pursue, with eager feet, 
 A butterfly. The gorgeous thing-. 
 
 On golden wing so fleet. 
 Flew from his grasp, till down he sat 
 
 And wept, because he failed 
 To catch the treasure, which awaj- 
 
 In the glad sunshine sailed. 
 So when the faithful child of song 
 
 Would catch some truant strain. 
 Behold! 't is gone! and sad he sits 
 
 And weeps in bitter pain. 
 
 -© 
 
^- 
 
 :i46 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 JOHN DUNBAR HYLTON,M.D. 
 
 Born :West Indies, March 25, 18:37. 
 The Farmer Poet is aptly applied by the news- 
 papers of New Jersey to Dr. J. Duubar Hyl- 
 ton. He has written quite a number of books 
 — Betrayed, a northern tale; The Bride of 
 Gettysburg, an episode of 1863; The Heir of 
 Lyolynn, a tale of sea and land, and other 
 poems; Arteloise; and The Sea King. Dr. 
 Hylton's works contain descriptions of won- 
 
 JOHN DUNBAR HYLTON, M. D. 
 
 derful beings, scenes, events and colloquies 
 e-xtremely fascinating. The Heir of Lyolynn 
 Is a weird story told with an amount of rhyth- 
 mic force and expression that holds the read- 
 er until the end. Dr. Dunbar Hylton is now 
 a resident of Palmyra, New Jersey, where he 
 is partly engaged in publishing. 
 
 ©- 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 THE HEIR OF LYOLYNN. 
 The Lover's Well. 
 Osci, a lord of Lyolynn, 
 In ancient time did glory win. 
 Far-famed was he o'er land and wave, 
 And styled the bravest of the brave. 
 Bold was his heart, and strong liis hand. 
 His sword in war the lightning's brand, 
 Swill, as it lays the foi'csts low — 
 His bl;i(le destroyed his stately foe. 
 To the oppressed a friend was he. 
 He made their fierce oppressors llec. 
 
 He was the weak one's sword and shield — 
 
 By day or night, on flood and field. 
 
 With joy the poor his presence hail'd. 
 
 Before him all the tyrants quail'd. 
 
 No braver man in battle van 
 
 Has through a slaughter press'd. 
 
 Nor braver since the race began 
 
 Was e'er in armor drest ; 
 
 None nobler e'er in listed ring 
 
 Has placed a spear in rest. 
 
 Did any prize from battle bring. 
 
 Or after glory quest. 
 
 II. 
 The day was bright, the sun was warm. 
 The breeze was blowing free. 
 Round his bark that oft faced the storm 
 RoU'd high a sparkling sea. 
 And o'er his vessel's sable prow 
 The mighty Osci lean'd. 
 His polished helm, his manly brow 
 From scorching sunbeams screen'd. 
 His large blue eye clear as the sky. 
 Or as the placid sea, 
 Watched o'er the waters rolling high, 
 A corsair sailing free. 
 Toward Algiers full well he knew 
 That vessel plowed the waves. 
 That she was mann'd with savage crew. 
 And loaded down with slaves. 
 
 With sails all spread unto the wind. 
 
 He gave the corsair chase, 
 III. 
 
 An hundred men as bold and stout. 
 
 As ever fought in fray. 
 
 As ever caused their foeman's rout 
 
 By either night or day. 
 
 In line stood on the corsair's deck. 
 
 All arm'd from head to heel. 
 
 Ready for triumph or for wreck. 
 
 An awful ridge of steel. 
 
 With tall morions" polished sheen. 
 
 And breast-plates trimm'd the same, [keen. 
 
 Bright shields and spears and broad-swords 
 
 They seem'd a ridge of flame. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not swifter leaps the lion bold 
 
 Forth from his fearful den. 
 
 At midnight on the awe-struck fold. 
 
 Than sprung fierce Osci then. 
 
 Not grimnuM' comes the avalanche 
 
 Adown the mountain tall — 
 
 Tearing all rocks like doated branch 
 
 That chance to bar its fall — 
 
 Then came that chief with all his band 
 
 Upon the corsair's crew. 
 
 With clashing shield and Haniing brand 
 
 Tliey on the pirates tlcw. 
 
 Fierce fought for liberty and life 
 
 The corsair's savage horde. 
 
 And long the air with sound was rife 
 
 Of breaking shield and sword. 
 
 ® 
 
•^- 
 
 LOCAl, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 24* 
 
 ^ 
 
 ©- 
 
 But fiercer Osci waged the strife 
 
 Ami pirates' life-blood pour'd — 
 
 And ere the sun went down from sight, 
 
 And night closed o'er the main, 
 
 He poured a glad and glowing light 
 
 On heaps of pirates slain. 
 
 And showed upon that corsair's deck 
 
 No pirate breathing left: 
 
 All stretched around in gory wreels 
 
 With heads and helmets cleft. 
 
 V. 
 
 As beams the iris midst the clouds 
 
 Wlien dies the thunder-storm — 
 
 So from thethrongihecorsair crowds, 
 
 Comes forth a female form ; 
 
 Her sweet young face beam'd like the moon 
 
 Seen in a stormy sky 
 
 Her smile was like the sun's at noon, 
 
 Wlieii no clouds o'er him fly. 
 
 Her coral lips and pearly teeth 
 
 Were perfect as could nature rear. 
 
 And white as snow on Nortliern heath 
 
 Her breast and arms appear. 
 
 Her brow was fair, and bright beneath 
 
 Her eyes flashed dark and clear, 
 
 O'er neck and shoulders a sable wreath 
 
 Waved folds of raven hair. 
 
 Her lovely form from heel to head 
 
 Was harmony complete. 
 
 And beauty a grand halo shed 
 
 O'er all her being sweet. 
 
 Her form was cast within that mold — 
 
 The best dame nature yet could plan. 
 
 When she did all her strength unfold. 
 
 And showed her noblest work to man. 
 
 When she from out her treasures vast 
 
 Ere on her fell sin and sorrow's blast, 
 
 Her best elements together brought. 
 
 And on the shrine of Beauty wrought — 
 
 A being with all glory fraught — 
 
 With angel's form and seraph's thought, 
 
 The choicest thing she yet could plan. 
 
 And gave that grandest work to man ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Midst all my frays, bold Osci said. 
 
 On land or yet on flood. 
 
 No fairer prize to me has sped 
 
 In form of flesh and blood. 
 
 For fairer ne'er was wed by king. 
 
 Nor nestled to his side; 
 
 Unto Castle Flame that maid I'll bring. 
 
 And she shall tend my bride. 
 
 Her pure white, snowy hands shall on 
 
 My blooming Edith wait: 
 
 No fitter one her robes to don. 
 
 And tend upon my mate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 To Castle Flame thAmaid was brought, 
 Hagar was the fair one named. 
 By peer and knight the maid was sought. 
 For far was her beauty famed. 
 
 And many came to woo and win 
 
 The maid of Osci's bride. 
 
 But ere the wooing did begin. 
 
 She to each her maid denied. 
 
 Oft tlie suitors furious grew 
 
 At Osci's lady fair. 
 
 When she from their longing eyes withdrew 
 
 Her maid with raven hair. 
 
 Oft in listed ring with spear in rest. 
 
 Against proud knight arrayed. 
 
 Was Osci in his armor drest 
 
 To battle for the maid. 
 
 Many a suitor's shield was cleft. 
 
 And morion rent in twain. 
 
 By Osci of their life bereft. 
 
 Ere they deemed their wooing vain. 
 
 As time roU'd on of Osci's bride 
 
 A female child was born,— 
 
 A babe fair as was e'er espied 
 
 By glowing beams of morn ; 
 
 As sv/eet a babe as ever smiled. 
 
 Or yet with life did start,— 
 
 She who in after years was styled, 
 
 Edith of the Cruel Heart. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To tend the babe both night and day. 
 
 Was none like Hagar found. 
 
 Though 'mongst the maids 'neath Osci s 
 
 sway. 
 Did gentle ones abound. 
 And to her mistress day by day 
 More precious Hagar grew ; 
 Than her, 'mongst all beneath her sway. 
 No dearer prize she knew ; 
 And the suitors proud and high 
 Who sought the maid to wed — 
 Were from the castle forced to fly. 
 Or be by Osci bled. 
 
 IX. 
 
 One half my lands, bold Osci spake, 
 
 I freely would bestow 
 
 To him who through these rocks can break. 
 
 To where pure waters flow ; 
 
 Though oft the task I undertake 
 
 I can no water show. 
 
 if only here we had a well 
 
 Of waters cold and clear, 
 
 There'd be no place on hill or dell. 
 
 One tenth so grand as here; 
 
 Nor would we feel these droughts so fell 
 
 That last one half the year. 
 
 X. 
 
 While thus he spake he saw a man 
 
 Kide toward his castle gate. 
 
 And at his rear a caravan 
 
 Came on in lordly state. 
 
 A dozen camels huge and strong, 
 
 Groan'd 'neath their heavy load. 
 
 As their harsh driver's scourging thong 
 
 Fast urged them up the road. 
 
 Bold Osci and his Edith fair 
 
 -m 
 
m 
 
 248 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ©- 
 
 The horseman soon espied ; 
 And up the slope in swift career. 
 Unto the twain he hied. 
 Hail, he said, Thou lord of Castle Flame, 
 And thou his lady bright. 
 May every joy that earth can name, 
 Attend ye day and nig-ht; 
 For ye are the comeliest pair 
 That ever yet were wed. 
 That ever met in castle fair, 
 In huml)lest cot or shed. 
 Thou art the truest kniglit and hest 
 That ever armor wore. 
 That ever placed a lance in rest. 
 Or rode 'midst battle's roar. 
 \;onspicuous thy lady bright 
 Moves amongst the female line. 
 As doth the full sphered moon at night 
 The glimmering stars outshine. 
 To ye most high and noble pair, 
 I've come what e'er befall. 
 Ransom bring for a captive fair, 
 That here ye hold in thrall. 
 A maid you off a corsair brought, 
 Some two long years ago, — 
 Through all this time for her I've sought. 
 In peril, pain and woe; 
 But late I chanced to learn that here 
 You captive hold that maid; 
 So name her price, how ever dear. 
 Her ransom shall be paid. 
 A smile apace o'er Osci's face 
 Broke as thus spake the man. 
 And when he ceased a little space, 
 Bold Osci thus began : 
 
 XI. 
 
 The maid I from the corsair brought 
 
 Is no more own'd by me; 
 
 And if she were, I vow, there's naught 
 
 Would make me set her free. 
 
 Unto my wife the maid belongs 
 
 And you must treat with her; 
 
 See if all gold your coffer throngs 
 
 She'll to her maid prefer. 
 
 While thus they spake a loud scream rang 
 
 Within the castle near. 
 
 And from a spacious door-way sprang 
 
 Hagar the young and fair; 
 
 For well that horseman's form she knew 
 
 Soon as he near'd the place. 
 
 Into his arms she panting flew. 
 
 They met in one embrace. 
 
 Hagar and Hagan from their lips 
 
 The self-same monniut burst: 
 
 Love which no .sorrow could eclipse, 
 
 Wliich each through jcars had nurssed, 
 
 WfU'd up williiii each faithful heart, 
 
 And glowing filled eacli soul; 
 
 liOve wliich from neither could depart. 
 
 But throughout all their beings dart, 
 
 Though ruin be its goal. 
 
 In vain, in vain poor Hagan sought 
 To set the captive free, 
 In vain his costly gifts he brought 
 For Edith's eyes to see. 
 In vain he proffered glowing wares 
 Of gold and silver bright. 
 Huge urns of gold piled up in tiers. 
 That shone with ruddy light. 
 In vain he offered flashing wares 
 Of every shade and hue. 
 Rich silks and velvets and cashmeres. 
 Of crimson and of blue. 
 Fabrics the choicest and the best 
 That ever came from looms. 
 Vast robes of furs all richly drest. 
 And countless gems and plumes. 
 And urns of spices that possess'd 
 The sweetest of perfumes. 
 In vain, in vain he offered these. 
 And chests of shining gold. 
 Gifts that could fail no eye to please, 
 All gorgeous to behold. 
 In vain on earth he humbly kneel'd. 
 And begg'd at Edith's feet. 
 Her heart to all his prayer was steel'd. 
 Though long he did entreat. 
 And told her how long years ago 
 He'd Hagar wooed and wed. 
 And just as from the altar he 
 His happy bride had led. 
 In rushed amidst the wedding feast 
 Men clad in steel array. 
 Who felled him senseless with their blows 
 And bore his bride away. 
 Told how in search of her he had 
 Traveled o'er sea and shore- 
 Entreated her to ransom take. 
 And Hagar to restore — 
 Reward him lor his faithful search. 
 And riving woes he bore. 
 Hagan, she said, while still he kneel'd 
 And vainly did implore. 
 Sooner this rock shall water yield, 
 Than I'll thy bride restore. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Up to his feet the lover sprang. 
 
 And grasped fair Editli's liand, 
 
 And said with clear, deep voice that rang 
 
 As weird music o'er the land: 
 
 You promise, that if within this rock 
 
 I well of water find. 
 
 You will to me my bride restore. 
 
 Nor as your hand-maid hold her more, 
 
 Nor deal with us unkind; 
 
 Now promise this upon your oath. 
 
 And I will slioi'lly see — 
 
 If God has loi iii'd tliis flinty hill — 
 
 Of crystal waters free. 
 
 I promise it, fair Edith said. 
 
 While smiles bright as the morn 
 
 ■® 
 
* — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POBTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 249 
 
 -® 
 
 «■ 
 
 All o'er her rosy face were spread — 
 
 Though mix'd with pride and scoru. 
 
 I promise it, and if I fail 
 
 To set your Hag-ar free. 
 
 Soon as I here within this rock 
 
 A well of water see. 
 
 May e%-erlasting- woe and bale 
 
 Forever light on me. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Down through the huge and flinty rock 
 That seem'd at all their toil to mock. 
 Poor Hagan and his little band 
 Toil on with willing heart and hand. 
 For three long years they tug and strain, 
 .And delve with all their might and main. 
 Ply shovel, hoe and pick and bar. 
 Yet, from water they seem distant far. 
 They delve one hundred fathoms deep. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Water, water, the joyous sound. 
 Has echo in the castle found; 
 And water is the only word 
 That's in tlie spacious castle heard; 
 And water Hagar joyous cries. 
 As into Hagan's arms she flies. 
 But now proud Edith fails to keep her prom- 
 ise, and refuses to give up her maid to Hagan. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Fierce as the cloud of coming storm. 
 
 When round it flash the lightnings warm. 
 
 Tall Hagan rears his stately form. 
 
 As Edith's warriors round him swarm. 
 
 O'er all his face a hue is spread — 
 
 Less like the living than the dead. 
 
 Dark wave his brows, while bright beneath 
 
 As sabres flashing from their sheath — 
 
 His eyes pour forth an awful light, 
 
 Like fierce meteors of the night, 
 
 When of dread famine they foretell 
 
 Of pestilence or earthquake fell. 
 
 While thus to Edith and his band 
 
 He speaks so all can understand: 
 
 Deem not with threat'ningspear and sword 
 
 To drive me from my bride adored, 
 
 Think not one of my band nor I 
 
 At your command will quail or fly. 
 
 Who break a solemn oath they swear. 
 
 In me can breed no thought of fear. 
 
 And here we stand as true as steel 
 
 To meet all vengeance you can deal ; 
 
 Though here all weaponless I stand. 
 
 Ready am I to meet your band. 
 
 Nor one there is amongst them all 
 
 For you would dare to risk my fall. 
 
 If sheathed in steel like they I stood 
 
 With spear or axe or Ijroad-sword good. 
 
 Bring forth your best and bravest man, 
 
 That you can find amongst your clan. 
 
 And give me weapons and a shield. 
 
 You'll see wiio best the sword can wield. 
 
 And if he best the sword shall ply— 
 
 If I beneath his valor die 
 
 Or like a coward from him fly. 
 
 Then let my Hagar be his slave 
 
 And hand-maid till slie fills her grave. 
 
 But if I shall the victor be. 
 
 If God the triumph give to me. 
 
 Then she and I from here go free. 
 
 And all my friends that here you see. 
 
 Be it so, Edith quick replies; 
 
 And you sliall fall, or win your prize — 
 
 With horse and spear in listed ring. 
 
 In deadly fray with prince and king; 
 
 And if they cause j-our overthrow. 
 
 One thing at least the world shall know. 
 
 Great was the hand tliat dealt the blow, 
 
 And laid the faithful Hagan low. 
 
 But, if you do the triumph gain. 
 
 By you be prince and hero slain. 
 
 Your fame o'er Christendom shall go. 
 
 And all of Hagan's deeds shall know; 
 
 And just as surely as I live. 
 
 Your Hagar unto you I'll give. 
 
 Tlien trembling, as o'erwhelmed with fear. 
 
 She moves to Hagan still more near, 
 
 Pressed her lips close upon his ear. 
 
 And speaks what none but he can hear : 
 
 Hagan, she says. Oh, blame not me. 
 
 For now not setting Hagar free! 
 
 Would God, that I could yield her up. 
 
 Nor let her taste of sorrow's cup ! 
 
 But all yon throng of warriors grim. 
 
 Some giants both in thews and limb. 
 
 Have journey'd here to woo your bride; 
 
 To all she has her love denied. 
 
 Faithful to you she still remains. 
 
 And all their profi'ered love disdains. 
 
 This morn they vow'd as with one voice 
 
 That I of them should make 'my choice. 
 
 Choose one ere eve and let them know 
 
 On whom I would the maid bestow. 
 
 And if in this I fail'd, they swore 
 
 They'd stain my castle all with gore; 
 
 My towers raze, to embers burn. 
 
 And all I own'd to ruin turn'. 
 
 And since my Osci is away — 
 
 In distant country waging fray. 
 
 And there perhaps long time may stay, 
 
 I, now must needs their voice obej'. 
 
 But I will sheathe you all in steel. 
 
 In armor strong from head to heel ; 
 
 Give you a war-horse fleet and bold. 
 
 As ever yet was bought or sold. 
 
 So meet them all in listed ring. 
 
 And slaughter pile with prince and king; 
 
 Their cause is wrong, and yours is just. 
 
 You God shall shield fi-om blow and thrust. 
 
 So stretch the suitors in the dust. 
 
 It's your fate to slay tiiem and you must. 
 
 So haste and in bright steel be drest. 
 
 And 'gainst them nobly do your best. 
 
 -* 
 
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 260 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 ©- 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Soon sheathed in armor strong- and sheen, 
 By Hagar's hand is Hagan seen. 
 Upon his head the helm she placed, 
 And o'er his face the visor laced; 
 A shield he dons and to his hand 
 Is given gleaming- spear and brand. 
 As some grim tower tall and strong- 
 He stands before the suitor throng,— 
 A perfect knight from spur to plume. 
 As e'er did garb of war assume. 
 Soon on a charger huge and strong. 
 He's seen by all the suitor throng. 
 And thus with voice of haughty tone — 
 By him to them is challenge thrown: 
 Come forth ye princes proud and high, 
 Let's see which best the spear can ply. 
 And see which best the sword can wield; 
 Which first can cleave both helm and shield. 
 He who shall victor o'er me ride, 
 To him I give my blooming bride— 
 And she is fair ye all will vow 
 As e'er was seen on earth 'till now. 
 The daughter of a king is she. 
 Greater than any one of ye. 
 Whose fame outstrips j^e all so high, 
 Not one of ye with him can vie; 
 The offspring of a king am L 
 Come meet me heroes spear to spear. 
 And win the fairest of the fair; 
 Or as base cowards proved and tried 
 I'll brand ye o'er the nations wide. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then at his haughty cliallenge rose 
 
 A sullen murmur 'mongst liis foes. 
 
 And cries of rage aud hate and shame 
 
 From out that throng of suitors came. 
 
 Their steeds .stood harnessed in the stall, 
 
 And grooms were ready at their call. 
 
 Straight, obedient to their word 
 
 Their steeds were swift beside them spurred. 
 
 To horse, to horse, in haste they sprang, 
 
 And loud arose the deadly clang. 
 
 As spears and swords and armor rang. 
 
 And one from out the suitor throng — 
 
 A haughty hero tall and strong. 
 
 Struck deep his spui-s in charger's gore. 
 
 Like tliunderbolt on Hagan bore. 
 
 As on he came in fierce career 
 
 Brave Hagan met him spear to spear. 
 
 But vain lie strives 'gainst Hagan's force, 
 
 Down instant fell both man and horse. 
 
 Upon the earth he breathless went. 
 
 His mighty spear to splinters rent, 
 
 Lifeless he fell before the shock. 
 
 While Hagan stood like moveless rock; 
 
 First of that fated suitor l)and 
 
 How swift in death he press'd the sand! 
 
 Another came in swift career 
 
 And on liis breast met Hagan's spear, 
 
 Tlirough plates of steel the weapon tore. 
 
 Its passage through his bosom bore. 
 And dripping red and grim with gore. 
 Stood out a j'ard behind and more. 
 Forth from the wound his trusty spear 
 In moment's space did Hagan tear. 
 And dead upon the dust and sand 
 Fell one more of the suitor band. 
 On others came, their valor tried, 
 'Till full a score had bled and died. 
 While all unharm'd from heel to head 
 Brave Hagan waged the combat dread, 
 A fearful carnage round him spread. 
 The blood of haughty princes shed. 
 
 xx. 
 Meanwhile his trusty band, though few, 
 Had sheathed themselves in armor too. 
 With spear and axe and gleaming bi-and. 
 On rushed his small but trusty band. 
 On foot and some on horse they came. 
 To share their master's deadly game : 
 And right and left their blows they deal. 
 Pierce deep through plates of gleaming steel. 
 Full on the suitor train they charge. 
 And cleft is brazen helm and targe. 
 Loud rise the sounds of blow and thrust. 
 And warriors fall midst gory dust. 
 On, on they fight 'till every hand 
 Is worn and weak in Hagan's band. 
 Yet still they war, 'till all their foes 
 Are stark and grim in death's repose. 
 They war "till not a foe is left 
 Whose head and morion is not cleft. 
 Or whose thick plates of broken steel [veal. 
 Through breasts, broad, horrid wounds rc- 
 They war 'till every foe is found 
 Amidst the reeking carnage round. 
 His task once more had Hagan done. 
 And once again his Hagar won ; 
 And ere that day went down the sun 
 To him his Hagar was restored— 
 Hagar the adoring and adored. 
 Soon back unto their native land 
 They journeyed with their trusly band. 
 Lived long a life of joy and love. 
 Serene as shines the sun above. 
 And if from out the dreary past, 
 A shadow e'er their bliss o'er cast, 
 Itonlj' served to make their love 
 Ris(; surer all their cares above; 
 Kept ever on a vast increase 
 Their weal, their happiness and peace. 
 And may the just and rigliteous Lord 
 For ever thus true love reward. 
 Though more t han thousand years have past 
 And sliadows o'er the story cast, 
 Yettlieir memory doth not fade; 
 And still the deep, deei) well tlie.\- made. 
 In use b.v Castle Flame is found. 
 Deep delved amidst the rocky ground. 
 Old bards of it this stoi-y tell : 
 And it Is call'd, "The Lovers' Well. " 
 
 -« 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 2.51 
 
 -© 
 
 JESSIE ADELINE COLE. 
 
 Born: Sandwich, Ill.,Makch 17, 1862. 
 In 1885 Miss Cole published a volume of poems, 
 ail edition wliicli was q^uiekly subscribed for 
 by her many friends and admirers. Miss Cole 
 haslT-iveled extensively, and has visited most 
 
 JESSIE ADELINE COLE. 
 
 of the larger cities of the United States. She 
 hopes soon to publish another volume of sev- 
 eral hundred pieces under the title of Poems 
 of Sentiment and Humor. 
 
 ©- 
 
 NEVER BE ASHAMED OF HAVING 
 LOVED. 
 
 Never be ashamed of liaving- loved; 
 
 Far better to have loved than have hated ; 
 If planted where it fruitle.ss proved, 
 
 You can sigh and wish you had waited. 
 A woman may not ask a man 
 
 To give to her his heart and hand; 
 Her acts and eyes do all they can 
 
 To help his heart to understand. 
 But if that heart be not inclined 
 
 To be by her love-flame ignited. 
 She needs must think that fate's unkind 
 
 For that her heart with love be lighted. 
 Still never be ashamed to say : 
 
 I loved him and it caused me pain. 
 You couldn't help that love broke 'way; 
 
 Love can't be lield by stoutest chain. 
 
 HOW IT WAS. 
 He won a prize for his good penmanship; 
 
 And for his friendship he was prized. 
 His worship wore a good-sized cap,— 
 
 Once in a sail-ship he was a good capsized. 
 He was once tangled in a courtship. 
 
 But the loveship proved a hardship; 
 And being barred out he seized the pen. 
 
 And is now the Ctesar of hardship. 
 
 NOT FOR WOMAN. 
 
 "The pen is not for woman."— Hawthorne. 
 
 I read those si.x words and then got awful mad. 
 
 The pen is not for woman? Really, that's too 
 
 bad! 
 I deemed the scoundrel meant the pen with 
 
 which to write— 
 And truly, I was vexed enough then and there 
 
 to fight. [I did. 
 
 But, with a second thought I saw, I, of course 
 The meaning true which there lies partly 
 
 masked or hid : [screens — 
 
 The word "pen," you see, the meaning mostly 
 It is the penitentiary the author really means. 
 Now, should I meet Nathaniel, why, I would 
 
 greet him thus: [not for us. 
 
 You're surely in the right, sir, the " pen " is 
 
 IT NEVER HAS BEEN. 
 Oh, it never has been since Time began, 
 That a woman whose heart Is broken in 
 twain. 
 By the downfallen castle built on a man. 
 
 Has with Time forgotten and loved again ! 
 Her hope does not die tho' she's forsaken; 
 
 Her heart sinks down as in water a stone. 
 Now she sees that love to the ragman taken ; 
 'Tis a garment outgrown —'tis a garment 
 outgrown. 
 Unbroken soil rich grain cannot produce. 
 
 But ground that's broken or plowed in fall. 
 Frozen, then thawed, is of great use,— 
 And thus it is witli human hearts all. 
 Heart goes down and brings up the soul 
 
 To help where it alone once had spoken; 
 It surely seems strange, but it grows more 
 whole. 
 For having been broken — for having been 
 broken. 
 Yes, supernal, boundless, undecayed, 
 
 A great loving heart though yet unloved 
 In a thoughtful woman's hand is laid; 
 
 Though one flery love hath vainly proved. 
 Oh, it never has been since Time began 
 That a woman whose heart is broken in 
 twain. 
 By the down-fallen castle built on a man. 
 Has truly loved again — has truly loved 
 again. 
 
 — © 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SAMUEL GARBORG. 
 
 Born in Norway, March 16, 1857. 
 In his youth Mr. Garborg became a sailor, 
 finally coming' to America; and later attended 
 the academy of Iowa college. Since that time 
 he has taufjlit scIhjoI in several states and with 
 
 SAMUEL GARBORG. 
 
 marked success. Mr. Garborg has written both 
 prose and verse for the last decade, which 
 have received publication in numerous well 
 known periodicals. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE MORAL PROSPECT. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 O time of purest joy, 
 
 Thou comest from sound employ! 
 
 O, feeling of content. 
 
 From strict adherence lent 
 
 To righteous principles! 
 
 Wlien truth and righteousness 
 
 We seek, and holiness, 
 
 Thou gi vest rich recompense; 
 
 The holy, happy sense 
 
 Of manhood glorified. 
 
 So, though we often must 
 
 In sadness strive, our trust 
 
 Through thee in God grows strong, 
 
 ltej<ii('ing in its song 
 
 Of moral victories. 
 
 The past to us rcilates. 
 
 The prosi^nt Indicates, 
 
 That man, through toil and thought. 
 
 And many a battle fought. 
 
 Will steadily attain 
 To i-ighteous, rightful reign; 
 To virtue, purity. 
 And just .security. 
 The future, then, a stream 
 Will be — oh, happy dream ! 
 Of sweet tranquility. 
 Whose blessed reality 
 Will make old earth rejoice, 
 And all with lieart and voice 
 Will join the sacred song 
 Of glory, in tlie throng 
 Whose lot was e'er replete 
 With heavenly joj's complete 
 And universal fame 
 Will glorify God's name. 
 
 KISSING THE ROD. 
 All hail the power of Mighty God! 
 
 Who is in thunder and the flood; 
 Who whirleth past us in a cloud 
 
 Of smoke, and fire and rumbling loud; 
 Yet is about and underneath. 
 
 In lion's tooth as flowery wreath; 
 Who is in sunshine and the calm,— 
 
 In tempest as in springtime's balm; 
 Who ridcth on the mighty storms. 
 
 Yet lingers 'round the weakest forms; 
 He by whose mighty outstretched hand 
 
 Is held the fate of all the lands; 
 Yet careth for the small and great. 
 
 E'en for the worms that on him wait; 
 He in whose ever active brain 
 
 Resounds the most majestic strain 
 Of myriad worlds of thought and song,- 
 
 Timeand eternity along; 
 Who gave to all things living, breath, 
 
 And taketh what he gave in death ; 
 To him give adoration all! 
 
 Remembering soon 'tis ours to fall. 
 
 MY FAIRY LAND. 
 O, that I could but wander. 
 
 Released from earthly clay. 
 To that romantic wonder,— 
 
 My fairy land away ! 
 
 It has such vast extension,— 
 
 It is the universe; 
 There vivid comprehension 
 
 Grasps every fairy verse. 
 
 From planet and to planet. 
 Through space that intervenes, 
 
 And all the " ties " that span it, 
 I'd soar to view the scenes. 
 
 The universe, my palace, 
 Transversed by silver streams. 
 
 With music sweet would solace 
 My soul and swell its dreams. 
 
 — * 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 253 
 
 -© 
 
 JEFF MCLKMORE. 
 
 Born: Spring Hill, Tenn., March 13, 1857. 
 At the age of thirteen years young- Atkins 
 had read most of tlie English poets, and gain- 
 ed some notoriety among- his playmates for his 
 ability to memorize and recite verses. At 
 seventeen years of age his poems first began 
 to appear in print. In 1878 Mr. McLemore em- 
 igrated to Dallas, Texas, thence to Colorado, 
 
 JEFF MLEMOHE. 
 
 in which latter state he remained four years 
 engaged in newspaper work. He ne.\t visited 
 Mexico, subsequently returned to Texas and 
 there began the publication of a weekly news- 
 paper. At present he is editor and part own- 
 er of the Gulf News, a weekly journal pub- 
 lished at Corpus Christi, Tex. Mr. MeLemore 
 is of fine stature, with black hair and blue 
 eyes — and is still an unmarried man. 
 
 & 
 
 STANZAS— TO THE BLANCO RIVER. 
 River that rollest by the sunlit home 
 
 Where lives the lady of my love, when I 
 Gaze in thy depths and view thy surging foam 
 
 My heart responds to each embittered sigh. 
 She, too, has stood beside thy pebbled shore, 
 
 And oft we've gazed into thy mystic deep; 
 But we shall tread thy verdant banks no 
 more — 
 
 Our hopes were as the tiny waves that sweep 
 Across thy bosom — bounding to the sea — 
 
 A moment seen then lost to sight forever; 
 
 But, ah I from youth 'twasever thus with me; 
 What I most loved was soonest to dissever. 
 
 But let thy waters now retiect my heart 
 That she each vain yet changeless tlirob 
 may see ; 
 
 And tell her, gentle river, ere we part, 
 My soul is true through all eternity. 
 
 Tell her that as thou flowest to the sea, 
 So Hows my love in one unceasing strain; 
 
 And know whatever either now may be, 
 'Tis better that we should not meet again. 
 
 Then hurry onward to the dark, blue ocean, 
 No.r longer wait beneath her eyes to rest. 
 
 Lest thou may'st cause some pang or sad emo- 
 tion 
 To ruffle her unmoved yet faultless breast. 
 
 And now farewell, perhaps forever more — 
 Like other loving friends we too must sever; 
 
 But I can ne'er forget the sacred shore 
 Where once we stood beside the Blanco 
 river. 
 
 THE MAIDS OF MEXICO. 
 
 The languid Maids of Mexico! 
 
 Oh ! how I love their glorious eyes I 
 That like the brightest sapphires glow. 
 
 So soft, so free from all disguise. 
 They are more dazzling than each star 
 
 That sparkles in the skies above; 
 Like lightning they can flash in war — 
 
 Like summer twilight, melt in love. 
 
 The flowers they give are not more fair 
 
 Than her whose hands may bring the 
 posies, 
 In dark waves fall her glossy hair — 
 
 Her cheeks sutTused with summer roses; 
 And oft-times in the evening air 
 
 I've watch'd their forms so coy and 
 chary. 
 Kneel down in reverential prayer. 
 
 Before the shrine of Blessed Mary. 
 
 And then I've thought, oh, glorious Maid I 
 
 Could I but sing thy charms divine. 
 My feeble pen had not delayed 
 
 To trace thine image on this line. 
 But praise for thee is far above 
 
 Each fond, though vain attempt of mine; 
 I only ask to share thj* love. 
 
 And bask beneath such eyes as thine. 
 
 And may those eyes through ages still 
 
 Retain the fire that in them glows; 
 And may each lovely, vine-clad hill 
 
 Upon whose tops tlie wild-flow'r grows. 
 Be always green, and fresh and fair. 
 
 And kiss'd by summer- dews and lains; 
 And may the Jlaids who wander tliere 
 
 Be free from Sorrow's cares and pains. 
 
 -)5l 
 
«- 
 
 254 
 
 LOCAL AND KATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Long years ago — 'tis vain to tell — 
 
 We parted by the river; 
 I whispered then a fond farewell — 
 
 Perl)aps it was forever. 
 And though I've wandered far away. 
 
 O'er mountain, sea and prairie. 
 Still I can ne'er forget the day 
 
 I bade farewell to Mary. 
 They tell me she is still the same, 
 
 Unchang'd in heart and feeling; 
 Unchang'd in look, unchang'd in name, 
 
 With beauty 'round her stealing. 
 And as my thoughts now swiftly roam 
 
 To her so coy and chary, 
 I sigh to thinli long years may come 
 
 E'er I can be witli Mary. 
 'Tis said the hearts that deepest love 
 
 Must feel the deepest sorrow; 
 Perhaps 'tis thus in vain I strove 
 
 Relief from Time to borrow. 
 For as the years more swiftly creep. 
 
 My heart seems less to vary; 
 It knows but one love long and deep — 
 
 An endless love for Mary. 
 And now whate'er my hapless fate, 
 
 Whate'er my joy or sadness ; 
 May pleasures ever 'round her wait 
 
 To crown her life with gladness. 
 And may sweet echoes from the past. 
 
 Like whisperings of some fairy. 
 Around her lovely form be cast 
 
 To bring sweet peace to Mary. 
 
 «- 
 
 FLORA LEE. 
 
 Oh, Flora Lee! Sweet Flora Lee! 
 
 Though parted by tlie boundless plain. 
 Yet I must still remember thee — 
 
 Although remembrance gives me pain. 
 And silent as I wander long 
 
 Beside the blue and moonlit sea. 
 And listen to the niglit-bird's song, 
 
 I think of nauglit but Flora Lee. 
 For she's the fairest of her race, 
 
 Tlicre's mu.sic's sweetness in her voice - 
 An angel's meaning in her face 
 
 Which bids the loneliest heart rejoice. 
 All ! wlio could view so fair a breast 
 
 And feel his heart from love was free? 
 Wliere is the maid who is more blest 
 
 Than i)retty, brown-eyed Flora Lee? 
 Hut we liavo parted — still the past 
 
 Must always fresh and glad'ning seem; 
 And may we meet iigain at last 
 
 To ]\\v onct» I ■(■ onr blissful dream. 
 
 ]Jut I must- bid lii'r now farewell 
 
 And wander o'er tlie dark l)lue sea. 
 Yet may some guardian angel dwell 
 
 Forever near sweet Flora Lee. 
 
 THE WITHERED LEAF. 
 Though withered and faded, 
 
 And now all alone. 
 By silent grief shaded. 
 
 Its beauty all gone; 
 Yet 'round it is clinging 
 
 A love which decay. 
 Though still vainly wringing. 
 
 Can ne'er take away. 
 'Tis first of the treasures 
 
 That to me are left. 
 It brmgs back the pleasures 
 
 Of which I'm bereft; 
 And though it may wither. 
 
 Yet while it is near 
 I'll cherish no other 
 
 With Love's sacred tear. 
 
 IF I HAD KNOWN. 
 
 If I had known those sunny smiles 
 
 Could ever prove untrue; 
 If I had known those fragile wiles 
 
 Were false and borrowed, too; 
 1 would not weep to think that I 
 
 Had bowed before thy throne. 
 Nor would I draw one parting sigh 
 
 If I — had only known. 
 If I had known those soft brown eyes, 
 
 That once could smile .so sweet — 
 Like Heaven's lamplights in the skies — 
 
 Could sparkle with deceit; 
 I would not flee from those I love. 
 
 Nor sigh to be alone; 
 Nor longer would I vainly rove 
 
 If I — had only known. 
 If I had known that siren voice 
 
 Was false as that sweet smile; 
 If I had known thou couldst rejoice 
 
 Because thou didst beguile; 
 I'd spurn the offer of thy heart 
 
 And of thj' cheek's false glow; 
 Without one sigh from thee I'd part, 
 
 But then — I did not know. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 When twilight's dreamy hour has come. 
 
 And vesper bolls are I'inging; 
 When from his fragrant woodbine home 
 
 Tiie nightingale is singing: 
 Wiien languid nature softly smiles 
 
 Wit h sweetest love on me. 
 My weary heart its grief exiles. 
 
 For then I think of thee. 
 Wiien flowers are blooming by the way — 
 
 When in their sweetest measure, 
 Tlie song-birds sing the livelong day. 
 
 And all seems ]H':ice and pleasure; 
 Wlien childhood kneels in silent i)ray'r 
 
 'Round some fond mother's knee, 
 My heart forgets each secret care. 
 
 For then I tliink of thee. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 255 
 
 -© 
 
 JENIZA MARSHALL. 
 
 Born ix Pennsylvania, March 24, 1864. 
 Emigrating to Kansas with her parents in 
 1877, Miss Marsluill taugiit school at the ajreof 
 sixteen, which occupation she steadily follow- 
 
 JENIZA MARSHALL. 
 
 ed until 1888. Her poems liave appeared ex- 
 tensively in the local press. Miss Marshall is 
 now a resident of Lyndon, Kansas. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THIS IS A BEAUTIFUL WORLD. 
 
 O, this is a beautiful world! 
 
 I was thinking- of that this morning. 
 
 As I plucked tlie violets from the hill. 
 
 Fair Nature's sweet adorning. 
 
 And the transient sliadows flitted 
 
 Across the meadow land. 
 
 And the soft wind kissed my forehead 
 
 And the flowers I held in my hand. 
 
 O, this is a beautiful world, 
 
 A heavenly place to live in ; 
 
 And if some of us cling- to it overmuch, 
 
 I hope we may be forgiven. 
 
 For when 'tis the pleasant summer. 
 
 And the voice of the wind is gaj'. 
 
 And sorrow seems far, far from us. 
 
 We would have it so alway. 
 
 Tlie voices of happy children. 
 
 In the sweet, green fields at play. 
 
 Came wandering over the liill to me 
 
 As I gathered my flowers to-day. 
 
 And I wondered if they would know. 
 
 When the storms of the years swept down. 
 
 The self-same struggles for human rights, 
 
 And the battles that I have known. 
 
 Ah, well for them this morning 
 
 Tliat they do not understand. 
 
 It were well they could play forever 
 
 In this sunny meadow land. 
 
 O, this is a beautiful world, 
 
 I thought to myself, to live in; 
 
 And if some of us cling to it overmuch, 
 
 I hope we may l)e forgiiten. 
 
 THE STEP ON THE STAIR. 
 
 There's a feeble step on the stair, I hear. 
 
 As it sounds through the silent room, 
 And a shadow falls, a feeling of fear. 
 
 When I realize that the end draws near. 
 And he's only a step from the tomb. 
 I stood in the chamber of death to-day. 
 
 Where a mother lay white and still; 
 There was nothing left but a casket of clay. 
 
 But my heart was full when they bore it 
 away 
 To the sepulcher under the hill. 
 For I thought, were it father or mother of 
 mine. 
 
 What an empty home there would be; 
 One break in the flow of a life's sunshine, 
 
 A sadder tone to the midnight chime. 
 And a sorrowful day to me. 
 A quiet room and a vacant chair 
 
 In one corner, all alone. 
 The ghost of a step on the silent stair. 
 
 One less in the circle at family prayer. 
 One more at the great white throne. 
 
 THE PICTURE ON THE WALL. 
 
 They had told me she was dead,— 
 The little one whose portrait hangs on the 
 wall,- 
 A face to follow one till the shadows of life 
 grow tall 
 With the lapse of years, and the twilight be- 
 gins to fall. 
 A baby, face and a baby's shapely head. 
 With a sober, searching look in the eyes of 
 brown ; 
 And glancing at him and her I fancied in their 
 eyes shone 
 The ghost of a tear, and it brought the mist 
 to my own. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 No more is heard the sound of booming can- 
 non. 
 That dreadful din, the bellowing of war. 
 That shook the union to its deep foundation. 
 Echoing far and near on sea and shore. 
 
 ■m 
 
©- 
 
 256 
 
 LOCAL ANB NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 S 
 
 RICHARD F. GOTTSCHALK. 
 
 Born; Newark, N. J., April 5, 1861. 
 For the past live years tbe poems of this writ- 
 er have appeared in the Chicago Times, Jour- 
 nal and Current, the New York Clipper and 
 other publications of iilie iironiinence, from 
 
 RICHARD F. GOTTSCHALK. 
 
 which they have been extensively copied ijy 
 the local press. Mr. Gottschalk is a steno- 
 grapher by profession, and has also had some 
 experience in the management of theatrical 
 companies. 
 
 A GAME OF CARDS. 
 We played a g'ame of cards, and euchre was 
 the game. 
 While gazing in her languid eye my inmost 
 soul did stir; 
 1 took a trick, and she took two, and then my 
 last trumj) came. 
 She held the t rumi> that called my hand and 
 I did give it her. 
 
 THE INVALID. 
 When in the evening of a bleak November 
 day, 
 I sat beside the divan whei-e at rest 
 Reclined fair Lizzie; trying to conceal her 
 pain. 
 She sought to speak of what I loved the best. 
 Little slie knew that there's no theme tome 
 more dear. 
 
 Than her dear self, her day dreams to di- 
 vine. 
 While she relates tales of little joys and fears. 
 Not heeding her own pain, she nurses mine. 
 What other work of the Creator could achieve, 
 
 A place so near perfection's lofty sphere. 
 Than a true woman's heart— with just a touch 
 of art — [dear. 
 
 Who makes the world and all within more 
 
 DEATH. 
 Like to the setting sun, ebbs life away, 
 
 And end of mortal day has come to pass; 
 
 As drops the final sand-grain in the glass 
 And lies in perfect rest, so ends the play 
 Of animation in the human clay. 
 
 Which once could love, and love so tenderly ; 
 
 Could thrill a kindred heart with sympathy; 
 All in an hour turned to moldering clay. 
 Of what avail that we should strive to flee. 
 
 Or fear the time when we are to decay? 
 Why should we shun the calm eternal shore. 
 Where we well know all care shall ended be 
 
 In a calm sleep? — as sought each closing 
 day. 
 It is but a perpetual sleep —no more. 
 
 SUNSHINE. 
 Fold back the cloud-veil from thy sorrowing 
 soul ; [curse — 
 
 Grieve not. To grieve so were a fault — a 
 
 Ingratitude unto the universe! 
 Ah ! what a shame for thee in tears to dole. 
 While j'et a ray of hope shines from the goal 
 
 That thou may'st reach before thine end of 
 life, [strife; 
 
 If thou'lt but bravely gird thee for the 
 
 Conquering grief which now enthralls thy 
 
 soul. [gloom? 
 
 Why wilt thou seek to find naught but the 
 
 And fail to see the rays of hope — of bliss — 
 That yet may help to lift thee from the tomb 
 
 Of sorrow, to a world of light; and miss 
 The sweet, ennobling consciousness of dodhi 
 
 Dispelled by an uplifting manliness. 
 Where there no cloudy days, would we then 
 love 
 
 The sun, in all its glory of a day 
 
 When the June winds have brushed each 
 cloud away? 
 Whilst yet a moisture in the air above 
 
 Reminds us of the shower, of the love 
 
 Bestowed on us by Heav'n but yesterday ; 
 
 Are not the lesser rays, from day to day. 
 The rays of hopt', that stimulate our love 
 For the great oib in all its majesty? 
 
 In darkest days we catch a ray of light — 
 If we but lift our gaze, we e'er shall .see 
 
 Some portion of the horizon wliere's briglit 
 The promise of a fairer day, to be. 
 
 Alter the passing of n somber night. 
 
 ©- 
 
 ^ 
 
)©- 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 Born : Wabash, Ind., Nov. 10, 1841. 
 The true name of this poet is Cincinnatiis Hi- 
 iier Miller. At thirteen he removed with his pa- 
 rents to Oreg-on. He then attempted mining; 
 lived an adventurous life in California; then 
 
 JOAQtriN MILLER. 
 
 sei-ved ■vvith Walker in Nicaragua, and later so- 
 journed with the Indians. He began the study 
 of law in 1860, and later published a paper in 
 Eugene City, Oregon. At this time Miller had 
 achieved a reputation as a writer, and became 
 known as the Poet of the Sierras. Married In 
 1863, domestic troubles I'esulted in a divorce. 
 He afterward married into the Leland family. 
 Maud Muller is the daughter of his first wife. 
 Songs of the Sierras and Songs of Italy are his 
 best works. The Danites is also from his pen. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 " A tale ! the tale of your life, so ho ! 
 
 For not one man in all Mexico 
 
 Can trace your history a half decade." 
 
 Was it a tear? Was it a sigh? 
 Was it a glance of the priest's black eye? 
 Or was it the drunken revel-cry 
 That smote the rock of his frozen heart 
 And forced his pallid lips apart? 
 
 " Mistaken and Misunderstood, 
 My hot magnetic heart sought round 
 And craved of all the souls 1 knew 
 But one responsive throb or touch. 
 Or thrill that flashed through and through — 
 Deem you that I demanded much?— 
 Not one congenial soul was found. 
 I sought a deeper wild and wood, 
 A girlish form and a childish face, 
 A wild waif drifting from place to place. 
 
 " Her eyes were like the rabbit's ej-es. 
 Her mien, her manner, just as mild. 
 And, though a savage war-chief's child. 
 She would not harm the lowliest worm. 
 And though her beaded loot was firm, 
 And though her airy step was trve, 
 She would not crush a drop of dew. 
 
 " Her love was deeper than the sea, 
 And stronger than the tidal rise. 
 And clung in all its strength to me. 
 A face like hers is never seen 
 This side the gates of paradise. 
 
 "You might have pluck'd beams from 
 the moon. 
 Or torn the shadow from the pine 
 When on its dial track at noon. 
 But not have parted us an hour. 
 She was so wholly, truly mine, 
 And life was one unbroken dream 
 Of purest bliss and calm delight, 
 A flow'ry-shored untroubled stream 
 Of sun and song, of shade and bowei', 
 A f ull-moon'd serenading night. 
 
 " Not one had falter'd, not one brave 
 Survived the fearful struggle, save 
 One — save I the renegade. 
 The red man's friend, and — they held me so 
 For this alone — the white man's foe. 
 
 Then months went on, till deep one night. 
 When long thin bars of lunar light 
 Lay shimmering along the floor. 
 My senses came to me once more. 
 
 " My eyes look'd full into her eyes — 
 Into her soul so true and tried. 
 I thought myself in paradise. 
 And wonder'd when she too had died. 
 And then I saw the striped light 
 That struggled past the prison bar. 
 
 "At last, one midnight, I was free; 
 Again I felt the liquid air 
 
 "I sought to catch her to my breast 
 And charm her from her silent mood ; 
 She shrank as if a beam, a breath, 
 Then silently before me stood. 
 Still, coldly, as the kiss of death. 
 
 -8& 
 
©- 
 
 258 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 Her face was darker than a pall. 
 
 Her presence was so proudly tall, 
 
 I would have started from the stone 
 
 Where I sat gazing up at her, 
 
 As from a form to earth unknown. 
 
 Had I possess' d the power to stir. 
 
 .4 <■ O touch me not, no more, no more; 
 
 'Tis past, and my sweet dream is o'er. 
 
 Impure! Impure! Impure!' she cried. 
 
 In words as sweetly, weirdly wild 
 
 As mingling of a rippled tide. 
 
 And music on the waters spill'd. 
 
 » Pollution foul is on my limbs, 
 
 And poison lingers on my lips; 
 
 My red heart sickens, hot head swims, 
 
 I burn unto my flnger-t=ps. 
 
 But you are free. Fly! Fly alone. 
 
 Yes, you will win another bride 
 
 In some far clime where naught Is known 
 
 Of all that you have won or lost. 
 
 Or what your life this night has cost; 
 
 Will win you name, and place, and power. 
 
 And ne'er recall this face, this hour. 
 
 Save in some secret, deep regret. 
 
 Which I forgive and you'll forget. 
 
 Your destiny ^ill lead you on 
 
 Where, open'd wide to welcome you, 
 Rich, gushing hearts and bosoms are. 
 And snowy arms, more purely fair, 
 And breasts— who dare say breasts more true 
 When all this dear night's deeds are done? 
 
 " ' They said you had deserted me. 
 Had rued you of your wood and wild. 
 I knew, I knew it could not be, 
 I trusted as a trusting child. 
 I cross'd the bristled mountain high 
 That curves its rough back to the sky, 
 I rode the white maned mountain flood. 
 And track'd for weeks the trackless wood. 
 The good God led me, as before. 
 And brought me to your prison-door. 
 
 " <■ That madden'd call ! that fever'd moan ! 
 I heard you in the midnight call 
 My own name throtigh the massive wall, 
 In my sweet mountain-tongue and tone — 
 And yet you call'd so feebly wild, 
 I near mistook you for a child. 
 The keeper with the clinking keys 
 I sought, imploreil upon my kilees 
 That I might see you, feel your breath, 
 Your brow, or breathe your low replies 
 Of comfort in your lonely death. 
 His red face stione, his redder eyes 
 Were like the lire of the skies. 
 And all his face was as a flre, 
 As he said, " Yield to my desire." 
 Again I heard your feelile moan, 
 T cried, "And must he die aloneV" 
 T ci'lcd unto a heart of stone. 
 Ah! why tlic hateful horrors tell? 
 
 m- 
 
 Enough! I crept into your cell 
 Polluted, loathed, a wretched thing. 
 An ashen fruit, a poison'd spring. 
 
 •' 1 1 nursed you, lured you back to life, 
 And when you woke and call'd me wife 
 And love, with pale lips rife 
 With love and feeble loveUness, 
 I turn'd away, 1 hid my face. 
 In mad reproach and deep distress. 
 In dust down in that loathsome place, 
 " ' And then I vow'd a solemn vow 
 That j-ou should live, live and be free. 
 And you have lived — are free; and now 
 Too slow yon red sun comes to see 
 My life, or death or me again. 
 Oh the peril and the pain 
 I have endured! the dark stain 
 That I did take on my fair soul. 
 All, all to save you, make you free. 
 Are more than mortal can endure: 
 But fire makes the foulest pure. 
 
 »i I Behold this finish'd f unei-al pyi-e, 
 AU ready for the form and fire. 
 Which these, my own hands, did prepare 
 For this last night: then lay me there. 
 I would not hide me from my God 
 Beneath the cold and sullen sod. 
 And ever from the circled sun. 
 As if in shame for e\'il done. 
 But, wrapped in fiery, shining shroud. 
 Ascend to Him, a wreathing cloud.' 
 
 •• She paused, she turn'd, she lean'd apace 
 Her glance and half-regretting face. 
 As if to jield herself to me; 
 And then she cried, • It cannot be. 
 For I have vow'd a solemn vow. 
 And God help me to keep it now!' 
 
 " I sprang with arms extended wide 
 To catch her to my burning breast; 
 She caught a dagger from her side 
 And plunged it to its river hilt 
 Into her hot and bursting heart, 
 And fell into my arms and died — 
 Died as my s( ul to hers was press'd. 
 Died as I held her to my breast. 
 Died without one word or moan. 
 And l;?ft me with my dead — alone. 
 ■ . 
 
 '• I laid a circlet of white stone. 
 And loft her ashes there alone. 
 IJut after many a white moon-wane 
 I soviglit that sacred ground again. 
 And saw the circle of white stone 
 With tiill wild grasses overgrown. 
 I did e.xpect, I know not why. 
 From out her sacred dust to find 
 Wild pinks and daisies blooming fair; 
 And wlien 1 did not find them there 
 I almost docin'd her God unkind. 
 Less careful of her dust than I. 
 
 -« 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 2o9 
 
 m 
 
 JOHN VINCENT TAYLOR. 
 
 Born: Bristol, Eng., in 183;^. 
 In 1859 he left home for Canada, where lie be- 
 came assistant upou the Huntington Herald. 
 In 1863 he came to New York, making' a name 
 forhimself by his contributions to the Chris- 
 tian Intelligencer, at the outbreak of the civil 
 w:ir. upon the leading" topics of that time. 
 E\enlu,ill\ h( \oiuMtetUMl .iiid joined the 2d 
 N. V. S. M., 8»'d N 'S . toi ihiic \( (irs fur the 
 
 9& 
 
 JOHN VINCENT TAYLOR. 
 
 war.having the good fortune in his first battle 
 (at the Wilderness), to rescue and bring- the 
 stars and stripes from the field, wiiere they 
 had been left by the color-sergeant, who was 
 shot. Mr. Taylor was himself placed liors de 
 combat near the Matapony river, Va., and for- 
 ever disabled for military service. In 1865 he 
 was honorably discharged from the army at 
 Hatcher's Run, Va„ totally deaf, etc., etc. In 
 due course his literary attainments were again 
 in demand with such publications as The 
 Evening Globe, The Toms' River Courier, and 
 The Cosmopolitan. In 1873 he sailed for Aus- 
 tralia, and was known among Australian 
 journalists as that Young Man from America, 
 for wliile there he contributed much valuable 
 material to the leading publications of that 
 country. In 1874 he set out for China, to see 
 the Celestials as they are to be seen at home, 
 spending three or four weeks at Amoy, and 
 
 two or three at Tokio. Returning again to 
 Sydney, N. S. \V., he departed thence via Lon- 
 don to New York, where his fame ha\ing 
 quietly preceded him, he found his name oc- 
 cupying a prominent position in that part of 
 the literary world where he is a specialist. 
 After drifting- about for a period, he becamt; 
 connected with the United States Sewing- Ma- 
 chine Times; at the same time contributed to 
 the Age of Steel, St. Louis, Mo., as well as sup- 
 plying New York Letters to various Amer- 
 ican and European publications. This gen- 
 tleman was also the person referred to by a 
 New York contemporary, -vvhich, lately re- 
 viewing a book put upon the market entitled 
 (Jathering Jewels, said: "In the preparation 
 ( if the -work for the press, we think we detect 
 t he literary earmarks of Mr. J. Vincent Tay- 
 lor," etc., which was perfectly correct. 
 
 BEING MUSTERED OUT FOREVER. 
 
 It's true, I'm going down the bill at last; 
 Time's in a hurry; Death is coming fast — 
 All unmindful of the ties he'll sever. 
 When down I'll lie — niuster'd out foreverl 
 Do not sigh, for when I'm muster'd out, 
 I'll follow comrades in the general route 
 To where the soldier lives to fight no more, 
 1 n realms of rest upon the other shore! 
 
 When I go, do not weep or pine for me — 
 Gone beyond, into vast eternity! 
 Alas! I'll see no more the holy ground.* 
 Nor lowly bend in front of loved mound, 
 AVhere so many of nij' brave comrades fell 
 In Gettysburg's fierce storm of shot and shell; 
 For note, my aged sight is growing dim. 
 While Time with trembling- shakes my every 
 
 limb! 
 Yes, I had hop'd to live to see the day. 
 When we a monument of stone would lay 
 On the spot where our gallant comrades died, 
 And thus their sacrifice have memorized! 
 But another wills, we must be content. 
 To say "here! " aloft, when for it we're sent; 
 E'en so, I beg the State to do its best. 
 To hallow the spot where our comrades rest! 
 
 Oh, how I seem to see it all again ; 
 And list, I hear once more the mad refrain 
 With which the rebels fell upon our ranks, 
 To break our center or to turn our flanks; 
 •' Steady my men," we hear the Colonel cry — 
 " Once more stand firm — the traitors soon 
 
 will fly!" 
 As shoulder to shoulder we stood that day. 
 To bear the onslaught of the stubborn fray. 
 
 Three times they charged down upon our line. 
 As if they thought to butcher us like swine; 
 Yes, but we kept the snarling wolves at baj'— 
 For God, for country, liberty, and aye! 
 
 m 
 
* 
 
 -^ 
 
 260 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 But, oh, ;it what ;i fearful cost 'twas done — 
 As dropped down our comrades one by one. 
 Until more than one hundred, then and there, 
 Had gone the mem ' ry of the dead to share ! 
 
 "Close up ranks!" we heard a lieutenant cry— 
 "For boys were bound to hold ourlineordie!" 
 Then, horror of horrors! it came to pass — 
 In their last charge ~ all mowed down like 
 
 grass — 
 The reckless foe retreated out of sight. 
 To once more leave us masters of the fight! 
 Again I seem to see the carnage done, 
 And gladly watch the foemen as they run ! 
 
 Loudly their leaders call'd on them in vain : 
 "For God's sake, form your lines, and charge 
 again ! " [that — 
 
 Of course, they could see naught of God in 
 No more than you can in your batter'd hat. ' 
 And why did we not after them pursue? 
 Ah, my son, we had holier work to do — 
 Two hundred of our dead around us lay, 
 Awaiting the return of dust to clay! 
 
 Then, as daj light decreased in the West, 
 Sorrowfully we tried to do o\ir best 
 To lay them side by side in that holy ground- 
 Thenceforth historic all the globe arouTid! 
 And when the earth their silent forms did 
 
 hide ; 
 We fail'd the tears of comradeship to hide — 
 In haste the painful duty soon was done — 
 Quickly to answer roll-call one by one. 
 
 Then we found others missing from the field. 
 To silent pray the God of battles shield 
 Them from all harm wherever they might be-- 
 From treason's steel, deceit and treachery! 
 But now my years are full unto fourscore, 
 I shall see holy Gettysburg no more — 
 That grand altar of freedom and of right. 
 Where loyality hurl'd treason back lo night! 
 
 For from that day the rebels lost all hope — 
 Gradually hemmed in, they lacked scope 
 To continue the long and bootless strife 
 They vainly waged against a nation's li fe ! " 
 At last, the aged patriot ceas'd to speak. 
 And wliile a sigh did Init the silence break. 
 Upon the pillow once more lay his head — 
 As " muster'd out," another soul had fled ! 
 — * Gettysburg. 
 
 SB- 
 
 HOME AND COUNTRY. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Hist! and let us recall the past again — 
 O'er full of ingrate strife, woe, and pain. 
 Malignant hate and patriotic love — 
 E'en as when Evil warr'd with God above! 
 
 Alas! we hear the Nation's call for aid. 
 Nor turn away with craven answer made, 
 Dainited by treason which first drew the blade. 
 
 Columbia did not plead or call in vain ; [plain? 
 Our martial hosts came up from vale and 
 United the Free States together stood, 
 •Nor stinted e'en the treasure or the blood 
 That loyalty demanded from them all — 
 Regicidal Rebellion doom'd to fall — 
 Ye help'd to conquer and to disenthrall! 
 
 Hush! come look with me o'er yon battle- 
 ground. 
 On which the soldier sleeps in rest profound ; 
 Maybe he dreams of home and country. 
 E'en on the field of carnage that you see. 
 
 Ay! sees his roof-tree and his lov'd ones dear. 
 Nor hesitates to drop a manly tear. 
 During his happy dream of home and cheer. 
 
 Close the wife holds the little one at breast, 
 Or with a lullaby coos it down to rest, 
 Until he feels really at home again. 
 No more to hear unholy war's retrain ! 
 Turning over, he wakes up with a start, 
 Reminded of a gallant soldier's part — 
 Yet cannot still the beating of his heart! 
 How real it seem'd, he murmurs to himself; 
 Oh ! yes; how dear to me by far than pelf — 
 My loving wife — our babe — our home — 
 E'en when the fiercer strife of battles come! 
 
 And my glorious country, what of thee? 
 Now,now,at last thou shalt grow fair and f ree~ 
 Doom'd thy plague-spot of human slavery! 
 
 Curs'd be the horde who'd strike at thee again. 
 
 Or, covertly, would cause tliee future pain ! 
 
 United in all parts forever stand. 
 
 Ne'er divided by either stream or land. 
 
 Till future time and tide shall cease to be 
 
 Recorded only as eternity ! 
 
 Yea, that and more, I live or die f(n- ihee! 
 
 MRS. EMMA C. WOOD. 
 
 Born: South Berwick, Me., Jan. 5. 1859. 
 This lady has contributed quite a few gems 
 to the ]ieriodical yiress. She was married in 
 1881 to Rev. S. G. Wood. 
 
 "GOOD-BY, PAPA." 
 That little maid? Well, yes; you see 
 Slie is the liglit of life to me; 
 Her mother's vei'j' image, sir. 
 So natural-like I cling to her. 
 A little one, I know — not strong; 
 But still I pray God si>:ire her long. 
 When 1 leave home at early liay, 
 I hear her voice far on the way 
 Calling, "Good-by ! My love, you know, 
 Isyour's, Pupa, where'er you go." 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAI- I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 2()1 
 
 CHARLES F. MARKKLL. 
 
 Boun: Fkedekick, Md., Oct. 16, 1855. 
 In 1876 Cliarles graduated in tlie law depart- 
 ment of Columbia university, Washiugton, 
 D. C, his legal essay leeeiving the first prize, 
 and was admitted to tlie bar of that eity. He 
 shortly afterward visited Europe. On his re- 
 turn Mr. Markell located at Fort Wayne, Ind., 
 but finding- the climate detrimental to his 
 health he returned to his native jilace in 1880, 
 
 CHAKLES J"KEDEKICK MARKELL. 
 
 wliere he lias since Ijeen engaged in the ac- 
 tive practice of his profession. In 18*3 he was 
 elected as a republican to tlie Maryland house 
 of delegates. For tliree years Mr. Markell 
 was junior editor and proprietor of the Fred- 
 erick Daily and Weekly Times. He has an in- 
 terest in several otlier enterprises, notably 
 that of the Asbestos mines and also the UnioQ 
 Foundries. 
 
 m 
 
 TO-NIGHT. 
 
 Could I but die to-inght 
 
 While yet my lips th"/ kisses warm; 
 Wliile beats my heart against thine own 
 
 As storm-bird rides the storm: 
 Could I but die to-night 
 
 While yet breathes soft thy gentle breath 
 " I love thee;" gladly would I hail 
 
 The sweet advent of death. 
 Could I but die to-night 
 
 Ere yet my trusting lieart has found 
 The pain of llie soul-enterlug iron. 
 
 Or felt the arrow's wound. 
 Could I but die to-night 
 
 Ere yet my throbbing brea.st has known 
 The frailty of woman's love. 
 
 The anguish of my own. 
 Could I but die to-night 
 
 Ere fades this rapturous dream too soon, 
 While life is flushed with hallowed light 
 
 That dims the rays of noon. 
 Could I but die to-night 
 
 While yet I leel thy heart-blood leap 
 For me, how gladly would I go: 
 
 How sweetly would 1 sleep. 
 
 SLEEPING. 
 The white-winged messenger has come 
 To whisper with a voice as soft 
 As measures of the symphonj- 
 With which his holy home abounds. 
 That she, whose whiteness here below 
 Was purer than the hill-side snow, 
 Must glisten soon 'neath that sunbeam 
 Celestial, that forever gilds 
 The bright hill-sides of paradise: 
 And that the lilj', pure, that bloomed 
 Upon savaiuias dark and dank. 
 Soon of elysian dews will drink. 
 And shed its perfume 'round tlie throne 
 Of Him who gave the flower life. 
 Deep in unstartled chambers now 
 She sleeps; and o'er her bosom, void. 
 Perpetual vigil angels keep; 
 While echoes, ringing through the tomb, 
 A name she loved in life repeat. 
 Each flower on her grassj' grave, 
 That bows its head to matin dews 
 And sheds its richest plenitude 
 Of thanks in silent perfumed jirayer. 
 Breathes also in that prayer a name; 
 And breathes it o'er and o'er again 
 Until the breath and name are swept 
 By softest winds that kissed the bud 
 To seas of heavenly song above. 
 A name she loved in life; how oft 
 The lips now stricken by the hand 
 Tiiat also bade the heart-throb cease. 
 And still itself in endless rest. 
 Told witli it in their fondest way 
 The love and gratitude she felt. 
 Her sister's name. One wlio now stands 
 Upon the margin of the beck 
 With straining eye and yearning heart: 
 Who hears the song the flowers breathe. 
 And from the glorious symphony 
 Of angels' voices high above 
 Discerns the song lier dear dead sings. 
 And longs to answerback again. 
 
 -* 
 
m- 
 
 262 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SCNSET OF THE HEART. 
 
 The ghostly shadows softly shift 
 
 Across the russet lawn, 
 Fond mem'ries of departed friends 
 
 And friendships lost and gone. 
 The ferns of hope, with folding leaf. 
 
 Close to the gathering dew — 
 The dew of cold adversity 
 
 That chills them through and through. 
 
 The trailing vines of tender love. 
 
 With trembling tendrils torn, 
 Still clasp the idol of their lives. 
 
 Though winds of bligiiting scorn 
 Wrest them away with with'ring blast 
 
 And rend with cruel breath. 
 While hoar-frosts of ingratitude. 
 
 Bite them to bitter death. 
 
 Tlie rivulets of childhood's dreams 
 
 Have lulled themselves to rest; 
 The violets of innocence 
 
 Turn down eaeli painted breast. 
 Briglit fancy's birds with wearied wing. 
 
 Rest on the drooping boughs 
 And listen to the rustling leaves 
 
 Of long forgotten vows. 
 
 The blackened crags and time-seared rocks 
 
 Of passions bold and free, 
 Are shrouded in a robe of moss, — 
 
 The moss of charity. 
 The mountains dark of grief and toil 
 
 Fade with the paling ray, . 
 And mingling with the falling shades. 
 
 Steal one by one away. 
 
 Calm resignation's quiet lake 
 
 Glows 'neath the sinking sun. 
 And breathes its purl of holy prayer. 
 
 Ere yet the day is done; 
 Soft clouds of mercy, pure and white. 
 
 Rise o'er the gilded zone. 
 To mirrorback tlie dying light,— 
 
 Tlie warmth of life is gone. 
 
 Just where the molten fires have fled 
 
 And left their gold behind. 
 There comes a voice divinely sweet, 
 
 Like music of the wind, 
 That bids each passion, grief and joy. 
 
 Each hope, oacli love depart 
 And pass into forgetfulness,— 
 
 'Tis siuiset of the heart. 
 
 ®- 
 
 MONOCACY. 
 
 Monocacy, loved, fair nyinj))! of the wt)od, 
 Catoctin's own fai-wandci-ing cliilii; 
 
 Oh soft istliy name, yet softer thy flood, 
 And meUowcd tliy music and wild. 
 
 Not as Potomac, whose historic fame 
 Forover olilivion bars. 
 
 Nor fair Shenandoah, whose musical name 
 In Indian is " Child of the stars," 
 
 Art thou ever sung immortal in verse 
 Where painters and bards love to dream. 
 
 Yet better by far, unknown in thy course, 
 I love thee my own mountain stream. 
 
 My heart is a river sullen and deep. 
 
 Whose glad song was stilled long ago: 
 Upon its dark crest tlie moons never sleep. 
 
 Nor fair flowers gladden its flow. 
 No ripple of hope its bosom awakes. 
 
 No soft purl of prayer its sad tides; 
 Lilies of dreams liave forsaken its lakes, 
 
 And bright birds of fancy its sides. 
 But sometimes the shades of friends that are 
 gone. 
 
 As twilight, half light up the gloom; 
 And thus it will flow forever and on 
 
 Till its waves are lost in the tomb. 
 
 MRS. ELLEN F. LINCOLN. 
 
 Born: Portland, Me., April 21, 1833. 
 Since her marriage in 1862 to Dr. John D. 
 Lincoln, this lady has resided in Brunswick, 
 Me. Her poems have appeared in the Boston 
 Congregationalist, Youth's Companion, Port- 
 land Transcript and other publications, and 
 she is represented in the Poets of Maine. 
 
 HER STORY. 
 Only a little thread of gold. 
 
 Running her whole life through. 
 So plainly she could see it here. 
 Then lost awhile could trace it there. 
 
 As it came again in view. 
 
 Only a little rill of love. 
 
 That watered her dusty way. 
 But the meagre draught though sweet to sip, 
 And quaffed with an eager tliirsting lip. 
 
 Could not that thirst allay. 
 
 Only a bright and buoyant hope, 
 
 That could not be repressed. 
 But it lifted at once her weight of care. 
 It made of her desert a gay par terre. 
 
 And her secret was unguessed. 
 
 For none might know that hidden fount. 
 
 Of joy within her heart. 
 There are dreams to which we fondly cling. 
 And flowers too frail for blossoming. 
 
 Of our very lives a part. 
 
 Her busy days at last were done. 
 
 And the weary feet liad rest, 
 Tlie thread of gold had all been spun; 
 The liKle nil had ceased to run. 
 
 And the hope died unconfessed. 
 
 -® 
 
86- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 £63 
 
 © 
 
 ANNETTA J. HALLIDAY. 
 
 Bokn: Sr^ACUSE, N.Y., Nov. 1, 1869. 
 Attending the convent of the Sacred Heart, 
 Miss Anaetta received a thorough education. 
 She is now a teacher of vocal and instrument- 
 al music, and also gives instruction in French, 
 German, Italian and Spanish. Miss Halliday 
 has written jKiems from a very early age. 
 
 ANNKTTA J. HALLIUAY. 
 
 which have appeared from time to time in the 
 Chicago Current, Detroit Evening News, Yan- 
 kee Blade, and other well known publications. 
 She resides with her parents in Detroit, Mich. 
 Miss Halliday hopes to publish a volume in the 
 near future. 
 
 ® 
 
 FEOM i.LIFE IN A DAY." 
 
 A FACE AND A FATE. 
 
 All that I know about a certain face 
 Is that it looked destruction into mine! 
 Methought that God, and Heaven and Man, 
 Were atoms quite, and all the span 
 Of years that bridge the great between 
 Had halted, that I might but glean 
 The sunshine and the shadow of thy grace. 
 My own, and kiss away my soul on tliine! 
 The stars ruled from their courses and the 
 
 earth 
 Might whirl, and burn, and perish in its 
 
 doom ; 
 For m a moment all tlie strife. 
 The throbbing toil which men call Life, 
 
 Had vanished, and there lived for me. 
 One heart desire,— to be with thee. 
 Together! this the need for Heaven's worth, 
 For if thou be not by me, all is gloom. 
 
 DREAM TONES. 
 
 I send my heart up to thee 
 
 In a song; 
 And the hour bears part, for the stars gleam 
 
 bright. 
 And the winds whisper low on the breath of 
 
 the night. 
 Be thy sleep as calm as the moonlight above, 
 SVhile I watch thy casement with eyes of love. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ! 
 The fainting night throbs out as 
 
 Ne'er before; 
 While the fire-flies sink on the river's brim. 
 And the light of my life seems hushed and 
 
 dim. 
 For thou'rt silent. Hark, our token — how 
 
 sweet 
 To feel that our hearts on each other heat — 
 
 Dream on, Dream on ! 
 Let thy arms clasp me fast, I 
 
 Swoon, I fail. 
 Kiss me dearly, sweet one, and heart on heart 
 Let my lips to your hps cling ere we part; 
 Press thy cheek to my cheek,— love ne'er will 
 
 die,— 
 Close, till our speech is lost in passion's sigh. 
 Love on, love on ! 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 Dearest, do you remember 
 
 Just one short year ago. 
 
 How we promised, you and I, 
 
 As the long, long months should fly. 
 
 To make our life a little heaven 
 
 Here below? 
 
 Year ago. 
 Do you know what words you said. 
 You could ne'er love again? 
 And you emphasized your speech 
 In the way that love can teach, 
 For your kisses showered fast 
 
 Like summer rain? 
 
 Love again. 
 Do you think of how we left 
 The old home far away? 
 Where tho' apples used to swing 
 And the honeysuckle cling. 
 And the song-tird used to carol 
 
 All the day? 
 
 Far away. 
 
 DEAD LEAVES. 
 
 Where is she gone to, silent night. 
 And why is her window open wide? 
 
 •© 
 
©- 
 
 -© 
 
 264 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK A3IERICA. 
 
 I wait, I watch, but no wife comes near,— 
 
 I only know that she Is not here — 
 
 I only feel that from my side 
 
 Is flown the one who sanctified 
 
 My very soul ! Ah, never more 
 
 Her kiss will greet me as before. 
 
 Was it something said, dearest one? 
 
 Or some action I had left undone? 
 
 Was it wrong to chide you for that smile 
 
 And ask you to abstain for my sake? 
 
 For you knew not how I felt the while 
 
 And my heart — you could not guess 'twould 
 
 break. 
 Ah come back and teach me, only teach 1 
 I will be a slave, love, to thy speech. 
 You swore to honor and obej'— 
 Hark ! does ths echo trj- to say 
 One of the Legion of the Lost? 
 
 REV. H. F. DARNELL, D.D. 
 
 Born in England, June 24, 1831. 
 The compositions of this gentleman have ap- 
 peared in the leading magazines of this coun- 
 try and Canada. In 1862 a volume of his poems, 
 entitled Songs by the Way, attracted much at- 
 tention. For several years past Rev. Darnell 
 has been rector of Zion church, Avon, N. Y. 
 His Songs of the Season and his A Nation's 
 Thanksgiving, pubhshed in Philadelphia in 
 1885 and 1887, were favorably received by the 
 American press and people. Since that time 
 Dr. Darnell has written several stories, which 
 have been widely read. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 To thee, dear child — in Heaven — 
 Who on thy father's toil no more shalt smile. 
 
 These flowers — in memory given — 
 May, like those spread above thy dust, awhile 
 Some few fast-fleeting hours of care beguile. 
 
 And die at even ; 
 But if, to that serener atmosphere 
 In which thou dwell'st, their leaves, though 
 sere. 
 May waft one parting breath 
 Ere they have perished from this lower 
 sphere,— 
 They will have conquered death. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MAY-DAY SONG. 
 O happy day ! O bright May-day I 
 
 Sweet herald of tiie Spring: 
 Conio, girt witli golden promises. 
 
 And Hope's fair blossoming: 
 Tliou Eiirtli, be green — ye Skies, serene. 
 
 To greet our Queen ! 
 Give flowers to graee lier yo\i1hful l)row, 
 
 Soft turf b'eneatli lier feet; 
 
 Let heaven be musical with songs 
 
 Of wild-birds, soft and sweet: 
 Thou Earth be green — ye Skies, serene. 
 
 To deck our Queen ! 
 
 Bring sunny hours of joj' and love 
 
 To cheer the course of life; 
 Make free her path from thorny cares. 
 
 Give peace when storms are rife: 
 Thou Earth be green — ye Skies, serene. 
 
 To bless our Queen! 
 
 Alas ! that crowns like these should fade. 
 
 And early ties be broken — 
 The bitterest word of all — " farewell"— 
 
 By loving lips be spoken: 
 When youth is gone, and life is sere, 
 
 And changed the festive scene. 
 Thou Earth be green — ye Skies, serene, 
 
 To bless our Queen I 
 
 UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 Under the snow — four foot low — 
 
 I laid a child to rest; 
 Her form was chill, her lips were still — 
 
 No pulse within her breast: 
 In her eye no light, and her brow as white 
 
 As the flowers her fingers pressed. 
 
 Under the snow — four foot low — 
 
 That tiny form was laid ; 
 The feeble ray of a winter day 
 
 Above her hghtly played; 
 And a little mound of frozen ground 
 
 Was all the tribute paid. 
 
 Under the snow — four foot low — 
 
 I left that sleeping child ; 
 But Spr-'ng came round, with merry sound. 
 
 And the air was fresh and mild; 
 The grass waved green where the snow had 
 been. 
 
 And the birds sang sweet and wild. 
 
 Still, under the snow — cold and low — 
 
 She lies in my memory; 
 For no eartiily Spring can ever bring 
 
 My darling back to me; 
 I ne'er can hear that voice so dear — 
 
 That light step bounding free'. 
 
 Thus, under the snow — four foot low — 
 
 That form still silent lies; 
 But a Spring shall shine, and a voice divine 
 
 Shall one day bid it rise; 
 So I will not weep, for the angels keep 
 
 That grave in their loving eyes. 
 
 When earth and its snow, beneath the glow 
 
 Of that Siiring, shall melt away. 
 That form sliall rise beyond the skies. 
 
 And bask in Heaven's ray — 
 Shall reunite with the spirit bright 
 
 Which left it lifeless clay. 
 
 ® 
 
gB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 266 
 
 ■® 
 
 JOHN PRESTON CAMPBELL. 
 
 Born in Boston, Mass. 
 The writings of Mr. Campbell have received 
 and are still receiving very favorable com- 
 ment from the press. The beautiful volume 
 from his pen, Queen Sylvia and Other Poems, 
 has had quite an extensive sale. The variety 
 of themes touched upon seem almost unbound- 
 
 ©- 
 
 JOHN PRESTON CAMPBP:LL. 
 
 ed. Although still a comparatively young- man, 
 this brilliant poet has already gained quite an 
 enviable reputation among the young writers 
 of America. For the past fourteen years he 
 has been in the active practice of law in Abil- 
 ene, Kansas. Mr. Campbell is also the author 
 of The Land of Sun and Song, a Kansas poem 
 recently issued in Ixioli foim; and The Sum- 
 merless Sea, an arctic poem. 
 
 I OFTEN WISH. 
 I often wish, in m.ood sublime. 
 
 That I could rise on sei-aph wings 
 And flit throughout that Aidenn clime. 
 
 Where bliss wells from a thousand 
 spi'ings; 
 But when my spirit it would soar 
 
 To the gate of God where glory waits. 
 Some sorrow at my bosom's core 
 
 The heavenly spell that instant breaks. 
 
 At eventide, when mildness falls 
 Amidst the shaded scenery 'round, 
 
 Then a light from the celestial walls 
 Tinges the lily and the mound; 
 
 And the Muses urge my spirit on. 
 To break these earthly hamperings, 
 
 And go flitting through the dawn 
 To where the choir of heaven sings. 
 
 And sometimes, in diviner mood, 
 The celestials they will come. 
 
 With blest heralds of the sisterhood. 
 Pointing me to the land of sun: 
 
 Which makes my restless soul desire 
 • To instant rise and sweep away 
 
 Into the bliss of the world up higher. 
 Beyond tlie mystic gates of day. 
 
 A gush, like an angel's psalm. 
 
 Of some rapt symphony sublime. 
 Which falls like a soothing balm, 
 
 Oft comes o'er this soul of mine 
 When, in musing mood, I meditate, 
 
 At the world's opening door. 
 Of Heaven and things eternal, great; 
 
 Of joy and bliss for evermore. 
 
 HOW CUPID FOUND THE WORLD. 
 
 One cloudless day of yore. 
 As Mercurj' and Venus slept. 
 From their unguarded door 
 A cunning little archer crept. 
 
 A moment pausing on the height. 
 He viewed the new-born world ; 
 
 Then, with a descending ray of light. 
 His tiny pinions he unfurled. 
 
 Downsweeping the celestial way. 
 He alighted near Eden's garden fair. 
 
 And bath ever since that fatal day 
 Made mischief with each loving pair. 
 
 His name is little Cupid slj'. 
 
 As all the bards avow. 
 And many a lieart and eye 
 
 Feel his mischief now. 
 
 He carries 'round a golden bow. 
 
 With arrows silverj- keen. 
 And many a light heart turns to woe 
 
 From his archery supreme. 
 
 Sometimes the stringwill broken fall. 
 
 The arrows get misplaced. 
 But on luckless mortals he will call 
 
 To key it up with haste. 
 
 At the door he raps with gentle tap. 
 With heels, and hands and head: 
 
 He's as cunning a little chap 
 As ever yet was bred. 
 
 And should you let him in 
 
 From the cold and drenching rains. 
 In a fiendish streak of sin 
 
 He'll wound you for your pains. 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 266 
 
 SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Around the sofa's silken folds, 
 
 Guarded by angel bands. 
 In pomp this archer strolls, 
 
 Rending love-links with his hands. 
 
 Ah ! the mischief that was made 
 In letting this little archer out. 
 
 There 'twill all be said 
 In the decalogue of eternity, no doubt. 
 
 ®- 
 
 MY ANGEL BRIDE. 
 
 Amid the evening twilight tide 
 I strayed in a cloudless clime 
 
 Near a lakelet's silvery side. 
 Deep pondering things divine. 
 
 The starlight in the water fell, 
 The moon gleamed up in heaven ; 
 
 Oh! holy, hallowed was the spell 
 That 'round me there was given. 
 
 By the lakelet's opposite brink 
 I saw a snowy-robed angel .stand; 
 
 First from her I thought to shrink. 
 But she beckoned with her hand. 
 
 Then would I have crossed the tide, 
 For that face before I'd seen ; 
 
 Ah ! once she was my plighted bride. 
 My fair and worshiped queen. 
 
 She instant raised her seraph eyes, 
 As if imploring the heaven clear; 
 
 When lo! out of the ambient skies, 
 Melodious voices sounded near. 
 
 " A little longer leave him there. 
 Mayhap to pen some deathless line; 
 
 When the sheaf be ripe and fair. 
 Garner it in the autumn's prime." 
 
 She replied " I'm aweary waiting, 
 Alone amid the golden spheres. 
 
 Whilst others there are mating, — 
 Mating for the eternal years." 
 
 " Oh, grieve not, thou heavenly one. 
 For the joys of earth that's past; 
 
 Abide till an eternity of dawn 
 Breaks 'round thy love at the last.' 
 
 She answered, •> Pray then let it be; 
 
 Write fair on the record above. 
 Without the wall of the Jasper Sea, 
 
 I'll wait and watch for my love." 
 
 The flow of her silvery voice 
 Was wafted by an angel's wing; 
 
 The hosts of heaven did rejoice 
 At her love's deep unwavering. 
 
 Shadows, numborlesp, seemed to Hit 
 As she raised and floated away. 
 
 While on the face of the lakelet 
 Fell a beam brighter than day. 
 
 Long, long in the hush of night 
 I gazed into the heaven there. 
 
 To see whence she'd taken her flight. 
 My beautiful angel bride so fair. 
 
 Since that eve at varied times 
 Will fall on the ear of my soul 
 
 Some of those blest Aidenn chimes 
 That from the harps of angels roll. 
 
 Oft I hear the voice of my bride 
 Chiding me that I do not come. 
 
 From the evening twilight tide. 
 That her weary waiting may be done. 
 
 THE BERRY PATH. 
 Indeed, is this the berry path. 
 
 The path of long ago. 
 Where sportive I did laugh. 
 
 With schoolmates rang'd arow? 
 
 Are these the ancient pines 
 
 That stood so gloomy, tall, 
 And the fond memory lines 
 
 I trac'd with my pen-knife small? 
 
 Is this the lily pond to the right. 
 The wall so moss'd with eld, 
 
 Where went each young day's flight. 
 The school house where I spell'd? 
 
 Ah, yes, they are the same, 
 
 Pasture, play-ground, hill; 
 But only this in name. 
 
 For Time hath wrought his will. 
 
 In meditative mood I pause. 
 As for this and that one's coming; 
 
 But my soul the silence awes 
 At the vari'd changes running. 
 
 Some have wend'd hence, away 
 In pursuit of life's charms; 
 
 Others rest in the church yard clay, 
 Where the worm defacing harms. 
 
 I fanci'da fortnight's cheer 
 In lingering along this walk ; 
 
 But with lov'd ones missing here. 
 Each pleasure seems to mock. 
 
 The berry path so joyful then, 
 Lin'd with laughing boys and girls. 
 
 Seems like a desert'd glen 
 Where Time's succession whirls. 
 
 And somehow as T view 
 
 My youtlifwl i)lay-gi'ound o'er. 
 
 Like ghosts come Hitting into view 
 The vanish'd joys of yore. 
 
 The echoing of my footfalls 
 Rise as dead from out the ground. 
 
 As those of Death's in his icy halls 
 'Mid the hush of nature all profound. 
 
 Sure, there's little joy for me 
 
 In wending here iilone. 
 And painful grows my reverie 
 
 Where all my mates have flown. 
 
 ^ 
 
£ 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 2fi7 
 
 -* 
 
 EDGAR WELLTON COOLEY. 
 
 Born: Manchester, O., Dec. 13, 1865. 
 After leaving school Edgar learned to set 
 type in the office of the Keokuk Daily Consti- 
 tution. In 1881 he removed with his parents 
 to Marshalltown, Iowa, where he now resides. 
 Mr. ('(lolcv was married iti IssT to Miss Ma>- 
 
 « 
 
 EDGAR WELLTON COOLEY. 
 
 Surles. Mr. Cooley now devotes his time al- 
 most entirely to literary pursuits. Many 
 poems of this young writer have appeared in 
 the Waverly Magazine, Chicago Current, Tex- 
 as Figaro, National Tribune and other promi- 
 inent periodicals. 
 
 THE FLOWER OF FAME. 
 
 At morn a hud 
 Whose leaves, still dampened hy the morning 
 dew. 
 Give promise of a heauty unsurpassed. 
 And lay upon the altar of our view 
 Tlie possibilities the future may possess. 
 At noon a full-blown rose 
 Whose fragrance, which it scatters on the air. 
 
 Is equaled only by its loveliness; 
 The model which tlie artist paints with care 
 And the never-dying substance of the poet's 
 song. 
 
 At night a faded flower 
 Whose withered leaves are trampled into dust 
 Unheeded by the busy passer-by; 
 
 Whose perfume which was borne by every 
 guest 
 Is lost amid the tempest of the night. 
 And so with fame; 
 At morn 'tis brightened by hope's fairest 
 dreams. 
 To bloom into reality at noon ; 
 At eve the sun's refulgent beams 
 Find but the ashes of ambition's flame. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN RIDER OF CONEMAUGH. 
 
 Out of the hills in the fading light. 
 
 Like a shadow that heralds the approaching 
 
 night. 
 Rattling o'er ridges, and bridges and dike, 
 And stretching along o'er the stony pike. 
 Straining each nerve to increase their speed. 
 Came a rider strange and a stranger steed — 
 Startling the birds from their nests of straw, 
 Along the banks of the Conemaugh. 
 With streaming main and gray with dust. 
 The steed sweeps on like the evening gust. 
 Bringing down to the town with fiery breath 
 The terrible story of ruin and death; 
 And over the valley the crj^ rings wild 
 To every man, and woman and child — 
 " The dike has broken — flj' to the hills !" 
 At the words the heart of the listener chills. 
 And the birds are scared from their nests of 
 
 straw, 
 Along the banks of the Conemaugh. 
 
 On the evening air there is borne the sound 
 Of a distant rumble that shakes the ground; 
 And the river that slept by its quiet shore 
 Is tearing along with an angry roar; 
 Reaching out with a hungry grasp. 
 And laughing to mockery lock and clasp; 
 Snatching the babe from the mother's breast 
 And bearing it ofl: on its stormy crest; 
 Rushing on in a mighty wave. 
 While the horse and rider are trying to save — 
 And the birds fly out of their nests of straw. 
 Along the banks of the Conemaugh. 
 
 God stay the wave and strengthen the master ! 
 And spur the steed to speed the faster! 
 On, on they fly in the terrible race — 
 But stern and set is the master's face, 
 And steady and clear is the warning cry 
 As horse and rider go sweeping by. 
 But flesh is flesh, and blood is blood — 
 And what is either against a flood? 
 So the rider and steed that tried to save 
 Are lying together beneath the wave; 
 And forever lost are the nests of straw. 
 Along the banks of the Conemaugh. 
 The years may come and the years may go. 
 And the rider's name we may never know; 
 But our hearts will forever in memory hold 
 The heroic deed of the horseman bold. 
 
 -« 
 
>5- 
 
 268 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 And when the wind shall fiercely roar 
 
 And shake the window and rattle the door- 
 
 Ind moan and complain in the chimney deep, 
 
 The mother will rock her children to sleep, 
 
 And sing the song of the thrilling deed 
 
 Of the unknown rider, and unknown steed, 
 
 Who ran the terrible race with death, 
 
 Spreading the warning with faihng breath. 
 
 And startling the birds from their nests of 
 
 straw. 
 Along the banks of the Conemaugh. 
 
 AT MARBLEHEAD. 
 Oh, the flowers grow fair at Marblehead,- 
 
 The flowers grow fair and bright. 
 And the ships sail out in the bay at morn 
 
 And the ships sail back at night. 
 Oh, eleven ships sailed out at morn 
 
 Eleven ships, what then? 
 The winds blew hard and the winds blew 
 strong 
 And the night breeze counted ten. 
 For winds blow hard at Marblehoad - 
 
 The winds blow hard, alack; 
 And the ship that sails away at morn 
 
 May never more come back ! 
 Oh, there are mothers at Marblehead,- 
 
 Oh, there are mothers and wives. 
 And winds may blow and shatter ships, 
 
 And winds may shatter lives. 
 Oh the flowers grow sweet at Marblehead,- 
 
 The flowers grow sweet and high. 
 But winds may blow, and ships may sail 
 And hearts may break and die. 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 Ambition, on life's desert plain. 
 
 Looks through the telescope of years. 
 And bv imagination's lens, 
 Sees"Fame and Fortune's distant streams. 
 Fair Hope's illusive summer dreams 
 But urge the tired traveler on ; 
 
 The mirage of Fancy mocks liis tears, 
 And rises on the burning air. 
 Then Disappointment, hnngry-eyed. 
 That wilful child by Failure bred. 
 Outspreads the canvas Despair, 
 And paints the view with heated breath 
 Of empty hfe and coming death; 
 And leaves him wheti his Will is gone. 
 
 And Energy and Pride is dead, 
 To die alone on Fo lly's plai n. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 And there in a window, with face to the glass, 
 Was the daintiest, prettiest bit of a lass; 
 Audi s;iw ill her roguishly, beautiful eyes, 
 Tlie blue that the storm-king had blown fi'om 
 the skies. 
 As she merrily tapped on the wiiuh)W. 
 
 J. SHERIDAN JAMES. 
 
 born; Ebensbchg, pa., Jan. 2.5, 1865. 
 THE poems Of Mr. James have appeared in the 
 
 J. S11EK11>AN JAMES. 
 
 local press generally. He is a photographer 
 by profession, andstmresides in Ebensburg. 
 
 EBENSBURG. 
 The county seat of Cambria 
 
 So beautifully stands 
 Among the mountain scenery. 
 
 Surrounded on all hands 
 Byfertile farms and woodland 
 
 That deck the hills of fame. 
 And oft is heard the remark 
 
 .. We get there just the same." 
 In spring the sweet birds warble. 
 
 In summer flowers bloom. 
 In autumn can lie ever heard 
 
 The wailing of the coon. 
 In winter sleighing parties 
 
 Are trumps, all through the land 
 Composed of yi)uug folks mainly. 
 A joyous h appy band. 
 
 REFLECTION. 
 In the full bloom of melody and mirth. 
 When youth's bright spirit gleamed t ro.n out 
 
 He left us, his soul though fled from <>'"-l»; 
 Continues yet to sing in strains that cannot die 
 
 Yes. mem.n-y-s visions mingling with a power. 
 Wake the heart's thrill at each fann.ar tone. 
 
 Bring to us all full many a lonely hour 
 Comfort, for which we never can atone 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 269 
 
 HOMER P. BRANCH. 
 
 Born : Millville, Wis., Jan. 11, 1865. 
 After receiving" his education, Homer learn- 
 ed the printers' trade, subsequently entering 
 the editorial sanctum. In 18.S7 Mr. Branch was 
 married to Miss A. Sopha Miller, which union 
 has been blessed with a son and heir. Mr. 
 Branch has been personally associated with 
 
 HOMER P. BRANCH. 
 
 the management of numerous Iowa publica- 
 tions, and is now sole editor and proprietor of 
 the North Iowa Democrat, published at Mitch- 
 ell, of which city he was elected mayor in 1889. 
 He has written numerous poems, and is now 
 at work on several pieces of blank verse, which 
 will appear in book foi-m at an early date. 
 
 m- 
 
 MY SERAPHINE VISITORS. 
 
 Silently on wings of ether 
 
 In my dreams tliere come to me 
 Visions of unearthly beauty 
 
 That caress me lovingly; 
 And they float, these lovely shadows, 
 
 O'er my curtained couch all night, 
 Each dispensing sweet enchantment, 
 
 Joy benign and calm delight. 
 Vestures of transparent whiteness 
 
 Wave about their lustral forms, 
 Glist'ning softly in the moonbeams, 
 
 Kissed by airs in tender storms; 
 And their silver-gleaming tresses 
 
 As they move in silent flight 
 
 Mildly light the darkness 'round them, 
 
 Lending beauty to the night. 
 Ah, they come and lie beside me, 
 
 Hold my head with tender care, 
 Soothe my sleep with happy thoughts. 
 
 All night staying fondly there; 
 Thus I rest m arms of zephyr. 
 
 Closely pressed in warm embrace- 
 Warmly pressed to spectral bosoms! — 
 
 W^ith their warmth upon my face. 
 They're the spirits of the loved ones 
 
 Who have passed to homes divine 
 In the second life's Great Kingdom 
 
 Within Heaven's border line; 
 But at night in troupes all joyous 
 
 Flock they to the mortal one. 
 Whom of all earth they loved the most. 
 
 Whom of earth now love alone. 
 Bright they come on Beulah's odors, 
 
 Floating on the breath of low 
 Sweet music, mild, melodious. 
 
 And their fairy faces glow — 
 Glow with liappiest expression! — 
 
 As tliey hover o'er my bed. 
 And their lips in kisses touch me 
 
 As they nestle 'round my head. 
 
 TO LAKE PONCHARTRANE. 
 
 Watery gem ! I gaze 
 
 On thy luster-flecked breast, 
 And its pale sheen conveys 
 
 To my soul's gloomy rest 
 Vague impressions; the night. 
 
 And the specter-like calm 
 Of the moon's pallid light, 
 
 Like spiritual Ijalm 
 Casts a spell o'er thy wave — 
 O'er thy legended wave ! 
 Through the vapors I see 
 
 White flitting forms dancing 
 A mystic revelry 
 
 Over the swells, glancing 
 In strange salient lines 
 
 Between earth's somber plain. 
 And high Heaven's confines 
 
 In liglits that swell and wane 
 With the gleam of their eyes — 
 
 Changing gleam of their eyes! 
 
 WALTZ SONG. 
 Trip lightly, Li la, lightly now. 
 
 See the merry wa'.tzors gliding. 
 Whirling, airily as fairies. 
 
 Sweetly to the airs confiding 
 All their thoughts in pleasant mazes,— 
 
 Thrilled with pleasure, undeciding 
 On they go nor dream of sorrow. 
 
 Never brooding o'er, nor chiding. 
 Past displeasures; — so, dearest, let us 
 
 Waltz now to the music's guiding. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 270 
 
 S 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 REV. HIRAM B. WHITE. 
 
 Born : Pierpont, Ohio, Oct. 28, 1857. 
 Mr. White is pastorof the Disciple Cliurch at 
 Orwell, Ohio, where he is well known as an up- 
 right and sincere gentleman. Mr. White has 
 been blind from his youth. His poems have 
 been published in the local press, and have 
 been accorded much praise. 
 
 THE VIOLONCELLO. 
 
 I am thrilled with a passion of sound, 
 
 A feeling, a longing profound; 
 A spray from the fount of our deepest -emo- 
 tions 
 Is borne to my soul in that sound. 
 Whence comes it, the power of these strings? 
 
 That voice which so wondrously sings 
 Of the heart's truest longings.its best aspira- 
 tions? 
 Who hath given such a power to these 
 strings? 
 No fairy-like, f rollicksome glee 
 Is borne in their music to me. 
 They tell of the strife, thought and conflict 
 of life; 
 Man's purpose; not youth's careless glee. 
 Do they know, as they sing their sad song. 
 
 How we labor and struggle and long 
 For a touch of that life which in every strmg 
 trembles — 
 Tliat an angel-soul breathes in the song? 
 Fain, fain would I be as those strings. 
 
 The radiant song-angel's wings. 
 Which waft o'er the spirit the perfumes of 
 Eden — 
 My life-type is hid in those strings. 
 
 »- 
 
 A RUINED CASTLE. 
 Staj' with me, gentle spirit of the past. 
 
 While here I wander 'mid deserted halls, 
 And gi-ass-grown paths, half hid by tangled 
 
 \'1nes. 
 Where the rank nettle and unsightly weed. 
 
 And long, lu.xuriant grass usurp the place 
 Of violet, lily, rose and well kept lawn. 
 
 Stay witli me, as I climb these ruined walls. 
 Shuttered by ruthless war and time's rude 
 hand. 
 Restore these broaches. Call again from dust 
 The forms whoso glittering mail reflected back 
 
 The sunset's glow, each shield a flery sun. 
 Uprear this gate, around whose half burned 
 beams 
 The grasses meet to bend their dewy heads. 
 And weep o'er such destruction and decay. 
 But let us leave these things which speak of 
 strife. 
 To seek the rooms whose tattered tapestry 
 
 And walls discolored by the damps of time, 
 Undwelt in save by darkness-haunting bat 
 Or dreamy owl, who seeks their gloomy 
 shade. 
 Whose shattered windows.cruwned with point- 
 ed arch. 
 And curtained with the spider's delicate 
 wheel. 
 Were once the fair abodes of woman's power. 
 Which makes our war-cursed earth not all a 
 hell. 
 Thy fount of inspiration, those two lives. 
 So closely blent they seemed one heart, one 
 soul; 
 But severed with a shock Avhich left their 
 world this void:— 
 But see! a fallen picture here. 
 Like some pure angel in a world of sin ; 
 
 The last memorial of God's frustrate plan. 
 Raise it; brush back the dust and cobweb 
 screen. 
 And through its mildew trace, in shadowy 
 lines, 
 A mother holding in her arms her babe. 
 Recall the fading memories of her life. 
 Old tales which 'moug the simple country folk 
 Still linger like the scent of flowers removed. 
 Or the last low murmur of some mournful 
 song. 
 Breathing a holj' silence through the soul. 
 But pause not here. Still on from room to 
 room, 
 Vast halls decayed, yet holding still some 
 trace 
 Of former pomp, in walls of paneled oak 
 
 Or carveu stone, or floors of quaint design, 
 Or leaden sash with glass of rare device. 
 
 All time-worn and defaced by wanton lian(l>- 
 O'er moldering floors, through gloomy cor- 
 ridors. 
 Dark, slimy, winding passages, down flights 
 Of broken steps, we pick our dangerous way 
 Out of this chill dead air, and stand once 
 moi'c 
 Where Heaven's warm kiss calls forth earth's 
 myriad life. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 Marked you the sun, when last he smiled on 
 earth, 
 Tlien seemed to turn again to kiss his child 
 Good-night, and hush the weary world to rest? 
 Saw you his splendor when he touched tin- 
 clouds 
 With tints of gold, or changed to crimson Are? 
 
 He saw himself reflected in the stream. 
 Whose low, sweet' music speaks to Nature's 
 heart; 
 And like a maid in bridal robes arrayed. 
 He, trembling, smiled to see himself so fail'. 
 
 « 
 
 III 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElllCA. 
 
 271 
 
 JOHN JORDAN. 
 
 Born in Ireland, March 6, 1805. 
 Among the citizens of Red Wing-, Minnesota, 
 and the surrounding country, tliere are few 
 men who are more widely known than John 
 Jordan: li'e lives on a farm in Wacoiitn, and is 
 
 
 "^^ 
 
 
 ) 
 
 ■■^'0 
 
 P^r 
 
 ! 
 
 i 
 
 
 4^: 
 
 
 L 
 
 XI 
 
 
 • luIlN JlJKUAN. 
 
 not only a farmer but is also a poet and inven- 
 tor. Althougl#Mr. Jordan is now in his eighty- 
 fifth year, he is still vigorous and healthy, and 
 is a familiar tlgureou the streets of Red Wing. 
 
 ®- 
 
 JORDAN'S CREEK. 
 Near j'on willow sand I heave up. 
 
 And the soil I wash away. 
 Over rock and coral bottom. 
 
 Running steady night and day. 
 Through the meadow and the pasture. 
 
 Crooked cuts make on my way; 
 There is no human hand can stop me 
 
 For my mission's to the sea. 
 Man may spoil my crooked corners. 
 
 But he can't my onward way. 
 For the Great Creator made me, 
 
 And his will I do obey. 
 Yes, man may turn me and may dam me. 
 
 Then my strength is stronger still; 
 And to him I would prove useful 
 
 For my power would turn his mill. 
 The trout play in my waters here 
 
 And nibble at the seeds of grass; 
 
 The flowers in the meadows, too. 
 Are glad to hear me sing and pass. 
 
 At the bottom I move on slowly. 
 With difficulty make my way; 
 
 Thence into the mighty ciiannel 
 Where large fish do sport and play. 
 
 I meet my friends from three quarters. 
 Yes, from the north, south and west, 
 
 And our union makes us stronger 
 To carry the rafts upon our breast. 
 
 MINNESOTA. 
 
 O Minnesota? Young Minnesota! 
 
 'Tis not so very long ago 
 Since your roads were but Indian trails, 
 
 And the War Dance all the go; 
 But the scalpers are all gone. 
 
 They have followed the buffalo. 
 And the splendid fields of wheat 
 
 On the hunting grounds now grow. 
 
 O Minnesota! Healthy Minnesota! 
 
 You soon jumped into wealth; 
 The reason is very plain, 'tis your 
 
 Good soil and your good health. 
 May yoil forever pi-osper. 
 
 The " staff of life " to grow. 
 And farewell to the scalpers 
 
 Who followed the buffalo. 
 
 MY SON NATHANIEL'S PICTURE. 
 His picture is here, 
 
 But his bones they are not; 
 They lie far away 
 
 In some rebel's green lot. 
 For his country he fought. 
 
 For the union did fall 
 On the red battle-field 
 
 By a traitor's sad ball. 
 
 On the fourth of October, 
 
 In tlie year sixty two, 
 The fighting was hard 
 
 At Corinth, it is true. 
 Nat., the brave fellow. 
 
 These words then did say 
 To his comrade, Edwards, 
 
 " Let us not run away." 
 
 But before the brave fellow 
 
 Could get a reply, 
 A shell knocked him over. 
 
 And in blood he did lie. 
 He was carried to a tent; 
 
 Edwards did say 
 That he spoke of his mother 
 
 The most of the way. 
 
 He said, " Tell my mother 
 To not fret for me, . 
 
 For I die for my country 
 And sweet liberty." 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -« 
 
 ANDREW J. EIDSON, M. D. 
 
 Born in Ohio in 1837. 
 Mr. Eidson studied tlieology, but was not or- 
 dained. He next studied medicine, graduat- 
 ing- at Rush medical college in 1865. While 
 quite young Dr. Eidsou commenced to court 
 the muse. More than a hundred of his poems 
 have appeared from time to time in the peri- 
 odical press. The poem of No Children's 
 
 ANDREW J. EIDSON. 
 
 Graves in China has been pronounced one of 
 the finest productions in the English language. 
 In 1871 Dr. Eidson removed to Coatesville, 
 Missouri, where he has been engaged up to 
 the present time in the active practice of his 
 profession. In the near future this soldier, 
 doctor and writer contemplates the publica- 
 tion of a volume of poems. 
 
 ©- 
 
 NO CHILDREN'S GRAVES IN CHINA. 
 No children's graves in China, 
 
 Tlie missionaries .say; 
 In cruel haste and silence. 
 
 They put those buds away; 
 No tombstones marli their resting. 
 
 To keep their memory sweet; 
 Their graves, unknown, are trodden 
 
 Ry many careless feet. 
 No children's graves in China, 
 
 Tiiat land of heathen gloom; 
 Tliey deem not that their spirits 
 
 Will live beyond the tomb. 
 No little coffin holds them. 
 
 Like to a downy nest, 
 No spotless shroud enfolds them. 
 
 Low in their quiet rest. 
 
 No children's graves in China- 
 No parents ever weep ; 
 
 No toy or little relic, 
 The thoughtless mothers keep. 
 
 No mourners e'er assemble 
 Around the early dead. 
 
 And flowers of careful planting. 
 Ne'er mark their lowly bed. 
 
 No children's graves in China, 
 
 With sad and lovely ties. 
 To make the living humble. 
 
 And point them to the skies; 
 No musings pure and holy, 
 
 Of them when day is done; 
 Be faithful, missionary. 
 
 Your work is just begun ! 
 
 FASHION. 
 
 Time moves along — nor is it wrong 
 
 Tliat Fashion should progress. 
 Since half who live attention give 
 
 To beautify and dress ; 
 'Tis the exterior we admire. 
 
 Though backward to confess; 
 To be as others we desire. 
 
 Nor are our efforts less. 
 
 Yet as to clothes I would propose: 
 
 Avoid the true extremes ; 
 Too much to wear, too little care. 
 
 To me are wrong it seems ; 
 A medium in everything, * 
 
 A fit with natural ease. 
 Then gracefulness imparts the spring 
 
 That makes our manners please! 
 
 LOVE'S IDEAL. 
 
 Fairest that the hour 
 Reveals at dawn of day: 
 
 Sweeter than the flower 
 That blushes by the way. 
 
 Lovely as the streaming 
 Of sunbeams in the west; 
 
 Placid twilight's gleaming 
 Around the rosebud's rest. 
 
 De.arer than the treasui-es 
 That Nature's cliarnis l)estow 
 
 Purest source of pleasiu'es 
 That mortals seek below. 
 
 Vision, wildly thrilling. 
 That never can dei)art : 
 
 Fullness more than filling 
 The longings of the heart! 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -)5 
 
 273 
 
 MAUDE MEREDITH. 
 
 MRS. D. T. SMITH. 
 
 BoKN : Vermont, Nov. 17, 1848. 
 It is a great feather in Maude Meredith's cap 
 that she is a good mother, and that other wo- 
 men eulogize her greatly, including the best 
 and brightest lady writers in America. She is 
 wholly uuafl'eeted in lier style, and there is a 
 moral tendency in all her writings which show 
 a vivid imagination, an originality of treat- 
 ment, anil a vast fertility of brain —in the 
 
 AIAUDE MEREDITH. 
 
 treatment of her themes. In 1869 Maude Mer- 
 edith was married to Mr. D. T. Smith, of Du- 
 buque, Iowa, in which city she is well known 
 for her charitableness, being at all times ready 
 to lielp along every good cause. She has grown 
 famous without coveting it, and only a genius 
 could wear such honors with tlie modesty that 
 Maud Meredith does. Her writings have ap- 
 peared in the leading pci'iodicals of America, 
 from which they have been coi)ied by the press 
 from Maine to California. 
 
 ® 
 
 MY LITTLE MAN. 
 When early sunbeams kiss the hills 
 
 Across the shimmering blue. 
 And all the wood with music rings 
 
 To greet the morning new,— 
 'Tis then, with smile and happy song. 
 
 We wander forth in glee. 
 And life is like a matin, to 
 
 My little man and me. 
 
 Wlien Noonday sifts her sands of gold 
 
 Through Summer's fllmy haze. 
 And droning bees swift come and go 
 
 In all the busy days; 
 We swing in shady nook and dream 
 
 The drowsy moments by. 
 Content that we together are,— 
 
 My little man and I. 
 When shadows creep between the hills. 
 
 And breezes damp and cool. 
 Come out to whisper 'mong the reeds 
 
 Along the sedgy pool ; 
 With lids adroop, the nodding bead 
 
 I pillow tenderly. 
 And dream-seas drift afar from shore 
 
 My little man and me. 
 
 BIFROST. 
 Dark clouds roll up the far horizon's rim. 
 And distant thunders mutter sullenly and 
 low ; 
 A freshening sea-wind landward veering in. 
 Makes murmurous song where reedy grasses 
 grow. 
 The robin calls with steady, plaintive crj-; 
 
 The larks are still; and all the linnets wait; 
 The leaves turn pallid faces toward the dark- 
 ening sky. 
 Presaging ghostly messages of fate. 
 Lo! all the forests toss their quivering arms; 
 While flower-stems snap, and willows sway 
 and bend; 
 The strong alone withstand the dread alarms 
 ThatThor andVulcan from their forges send. 
 The clouds sweep on and all the sky is gray; 
 
 And heavy thunders shake the sobljing air; 
 While near the red-tongued, forked lightnings 
 play. 
 And gloom and blackness resteth every- 
 where. 
 In sheeted columns are the torrents led;— 
 For now while war o'ercasts the trembling 
 land 
 The mountain hides, in veiling mists, its head. 
 And high waves lash with yeasty foam the 
 sand. 
 Anon the hurrying winds their tumults cease. 
 And the spent clouds in fragments drift 
 apart ; 
 Then all the earth breaks forth in smiles of 
 peace. 
 And untold jewels gleam and little bird- 
 songs start. 
 Across the Heavens iu amathyst and gold. 
 And gorgeous red lies spanned the "Tremb- 
 ling Way," 
 Where hero souls go hasting, as of old, 
 Thev sought the halls where joys of Valhal 
 lay. 
 
 -m 
 
m- 
 
 274 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 Ah bells! Glad bells! 
 
 The story old repeating-, 
 This is the day, I hear you saj'. 
 On which the Christ was born; 
 The day on which good will, and joy and peace 
 are meeting; 
 All this your music tells. 
 
 Yet ages since have flown, 
 And He was Mary's son. 
 Oh bells! Sad bells! 
 
 My heart breaks 'mid your pealing-, 
 I can not bear the clamor of j'our 
 tongues, 
 I can not even pray. 
 Must all our questions wait the future's slow 
 repealing? 
 Are life and death as one? 
 
 I only know this is the day 
 That took from me my son. 
 
 ©- 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 And now the vigil hours are worn and done; 
 
 Blow out the lamp and softly turn the spread ; 
 Set back the glasses, slowly, one by one. 
 
 No more is needed. Lo! the man is dead. 
 Pass down the stairs. How dim the hall lamp 
 burns. 
 And soft, on padded carpet falls the tread; 
 We shudder as the grating night-latch turns. 
 How strange the house wherein a man lies 
 dead ! 
 One moment more and all the damp, cool air 
 Flings in our face the river's hooded graj' 
 Of aeriel mistiness. A morning prayer 
 Slow creeping heavenward at approach of 
 day. 
 How solemn stretch the silent city streets 
 
 And on the pave our footsteps jar and ring; 
 'Tis no fit time to mar with hurrying feet 
 This hour when sad Night folds her sable 
 wing. 
 Husli I Now the pine trees, black against the 
 sky, 
 Wliisper weird messages, and softly bend 
 To loucli the tasseled larch, wliere wet leaves 
 lie 
 Like tear-stained cheek against tlie clieck of 
 friend. 
 A sin-ill bird voice, upstarting, cries of morn 
 
 As, drunk wiMi revel, had o'erslept his time. 
 And suddenly, like flageolet and iiorn. 
 
 Burst all the greenness into song and chime. 
 And soft, faint odors are borne on the wind. 
 Of springing grass, and jiale pink disc of 
 rose; 
 Of damp, brown earth, and all tlic timid kind 
 Of flowers, that open at the twilight close. 
 
 Across the purple-tinted fields that lie 
 Far-stretciiing in voluptuous clovered bloom, 
 To where their fringes touch the bendingsky, 
 A hnv of light cuts through the dewj* gloom. 
 And rosy fingers lint the dreamy clouds 
 Tliat toss above the wearied moon's pale 
 horn ; 
 The wliite stars flee away In fading crowds, 
 And on the mountain smiles the face of 
 morn. 
 Adown the dew-gemmed vallej-s, silent all 
 
 Like sheeted ghosts the shadows steal away ; 
 To us, who watched last eve, the darkness fall. 
 In separate ways, has come a new-born day. 
 Not only this, but all the Heavenly hours 
 
 To him, who in the dark, with bated breath. 
 Went out to pluck the fadeless lily flowers. 
 And Lotus leaves, tliat heal the wounds of 
 death. 
 
 TWO SIDES. 
 This world is full of sorrow and woe. 
 
 All me ! 
 Tliere's so little that's )-eal, so much that is 
 sliow. 
 
 All me! 
 And there's so many things that none of us 
 
 know. 
 But work's a task-master, and wealth comes 
 
 so slow ; 
 And when it all ends, O, where shall we go? 
 Ah me! 
 
 Wliat a jolly old world we are in, to bo sure. 
 
 Ha, lia! 
 For each of our illstiiere is somewhere a cure. 
 
 Ha, ha! 
 And life, like atop, spins so merrily 'round, 
 Wherever we look there's some joy to be found 
 And when we are dead, wb.y there's rest in tlie 
 ground. 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 AT SET OF SUN. 
 On the busy liigliways lies a husli and a liaze, 
 
 And the wliispering winds are still; 
 There's a faint crimson glow at the liori/on 
 low. 
 And a lonely bird cries on f lie hill. 
 There are odors of corn that tlie wings of the 
 morn. 
 Had low dropped in their hurrying lliglit ; 
 O'er the meadows asleep the dull shadows 
 creep, 
 Newly born of the oncoming night. 
 While the reapers so late, imss the laiinyard 
 gate. 
 Slowly lionieward with weary tread. 
 For low lying at rest, folded soft on lier breast. 
 Are the hands of the day, just dead. 
 
 a< 
 
«&- 
 
 Local and national toets of America. 
 
 275 
 
 -«& 
 
 MRS. S. ISADORE MIXER. 
 
 BoKx: Battle Creek, Mich., Sept. 25, 1863. 
 Graduating at the age of seventeen, this 
 ladj' then took up tlie avocation of school 
 teaching- until her marriage in 1884 to J. 
 Weston Miner. Her husband being- connected 
 ■n-ith the Battle Creek Review and Herald 
 pubUsliinK iiou.'^e, Mrs. Miner was engaged as 
 
 ISADCIHE minp:r. 
 a proof-reader, and finally as a writer, editing- 
 a large share of the work on a series of child- 
 ren's books issued from thatoflBce. Her poems 
 have been widely published in St. Nicholas, 
 Wide Awake, and the periodical press gener- 
 ally. She still follows the profession of editor 
 and writer at Battle Creek, Mich., *and is con- 
 nected with the Good Health Publishing Com- 
 pany of that city. 
 
 OLD SCORES REPAID. OR TRAGEDY 
 REVERvSED. 
 
 I met a tearful little lass; 
 
 She sobbed so liard I could not pass; 
 
 I wondered so thereat; 
 "Oh, dry your tears, my pretty child. 
 Pray tell me why you grieve so wild? " 
 
 " A— mouse — ate — up — my— cat ! " 
 " A mouse ate up your cat! " I cried. 
 To think she'd fib quite horrified: 
 
 "Why, how can you say that'?" 
 Her tears afresh began to run. 
 She sobbed the words out, one by one: 
 
 " It — was — a — cand V — cat ! " 
 
 THE LITTLE YOUNG MEN IN GOLD. 
 
 Outside the nursery window. 
 
 Before the spring was old, 
 I found one morn, as I chanced to pass, 
 Standnig straight and tall in the tender grass, 
 
 A little young man in gold. 
 He was a saucy urchin. 
 
 His look was bright and bold; 
 Yet he nodded so blithe when he caught my 
 
 eye. 
 That I kissed my hand as I bade good bye 
 
 To the little young man in gold. 
 Next time I crossed the terrace, 
 
 I turned me from my -way 
 To visit the sprite, but a marvelous change 
 Some fairy had wrought, and there stood, oh 
 strange! 
 
 A little old man in gray! 
 Inside the nursery window 
 
 Is the dearest thing I hold,— 
 With brightest of eyes, and a saucy air. 
 And a wonderful wealth of golden hair,— 
 
 My little young man in gold. 
 Next time he begged a storj-, 
 
 A wonderful tale I told. 
 How out in the sunshine and fragrant dew, 
 A dear flower-brother there one time grew 
 
 To my little young man in gold. 
 And then I wondered sadlj' 
 
 If ever I'd see the day 
 Wlien my little young man with golden hair 
 Would be like the dandelion standing there,— ■ 
 
 A little old man with gray! 
 
 I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED! 
 I don't want to go to bed; 
 
 I aint sleepy, not one bit; 
 I don't want to go till dark, 
 
 And the lamps are lit! 
 Chickens go to bed 'fere dark? 
 
 I don't care if cliickens do; 
 I aint one, and taint tlie same, 
 
 'Cause the hens go, too. 
 
 I aint sleepj% not one bit; 
 
 If I was, I wouldn't care; 
 But I see queer things awake. 
 
 Sometimes looks most like a bear. 
 I aint noddin', Johnnie Gray; 
 
 You stop saying that I do; 
 Guess if you worked hard all day, 
 
 Your head would get wigglej-, too. 
 Oh : there's prickers in my feet. 
 
 Why, the chair keeps going 'round 
 Mamma, take your little girl,— 
 
 And the pet was sleeping sound. 
 So we tucked lier in her crib. 
 
 There to dream 'till broad daylight; 
 Then up to play around all day. 
 
 And sing the same old song at night. 
 
 ® 
 
©^ 
 
 276 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 m 
 
 MRS. MARY RACHEL KLINE. 
 
 Born : Mukwonago, Wis., Nov. 24, 1843. 
 Fob eleven years this lady was blind, when 
 the lig-ht was again restored after many pain- 
 ful operations. She was a school teacher in 
 her youth. Mrs. Kline has a son and a daugh- 
 ter now living. In person she is very small 
 
 MRS. MARY RACHEL KLINE. 
 
 and slender, and lives with her husband, a 
 resident of Hager City, Wisconsin. The poems 
 of Mrs. Kline have appeared in many leading 
 publications, from which they have been ex- 
 tensively copied by the local press. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MAIDEN ROCK. 
 A legend, and this is a share 
 Wiiich the du.sky sons of the forest bear. 
 Of a noble rock .susi)ended o'er 
 Fair Pepin lake. With ceaseless roar. 
 The silvery wave, with ebb and flow. 
 Plays ever the same as years ago. 
 When a maiden urged by deep despair. 
 Gained the rocky ledge, and there. 
 To escape lier fate and wed a brave 
 She could not love, she .sought a grave 
 In tlie waters, wiiich, since childhood days. 
 Had been her joy and deliglit to praise. 
 An instant in air, then o'er the place 
 Swept a coming wave and left no trace 
 Of the weary heart, gone far away 
 To tlie land of the .. Sjiirit Great " to stay. 
 Tlio guests liad assembled, tlie brave, the 
 fair. 
 
 To witness the union of the plighted pair. 
 The flying form with awe they view- 
 Mark the plunge "mid waters blue; 
 Then rose from the throng a mingled wail 
 Of frenzy wild. Ah '. sad the tale 
 Of the grief some bore till life was done. 
 And they passed to the bourn bejond the 
 
 sun; 
 While the rock still bears the name they gave 
 Of " Maiden Rock "—the maiden's grave. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 There's a beautiful land where angels sing. 
 Where cherubs float on snowy wing; 
 A realm of bliss is that region above,— 
 Oh, say, can I go to that Eden of love? 
 
 There is a beautiful city where all is light,— 
 Beautiful gates of pearly white. 
 While from the throne flows a crystal stream. 
 And the tree of life on its margin is seen. 
 
 Mansions are there for the good and blest. 
 Where the weary one finds perfect rest; 
 Saints of all ages are gathered there, — 
 O, may I join them'? is my fervent prayer. 
 
 Christ the arisen, who died, man to save. 
 
 Hears the petitions we humbly crave. 
 
 Bids us walk in his footsteps,— look ever 
 
 above. 
 When redeemed we may dwell in that Eden 
 
 of love. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 May queen of the j^ear in robes so fair 
 Again has come, and the balmy air 
 Is filled with merry songbird.^' lay. 
 Welcoming the happy, joyous May. 
 
 Still I am sad — one year has flown. 
 And the mossy turf o'er the spot has grown, 
 Since mother was placed from our sight away 
 Under the heavy, cold, damp clay. 
 
 Last nighfwhen the whip-poor-will's song was 
 
 heai'd 
 On the stilly air, how the cadence stirred 
 Soft memories; I was thinking when 
 Would my heart be hajipy and liglit again. 
 
 I heard a .step; then my father's voice 
 Said kindly, " Fannie, I have made a choice, 
 Our home is lonely; you may prepare— 
 Another mother, to welcome there. 
 
 Another so soon, ere the lovely rose 
 Its perfumed petals shall disclose; 
 Will she come in beauty and pride 
 To her new home— the old man's bride. 
 
 To welcome with smiles I must wreath my face 
 For one who has taken mother's place. 
 My father has given his love to anotiiei'. 
 But I'll not forget my own, angel mollicr. 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS.ADELAIDE D.KINGSLEY. 
 
 Bokn: Canada, 1843. 
 Maruied in New York City to Hon. George 
 B. Kiiigslej' of Minnesota in 1843, the subject 
 of this sketch came the following- year with 
 her husband to Blue Earth City in that state, 
 where she has since resided. Some ten years 
 ago she lost her only child, a son who had at- 
 tained his fifteenth year, which has been their 
 gxeat sorrow. Mrs. King'sley is the author of 
 a story entitled Heart or Purse, which has 
 
 fr 
 
 MRS. ADELAIDE D. KINGSLEY. 
 
 been extensively read. The poems of this 
 lady have been published in the Woman's 
 Tribune, St. Paul Globe, Minneapolis Tribune, 
 and other Minnesota periodicals, which have 
 been widely copied throughout the country. 
 Mrs. Kingsley is a member of the Presbyterian 
 church; state superintendent of the W. C. T. 
 U.; and is also an active worker in philan- 
 thropic reforms, using her voice, hand and 
 pen whenever opportunity offers. 
 
 TO A LETTER. 
 O, white-winged messenger! 
 
 What bring you now? 
 What lies enfolded on your passive page? 
 My lips forbear to stir. 
 
 But only thou 
 Could'st so arou.se the heart within its cage. 
 Bring'st thou friendship's greeting? 
 
 Notes of bright hours 
 
 Of which you oft in silence gaily tell. 
 The absent through thee meeting. 
 
 No shadow low(!rs 
 But thoughts you claim to bind in your 
 
 sweet spell. 
 Tell'st thou love's story true. 
 
 Thou flitting bird? 
 Poem in world of icy prose thou art! 
 That story old yet new. 
 
 Thrice welcome word, 
 I press thee fondly to my beating heart. 
 Or bring'st thou plaintive wail 
 
 That sad ones sing, 
 Tliat will not cease till sorrow hath her sway? 
 Yet come so still and pale. 
 
 What e'er you bring 
 Thou still art mine, whate'er thy white lips 
 say. 
 
 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 She towers above the petty forceful molds. 
 That long have held her in their strong em- 
 brace. 
 Till only the imagination holds 
 A vision of the grand yet loving face, 
 We long to claim as mother of our race. 
 Our maid in bronze proclaims forever more 
 I>ight to the world and fair, sweet liberty. 
 And every land beyond our surf-beat shore 
 Looks out to us to learn what that may be. 
 And looking learns that only men are free. 
 She'll not be slave of custom or of sex. 
 But free as man, and with a freeman's tread. 
 No perfect mind matures where terrors vex; 
 None ever grandly grow who walk in dread. 
 By narrow customs of long bondage led. 
 And beauty will be hers of better type 
 Than even we, in this bright land have seen 
 For childish whims, when the good time is 
 
 ripe, 
 Will vanish in the mists of what has been; 
 Distorted shape she will not beauty deem. 
 She'll be a factor in the golden age; [cide; 
 Her sphere — let that her will and gifts de- 
 She may be teacher, preacher, author, sage. 
 Or gently at the homely hearth preside. 
 Where equal honor, sire and dame divide. 
 Her children, born of love, not cringing fear. 
 Will rise to bless the world as crimes decrease. 
 Why bar her coming? Pray that she appear. 
 To usher in a glorious age of peace. 
 The darkened nations wait! May light in- 
 crease! 
 Gifts will be her's to draw men to the skies. 
 Saved through her powers, they'll sing her 
 
 wondrous worth. 
 In vain to do her part our brother tries: 
 Yet rule of selfish might delays her birth, 
 On sin-stained, war-swept, man-ruled earth. 
 
 -* 
 
m 
 
 -® 
 
 278 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 JOHN WESLEY COUCHMAN. 
 
 Born: Margaketville, N.Y., Aug. 25, 1853. 
 This writer teaclies in the public schools of 
 his native stute. He was ehiss poet at the 
 Weslevan university at Middletowu in 1878. 
 
 JOHN WESLEY COUCHMAN. 
 
 Mr. Couchman was married in 1882 to Miss 
 Mj'ra M. Dibble, and is now a resident of 
 Richmondville,N.Y.,wliere he is well known 
 and highly respected. 
 
 »- 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 You came with wondrous lig'ht, 
 Darl£ eyes, dark eyes unto me. 
 Till the largo world g-rew bright — 
 Dark eyes, ye did undo me — 
 Strange such untutored things 
 As soft eye-dallyings 
 Should Hntter wings, and wing the fever 
 
 tlirongli nie! 
 Still, all the tiutter never once alarnu'd me — 
 With Jill your light you came, dark eyes, and 
 
 charmed me. 
 Dark eyes, dark eyes you charmed me. 
 
 You came with wondrous strength. 
 
 Gray eyes, gray eyes to wound me; 
 Gray eyes, you came at length. 
 Fay eyes, and found me: 
 Ah, true! the (luiet power 
 Of many a trystful liour 
 
 Put love in flower and with still lashes bound 
 
 me! 
 At fault the plea your strong light merely 
 
 thrilled me, 
 In fond excess it came and nearly killed me I 
 
 Gray eyes, you nearlj- killed me! 
 
 You came with heaven hue. 
 
 Blue eyes, blue eyes to meet me; 
 With wealth of violet dew 
 Blue eyes, true eyes, to greet me ; 
 A wondrous, wild desire 
 Puts all loy soul on flre 
 To draw you nigher and know bow you will 
 
 treat me ; 
 A hope I have your beams will kindly be. 
 Yet, oh! sweet eyes, my hope is scarcely 
 
 free — 
 Blue eyes, true eyes, what will you do with 
 me. 
 
 SONG. 
 Sorrow, I know thee! 
 
 Thy form appears 
 Dim-litten, slowly, 
 Clothed with tears. 
 What is thy quest, O thou 
 Crowned with the pensive brow? 
 What dost thou bring me now. 
 Daughter of fears? 
 Sorrow, shall thy form betray me? 
 Sorrow, shall thy sweet self slay me? 
 Sorrow, in thy bosom sway me — 
 To, sleep — sleep ! 
 
 Sorrow, I hear thee ! 
 
 Thy falling tears 
 Flatter me nearly. 
 Burn, my heart sears. 
 Oh! thou from depths of sea. 
 Speak thy full quest to me! 
 I am inclined to thee. 
 Sister of tears. 
 Sorrow, shall thy form betray me. 
 Sorrow, shall tliy sweet self slay me! 
 Sorrow, in thy cradle sway me — 
 To, sleep — sleep ! 
 
 Sorrow, I wait thee! 
 
 Where the sweet years 
 Kissed me so lately. 
 Sow tliou thy tears. 
 He thy tleep-liiding mist. 
 Feeling my foreh.ead kissed, 
 All thy sad song I list. 
 Mother ot biers. 
 Sorrow, shall tliy form betray me? 
 Sorrow, shall tby sweet self slay me? 
 Sorrow, in thy Dosom sw:iy me — 
 To sleep, sleep! 
 
 -5 
 
ee- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 279 
 
 -® 
 
 CHARLES A. PRATT. 
 
 BoKN IN Pennsylvania, Jan. ~0, laVi. 
 The poems of this writer h;ive appeared in the 
 Chieago Times, Globe and Inter-Ocean, Scrib- 
 ncr's Magazine and other well known publica- 
 tions, from which they have been extensively 
 copied by the local press. Mr. Pratt was the 
 publisher of the Princeville Times at the age 
 of nineteen; the following year was city edi- 
 tor of the Peoria Daily Democrat; aud for a 
 
 
 
 
 
 .u^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^fe 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■i 
 
 
 {■ 
 
 1 
 
 r - 
 
 ^'^ 
 
 I,.. 
 
 
 ... .:.M 
 
 ' MAin.KS W. PRATT. 
 
 time was also ou the editorial staff of the Peo- 
 ria Transcript. He next bought the Times at 
 Buda, Illinois, in 1883, which he published for 
 six years. Mr. Pratt was appointed post- 
 master at the same place in 1885, which posi- 
 tion he filled until 1889, when he bought the 
 Times at Sheffield, Illinois, which he now pub- 
 lishes. 
 
 MASTER AND MAN. 
 Within a stately mansion on the Hudson's 
 
 bonny banks, 
 Stood two men in earnest converse — men of 
 
 two distinctive ranks: 
 Wealthy, proud, and scornful, with ar haughty 
 
 air the one. 
 The other poor and humble —a menial's luck- 
 less son. 
 'Tis the same, sad, and simple story, tliat's 
 heen told in every land; 
 © 
 
 How a youth of poor possessions sought a rich 
 
 man's daughter's hand; 
 How the sire in scorn and anger the youth's 
 
 advances spurned. 
 While the maid in silent sorrow for her lover's 
 
 presence yearned. 
 "You wed my only daughter! " cried he, in 
 
 tones of scorn ; 
 " You, a hireling's graceless offspring, a crea- 
 ture lowly born? 
 My daughter's proud and hand.some, I, her 
 
 father, rich and great; 
 When she weds 'twill be amomg her peers, 
 
 with those of high estate." 
 • > Tis true I am poor and humble," the youth 
 
 in sorrow said, 
 "But a man free-born and honest," and he 
 
 proudly raised his head. 
 "Tis true you are great and wealthy, with a 
 
 higher name than mine. 
 But with this hand and brain I'll win a greater 
 
 fame than thine." 
 Then slowly, as with head erect he reached 
 
 the open air. 
 At a window up he waved adieu to a maiden 
 
 pure and fair. 
 Why this cold distinction? Why one high, the 
 
 other low? 
 Simply, in the world's esteem, 'tis money 
 
 makes them so. 
 " 'Twas early in the '60's, when our land was 
 
 plunged in war. 
 When Lincoln's proclamation called " three 
 
 hundred thousand more." 
 In the streets of town and citj' rushed the peo- 
 ple to and fro. 
 And the boys were nobly rallying to face 
 
 their country's foe. 
 Then proudly marched the heroes, in bold and 
 
 grand review. 
 While maidens sang in cheering song, "God 
 
 speed the boys in blue." 
 When gallant Company K marched out to mu- 
 sic's loud refrain. 
 It bore upon its muster roll the name of Hol- 
 land Baine. 
 He left a manly letter for her whose heart he'd 
 
 won. 
 Beseeching trust and constancy until his 
 
 work was done. 
 She caught the welcome message, through the 
 
 loving lines she read. 
 Then in silence knelt and prayed for precious 
 
 blessings on his head. 
 Far on Southern fields of battle rose our hero 
 
 into fame; 
 Each soldier knew his bravej-y and the coun- 
 try praised his name. 
 Through every hard-fought battle, from morn 
 
 till setting sun. 
 
 ■© 
 
*- 
 
 280 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 He was foremost in the conflict until the day 
 
 was won. 
 
 Ou the bloody field of Shiloh, in Antietam's 
 
 fearful fight, [of the right 
 
 He bravely bore the banner of the truth and 
 
 Greater still his grand achievements, brighter 
 
 still the straps lie wore. 
 Until with proud distinction he a high com- 
 mission bore. 
 When peace, at Appomatox, was proclaimed 
 
 throughout the laud. 
 He returned with glowing colors at the head 
 
 of his command. 
 
 People rushed to do him honor - his name on 
 
 every tongue, [sung. 
 
 And poets in their muses his highest praises 
 
 There was one whose heart was throbbing with 
 
 a wilder joy than all. 
 Who had watched her lover's gallant course, 
 
 and waited his recall; 
 The barriers now had vanished, pride's false 
 
 distinction flown. 
 And Cupid with his magic bow could blithely 
 
 claim his own. 
 So in autumn when the leaves were turned to 
 
 purple pure, and gold. 
 She stood at Hymen's altar pledged to him she 
 
 loved of old. 
 And the man who first was scornful, whose 
 
 consent was sought in vain, 
 Now was proud to claim as son the distin- 
 guished Colonel Baine! 
 This is the moral of my story, this the truth 
 
 that I would teach: 
 Though a man be poor and humble, there's a 
 
 prize within his reach. 
 'Tis not wealth that makes our heroes, 'tis not 
 
 pride that leads the van; 
 It is brains that win distinction ; 'tis the mind 
 that malses the man. 
 
 JOHN BANVARD. 
 
 Mr. Banvahd engaged early in hfe at paint- 
 ing in New Orleans, Natchez, and subsequent- 
 ly at Cincinnati and Louisville, and was lib- 
 erally rc^wardcd for his artistic paintings. Mr. 
 Banvard was a self-taught artist, yet his pic- 
 tures received distinguished marks of appro- 
 bation from English critics. He painted the 
 Mississippi river upon more than three miles 
 of canvas. He is spoken of as a remarkable 
 man, not only as a great traveler and lectur- 
 er, but also as a poet, a painter and a wit. 
 
 THE PKAIRIE'S FIRST FLOWEK. 
 Thou pretty little crocus flower, 
 Sweet herald of the spring; 
 1 A pleasure givest thou the hour— 
 I Thou modest little thing. 
 ® ' ■ 
 
 Thou singest now that winter's gone, 
 
 Frost's reign has passed away ; 
 The farmers tell to plant their corn ; 
 
 That soon will bloom their hay. 
 Thy pretty purple robe so fair 
 
 Around thy golden heart. 
 Surpass in glowing colors rare 
 
 The painter's skillful art. 
 Now soon will all the prairie blow « 
 
 With lovely flowers to see. 
 The graceful blades in verdure grow 
 
 In wild luxuriancy. 
 Thou modest floral magii star. 
 Announcing summer's birth. 
 Good will thou bringest from afar 
 
 That gives a joy to earth. 
 Fair crocus, beautiful thou art. 
 
 And dost glad tidings bring; 
 A pleasure givest thou the heart, 
 Sweet herald-flower of spring. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE LARKS. 
 The prairie larks again have come 
 
 Their hymns of gladness sing. 
 The honey bee with dulcet hum 
 
 Joins in their song to spring. 
 Again the prairie skies are bright. 
 
 The winter frowns have gone. 
 The plains' extent is filled with light - 
 
 The vernal air with song. 
 The prairie larks again are here 
 
 To cheer us with their voice. 
 They fill the heart with pleasant cheer 
 
 And make us all rejoice. 
 This hail to spring is winter's dirge — 
 
 Fell storms have passed away; 
 We'll hear no more the tempest surge - 
 
 The prairies all are gay. 
 
 THE BLUEBIRDS HAVE COME. 
 
 Look out upon the prairie, see, 
 
 The bluebirds now have come. 
 And hear them carol merrily 
 While pluming in the sun. 
 And in their coming plainly say 
 
 That winter now is gone. 
 That icy sway has passed away. 
 
 And "springtime bright has come. 
 I love the little bluebird bright. 
 
 Sweet harbinger of spring; 
 Their song to me gives more delight 
 
 Than anv bird that sings. 
 When they appear they always tell 
 
 Violetssoon will blow. 
 The frozen brook within the dell 
 
 Again with music flow. 
 Welcome then celestial sprite 
 
 With coat of azure hue. 
 You always bring my he;. rt delight 
 
 In spring when seeing you. 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 281 
 
 * 
 
 FRANK M. GILBERT. 
 
 Born: Mobile, Ala., July 1, 1846. 
 This gentleman has written more than a thou- 
 sand poems, which Iiave been published broad- 
 cast. He is a humorist, and has written ex- 
 tensivelj- for llie leading' publications of Am- 
 
 m \NK \l (,I1 ISKRT. 
 
 erica. Mr. Gilbert is now proprietor of the 
 Evening- Tribune, published at Evansville, 
 Ind., in which eitj- lie resides with his wife 
 and family. 
 
 ©- 
 
 LOVES APPEAL. 
 
 I would look in the eyes that are dear unto 
 
 me. 
 
 That shine with a passion-lit fire; [ free 
 
 I would finger the tresses that float soft and 
 
 And murmur to her my desire. 
 Her lips like twin strawberries deep in the 
 wood. 
 Give promise of sweet, nameless bliss; 
 1 would draw her up gently to me if I could. 
 And their nectar I'd sip with a kiss. 
 
 SHE CONSENTS. 
 
 Touch my face gently. 
 
 Half reverently, 
 Murmur your half-whispered plea. 
 
 Look in my eyes 
 
 Free from disguise. 
 Say to me then what you see. 
 
 Ah, I mu.st list' you. 
 
 Can I resist you. 
 Modesty cannot prevent. 
 
 Oh, hold me fast. 
 
 Would this could last ~ 
 Take from my lips my consent. 
 
 BLISS. 
 
 Her breath fans my cheek and it glows' in re- 
 turn. 
 
 And her fingers close soft over mine. 
 With a thrill .so mag-netic it seems half to burn, 
 
 And I gaze in those eyessodixine; 
 And madlyl press her and drink in her charms. 
 
 With a joy that is almost a pain. 
 And lovingly folding her into my arms, 
 
 I kiss her again and again. 
 
 MY LITTLE WIFE. 
 There's a dear little face that beams love to 
 mine 
 When homeward I come, at the night. 
 Lit up by the soft eyes that loving'ly shine 
 
 With honest affection's pure light. 
 And a form flies to meet me with fondest em- 
 brace. 
 I forget care and sorrow and strife. 
 For they all take their flight when I look in 
 the face 
 Of my darling adored little wife. 
 My own little wife. My dear little wife. 
 Without her, how dreary would be all my life. 
 She's tlie one I adore 
 Each day more and more; 
 My darling, my own little wife. 
 She ever is near me i!i trouble and care. 
 She consoles me when I'm in distre.ss. 
 And tenderly touches my fast changing hair 
 
 With her soft, gentle loving- caress. 
 The world is far brighter with her by my side. 
 
 She daily grows into my life. 
 There is no one so dear, in the world far and 
 wide. 
 Like my darling', my own little wife. 
 My own little wife. My dear little wife. 
 Without her, how dreary would be all my life 
 She's the one I adore. 
 Each day more and more. 
 My darling-, my own little wife. 
 
 THE DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS. 
 
 When the warm spring sun is shining 
 
 And the flowers begin to bloom, 
 And the little leaves are peeping 
 
 From the forest's -wintry gloom. 
 Then the angler roams the meadow 
 
 With his heart and fcKitsteps light. 
 For the dogwood is in blossom 
 
 And the fish begin to bite. 
 Oh, the warm and mellow sunlight, 
 
 How it seems to kiss the ground. 
 Till it quivers in its gladness; 
 
 How it wakes the song birds sound. 
 And not a white cloud flecking 
 
 Dims the sky so blue and bright. 
 Ah, the dogTvood is in blossom 
 
 And the fish l)egin to bite. 
 
 -© 
 
Beneath some forest monarch 
 
 Upon the sward I've laid, 
 Where the sunheams through the branches 
 
 Break into light and shade, 
 And I feast my eyes in gladness 
 On the simple woodland sight. 
 When the dogwood is iu blossom 
 
 And the fish begin to bite. 
 Half dozing, dreaming, waking, 
 
 I pass the hours away. 
 Till the sunbeams, slanting lower, 
 
 Mark the closing of the day; 
 And the soft moon slowly rising 
 
 Bathes the earth with sUvery light. 
 When the dogwood is in blossom 
 
 And the fish begin to bite. 
 Ye bustling men of business. 
 
 Take from your Uves one day 
 And wander through the meadows 
 
 In the balmy month of May. 
 You'll be better, happier, purer. 
 
 When you wander home at night. 
 When the dogwood is in blossom 
 And theflsh begin to bite. 
 
 CAROLINE D.SWAN. 
 
 BORN : GAKDINEB, ME. 
 
 THIS lady has received a good education, and 
 for many years her attention was largely giv- 
 en t^ the study of art, for which she has de- 
 cided talent. Commencing literary work with 
 translations from the French and German, she 
 soon ventured upon original efforts in prose 
 and verse. The poems of Miss Sw^n °uch 
 upon numerous subjects -grave light and 
 serious; they have appeared in the Atlan c 
 Monthly, Arthur's Home Magazme, Portland 
 Transcript and other leading periodicals from 
 which they have been extens ively copied. 
 
 THE FIRE-FLY'S SONG. 
 In the dark! 
 Shooting, darting free and far- 
 Each a saucy, mimic star 
 
 In the dark; 
 Brilliantly we shine and swirl 
 Ever in electric whirl! 
 
 Ha! lia! ha! 
 Yonder, by his taper's gleam, 
 Lo, the poet in his dream 
 
 Tries to sing. 
 Poet cousin, pale and thin. 
 Come and join our reveling. 
 Dancing, glancing out and in. 
 We will teach you everything. 
 Words should quiver, words sliould burn. 
 Scintillating as they turn ; 
 Fancy dances you must learn ! 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 Souls of flame. 
 
 Kin, though of another name. 
 Are the comrades we would claim ! 
 
 Tra, la! la! 
 Never scorn our merry party! 
 We're the true illuminati! 
 Twinkling stars, alive with glee. 
 Join our merry company ; 
 And Mother Earth goes whirling round. 
 Spinning through her orbit's bound 
 
 Gay as we ! 
 Shining with her fire-fly light 
 On a field of endless night !^ 
 And the universe is bright! 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 So are we ! 
 
 II. 
 Half asleep! 
 Pallid student in thy cell. 
 Cloistered monk with book and bell,- 
 
 Half asleep,— 
 Philosophy is open-eyed: 
 Pietywill ne'er abide 
 
 In dungeon keep. 
 Prophecy, on eagle wings, 
 Gazing into holy things. 
 Toward the sunlight soars and sings 
 
 In golden flight. 
 This life to-day, that life to come 
 
 Are dazzling bright. 
 Dullards- almost deaf and dumb. 
 Cease that everlasting hum! 
 Come and see our twilight glee; 
 Hear our frolic minstrelsy; 
 Fairy torches waving free.— 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 While the robins on the hills 
 Whistle evanescent trills. 
 Darting beetles, silver-blue. 
 Whiz about and laugh at you! 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 Laugh at you ! 
 Just imagine, if you can, 
 Doleful, melancholy man, 
 A whizzing beetle, silver-blue. 
 Laughing in his sleeve at you . 
 
 SEA FOGS. 
 Softly the silent fogs come floating i.., 
 
 The river valley fills with pearly gia> . 
 
 I fear a storm upon its giant way. 
 The wiser rustic trusts in what has been. 
 
 .. Nay, leddio. nay !" saith he, 
 . NaeJtorm will come to-day. It is the sea. 
 
 So ghostly portents steal "!>«" J),-;;. ^°^^;;,, 
 Dim, pallid doubtings in then migm 
 
 arise, . , • 
 
 Until we lose our aziire-gleammf. sKu . . 
 
 O timid soul, be glad! No clouds up-roll. 
 
 But yonder lies the sea. ^ 
 
 Claim," recognize thy near Eternity . 
 
« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETH OF AMERICA. 
 
 283 
 
 -flB 
 
 JOHN JAMKS PIATT. 
 
 Born: Milton, Ind., March 1,1835. 
 At fourteen he was placed at the printing 
 business, and subsequently took a course of 
 study in two colleges. In 18.59 he was a contri- 
 butor to the Louisville Journal. He served as 
 clerk in the U. S. treasury department for six 
 years, when he became connected successively 
 with the Chronicle and Commercial of Cincin- 
 nati. In 1871 he became librarian of the house of 
 representatives at Washington, and in 1883 was 
 appointed consul at Cork, Ireland. His poems 
 are numerous. Poems in Sunshine and Fu-e- 
 light, Idyls and Lyrics, and Poems of House 
 and Home being most widely read. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF ROSE. 
 I came to find her bhthe and bright, 
 
 Breathing the household full of bloom. 
 Wreathing the fireside with delight; — 
 
 I found her in her tomb ! 
 I came to find her gathering flowers, — 
 
 Their fragrant souls, so pure and dear, 
 Haunting her face in lonely hours; — 
 
 Her single flower is here ! 
 For, look: the gentle name that shows 
 
 Her love, her loveliness, and bloom. 
 Her only epitsiph a rose. 
 
 Is growing on her tomb! 
 
 TWO WATCHERS. 
 Two ships sail on the ocean; 
 
 Two watchers walk the shore : 
 One wrings wild hands and cries 
 
 " Farewell for evermore." 
 One sees, with face upUfted, 
 
 Soft homes of dream her eyes, 
 Her sail, beyond the horizon. 
 
 Reflected in the skies ! 
 
 SARAH MORGAN B. PIATT. 
 
 Born: Lexington, Ky., Aug. 11, 1836. 
 This noted lady graduated at Henry female 
 college in Newcastle, Ky., in ia54, and married 
 John James Piatt, the great American poet, in 
 1861. Her early poems appeared in the Louis- 
 ville Journal and the New York Ledger. Her 
 most known volumes of verse are A Woman's 
 Poems, An Irish Garland, Selected Poems, and 
 Child's-World Ballads. 
 
 i 
 
 AFTER WINGS. 
 This was your butterfly, you see. 
 
 His fine wings made him vain? — 
 The caterpillars crawl, but he 
 
 Passd them in rich disdain? — 
 My pretty boy says, " Let him be 
 
 Only a worm again? " 
 
 Oh, child, when things have learned to wear 
 
 Wings onoe, they must be fain 
 To keep them always high and fair. 
 
 Think of the creeping pain 
 Which even a butterfly must bear 
 
 To be a worm again ! 
 
 THE WITCH IN THE GLASS. 
 " My Mamma says I must not pass 
 
 Too near that glass; 
 She is afraid that I will see 
 A little witch that looks like me. 
 With a red, red mouth, to whisper low 
 The very thing I should not know ! " 
 Alack for all your mother's care! 
 
 A bird of the air, 
 A wistful wind, or (I suppose 
 Sent by some hapless boy a rose. 
 With breath too sweet, will whisper low 
 The very thing you should not know! 
 
 A PRETTIER BOOK. 
 " He has a prettier book than this," 
 
 With many a sob between, he said; 
 Then left untouched the night's last kiss. 
 
 And, sweet with sorrow, went to bed. 
 A prettier book his brother had ? — 
 
 Yet wonder-pictures were in each. 
 The difl'erent colors made him sad; 
 The equal value —could I teach? 
 Ah, who is wiser? . . . Here we sit. 
 
 Around the world's great hearth,and look, 
 While Life's flre-shadows flash and flint, 
 
 Each wistful in another's book. 
 I see, through fierce and feverish tears, 
 
 Only a darkened hut in mine: 
 Yet in my brothers book appears 
 
 A palace where the torches shine. 
 A peasant, seeking bitter bread 
 
 Fi-om the unwilling earth to wring. 
 Is in my book ; the wine is red. 
 
 There in my brother's, for the king. 
 A wedding, where each wedding-guest 
 
 Has wedding garments on, in his,— 
 In mine one face in awful rest, 
 
 One coffin never shut, there is! 
 In his, on many a bridge of beams 
 
 Between the faint moon and the grass, 
 Dressed daintily in dews and dreams. 
 
 The fleet midsummer fairies pass; 
 In mine unearthly mountains rise. 
 
 Unearthly waters foam and roll, 
 .And — stared at by its deathless eyes — 
 
 The master sells the fiend a soul ! 
 Put out the lights. We will not look 
 
 At pictures any more. We weep, 
 "My brother has a prettier book," 
 
 And, after tears, we goto sleep. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 284 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 LEE H. DOWLIXG, M. D. 
 
 Born: Bellville, O., May 18, 1844. 
 CoMMEXCiNG to prcacli the g-ospel at sixteen 
 years of age, Mr. Bowling- two years later was 
 pastor of a church at Milford, Indiana. At 
 twenty year.s of age he went into the union 
 army, and was the joungest chaplain in the 
 service. As a preacher he has been eminently 
 successful. Also as a teacher he has achieved 
 considerable reputation; having- been pro- 
 fessor of physiolog-y and histology and of 
 chemistry and toxicology in medical colleg-es. 
 
 LEE H. l>()\Vl,I.N(i, M. 1). 
 
 and later lias been identified with liter;ii-y and 
 business colleges. As a iiliysician he has been 
 somewhat noted and holds two dii)lomas. As 
 a musician he is the author of Tlie Crown of 
 Sunday School Songs, the Psalm of Victory, 
 and other music books tliat liave attained a 
 wide circulation. Mr. Bowling is widely known 
 as an editor of much ability, and also as a pol- 
 itician—a prohibitionist. In 1883 this gen- 
 tleman was united in marriage to Miss Eva 
 Sellers, of Oskaloosa, low.-i. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SOMEBOBYS DARLING. 
 
 One cold night in winter 
 
 We all were in bed; 
 The white snow was falling-, 
 'J'he cold winds were calling. 
 
 The wee ones all sleejiing 
 Heard not what they said. 
 
 A moan at the doorway ; 
 
 An indistinct tread; 
 A little one crying-. 
 Faint as if dying; 
 The children all heard it 
 
 And climbed out of bed. 
 
 All ran to the window 
 And then to the door; 
 
 The white snow was falling. 
 The cold winds were calling; 
 
 But she we heard crying, 
 Was crying no more. 
 
 "'Tis somebody's darling-," 
 
 A little one said; 
 On the step she was lying; 
 "Oh, can she be dying?" 
 We looked, she was frozen. 
 
 The dear one was dead. 
 
 Remember, then, children. 
 
 When j-ou are in bed; 
 When white snow is falling. 
 When cold winds are calling. 
 That somebody's darling- 
 May be freezing or dead. 
 
 MARY'S LAMB. 
 
 A SPEECH FOR A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Mary had a little lamb. 
 
 Its fleece was white as snow; 
 
 But then it wasn't Mary's lamb 
 Y'ou think about, I know. 
 
 The lamb loved Mary very well. 
 
 And she loved it a — heap ; 
 It grew, and grew, and grew, and grew 
 
 To be a great big- sheep. 
 
 One morning Mary took a walk. 
 
 The sheep was by her side; 
 And Mary, precious little dear. 
 
 Just thought she'd take a ride. 
 
 She got aboard, but did'nt know 
 
 Just how to guide her pet; 
 You see lie was a g-reat fat thing, 
 
 And not her >• lambie " yet. 
 
 The sheep k)okcd 'round and gave his tail 
 
 A mo.st an awful switch; 
 The next we saw of Mary Jane 
 
 Slie was crawling from the ditch. 
 
 And now, see here, you jrentle folks, 
 
 I rise to make it plain: 
 Y'ou better hear just what I saj', 
 
 I may not speak again. 
 
 If you have hobbies, great or small, 
 
 A i>r;nicing liy your side. 
 If \-ou don't know just what you an> 
 
 You'd l)etter walk tlian ride. 
 
 -^ 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 285 
 
 « 
 
 THOMAS SLOSS TURNER. 
 
 Born: Woodburn, Ky., July .30, 1860. 
 This a-spiring young Texas poet has iilready 
 gained many laurels tlirongli tlie i)iiblieation , 
 of liis poems. Dining IMH Mr. Turner hopes 
 
 THOiMAS SLOSS TURNER. 
 
 to pubhsh another volume of poems, upon 
 which he is now at work. His efforts are cer- 
 tainly commendable and his friends predict 
 for liim a successful literary career. 
 
 © 
 
 LIFE'S BREVITY. 
 There are many people wlio sit 
 
 Ever wearily complaining 
 Tliat the hours of this life do flit 
 
 With such a short remaining. 
 They sigh its lack of sweetness. 
 They mourn its incompleteness. 
 They wail its rapid fleetness, 
 
 And sit with folded hands. 
 And such dark gloom upon tlieir faces. 
 And frowning brows and horrid traces, 
 That men shun them in all places 
 
 As pestilential lands. 
 And there are those who go to work 
 
 With patient hands and willing, 
 Who never swerve aside or shirk, 
 
 But are life's mission filling. 
 To them the birds are sweetly singing, 
 For them the beauteous flowers are springing. 
 And life to them reward is bringing. 
 
 And gives them happiness. 
 
 They take no time to think of sorrow, 
 And still of grief refuse to borrow. 
 But look with joy unto the morrow. 
 
 And thus their lives they bless. 
 And while one walks in gloom and pain 
 
 The other walks in pleasure. 
 And singeth e'er a glad refrain — 
 
 Contentment is a treasure! 
 To one this life is cheerless, dreary; 
 Its joy to him's obscured and bleary; 
 Through life he goes unblest and weary. 
 
 To one this life is real: 
 He makes it so by ever doing. 
 By striving still, and still pursuing; 
 Each day his strength he is renewing 
 
 By seeking an Ideal. 
 
 THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The soft moonlight is on the hills. 
 
 And 'mong the clouds 't is creeping, 
 'T is floating down the sparkling rills, 
 
 And on the flowers sleeping. 
 The zephyrs dance upon its beams 
 
 As through the air they're streaming: 
 So light they float along it seems 
 
 As if the world was dreaming. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 One morn when I was fresh and strong 
 And health and vigor caused my soul to glyw, 
 I felt the earnest of renown and said. 
 As I beheld the great and wise of earth, 
 • •Lo, these by their own might and purpose 
 
 strong [men: 
 
 Have wrought tlieir fame and lasting praise of 
 Likewise shall I my destiny hew out. 
 And rank among the greatand wise of earth!" 
 But Wisdom mocking from her palace said: 
 "Thou fool! Thou puny dwarfling of thedust! 
 How canst thou, save as I make my home with 
 
 thee!" 
 
 UNUTTERED THOUGHTS. 
 Oft in my rambles by the fruitful flelds 
 And by the crystal silver-gliding stream 
 Where the blue sky arched above, and the air 
 Was musical with sound of bird and bee 
 And redolent with flowers and lipening fruit, 
 I have heard the song of thoughts unuttered, 
 And my soul burned as from a touch divine. 
 But when I strove to utter them in song 
 And voice their music in the heart and brain 
 That men might hear and feel :ind emulate 
 Their teaching, e'en as the poor scissor-tail 
 That chirps and flirts and circles in the air 
 So full of happiness it cannot sing. 
 So I, though my heart glows with the song, 
 Can only chirp and then my lips are dumb! 
 And if sometimes by chance I sing a song 
 The song I utter never does portray 
 The image painted on the heart and brain. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 286 
 
 S 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 SONG. 
 How shall I woo my handsome Bess? 
 
 What messag-e shall 1 send her, 
 That it may be like her own self. 
 
 So gentle-like and tender? 
 Say, shall it be in courtier phrase, 
 
 Set off with words of learning. 
 Or shall it be the rustic's own. 
 
 So true, so deep, so burning? 
 It can not be the courtier phrase, 
 
 With gallant words all laden, 
 For I am but a country swain 
 
 And she a country maiden. 
 She'd be, with a distrustful eye. 
 
 Such high-flung words discerning, 
 And God forbid a rustic lad 
 
 Should ape the ways of learning! 
 When wild birds go to woo their mates 
 
 They go right sweetly singing 
 The simple songs that nature taught 
 
 Till wood and lield are ringing. 
 So I shall woo my gentle Bess 
 
 In simple words sincerely, 
 For only they can tell how true 
 
 I love her, and how dearly. 
 
 DREAMING. 
 
 Ail day long have I been dreaming. 
 
 Building castles in tlie air. 
 Till my soul is lost in gleamings 
 
 Of the future bright and fair. 
 Oh ! what noble heights are towering 
 
 In the land by fancy drawn. 
 And the golden sunbeams showering 
 
 Fall upon those heights at dawn. 
 But those heights, though sweetly shining. 
 
 Shall all hasten to decay ; 
 And my soul, in sorrow pining. 
 
 Will lament their vanished ray. 
 Still the brightest lights are given 
 
 But to shine awhile and fade: 
 Nauglit endures this side of heaven. 
 
 All tilings enter death's dark shade. 
 
 s- 
 
 YOUTHFUL MEMORIES. 
 Oh. let me think, when evening shades 
 
 Hang mantling o'er the plain. 
 And walking o'er the western wave 
 
 Tlie night asserts its reign. 
 Of tliose who twine around my lioart 
 
 Like cypress to its home, 
 And life iiud freshness there impart. 
 
 Cheering me as 1 roam. 
 'Tis sweet indeed to think of those 
 
 My b(jyhood cherished so; 
 We knew no cares, we liad no woes. 
 
 And pleasure's radiant glow 
 
 Beamed in our hearts and made them beat 
 
 In wildest ecstacy; 
 We dreamed fair dreams till life complete 
 
 Was painted on our skj'. 
 How oft we roved among the hills 
 
 With spirits wild with glee. 
 And wandered down meandering rills 
 
 Or o'er the verdant lea; 
 Or roamed among the forest trees 
 
 In autumn's beauteous day. 
 And sought the cool, refresliing breeze 
 
 Among the leaves at play. 
 Ah, me! those days of youth so fair 
 
 Were like a dream complete; 
 A time more sweet, a day so dear, 
 
 I ne'er again expect to meet. 
 Go,roam o'er earth, through pleasure's halls, 
 
 But naught so sweet I ween 
 Across your path so brightly falls 
 
 As that which once hath been. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 Little sweetheart, live with me 
 On tlie prairie wide and free. 
 Birds and flowers and humming-bees 
 Whisper to the heart at ease; 
 Wild herds feed upon the plains. 
 And contentment fondly reigns. 
 Rove with me down sloping hills 
 By the babbling, sparkling rills. 
 When fair Luna from on high 
 With lier glory floods the sky 
 And the eartli and air below. 
 I am lonely, full of woe. 
 And the world to me is dark. 
 Oh, my love, thou art the spark 
 Can illumine my path so drear — 
 Sweetest sunshine of the j-ear! 
 Live with me. and in yon bower. 
 When the silvery moonbeams lower. 
 We will listen deep and well 
 To the words sweet Love doth tell. 
 How his soft eyes sparkle bright 
 In the clear and deep moonlight, 
 Whi'n he gently 'gins to tell 
 Words that make the bosom swell. 
 Tlieii, sweetlieart, why need delay 
 Keep you from this spot away? 
 Here I sit and pine for thee. 
 And the liours pass wearily. 
 
 Haste, oh! haste, and quickly come. 
 Bringing sunshine to my home, 
 Biinging smiles and winsome ways 
 To while away life's weary days. 
 Oh, 1 love you as my life! 
 Will you be my darling wife. 
 And come and live with me 
 On the prairie wide and free? 
 
 « 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 287 
 
 -® 
 
 LEWIS W. SMITH. 
 
 Bohn: Malta, III., Nov. 23, 1866. 
 Aftek spending a term in Beloit college, he 
 later attended the college at Fairfield, Ne- 
 braska, where he graduated in 1889. Mr. Smith 
 
 «- 
 
 LEWIS W. SMITH. 
 
 e.\|jects to follow the profession of teaching 
 for the present. He is very fond of literature, 
 and his poems have already appeared in the 
 Chicago Current and the local press. 
 
 PARTING. 
 I do not feel like singing 
 
 Of love and hope to-uight. 
 Of aspirations winging 
 
 To Heaven in grandest flight. 
 Sweet music can not move me 
 
 To hopes for life before; 
 For you must go who love me; 
 
 We part to meet no more. 
 My heart would fain not listen 
 
 To what you sweetly say. 
 Only that teardrop's glisten 
 
 Shall be with me alway. 
 You whisper words of cheering 
 
 That less may be our pain. 
 They mock me sadly hearing,— 
 
 We ne'er shall meet again. 
 I ne'er again shall gladly 
 
 Be with you in your walks; 
 I must remember sadly 
 
 Our soul-entwining talks; 
 
 I must behold forever 
 
 Love's symbols everywhere. 
 But never more, ah, never 
 
 Shall we our heart-throbs share. 
 Say not again •' Kemember 
 
 The noble life you planned." 
 Hope now a burnt-out ember 
 
 To life may ne'er be fanned. 
 All of myself has left me; 
 
 Is thine forever more. 
 Deeply hast thou bereft me: 
 
 We part to meet no more. 
 
 REQUIESCAT. 
 Raise no costly marble; 
 
 He rests in peace. 
 Words are only idle; 
 
 He hath release. 
 Life held much of sorrow, 
 
 But death Is joy. 
 He waketh to a morrow 
 
 Of glad employ. 
 Say not thus in sadness 
 
 That he is dead. 
 Lay your flowers with gladness 
 
 Above his head. 
 Voices raised in weeping 
 
 He can not hear — 
 So calmly lies he sleeping — 
 
 Nor see the tear. 
 The call to life's stern battle 
 
 Must sound in vain. 
 For he has loosed the shackle 
 
 Of woe and pain. 
 The days roll on forever, 
 
 But not for him 
 Comes morn or noontide ever. 
 
 Or twilight dim ; 
 For day is day unceasing; 
 
 The solemn night 
 Sad hearts from care releasing 
 
 Dulls not the bright. 
 The glad, eternal splendor 
 
 That hovers near; 
 Its glory sweet and tender. 
 
 Yet full and clear. 
 So mourn not that he sleepeth; 
 
 God knoweth best. 
 In his own hand he keepeth 
 
 The boon of rest ; 
 And when we grasp its meaning 
 
 And feel its joy. 
 Our hearts no longer dreaming 
 
 Shall songs employ. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Every heart has hoped in vain. 
 Buried deep some lingering pain; 
 But its memory is stirred 
 By some lightly spoken word. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 288 
 
 ^ 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AilKKlCA. 
 
 REV. HENRY PETTY. 
 
 Born : Virginia. 
 This geutlenian is a baptist clergyman, and 
 has gained quite a reputation as a poet and 
 
 REV. HENRY PETTY. 
 
 writer. He resides in his native state at 
 Chatliam, where he is very popular as a min- 
 ister of the g'ospel. 
 
 m- 
 
 KOBERT ELSMERE. 
 Pity a woman's heart, 
 
 Sliould g-o so far astray. 
 From all that's truly wise and g-ood, 
 
 Tliat hlessed good, old waj-. 
 Pity a woman's head, 
 
 With fantasies .so full, 
 Should over such a multitude 
 
 So egregiously gull. 
 Pity a woman's hands, 
 
 Sliould pen such caustic lore, 
 And strive to undermine the faith 
 
 Of loved ones gone before. 
 Piiy a woman's tongue, 
 
 Uiigraciotisly should saj', 
 Tliat Christ as God is but a myth. 
 
 And " miracles away." 
 Pity a woman's eyes. 
 
 Should so distorted be, 
 As not in Christ the Holy One, 
 
 The V)lessed Savior see. 
 
 Pity a woman's life. 
 
 Should have so dark a trend, 
 As with rash hand in evil hour, 
 
 A poison cup commend. 
 
 Pity a woman's foot. 
 
 Should tread some by-path o'er, 
 A by-path strewn with ruined souls. 
 
 Now as In days of yore 
 
 Pity a woman thus. 
 
 Should God given powers abuse. 
 And all the good that Heaven owns, 
 
 Insanelj' to refuse. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 She was my dearest earthly joy, 
 
 So gentle, kind and good, 
 To serve her was mj' sweet employ. 
 
 In whatever waj' I could. 
 
 But since her voice in death is hushed, 
 
 My heart in sadness pines. 
 My spirit bruised, and almost crushed, 
 
 Toward heaven now inclines. 
 
 For well I know my mother dwells 
 
 Within a mansion fair. 
 At thought of which my bosom swells. 
 
 With longings to be there. 
 
 'Tjs sweet to know that toil and pain, 
 
 WMU one day have an end. 
 And then if I should Heaven gain, 
 
 Eternity I'll spend. 
 
 In company with loved ones dear. 
 And with the angels bright, 
 
 Free from all want, and slavish fear. 
 Free too from sin's dark blight. 
 
 With sainted ones I'll gladly tread. 
 The streets all paved with gold. 
 
 No foe can make us then afraid. 
 Within God's heavenly fold. 
 
 We'll strike our harps in sweet accord, 
 Togetlier round the throne. 
 
 And glorify our blessed Lord, 
 For what His grace has done. 
 
 Oh ! mother dear, though far away, 
 
 Methiiiks I see thee now. 
 Treading along the sliining way, 
 
 A crown upon thy brow. 
 
 While I beset by sin must tread. 
 Life's rugged pathway o'er. 
 
 Trembling with doubt, and oft afraid. 
 I'll miss the shining shore. 
 
 Oh ! Father, as Thou seest best, 
 Do Tiion my footsteps guide, 
 
 That 1 at last may sweetly rest. 
 Beyond Time's swelling tide. 
 
 « 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 289 
 
 * 
 
 EUGENE FITCH WARE. 
 
 Bokn: Hahtford, Conn., May 29, 1841. 
 This gentleman is a partner in the firm of 
 Ware, Biddle and Cory, attorneys-at-law of 
 Fort Scott, Kansas. He was married in 1874 
 to Miss J. P. Huntington. Mr. Ware served 
 five years in tlie volunteer army, and five 
 
 m 
 
 BtTGENE FITCH WAKK. 
 
 years in the Kansas senate. Since 1872 his 
 poems have appeared quite extensively in the 
 periodical press. In 1889 appeared Rhymes of 
 Ironquill, a neat volume of over two hundred 
 pages of his choicest poems — a worli that has 
 been well and favorably received by tlie press 
 and public. Personally Mr. Ware is of very 
 fine stature, with dark-brown liair and dark- 
 hazel eyes, and is withal a scliolar and a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 ALGOMAR. 
 
 loline, my loline, 
 
 Will you be no more my queen; 
 
 Must you always stay? 
 Is my waiting unavailing; 
 Must all wishes end in failing, 
 
 Must all hope decay? 
 Must all happiness at last 
 Fade into the past? 
 
 It is longer than a year 
 
 Since you came to see me here, 
 
 Earnest loline; 
 Since you came in moonlight beamy. 
 Came to cheer me and to see me. 
 
 To be loved and seen; 
 Since you left that pearly star, 
 Far-ofif Algomar. 
 
 Come and sing to me once more, 
 As you often have before. 
 
 Songs of other zones. 
 Come and hum those airy, sketchy 
 Arias, so bright and catchy. 
 
 Taken from the tones 
 Tliat, unheard by human ears, 
 Thrill the radiant spheres. 
 
 WHIST. 
 Hour after hour the cards were fairly shuf- 
 fled, 
 And fairly dealt, but still I got no hand; 
 Tlie morniiigcame; but I, with mind unruf- 
 fled, 
 Did simply say: " I do not understand." 
 
 Life is a game of whist. From unseen sources 
 The cards are shuffled, and the hands are 
 dealt. 
 Blind are our efforts to control the forces 
 That, though unseen, are no less strongly 
 felt. 
 
 I do not like the way the cards are shuffled. 
 But still I like the game and want to play; 
 
 And through the long, long night will I, un- 
 ruffled. 
 Play what I get, until the break of day. 
 
 THE MINNESONG. 
 Once a falcon I possessed ; 
 
 And full many a knight and vassal 
 
 Watched him from my father's castle. 
 As, in gaudy ribbon dressed. 
 
 He would seek with flery eye 
 
 Battle in the roomy sky. 
 And return to be caressed. 
 
 Once a lover I possessed, 
 On the field of battle knighted. 
 And at tournaments delighted 
 
 Did I watch his flery crest; 
 Woven from the silken strands 
 By mj' own unaided hands, 
 
 Was the baldric on his breast. 
 
 But one day my bird did soar. 
 
 When the sky was black and stormy; 
 
 And my knight, whose fondness for me 
 Seemed as changeless as before. 
 
 Rode away in the crusade; 
 
 And as years successive fade, 
 They return to me uo more. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 290 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOKTS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Ah ! in every laud and tongue — 
 Loved bj' emperor and vassal, 
 Serf iu hovel, knight in castle — 
 
 Ever old jet ever young-. 
 Sung- until the hours grew late. 
 Was the song- of love and fate 
 
 Which the Minnesing:er sung. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 In the pale light 
 
 The angel of tlie night. 
 With silver sickle, reaped the western stars; 
 
 Across my sleep. 
 
 Dreamless as well as deep, 
 There came a ballad, whose remembered 
 bars. 
 
 Brought back to me a day — 
 
 A year long- passed away. 
 
 An old, old song. 
 
 Although forgotten long. 
 Brings cliildliood back as songs alone can 
 bring; 
 
 We see bright eyes. 
 
 Behold unclouded skies. 
 We re-inhale the fragrance of life's spring ; 
 
 While, as of unseen bird, 
 
 Bustle of wing is heard. 
 
 Sliall our last sleep 
 
 Eternal stillness keep? 
 Shall pulseless dust enclose a dreamless soul? 
 
 Or shall we hear 
 
 Those songs so old and dear. 
 As 'mid tempestuous melodies there roll 
 
 Upon our waking ears 
 
 The choruses of spheres? 
 
 THE OLD PIONEER. 
 Where are they gone? Where are they — 
 
 The faces of my cliildhood? 
 I've sought them by the mountains. 
 
 By the rivers, by the canyons ; 
 I have called upon the prairie, 
 
 I have called upon tlie wildwood: 
 O, give rae back! O, give me back 
 
 Tlie faces of my childhood! 
 The boys and girls, 
 
 My playmates, my companions. 
 
 The days of early cliildliood 
 
 Have a strange, attractive glimmer 
 A lustrous, misty fadelessness 
 
 Half seen and yet half hidden. 
 As of isles in distant oceans. 
 
 Where tlie shattered moonbeams shimmer. 
 Concealing half, disclosnig lialf, 
 
 Witli rapturing, fracturing glimmer. 
 The realms to vv-hicli 
 
 Oiir visits are forbidden. 
 It's vainly that I call upon 
 
 Tiie mountains or the canyons; 
 
 »- 
 
 And vainly from the forest. 
 
 From the river or the wildwood. 
 Do I ask the restoration 
 
 Of my playmates, my companions; 
 No voice returns from mountain side. 
 
 From forest or from canyons; 
 They've gone from me forever. 
 
 The faces of my childhood. 
 
 THE VIOLET STAR 
 
 " I have always lived, and I always must," 
 The sergeant said when tlie fever came; 
 
 From his burning brow we washed the dust. 
 And we held his liand, and we spoke liis 
 name. 
 
 "Millions of ages have come and gone," 
 
 The sergeant said as we held his liand;— 
 '• They have passed like the mist of tlie morn- 
 ing dawn 
 
 Since I left my home in that far-off land." 
 W^e bade him liush, but he gave no heed — 
 
 " Millions of orbits I crossed from far — 
 Drifted as drifts the Cottonwood seed: 
 
 I came," said he, " from the Violet Star. 
 I. Drifting- iu cycles from place to place — 
 
 I'm tired," said he, •• and I'm going- home 
 To the Violet Star, iu the realms of space. 
 
 Where I loved to live, and I will not roam. 
 
 " For I've alwaj-s lived, and I always must. 
 
 And the soul in roaming may roam too far, 
 I have reached the verge that I dare not trust 
 
 And I'm going- back to the Violet Star." 
 The sergeant hushed and we fanned his 
 cheek; 
 
 There came no word from that soul sotired; 
 And the bugle rang from the distant peak. 
 
 As the morning dawned and Ihe pickets 
 flred. 
 The sergeant was buried as soldiers are; 
 
 And we thoiiglit all day as we marched 
 througn the dust: 
 His spirit has gone to the Violet Star — 
 
 He always has lived, and he always must. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF DJKLYPRWBZ. 
 
 Before a Turkish town, 
 
 Tiie Russians came. 
 And with liuge cannon 
 
 Did bombard the same. 
 
 They got up close 
 
 And rained fat bombshells down. 
 And blew out every 
 
 Vowel in the town. 
 Andtlien the Turks, 
 
 Becoming somewiiat sad. 
 Surrendered every 
 
 Consonant they had. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 291 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. IRENE G. ADAMS. 
 
 Born: Erie Co., N. Y., April, 19, 1841. 
 The poems of Mrs. Adams have appeared in 
 the leading- pubhcationo of the country, and 
 have been extensively copied in the local 
 press. Her present husband, Capt. J. C.Adams, 
 to whom she was wedded in 1887, is a popular 
 
 MRS. IRENE G. ADAAIS. 
 
 journalist of South Dakota. Mrs. Adams edits 
 a column in her husband's paper, which she 
 devotes to the interests of Woman and Home, 
 This lady is a prominent worker for the cause 
 of the W. C. T. U., and is well known and hon- 
 ored in her adopted state. 
 
 THE TYRANNY OF LOVE. 
 
 Lo\e makes you mine most blessed thought; 
 
 It gleams with joy in darkest night, 
 
 And radiates a halo bright 
 'Round common toil with duty fraught. 
 My own - Thank God ! Such generous gift 
 
 Has warmed my deepest depths of soul; 
 
 It is my long sought starlit goal 
 Come unto me from life's broad drift. 
 I feel my deep unworthiness 
 
 To wear the pearl love brings to me; 
 
 The blemish of my past I see 
 Rise like a cloud of selflsliness. 
 The flres of sin swept me away 
 
 From virtue's path of purity, 
 
 F,rom royal deeds of charity. 
 And manhood's loftier moral way. 
 ©- 
 
 O, I have feared in moody hour. 
 
 Lest stains like these upon my past 
 Might all my future overcast. 
 
 Despite God's loving, cleansing power. 
 
 As heart of oak must bear the mar 
 Inflicted on the youthful tree, 
 Though ages of futurity 
 
 Conceal, they cancel not the sear. 
 
 But now I know that your sweet soul. 
 So pure and strong, so brave ard true. 
 Hath power to build my life anew, 
 
 Tlie ill subdue, the good extol. 
 
 Ah, dear, my future, in your hands, 
 Must shape itself as you decree: 
 Your potent will hath set me free 
 
 From selfish aims and sin's commands. 
 
 There are no heights I may not reach 
 Of fame or fortune, by your side, 
 My inspiration and my guide. 
 
 Accept the task, love, I beseech. 
 
 HER ANSWER. 
 
 I love you, but I dare not take 
 
 The burdens you would have me bear: 
 Responsible for every share 
 Of gain or loss j^our years may make. 
 You tell me that my love's a shield 
 
 From sin that snared you in the past,— 
 That my stanch soul shall speed you fast 
 Where all choice blessings are revealed. 
 But what of mine? Pray tell me, dear. 
 While I give all to help you rise 
 Neglecting my ambition's prize 
 That you may win that grander sphere. 
 What is it you will do forme? 
 
 What my advancement while I spend 
 My energies, that you may mend 
 A frittered life and destiny? 
 My life is mine, I cannot give 
 
 Its precious hours to your employ. 
 Unless receiving sure convoj' 
 That I a larger life may live. 
 My soul is mine, and I must die. 
 
 You could not, if you would, decree 
 Against my immortality. 
 Nor thwart the grave where I must lie. 
 God given life and soul are mine. 
 Two monuments of trust to build. 
 And I must strive that they be filled 
 With choicest grain and richest wine; 
 I soar to heights in fancy's flight; 
 I search for wisdom's diadem, 
 I sigh for glimpse of truth's pure gem; 
 You stifle me with self-love's blight, 
 I love you, and I hoped, alas ! 
 
 That you could give me prize for prize- 
 That, hand in hand, we both might rise; 
 You offer nothing; Let it pass. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -m 
 
 292 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE E.MARKHAM 
 
 Born : Bkoome Co., N.Y., 1849. 
 The poems of Mr. Markhum liave appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodiL-al press 
 
 was iiKiri'ii'd in is;4 lu .Miss Mariiin 
 
 He 
 
 Davis 
 
 GEORGE E. MARKHAM. 
 
 with whom he now resides in Weeping Water, 
 Neb. He deals in musical nicrchandi.se, and 
 is a teacher of music, having- now ahout forty 
 scholars. 
 
 THAT DEAR LITTLE HOME. 
 
 Tlie night is cool, the sky is clear, tlie stars 
 
 are bright and all is cheer. 
 A little group of faces fair, are beamy round 
 
 tlieir mother's cliair. 
 
 The work is done and all can rest, or stories 
 
 tell, which tliey love best. 
 Their Papa's step is heard to .sound, and faces 
 
 bright are turned around. 
 
 Then comes a rush for the lirst kiss — 
 Such greetings are a world ol' bliss. 
 They all receive a word of love 
 'Tis hwiven reflected from above. 
 
 'I'he stories told, tlie papers read, 
 The good-night passed and all to bed. 
 Now coini^ those pleasant liappy dri'anis 
 Ofaiigcl forms and pearly streams. 
 
 My friends, how does this picture take, 
 "Tis heaven asleep, and heaven awake. 
 We all can liave those homes so dear. 
 For home is what we make it here. 
 
 FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE. 
 
 Was it distant music or the rustle of a wing? 
 Only the voice of a little babe an angel came 
 to bring. 
 
 We now can see a gentle mother's tender love 
 
 and care; 
 We'll watch her as she guides his feet away 
 
 from everj' snare. 
 
 As years pass by, we look again and see that 
 
 little boy. 
 With curly head and rosy lips and eyes so full 
 
 of joy. 
 
 And now a heavy hand is raised to deal the 
 
 child a blow, 
 Because some mischief it has done,— stop! 
 
 brute, don't stoop so low. 
 
 We'll rush to stay the angry blow, and treat 
 
 it with disdain. 
 You shall not harm a single hair; don't nuse 
 
 that hand again. 
 
 The curtain falls and time flies by. Behold in 
 
 manhood how 
 The little boy that was so weak, is strong and 
 
 noble now. 
 
 The mother now, so weak herself, looks on 
 
 her son with pride. 
 The noble man now guides her feet, as down 
 
 life's walk they glide. 
 
 We now pass on to other scenes, forgetting 
 
 as we go. 
 That time goes rushing, wliirling by, and 
 
 brings the winter's snow. 
 
 Alas, once more our eyes behold the harvest 
 
 time of years. 
 Our balie, our boy, our noble man, once more 
 
 to us appears. 
 
 His curly hair is wliite as snow, his once 
 straight form is now bowed down. 
 
 An angel in the clouds apiiears and holds for 
 him a, robe and crown. 
 
 Breathe gently now and hear again the rustle 
 
 of a wing; 
 The golden harps are touched onci; more and 
 
 hcaxenly \()ices sing. 
 
 'Tis over now and all is still; the earth moves 
 on the same. 
 
 And all that's left for friends to love is mem- 
 ory of his name. 
 
 m- 
 
 ® 
 
I9&- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 2m 
 
 © 
 
 REV. EZRA P.CHITTENDEN. 
 
 Born: Westbrook, Conn., Feb. 22, 18.51. 
 This gentleman is a parish reetor at Salina, 
 Kansas, where he is also professor of mental 
 and pliysical sciences in the St. Jolin's school 
 in the same city. The work of his life un- 
 
 m 
 
 REV. EZRA I'. CHITTENDEN. 
 
 doubtedly is The Pieroma, a Poem of tlie 
 Christ, whichwas pi]blishedinl890. Below is 
 given a few extracts from this work, the bril- 
 liancy of which certainly proves him to be a 
 musical and scholarly poet. 
 
 THE PLEROMA. A POEM OE THE CHRIST 
 
 THE GREETING OF GAI.\ (THE EARTH) 
 TO THE SUN. 
 
 The greeting- of Gaia to luminous guest. 
 With turbulent heart and quivering note:— 
 
 Passing o'er 
 
 Evermore ! 
 Stay! Stay: while nearing our islet ye float; 
 
 Pass not by. 
 
 Or I die: 
 Be still, O my heart : list the urgent behest 
 
 Of the king 
 
 On the wing; 
 Regarding our smile, approving our song: 
 
 If he stay 
 
 But a day. 
 If he show but a blush as he looks at my breast, 
 I shall dream, I sliall dream in the night, of 
 the dawn. 
 
 heat of thine heart: O blush of thy brow! 
 Dost thou burn? wilt thou turn for an hour? 
 
 Passing o'er 
 
 Evermore! 
 On my breast thou slialt rest and embower; 
 
 Will my heart 
 
 Ere we part; 
 All my viigiiial riches with luster endow: 
 
 Pass not by or Idle! 
 
 Dost flame? ah the shame! and still ridest on? 
 '•The day hath its end and parteih us now: 
 
 But the night v/ith its queen 
 
 Shall shortly be seen." 
 Thus beaming on Gaia, entreateth the sun. 
 
 Passing o'er evermore. 
 
 The Mead of the Moon —the regent of night! 
 
 1 w^ake from my swoon and drink of thy light ; 
 
 I revive and shall live. 
 Thou art fair, O thou queen : and dost rival 
 
 my love ! 
 Dost thou drink of his sheen, and his bland- 
 isliments prove? 
 Ah my heart, canst forgive? 
 "A vestal," O joy! and the king is unwed! 
 So love doth not cloy, and I deck now my bed — 
 
 Thou wilt come with the dawn: 
 Thou are fair, O thou queen, and dost honor 
 
 his flame : 
 Thou art haughty I ween, and dost Hyen dis- 
 dain: 
 Hast on, thou life-giving sun! 
 
 Lo, whisperings breathe in the air and the 
 
 wave ; 
 While cloudlets me wreathe, and I dip me and 
 
 lave 
 In the surf of the shore. 
 
 thou messenger Morn, dost thou beckon me 
 
 blest? 
 Or dost beckon forlorn? If his light warm my 
 breast 
 I shall murmur no more. 
 
 The song of the stars, the far away stars! 
 
 Twinkling, tinkling. 
 Faintly audible, ever laudible; 
 
 Meeting, greeting 
 In me, poor Gaia, no wish that debars. 
 
 1 cannot reck you, O numberless notes! 
 
 Timing, chiming. 
 Concords beautiful. 
 Motions dutiful; 
 Sparkling, darkling, 
 A myriad maze of musical mote. 
 
 Still the words 1 divine both soothe and relieve. 
 
 Listing, trysting; 
 
 Telling so faintlj'. 
 
 Never so quaintly. 
 
 Drifting, sifting 
 By signs clearly known. " He comes do not 
 grieve:" 
 
 •© 
 
©- 
 
 296 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 >' From this time forth, I spurn the bowl. 
 
 No more I'll meet you in this hall, 
 A mother waits in yonder sliies 
 
 And I can hear her weird call." 
 He ceased to speak, dead silence reigned 
 
 Where late was heard the revel wild. 
 For every list'ner seemed to view 
 
 That dying mother and her child. 
 And from that hour that brave man ceased 
 
 In paths of sinfulness to roam. 
 In hy-ways and the city's streets 
 
 He toils to bring the wanderer home. 
 Oh ! boys, who mourn a mother dead. 
 
 May you, like him, see her face pass 
 Before you, ere you reach a hand 
 
 To grasp the ruby, poisoned glass. 
 
 MRS.E.S.B.CORBETT. 
 
 This lady has written many fine poems for 
 recitation before anniversaries and public 
 gatherings. Mrs. Corbett is a lady of a modest 
 and retiring disposition, and is rather averse 
 to any public display of her many accomplish- 
 ments. Her poems have been widely read 
 and favorably commented upon by the press 
 and public generally. 
 
 AUTUMN LOVERS. 
 Red and green with brown and golden; 
 
 Full of glory, grand, sublime! 
 Fifty years at full completion 
 In this golden autumn time. 
 Nature tells the simple story. 
 Tells it in the natural way; 
 Life sends out its greatest glory 
 Near the tab'nacle's decay. 
 Autumn lovers, autumn lovers. 
 Loving still in autumn covers. 
 Bright October, we admire 
 
 Thy mottled foliage in its .sway; 
 Grand and queenly are the jewels 
 
 From the hand of perfect day. 
 Nature'U change thy garb of grandeur 
 
 For a dress of snowy white. 
 Melting in the spring-day sunshine 
 As the day succeeds the night; 
 Autumn lovers, autumn lovers, 
 God in spirit o'er thee hovers. 
 Here we make a golden period. 
 
 Hemmed around in Iriendship true; 
 And this is a free-will offering: 
 
 " May God's blessing fall on you !" 
 May your children prove tnost faithful — 
 How you've loved theni W(>11 anil Iniig — 
 Joyed tlicirjoys and siglied tlieir sorrows; 
 Key-nnte in tliis wedding song. 
 Autunui lovers, autumn lovers. 
 Human failings, true love covers. 
 
 Heavenly Father, if in wisdom 
 
 May this day of all be best; 
 Knitting friendship, ties of kindred. 
 
 In some way maj' all be blest. 
 Like the artist's touch of finish. 
 
 Or the sweets drawn from the flower. 
 Queen of joy, reign queen among us. 
 
 Moonlight in the stari-y hour. 
 Autumn lovers, autumn lovers, 
 God's own smile around thee hovers. 
 If we e'er renew this meeting. 
 
 Bridegroom and your faithful bride. 
 In a second golden wedding. 
 
 It will be beyond the tide. 
 May some joy to-day transmitted, 
 
 Brighten life as life wears on; 
 Trust in God and when he calls you 
 
 'Twill be said: "A Daniel's gone!" 
 Autumn lovers, autumn lovers. 
 Trust in God and be His lovers. 
 
 n 
 
 SI- 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 The emblematic little flower 
 
 That droops in shade of night 
 Looks sweetly up in tears of dew. 
 All sparkling in the light. 
 Thou sorrowing soul on troubled sea. 
 
 Beneath a mourning sail. 
 Like snow-flakes on the wing-ed wind 
 
 Within a murmuring gale. 
 Lift up thy faith, when shadows fall 
 
 You try in vain to clear. 
 For, when you've done your very all, 
 
 A guiding hand is near. 
 When crushed in tears of bitter wi-on< 
 
 And memory cites the face 
 Of some loved one beyond the vale, 
 
 In tranquil look of grace. 
 And calm repose no words can tell. 
 
 Comes from this angel, light; 
 O! spirit, born from spirit land. 
 
 Beyond the shores of night! 
 Didst thou from God's own hand come 
 down 
 
 The weary one to calm? 
 To hold communion with His own. 
 
 And bear me on thine arm? 
 See yonder clifl', in darksome hours 
 
 With creviced rock in sight. 
 As though the sun in passing tlirough 
 
 Had left a trailing liglit. 
 Thou art, O earth, a lieaulcons tluMiu'! 
 
 Green mantled, or in white. 
 With hills and vales and song of birds. 
 
 In s\inliglit, or in night. 
 We laugh and sing, aye, sing of home! 
 
 A vantage yet to be. 
 For surges take their backward roll 
 
 As we are nearing thee. | 
 
 15< 
 
a&- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 297 
 
 -« 
 
 JACOB B. DOCKENDORFF. 
 
 Born: Prince Edward Island, April 33,'64. 
 Since his childhood Jacob has e%aiice(l a great 
 passion for literature. He worked in a print- 
 ing otiice in Boston lor nearly two years, but 
 is now engaged in the profession of teaching. 
 
 ,^^^fcfc.«»'*^**- 
 
 JACOB BENJAMIN DOCKENDORFF. 
 
 Since 1886 the poems of Mr. DockendorfE have 
 appeared quite extensively in the periodical 
 press, and he has also published a volume of 
 poems. Mr. Dockeiidorff is now engaged in 
 the study of law. 
 
 EFFORT. 
 We love to linger where tlie rays 
 
 Of Peace's sun most brightly shine; 
 We fain would loiter in the ways 
 
 Of happiness, and ne'er repine. 
 Who does not hope for brighter days, 
 
 Or for a truer friendship pine? 
 And yet how oft we help to make 
 
 The clouds tliat shut the sunligiit out; 
 Upon the thorny road we take 
 
 How oft we cast tlie seeds about; 
 How oft we wantonly forsake 
 
 The friends we least can do without. 
 How strange we strive not earnestly . 
 
 For what we earnestly desire; 
 Strange that we turn about and flee 
 
 The countenance we most admire; 
 3- 
 
 And hasten downward when we see 
 
 The heights to which we would aspire. 
 Vain are the brightest hopes that rise 
 
 Unarmed of energy to do; 
 Unless the friendships thatdiguise 
 
 The tender heart and purpose true; 
 Lost the most worthy enterprise 
 
 Without the will to bear it through. 
 Nothing but weeds can live and thrive 
 
 Uucared for by the willing hand; 
 Empty must bo tlie fairest hive 
 
 If naught but idle drones command; 
 Paltry the gain unless we strive; 
 
 Failures and Fears go hand in hand. 
 
 FAINT HEART. 
 Dear lady, could I dare to woo, 
 
 I'd quickly take my stand 
 Along the line of lovers true 
 
 And venture for your hand; 
 But then I fear that such a course 
 
 Would bring me oidy pain: 
 Love unconfessed is hard, but worse 
 
 When answered with disdain. 
 I fain would >> m:ike a breast of it," 
 
 As vulgar people say. 
 And risk the chance that counterfeit 
 
 Be tendered me as pay. 
 That glance and smile I must confess 
 
 Seemed rather genuitie. 
 But love is risky business — 
 
 Whose ways I can't define. 
 The more I think the deeper grows 
 
 My sad perplexity. 
 The love that drives away repose 
 
 Is not the thing for me; 
 The birds that hover 'round my cot. 
 
 The bees and flowers, too. 
 Seem to enjoy a brighter lot 
 
 Than I whene'er I woo. 
 Then I must ever wait and sigh. 
 
 Like Cupid in a snare. 
 Until a kinder fate comes by 
 
 To free me from my care; 
 And give, perchance, some heart to cheer 
 
 My poor declining days; 
 Then farewell sighs, begone dull fear, 
 
 I'll sing in gladder lays. 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 Fond memories of childhood years,— 
 How beautiful and bright 
 
 Amid the frowns of life appears 
 Their warm, consoling light; 
 
 Chasing away the lines of care 
 
 And shedding gladness everywhere. 
 
 The playground just behind the liill. 
 The beech grove in the rear 
 
 Are pictured on my mind, and still 
 
 ■^r — ffi 
 
© 
 
 -® 
 
 298 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AilEKICA. 
 
 Not anything so dear. 
 Or half so fair, it seems to me. 
 Exists in any scenery. 
 Each ant-hill with its busy throng. 
 
 Each nest so snug and fair, 
 And all the varied, joyful song 
 
 The mothers warbled there ; 
 Each hill and nest I well can place; 
 And song; what songs have half the grace? 
 The play-house, fashioned by my hand 
 
 Assisted by my brother. 
 With mats and curtains sister planned 
 
 Unaided by our mother. 
 Mansions with stores of wealth abound 
 But where can one so rich be found? 
 • The brook, a little runaway. 
 Went babbling near by. 
 And oft I sighed as, day by day, 
 
 I thought it would run dry ; 
 Yet after all my wand ' rings here 
 No other stream seems half as clear. 
 The sun by day, the stars by night; 
 
 How oft my wond 'ring gaze 
 Was fixed upon those orbs of light 
 
 Till lost amid the maze. 
 The same bright wand'rers shine to-day 
 But, to my mind, not half so gay. 
 And every other scene so dear 
 
 Stands out in bright array. 
 Mirrored in mem'ries glass as clear 
 
 As if it were to-day. 
 Only more lovely for the tear 
 Was sooner made to disappear. 
 Fond mem'ries, ever be our stay 
 
 In sohtude'slone hours; 
 In sorrow cheer the mourner's way 
 
 With glad refreshing showers; 
 Leading us far from present fears 
 Back to the joys of childhood years. 
 
 FRIENDS. 
 In careless childhood's joyous day, 
 
 'Twas sweet to have a friend 
 To join us in the harmless play. 
 
 And ever gladly lend 
 A hand to aid in every fray: 
 
 His joy with ours to blend. 
 In youth, that .se.'ison when the mind 
 
 Is molded to the form ; 
 It ne'er can change, how good to find 
 
 A constant heart and w:irm 
 By which our thoughts may be refined — 
 
 A port in every storm. 
 In manhood — when the storms of life 
 
 Beat down most hi'avily. 
 And when amid une(iual strife, 
 
 We far away would Hee; 
 When clouds with aspect dark are rife,— 
 
 Oh! what a friend can Ije. 
 
 In age, when strength and energy 
 Are swift on the decline, 
 
 'Tis sweet to share the company 
 Of friends, ere we resign,— 
 
 To feel then at our side, as we 
 Descend the steep incline. 
 
 R EV. GEORGE W. MCSHERRY. 
 
 Born: East Beri>in, Pa., Dec. 10, 1854. 
 Since 1883 this gentleman has been preaching 
 in his native county, being a graduate from the 
 Pennsylvania college and the Lutheran theolo- 
 gical seminary. He has written quite exten- 
 sively for the local press. 
 
 LIFE'S DISMAL CASTLES. 
 Yon slope near limpid 'Possum's shore. 
 
 At Bender's boro' line, 
 A storied landmark holds of yore. 
 
 That brings one to repine. 
 The shelving heights, the rolling view 
 
 Of life's meandering stream. 
 
 Are dotted o'er with castles few 
 
 That brightness on us beam. 
 
 Oft, 'mid a lovely, swardy scene, 
 
 A paradise of bloom, 
 A half-clad frame, in ugly mien. 
 
 Looks dismal out in gloom. 
 From many a youthful, bowery height, 
 
 A castle grim looks down; 
 t^nflnished halls— repulsive sight. 
 
 Leer with dejecting frown. 
 How oft 'mid scenes of hallowed bliss 
 
 The youthful vows were made; 
 Foundation firm received the kiss 
 
 Of giant oak well laid. 
 Up rose the resolution strong, 
 A knitted frame-work grand; 
 The soaring structure peered among 
 
 The clouds of heaven's land. 
 But harkl the structure yields no sound 
 
 Of human life within; 
 Weird, gaping holes, dark, deep, abound. 
 
 That gaze with awful grin. 
 Unfinished, grim, the ca.stle stands, 
 
 A habitation drear. 
 The bat and owl in screeching bands 
 
 Inspire nocturnal fear. 
 So oft began expectant maid, 
 
 A castle fine to build; 
 The skillful plans were wisely laid. 
 
 The heart with joy was filled. 
 Along life's winding shelvy stream 
 
 Are castle-ruins strewn ; 
 Resolve, did hearts, and plan and dream, 
 Alas, in vain, how soon. 
 
 88- 
 
 ® 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 299 
 
 -IS 
 
 WILL FARRAND FELCH. 
 
 Bokn: Columbus, O. 
 Although comparatively a young mau, Mr. 
 Feleh has written several works of fiction, 
 wiiich have received quite a little prominence 
 iu the world of literature. He has also written 
 several dramas. As a poet he is a decided suc- 
 cess. and has published a little volumeentitled 
 
 WILL FAKKAND FELCH. 
 
 Legends and Lyrics, and also a narrative poem 
 in blank verse. Mr. Felch has contributed to 
 the Chicago Tribune, Current, Potter's Month- 
 ly and other publications of prominence. His 
 Triad of Love Lyrics siiows him to be one of 
 the best love-verse writers of the day. Mr. 
 Felch now resides in Hartford, Conn. 
 
 *■ 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF THE DAWN. 
 
 She looks upon the lake's expanse— 
 Her hair wind-blown o'er eyes as blue 
 As mist that seems the waves to trance. 
 She watches the glad waves advance. 
 Retreat, dance at her feet, 
 And then again retreat.— 
 In rhythmic, endless amplitude: 
 A priestess of tlie solitude. 
 Along the .shore she steps in state,— 
 Her cheek glows with the rosy dawn 
 That now begins to dissipate 
 The morning's pearly dews that wait 
 To greet, elate, her feet. 
 And touch her gown, so sweet. 
 
 Then melt in balmy morning air, — 
 Like fragrance poured from chalice rare. 
 
 Her voice,— soft as the note that falls 
 From nesting bird, awake at niglit. 
 When to her di'owsy mate she calls,— 
 Like music of the past, enthralls; 
 
 Upsoars and falls, then soars; 
 
 Like siren songs, from shores 
 Of fatal Tyrrheneansea,— 
 A flood of buoyant minstrelsy. 
 
 Her suave and gracious presence fills. 
 Completes the scene; her graceful mien 
 Enchants: like brightest dream fulfills 
 Its mission,— all the sense instills 
 With light, then thrills delight 
 Through all the inner sight. 
 Alas! she is like fleeting breath: 
 Twilight of Life ! The Dawn of Death ! 
 
 A TRIAD OF LOVE LYRICS. 
 
 UONDEAU. 
 
 A rose fell from her hair, in dance: 
 I picked it up, my heart in trance. 
 And as the dancing ceased, I sought 
 Her out, from all the rout, and brought 
 The flower. I caught a thankful glance, 
 And then the whirling waltz went on. 
 Was lovely Aphrodite, wan. 
 As fair, when she, bright myth of dawn, 
 Arose"? 
 
 Incarnate blush, sweet rose, your right 
 To touch the alabaster white 
 
 Of her fair throat, and flush with tint 
 Of rose — a subtle, precious hint — 
 None dare dispute, but envy quite,— 
 My rose! 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 This is my lady's bow-er,— 
 Her favored flowers here.— 
 
 She sits here by the hour, 
 While I, in covert near. 
 Watch every gentle sigh. 
 
 Grow, little rose, and clamber 
 
 Up to her jalousie: 
 And with your arms of amber. 
 
 So guard her, jealou.sly, 
 That rough winds pass her by. 
 
 Bear upward, leaflet, fondly. 
 
 The kiss I give you now, 
 And as she gazes on thee 
 
 Declare to her my vow. 
 That I may know my fate. 
 
 And if she asks the reason 
 Why you do bear my love, 
 
 Say that my heart's in treason. 
 
 And dare not throb or move: 
 
 It must in patience wait. 
 
 -® 
 
© 
 
 -© 
 
 300 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 EDWARD L. RIDEOUT. 
 
 Born : Benton, Me., 184L 
 After leaving- school Edward engaged in 
 mercantile pursuits in Bangor and Dexter. 
 In 1878 lie became editor of the Household 
 
 EDWARD L. RIDEOUT. 
 
 Journal. In 1880 lie wrote for the House- 
 hold Guest Magazine. Hideout's Monthly 
 Magazine, and New York Waverly, with all 
 of which he has since been connected. 
 
 «- 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 Three hundred years ago, 'tis said. 
 
 From Cassiopeia's tram 
 A liright star fell, and since that time 
 
 Has ne'er been seen again. 
 And long the "Northern Queen" has mourned 
 
 ller radiant favorite's loss, 
 And sought her through the starry depths. 
 
 The universe acioss. 
 Her sister stars with eager eyes 
 
 Still watch for her return; 
 Or seek in tlie vast realms of space 
 
 Her dwelling place to leaivi. 
 But all ill vain,— still round the place 
 
 Where once her iiresence shoiu'. 
 Dark shadows hover and the night 
 
 Ueigiis desolate and lone. 
 But 1 oft see that long lost star 
 
 Clad with divinest grace, 
 Wliei-e others only see perchance 
 
 A lovely, human face. 
 But though the skies have daiki'r grown 
 
 Since she has left their sphere. 
 
 The earth is brighter, far, to day. 
 
 The while she lingers here. 
 Her voice seems but the sweet refrain 
 
 Of some celestial song. 
 Breathed by the angels of God's peace 
 
 Above earth's sin and wrong. 
 Obedient to the Father's will 
 
 Our humble life she shares! 
 And deepens every joy it holds,— 
 
 And lightens all its cares. 
 What name was hers while in the heavens 
 
 Has never been revealed. 
 What name she wears upon the Earth 
 
 Must ever be concealed; 
 But hope has whispered to my heart 
 
 Thai this blest star divine 
 Will find her place in Heaven again 
 
 And I shall call her mine. 
 
 DREAMING. 
 In the deep silence of the night, I dreamed 
 I stood where once the waning sun light 
 
 gleamed 
 Upon a garden, brightened by your smile. 
 Dreamed, idly dreamed, and lost my cares the 
 
 while. 
 I heard the sighing of the evening breeze. 
 That stirred the leaves of apple-laden trees; 
 I saw the purple pansy's quaint old face 
 Look out from 'neath the hairbell's swinging 
 
 grace 
 I saw again the fair verbena's bloom [fume. 
 And breathed once more the heliotrope's per- 
 I watch, as once we wiitclied in days of old. 
 Ere sorrow came and life grew dark and cold. 
 The swift-winged humming bird that loved to 
 The sweet distilling from the lily's lip. [sip 
 I seemed to hear your voice as in the days 
 When evei'y tree was vocal with the praise 
 Of happy birds, who dwelt around your home, 
 And like the tiowers knew no desire to roam. 
 That gentle voice which breathed in tones of 
 And seemed the echo of the One above, [love. 
 Which speaks as once it spake on Gallilee, 
 The " peace be still " that calmed that troubl- 
 ed sea. 
 O songs of joyous binis. T hear yi' still, 
 Heiir, too, the music of the murmiii'ing rill. 
 Hear every voice in which glad nature loves 
 To call her ehildren to tlie silent groves. 
 And tell them there the story of His power. 
 Who re;ir(Hl each tre(> and fashioned e\'ery 
 
 tiower. 
 OTliou whose voice the winds and wavesobey 
 As fade the visions of the night away. 
 Speak to the ti'ou bled heai't thy words of peace. 
 And bill all sorrow and repinhig cease; 
 Make us to feel tliough earthly love may fail. 
 O'er all life's woes the heavenly will prevail. 
 
 « 
 
©- 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 301 
 
 DANIEL MCCARTHY. 
 
 Born in Ireland, Nov. 15, 1850. 
 In 1863 Mr. McCarthy came to Sandusky, Ohio, 
 where he is now engaged in the grocery busi- 
 ness. During his leisure time he has written 
 l)otli prose and verse for the press, which have 
 appeared from time to time in the leading 
 ii(>wiliaiit'rs of Anicrica. and liave received 
 
 M CARTHV. 
 
 comment. Tlie Journal of Sandusky, Oliio, 
 speaks of Daniel McCarthy as a scholarly gen- 
 tleman, who is gaining fame as a writer and 
 poet. In person Mr. McCarthy is of fine sta- 
 ture, and his genial smile and gentlemanlj^ 
 hearing have won for liim many ardent friends 
 and admirers. 
 
 «- 
 
 THE LITTLE SHAMROCK. 
 
 Oh, emblem of that dear old land 
 
 Of chivalry and lore. 
 Imported from thy native sod. 
 
 To Columbia's distant sliore; 
 I now behold your triple leaf. 
 
 Just fresli as I have seen 
 In the verdant vales of Kerry, 
 
 In my native isle of green. 
 On board the ill-fated Ojegon, 
 
 Sunk beneath a tidal wave, 
 Tlie Sliamrock's little slender roots 
 
 Had toucird .a water.v grave; 
 
 But, the plant St. Patrick used 
 
 To teach his holy creed. 
 Was destined not to perish there — 
 
 From danger hence was freed. 
 In clusters now, the shipwreck'd sprig 
 
 Is growing in mellow clay. 
 Transplanted there by willing hands 
 
 Lest the emblem would decay ; 
 Ah I may the one who cared it well 
 
 Received full meed of praise; 
 She work'd with faith and diligence 
 
 Her shamrock dear to raise. 
 On next St. Patrick's Day we'll have 
 
 An Irish shamrock green. 
 Raised in this laud of Washington, 
 
 We'll always love, I ween; 
 And with the American Stars and Stripes 
 
 And the flag of Erin's Isle, 
 To mai'tial music we'll keep step 
 
 And march in double file. 
 
 FOND MEMORIES OF IRELAND. 
 O, I long to see Erin, and once more to roam 
 The hills and green valleys of my old, native 
 
 home. 
 Where in boyhood I've studied old Irish lore. 
 The deeds of " Isheen," and those brave men 
 
 of yore. 
 And that dear spot, Dungagen, the place of 
 
 my birth. 
 The healthiest and fairest, I think on the 
 
 earth. 
 Where red-blossom'd heather, furze and green 
 
 broom. 
 Delighted my heart, with tlieir fragrance and 
 
 bloom. 
 Ah ! it's oft by the seaside, I walk'd to the 
 
 Reen, 
 Where lads and the lasses there danc'd on the 
 
 green ; 
 Whose smiles like the sunbeam at evening's 
 
 bright close. 
 Shed a gleam o'er that vale, where the white 
 
 lily grows. 
 It reminds me of childhood, and it's often I 
 
 ween, 
 On the days that I've spent in old Caherciveen, 
 WHiere-'the boys " all were ready, awaiting 
 
 the "Call," 
 To battle their freedom from base Saxon 
 
 thrall. 
 Fond memories of Ireland are sealed on my 
 
 brain, 
 And wherever I wander, they still will re- 
 main; 
 Like the dewdrops that freshen the leaves of 
 
 a rose. 
 In the core of its cluster, would wish to re- 
 pose. 
 But, alas! my dear Erin, how sad Is thy fate^ 
 
 « 
 
®- 
 
 -® 
 
 302 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 Those Orange fanatics, still gall thee of late ; 
 
 And your faithful, good people, forced to ab- 
 scond [tive land. 
 
 The homes of their birthright, and lov'd na- 
 
 Now, ye true sons of Erin, yield not in this 
 fray, [day ; 
 
 The hour that is darkest, is the hour before 
 
 Your cause is most righteous, and the goal 
 you will gain, [the Dane. 
 
 And landlords you'll vanquish, as Brian did 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 land of my birthright across the blue wave. 
 The home of the true poets and warriors 
 
 brave: 
 
 1 grieve for thy bondage tho' now far away 
 From the scenes of my boyhood, where ty- 
 rants hold sway. 
 
 Ah fain would I roam o'er thy heath-covered 
 
 hills. 
 And stay by the brookside and murmuring 
 
 rills. 
 That course through the valleys so fertile and 
 
 green. 
 Where the daisy and wild rose, and shamrock 
 
 are seen. 
 Though the yoke of the foeman is yet 'round 
 
 thy neck. 
 And his minions are ready to slay, at his beck. 
 Your children are faithful, and still full of 
 
 hope, [they'll cope. 
 
 The day is not distant when with tyrants 
 Around me to-night, are true sons of the gale, 
 Who honor the martyrs of sweet Innisfail; 
 Enslirined in their hearts, and beloved to the 
 
 core. 
 Is the brave Robert Emmet, alas ! he's no more. 
 The epitaph of Emmet, we're longing to write, 
 But the work to accomplish, we all must unite; 
 And hasten the day, tliat nations shall see. 
 Our good cause triumphant, and dear Erin 
 
 free. 
 
 ISRAEL JOHN ZIMMERMAN. 
 
 Born: Point Pleasant, O., Aug. 20, 1846. 
 Thk poems of Mr. Zimmerman have appear- 
 ed in the county iiapcrs quite frequently. He 
 nowresidcs in Herald's I'rnirie, Illinois, whei'e 
 he has lllled several i)i-oiiiineiit local positions. 
 
 «- 
 
 LILLIE MAY. 
 
 Our lovely little girl is gone. 
 
 Her name was Lillie May; 
 
 Her face gi-ew deatidy pale and wan. 
 
 And then she passed away. 
 
 Her hair was llaxen, and her age 
 
 Was not niiicli over two; 
 
 And if her fyes you did engage, 
 
 You found tliat they were blue. 
 
 Of all the house she was the pet. 
 
 And she could scarcely talk ; 
 
 It had been but a few months, yet. 
 
 Since she began to walk. 
 
 The doctors did not know her ail — 
 
 She was too young to tell,— 
 
 Though with each breath she gave a wail 
 
 That told her suff'ring well. 
 
 It seemed too hard to give her up. 
 
 Consign her to the tomb; 
 
 But then we all must drink the cup 
 
 And drop our earthly bloom. 
 
 Then let's not mourn at our loss. 
 
 We cannot bring her back. 
 
 But take on us the Savior's cross 
 
 And follow in his track. 
 
 MRS. ALLIE E. ANDERSON. 
 
 Born : Delaware Co., Ia., June 23, 1857. 
 The poems of Mrs. Anderson have appeared 
 in the Manchester Press, Athenian Enterprise, 
 and other local publications. She resides with 
 her husband, a general merchant, at Almira, 
 Iowa. 
 
 ALUMNI SONG. 
 Our hearts are filled with rapture at this meet- 
 ing here to-day. 
 With happiness to greet you all, we came 
 
 from far away ; 
 Our hearts, our hands, and voices join, as joy- 
 fully we say. 
 This is our Lenox home. 
 Cho.— Joyous, joyous, joyous greeting, 
 Happy, happy, happy meeting. 
 Ever, evermore repeating 
 This is our Lenox home. 
 All Lenox friends with us unite, and join the 
 
 welcome here. 
 Your presence and your loving words from 
 
 heart to heart give cheer; 
 This glorious day's rejoicing will go with us 
 through the year. 
 From t his our Lenox home. 
 Dear absent ones, we know that you, whom we 
 
 liad hoped to meet. 
 In thought and heart are with us here, and 
 
 join with us to greet; 
 Each coming year we'll all unite, and guide 
 our willing feet 
 To tins our Lenox liome. 
 For all the blessings rich and rare, whicligivc 
 
 us heallli and cheer. 
 Our hearts are filled with thankfulness 
 
 through all thehappy year; 
 The beauties of our glorious land all cluster 
 'I'ound us here. 
 In this our Lenox home. 
 
 -» 
 
^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 303 
 
 -I© 
 
 WILLIAM W.WHITE. 
 
 Born: Adrian, Mo., Feb. 17, 1866. 
 The subject of tliis sketch gruduated in 1888 
 at Kansas City; and in the winterof the same 
 year lie started the Advocate at Ashford, 
 Nell., of which paper lie is still tiie propiietur 
 
 ''^' 
 
 Tf»riiwfiii'iriga>... 
 
 WILLI A \ 
 
 \VAI.I,A( K W HITK. 
 
 and publisher. AUhou^li comparatively a 
 young- man, he has already become very pop- 
 ular in the state of his adoption. The poems 
 of Mr. White have appeared quite extensive- 
 ly in the periodical press. 
 
 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 I'm sorry the days go swiftly by, 
 The days of my youthful dreaming-; 
 
 And O: lor a thousand things I sigh 
 In the -n-orld of manhood's being-. 
 
 Brightest days glide on, unheld by time. 
 Into the future, dark and dreary. 
 
 Brilliant eyes are dim, though bright lights 
 shine 
 When the body's worn and weary. 
 
 A slave to thoughts, a slave to the pen 
 I'm laboring day after day. 
 
 Along the line with God-like men 
 I'm earnestly searching my way. 
 
 Our birtlidays come and our birthdays go 
 Only once in every year; 
 
 'Part many long- days, they are we know. 
 Yet, seemingly always so near. 
 
 My glad new year I hope it will be 
 Full of joy that's without sorrow. 
 
 For to-night I am twenty and three. 
 And eag-erly wait each morrow. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Of all the rapturous things of hfe 
 That fill my soul with glee. 
 
 It is the sweet and gentle strains 
 
 Of music's melody. 
 Oft in the dark and quiet night. 
 
 While all things tired repose, 
 
 I listen to sweet nature's voice, 
 It rids me of my woes. 
 To dwell — to think — and listen too. 
 
 To all its joyous notes; 
 It is a glad, a happy mood 
 
 For all whom God promotes. 
 In nature it shall add to them 
 His beauties to foreshow. 
 All vanity of world is lost 
 
 When we this sweetness know. 
 Without our music, all is cold. 
 The world seems vain and still; 
 
 The beauty of the home is gone, 
 
 No loving notes to thrill. 
 The Church step's dark. 
 
 With weeds o'ergrown. 
 The school-house soon decays; 
 When music is in silent death 
 There is no joyful praise. 
 
 BROKEN. 
 
 The circle is broken — one seat is forsaken. 
 One bud from the tree of our friendship is 
 
 shaken; 
 One heart from among- us no longer shall 
 
 thrill 
 With the spirit of gladness, or darken with ill. 
 There's a beautiful picture that 's before my 
 
 eyes, 
 A painting- that surely would Dore surprise; 
 A beautiful maiden with dark, -wavy hair. 
 Is looking- so lovely — so handsome and fair; 
 The pride of her father, her mother's own 
 
 queen. 
 That she is a beauty is plain to be seen. 
 There has no one seen such a beautiful face — 
 Such a nymph-like form — such a charming- 
 
 g-race; 
 And you will believe me, when this I tell. 
 That in love with this beautiful maiden I fell. 
 Her dear charming manner, her bright sunny 
 
 smile 
 Would lighten the darkest — the cannibals' 
 
 isle 
 Ah! 'twas only a picture — the mind's wild 
 
 dream — 
 That beautiful orig-inal ne'er was seen. 
 
 — ® 
 
© 
 
 304 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AINLERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 HENRY ABBEY. 
 
 Born; Roxdout, N. Y., July 11, 1843. 
 His first book of verse was published in 1863; 
 Ballads of Good Deeds appeared iu 1873. Most 
 of his poems iu this collection had previously 
 appeared in the leading periodicals of America. 
 He is a member of the New i'ork Authors club. 
 
 POETRY. 
 And once I knew a meditative rose 
 That never raised its head from bowing down. 
 Yet drew its inspiration from the stars. 
 It bloomed and faded here beside the road. 
 And, being a poet, wrote on empty air 
 With fragrance all the beauty of its soul. 
 
 ART. 
 The artist labors while he may 
 But finds at best too brief the day; 
 And, tho' his works outlast the time 
 And nation that they make sublime. 
 He feels and sees that Nature knows 
 Nothing of time in what she does, 
 But has a leisure Infinite 
 Wherein to do her work aright 
 
 THE DRAWBRIDGE KEEPER. 
 
 Drecker, a drawbridge keeper, opened wide 
 The dangerous gate to let the vessel through; 
 His little son was standing by his side. 
 Above Passaic River deep and blue. 
 While in the distance, like a moan of pain. 
 Was heard the whistle of the coming train. 
 
 At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back. 
 The gate-like bridge that seems a gate of death ; 
 Nearer and nearer, on the slender track. 
 Came the swiftengine, puffingits white breath. 
 Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw 
 His darling boy fail headlong from the draw ! 
 
 Either at once down in the stream to spring 
 And save his son, and let the living freight 
 Rush on to death, or to his work to cling. 
 And leave his boy unhelped to meet his fate — 
 Whicii should he do? Were you as he was tried. 
 Would not your love outweigh all else beside? 
 
 And yet the child to him was full as dear 
 As yours may be to you — the light of eyes, 
 A presence like a brighter atmosphere, 
 The liousehold star that shone iu love's mild 
 
 skies — 
 Yet, side by side with duty stern and grim. 
 Even his child became as nauglit to him. 
 
 For Drecker, being great of soul and true, 
 Hold to his work and did not aid his boy. 
 Who, in the deep, dark water, sank from view. 
 
 Then from the father's life went forth all joy; 
 But, as he fell back pallid from his pain. 
 Across the bridge iu safety shot the train. 
 And yet the man was poor, and in his breast 
 Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord ; 
 True greatness needs no title and no crest 
 To win from men just honor and reward! 
 Nobihty is not of rauk, but mind. 
 And is inborn and common in our kind. 
 He is most noble whose humanity 
 Is least corrupted: to be just and good 
 The birthright of the lowest born may be. 
 Say what we can, we are one brotherhood. 
 And, rich or poor, or famous or unknown. 
 True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone. 
 
 ALICE W. BROTHERTON. 
 
 Born: Cambridge, Indl\n-a. 
 Mrs. Brotherton hves quietly on East Wal- 
 nut Hills, Cincinnati, with her husband and 
 three children. In 1886 Beyond the Veil ap- 
 peared, and the following year her collected 
 poems entitled The Sailing of King Olaf and 
 Other Poems appeared. Her style is clear and 
 concise. She has contributed for many years 
 to the Century and other periodicals. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 V^hat 15 your art, O poet? 
 C;?ly t*^ catch and to hold 
 In a poor, frail word-mould 
 
 A little of life; 
 That the soul to whom you show It 
 May say: •> With truth it is rife, 
 This poem — I lived it of old." 
 Ah, the light whei-ein we read 
 Must be the light of the past. 
 Or your poem is nothmg at best 
 
 But an empty rhyme. 
 And to summon back grief what need 
 Of word of yours? — through all time 
 It abides with us to the last. 
 Sing to us of joy, then. Borrow 
 Of life its happiest hours. 
 Sing of love and hope, of flowers, 
 
 Of laughter and smiles; 
 But not too oft of sorrow ! — 
 The song that our grief beguiles 
 Is the best, in this world of ours. 
 
 UNAWARES. 
 
 A song welled up in the singer's heart 
 (Like song in the throat of a bird,) 
 
 And limd he sang, and far it rang,— 
 For his heart was strangely stirred; 
 
 And he sang for the very joy of song. 
 With no thought of one who lieard. 
 
 -« 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 806 
 
 FERRIS S. HAFFORD. 
 
 Bokn; Fremont, O., 1857. 
 By teaching- and attending- school alternately, 
 Ferris managed to complete the hig-h school 
 course, and entered Oberlin college in 1876, 
 whicli institution he attended for two years. 
 In 1884 he was called to fill the cliair of math- 
 ematics in Battle Creek college, Michigan. He 
 next made a tour tlinnigli western Michgian 
 
 FERRIS S. HAFFORD. 
 
 and northern Ohio lecturing on Science. 
 About this time he received the honorary de- 
 gree of Bachelor of Arts, a deserved compli- 
 ment to a worthy recipient. Prof. Hafiford is 
 connected witii the Milton academy, in the 
 state of Oregon, where he is very popular. 
 
 ©- 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO WALLOWA. 
 
 Beautiful lalie, Wallowa, 
 
 Gently thy waters flow ; 
 Ever thy crystal fountains 
 Gush from the towering mountains 
 
 Crowned with eternal snow. 
 Under thy placid bosom. 
 
 Deep in thy liquid liold. 
 Up from the winding river- 
 Happy with thee forever,— 
 
 Fishes with scales of gold. 
 Around tliee those mighty ramparts 
 
 Stood since creation's morn; 
 Back from thy surface, clearer 
 
 Tlian any polislied mirror, 
 
 Image of each is borne. 
 Over the glassy surface 
 
 Swiftly the wild fowls fly; 
 Brightly thy pebbles gleaming 
 As we float o'er them, seeming 
 
 To mock us from the sky. 
 Oh ! that He who has made thee 
 
 Beautiful as thou art, 
 Would in the day of displeasure. 
 When he gives measure for measure. 
 
 Grant thee a safer part. 
 Mountains shall melt before Him, 
 
 Islands shall flee from sight, 
 Rivers and founts of water 
 Shall in the day of slaughter 
 
 All become blood and blight. 
 Yet in His greatest mercy 
 
 Out on our sight shall burst 
 Scenes on our startled vision. 
 Fields of the bright Elysian, 
 
 Plains that were never curst. 
 Would that among the beauties 
 
 Of the most happy place, 
 Where sin is banished ever, 
 We might enjoy forever 
 
 Sight of thy smiling face. 
 
 CLIMBING THE COEUR D'ALENES. 
 To climb a lofty mountain 
 
 And see the sights below. 
 And look with eagle vision 
 
 On plains of Idalio. 
 We left the plodding people 
 
 Upon Viola's plain, 
 And with light hearts and footsteps 
 
 We sought the Cceur d'Alene. 
 Three children my companions — 
 
 Their hearts were light and gay. 
 And with no feeble courage 
 
 They trod the rugged way. 
 We waded through a flax-fleld. 
 
 We climbed the rustic bars. 
 And o'er us frowned the mountain 
 
 All seamed with ragged scars. 
 When wearied out with climbing, 
 
 A refuge was at hand. 
 The shadow of a great rock 
 
 Within that weary land. 
 We felt the cooling breezes 
 
 That o'er the mountain swell. 
 And lieard the funny legend 
 
 The violet's petals tell. 
 And next we saw the cottage 
 
 Of a hardy pioneer. 
 Who gave us cool spring water 
 
 And guiding words of cheer. 
 But tender limbs grew weary 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 m 
 
 306 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOKAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 And oft were fain to rest 
 Before the journey ended 
 
 Upon the mountain's crest. 
 Once there the mighty play-ground 
 
 The Titans made of old, 
 For many leagues and furlongs 
 
 In splendor 'round us rolled. 
 To westward graceful Steptoe, 
 
 The monarch of the plains. 
 To east the Bitter Root range. 
 
 To north the Coeur d'Alenes. 
 And far away to southward. 
 
 O'er plains and cities new. 
 Arose the towering summits 
 
 Of lofty mountains blue. 
 And then with glowing rapture 
 
 One little maiden dear 
 Said, " I shall never weary 
 
 To tell what I see here." 
 Tliere is one more mountain, children, 
 
 With you I want to climb. 
 It rears its lofty summit 
 
 Beyond the shores of time. 
 The way is sometimes weary 
 
 For manhood or for youth; 
 But on it stands the temple 
 
 Of Purity and Truth. 
 I can't describe the vision 
 
 That we from there can see; 
 To tell of all its glories 
 
 Will take eternity. 
 
 MRS. EMILY H. HAFFORD. 
 
 Born : Fennville, Mich., Sept. 3, 186L 
 At the age of twenty-flve this lady was mar- 
 ried to Prof. F. S. Hafiford, whose name ap- 
 pears on the preceding page of this work. The 
 
 SI- 
 
 ONLY A CHILD. 
 Only a child; what can I do 
 
 That will be noble, grand and true? 
 My hands are small, my voice is weak, 
 
 I have scarcely learned to think and 
 speak. 
 Only a child, whose nimble feet 
 
 Have over trod 'mong grasses sweet; 
 They say that thorns and thistles wild 
 
 Will some day vex their little child. 
 Only a child — and yet I know 
 
 How to lighten another's woe; 
 How to soften a hardened heart. 
 
 And bid the tear of repentance start. 
 Only a child,— yet I can tell 
 
 Of Jesus' love for those who fell; 
 And how to ransom us he came 
 
 And bore tlie cro.ss — despised theshame. 
 Only a cliild,— yet Jesus said — 
 
 His hand upon an infant's head — 
 That in the bright and happy land. 
 
 Around liis tlirone the cliildren stand. 
 Only a child. Oli in that day 
 
 Wlien heaven and earth shall pass away, 
 Wlien sinners (luakc, 'mid ruin wi'd. 
 
 May I be Jesus' little child 1 
 
 MKS. EMILY H. HAFFORD. 
 
 poems of Mrs. Hafford are usually of a serious, 
 imaginative turn, and some of them show 
 much depth of feeling. 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 Earth is a battle ground 
 Where good and ill are ligliting still 
 For many a noble youth and oldvr one. 
 Whose shall the conquest be wlien life's 
 
 wild strife is done';? 
 
 Earth is a forest wide. 
 Wliere pain and joy. with inucli alloy, 
 Likelightand shade among the lianginjr 
 
 trees. 
 Come over each, to fit for brighter scenes 
 
 than these. 
 
 Eai'th is a seeding time; 
 And all who will the lieart may till 
 With nt)ble thougbtsthat, springing foilli. 
 
 shall show 
 A yield of joy deeper than earth can know. 
 
 Earth is a harvest field. 
 Where golden sheaves and only leaves 
 Are ripening in theworld'sautumnalsiin. 
 
 * 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 307 
 
 --« 
 
 EARL MARBLE. 
 
 Born: Ohio. 
 In liis youth Earl Marble worked at setting- 
 type ou some of the leading newspapers, and 
 later this journalist edited a humorous 
 publication, American Punch. In 1880 he be- 
 came editor of tlie Folio, a musical journal, 
 which position he held for seven years. He 
 
 EAHL JIAHBLE. 
 
 has contributed much in stories, verse and 
 sketch to the Independent, Youtli's Compan- 
 ion, Appleton's Journal, Lippincott's Maga- 
 zine.Detroit Free Press and other publications. 
 In addition to liis publislied operettas, songs 
 etc., he has written a musical comedy. Mr. 
 Marble is now the editor of the Tomahawk, 
 published in Denver, ("ol. 
 
 " A HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS.' 
 " Abijali Dunn; Abijah Dunn! 
 
 Where art thou this bright Summer morn? 
 Awake and greet the rising sun. 
 
 Whose rays both earth and sky adorn." 
 Beneath his porch, since toddling child, 
 
 I oft had lingered for awliile. 
 Charmed by his glance, as woman's mild. 
 
 And more than woman's sweet smile. 
 
 " Abijah Dunn ! Abijah Dunn !' 
 
 So shot a summons through tlie air 
 Long hours before my later one 
 
 To see the sun's bright rising glare. 
 »' Abijah Dunn !" This summoned him 
 
 To greater glory tlian the sun's. 
 Spilled over tlie liorison's rim. 
 
 As up the sky he glowing runs. 
 
 " Abijah Dunn !" The midnight bleak 
 
 Stood still a moment as the Voice 
 Came down the old man's soul to seek, 
 
 And bear to realms where all rejoice. 
 "Abijah Dunn:" The liovel dark 
 
 Brief moments surged witli spirit light, 
 And then, forever, cares that cark 
 
 Were drowned in blisses that requite. 
 
 »• Abijah Dunn ! came higher up ! 
 
 Thine earthly house meets not thy needs; 
 Dire want has filled thine earthly cup. 
 
 But heaven's o'erflows with souls of deeds. 
 Thine earthly hut possessions built. 
 
 Of which, alas! but poor thy part; 
 Thy heavenly house, with richest gift 
 
 Adorned, is built of what thou art. 
 
 " Abijah, great Jehovah's son ! — 
 
 For such thy name's significance — 
 Thy fatlier, here, Abijah Dunn, 
 
 Hath kept thee an inheritance. 
 And taken from thy life below 
 
 A thought or act, as love did warm. 
 Its walls to deck ; as thou didst grow. 
 
 Its shape enlarged to grander form. 
 
 "Abijah Dunn! Abijah Dunn! 
 
 That window toward morn's brightest skies, 
 The glass like diamonds in the sun. 
 
 Came wlien thou bidst one hopeless rise. 
 And turn his gaze to glory's realm ; 
 
 And yon bright room, so sweet within. 
 Grew like Aladdin's when life's helm. 
 
 Thou seized, and steered from shoals of sin. 
 
 " Abijah Dunn ! dost thou recall 
 
 A smile that dried a poor cliild's tears? 
 That smile, a picture on the wall. 
 
 Will sing of sunsliine through long years. 
 Rememberest thou a fallen one. 
 
 Long since returned to kindly dust. 
 With whom thou shared, Abijah Dunn, 
 
 When others sneered, thine only crust; 
 
 " From tears of thankfulcess she shed 
 
 Grew trees whose fruits like pearls catch 
 light. 
 And o'er the walks that thou wilt tread 
 
 Dispel forever aught like night. 
 And throw their gleam to towers that grew 
 
 When aspiration with thee dwelt. 
 And windows catching heaven's blue 
 
 When eyes looked whence the suppliant 
 knelt. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 308 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF ATMKKICA. 
 
 " Abijali Dunn ! thy home is here, 
 
 ' Not made with hands," but builded, lo! 
 Ahove earth's labors, year by year, 
 
 As thou didst toward fulfillment grow." 
 Ah! blest at last whose lives be true! 
 
 And sad those lost In earthly rust! 
 Those " builded better than tliey knew," 
 
 And these find but decay and dust. 
 
 CALLIE BONNEY-MARBLE. 
 
 Born: Peoria, 111. 
 
 This lady has written a great many poems, 
 stories and sljetches for the Voice of Masonry 
 and Family Magazine, Youth's Companion, 
 Wide Awake, Boston Transcript, Living- 
 Cliurch, Chicago Times, Inter-Ocean, and tlie 
 leading iierifidicals of AnieT'ii'.-i. Two i)rosc 
 
 ■^kJi*^^^ 
 
 
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 % 
 ■j 
 
 
 * 
 
 4 ^1 l^^^P 
 
 ■ % 
 S 
 
 j/^ft^"" T^^^^^^^H 
 
 y 
 
 IMBg^ -' j^^l 
 
 ■ 
 
 IH^ ^ . ."^I^^I^HH 
 
 ■ 
 
 C'A LL I E BON N EY-M A li BI-E. 
 
 works from her pen. Wit and Wisdom of Bul- 
 wer and Wisdom and Eloquence of Webster, 
 have been highly praised by tlie press. In 1889 
 s)ie was married at Sati Friincisco to Earl 
 Marbl(>, a well-known poet and journaUst, Asa 
 writer of pi'os(! and verse Mrs. Marble is g-Jiin- 
 ing- a national reputation. 
 
 ee- 
 
 AN EASTER CUSTOM. 
 I met her Easter morning' 
 In the old cathedral isle, 
 
 And, early at the service. 
 She gave me bow and smile. 
 
 The sexton old had vanished. 
 
 The organist asleep; 
 I asked if ancient customs 
 
 It were not well to keep. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she gravely answered; 
 
 "To which do you refer?" 
 "To one the Greeks now practice; 
 
 'Tis pleasing I aver." 
 
 " Oh ! something quaint and olden ! 
 
 And could we do it here? " 
 Slyly I glanced about us. 
 
 And saw no one was near. 
 
 " I think we might," 1 answered; 
 
 For how could I resist? 
 I wonder if the preacher 
 
 Knew some one had been hissed ! 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 Tlie golden gleam of the western sun 
 
 In a flood of amber light. 
 Streamed softly in at the window, wher 
 
 It lingered to say good-night. 
 
 And slowly, sweetly the vesper bell 
 
 Bang out in the evening air, 
 While floating upward the music came 
 
 Like the sound of an angel's prayer. 
 
 Then over the misty clouds of pearl. 
 
 In a glorious wave of light, 
 Tlie daylight faded from earlli away. 
 
 And was lost in the starry night. 
 
 And clearly, softly the day went home. 
 With its record of joy and pain,— 
 
 Written in shadow or gleaming light, 
 The eternal loss and gain. 
 
 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 
 I stood beneath the mistletoe, 
 
 Nay, do not chide me! 
 How should I know that one would conit 
 
 And stand beside me? 
 
 How should I know that he would ilaini 
 
 The forfeit froni me? 
 To surmise even such a thing 
 
 Would ill become me. 
 
 And then you know the Cliristnias song. 
 Of "Peace, good will towai-d men," 
 
 Kept ruiniing through my mind, mayhap 
 Obscuring mental ken. 
 
 The circumstance, not I, to blame 
 
 That there should be I trow, 
 A kiss, a vow, a j^iTO'ii'sed bride 
 
 Heneath the mistletoe. 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 309 
 
 MRS. MARY BAIRD FINCH. 
 
 Born: Portage Co., O., June 8, 1837. 
 Commencing to write at an early ag'e, the 
 poems of Mrs. Firicli have constantly appear- 
 ed in the i)eriodieal press of the country. For 
 the past fifteen years she has written steadily. 
 
 MRS. MARY BAIRD FINCH. 
 
 and hopes at an early date to publish a volume 
 of lier poems. Mrs. Finch has five chlldi'en, 
 two daughters and three sons, all of whom are 
 grown up; and she has one Httle grand-daugh- 
 ter, who is the light and pride of her life. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN BLUEBELL. 
 
 Little flower of bonny blue — 
 Welcome is thy tender hue. 
 Tinted like an ocean shell. 
 Dainty little mountain bell; 
 Blooming o'er the murky mines, 
 'Neath the moaning of the pines, 
 And the aromatic flr. 
 Neighbor of the juniper; 
 In the music of tiiy bells 
 Tell me of the mountain dells, 
 And the mountain breezes blown 
 In thy plaintive undertone. 
 With the song of mountain rills 
 Hurrying to the hungry mills. 
 Whisper low and true to me 
 Of a prehistoric sea; 
 Of the Vulcan h;ind that brought 
 
 Order from the ruin wrought. 
 Wliere the mountain chain was born. 
 In that dim chaotic morn, 
 Slowly rose each hill and lea — 
 Islands in a golden sea, 
 Blue as are thy bonny bells 
 Singing of the ocean shells. 
 Canst thou tell the low, sweet words 
 Murmured by the strangest birds. 
 Where the brown nun sits and sings. 
 Crooning by the mountain springs. 
 Flower of the tender hue 
 Like the eyes that once I knew. 
 Eyes that haunt me yet afar 
 Where thy blue-robed sisters are; 
 Eyes like some sweet placid water 
 Had'st my little mountain daughter, 
 And I dream of her at night 
 In her lonely bed of white. 
 Sleeping near the Western mountains. 
 By the bluebells and the fountains. 
 
 THE ARCANA OF NATURE. 
 
 Spirit of the great unknown, 
 
 I dwell in the Infinite seas, 
 I sing in the wind's glad tone. 
 
 And sigh in the soft summer breeze; 
 I brood in silence and storm, 
 
 I come with the earthquake's wrath, 
 I pillow the worlds on my arm. 
 
 And stay the sweet moons in their path. 
 I scatter the sunshine of June 
 
 That heralds the grass and the grain, 
 I dream by the fountains at noon. 
 
 Or waken the winter again; 
 My girdle of rainbows I bind 
 
 As I sit by the gray ocean side. 
 My footsteps are lleeter than wind. 
 
 My pulse is the flow of the tide. 
 I am soul of legions of suns, 
 
 I touch their swift wheels with my hand. 
 Yet the smallest streamlet that runs 
 
 Is mine with its silvery band. 
 And mine is its silvery song; 
 
 Though the chorus of stars is my own, 
 I hasten their cycling throng 
 
 And breathe in their undertone. 
 I marshal my forces and go 
 
 To systems unseen of the earth, 
 I laugh in their rivers that flow, 
 
 I attend the least star at its birth; 
 Of the universe I am the Lord, 
 
 Though I whisper my secrets as mild 
 As dew shimmering down on the sward. 
 
 And I wait on the steps of your child. 
 I am heart of the lily and rose, 
 
 I have painted them out of the deeps, 
 I move in each blossom that blows. 
 
 And the zephyr that over them sweeps ; 
 Yet I tread on the outermost bar. 
 
 ■© 
 
SB 
 
 310 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A31E1UC'A. 
 
 761 
 
 -® 
 
 MARY ELLEN BLANCHARD. 
 
 Born : Pembroke, Me., March 27, 1851. 
 Miss Blanchard learned the trade of a type- 
 setter in the office of Portland Advertiser, and 
 has since worked in a number of Portland and 
 
 MAliV i:i,I,K.N UI,A.\( IIMtll. 
 
 Boston offices. Failiny licalth (il)ligv(l her to 
 return to her father's home in Milltown,wliere 
 slienow resides. This writer is well known by 
 lier contributions to literary papers and mag-- 
 azines, and by A Story of Psyche and Other 
 Poems, which appeared from her pen in 1885. 
 
 ®- 
 
 SEA CHARMED. 
 
 Siii^thy songr, O happy sea, 
 
 Lift to lij>ht thy mighty waves. 
 And keep ward incessantly 
 
 O'er thy dusky caves. 
 One there is, both deep and wide. 
 
 One there is, both wide and deep, 
 Where, alone yet satisfied 
 
 My beloved doth sleep ; — 
 Sleep and smile in pallid calm 
 
 With the seaweed o'er her dress. 
 And one soft and veined arm 
 
 Swept by richest tress. 
 On her lily lids the light 
 
 Never falls willi pressure rude. 
 Nor do restless winds at nifi'ht 
 
 Vex her .solitude; 
 Though with wizard cliarm they whirl 
 
 Swiftly round her coral bed, 
 
 Winding there thy waves of pearl 
 
 Like a skein of thread. 
 O'er the root, and o'er the door. 
 
 Hangs tlie mystic net they form, 
 Sway'd and torn forever more 
 
 By tlie trampling storm. 
 
 O my Goddess, safe in death, 
 O my Saint, my all in all. 
 
 Colder lie, nor let a breath 
 Answer to their call. 
 
 Dream not, wake not, only rest. 
 With seaweed o'er tliee cast. 
 
 And one white hand on thy breast- 
 Faithful to the last. 
 
 MY HEART GOES ROUND THE WORLD 
 
 SAILING. 
 My heart goes round the world sailing. 
 
 However the winds may blow. 
 And searches with tears from clime to clime 
 
 For the love of long ago; 
 Goes round the world, round the world sail- 
 ing. 
 
 With passion its pulse to thrill. 
 All round the world, round the world sailing, 
 
 In quest of the old love still. 
 My heart goes round the world sailing. 
 
 As ever in days gone by 
 Did Fancy sail in her airy ship 
 
 To the realms where treasures lie ; 
 Goes searching the cold world o'er and o'er, 
 
 Wherever fond wish may go. 
 And calls through the lengtli of desert years — 
 
 For what years cannot bestow. 
 Calls to the sea that's swept by storm. 
 
 Till its billows roar with pain; 
 And call to the wind-vexed mountain height 
 
 Tha frowns on the tranquil plain; 
 But never tlie sea gives back response 
 
 To the words that burn as fire. 
 And the mount upreai-s in silent scorn 
 
 Of the dole of vain desire. 
 Yet a-sailing and a-sailing. 
 
 Through .storm and through summer shine. 
 Shall go my lieart witli a fi>ark'ss ti ust 
 
 Till that joy again is mine; 
 All I'ound the world, round the world sailing. 
 
 Till it faint at List willi years. 
 And learn liow idle are human hopes. 
 
 And how unavailing, tears. 
 My lieart, around the woi'ld sailing. 
 
 Hoping and worsliiping still. 
 Will seek that love of tlie olden time 
 
 Till death shall tiie dream fulfill; 
 All round tlie world, round the world sailing, 
 
 Willi paiicnce that mocks at woe. 
 All round the world, round the world sailing. 
 
 However the winds may blow ! 
 
 ® 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AiliSUICA. 
 
 m 
 
 .'ni 
 
 ROBERT WHITTET. 
 
 Born: Perth, Scotland, 1829. 
 At an early ag:e Robert learned the printing- 
 trade, and engag-ed in business for himself 
 in ills native town. In 18(39 he purchased a 
 plantation of some four iiundred acres in 
 Virg-inia, close by tlie old city of Williams- 
 burg-, but the venture proved a disaster and 
 lie retreated to bis olii iie<-uputioti in the eitv 
 
 HOHEHT WHITTET. 
 
 of Richmond, where he is now a member of 
 the printing and publishing: iiouse of Wliittet 
 & Shepperson. Mr. Whittet is posse.ssed of 
 poetical gifts of the highest order, and he 
 owns an unquestionable right to the title of a 
 true poet. In 1854 he married Miss Jane Ait- 
 chison, to whose self-denying virtues he dedi- 
 cated The Brighter Side of Suffering, publisli- 
 ed in 1882, a superb volume of poems covering 
 a wide range of subjects. 
 
 ® 
 
 A PRELUDE. 
 
 One linnet's note tlie more or loss 
 
 Within the wildwood's minstrelsy. 
 Can neither raise nor aught depress 
 
 The sense of joyous revelry. 
 And yet each linnet from the spray 
 
 His swelling notes melodious flings. 
 And pipes his own sweet roundelay 
 
 Heedless how another sings. 
 He has a song 'tis his to sing. 
 
 And that he sings right earnestly. 
 
 And waiteth not for anything 
 r To urge his heart to minstrelsy. 
 The skylark sings where bliss belongs, 
 Tiiat .song an ampler field be given; 
 Takes to the clouds his seraph songs — 
 
 Throws half to earth and half to heaven. 
 And some sweet songster, near alight 
 
 On thorny perch, amid tlie throng, 
 Gives to the passing heart delight, 
 
 And cheers it witli a joyous song. 
 So are the songs that poets sing 
 
 Within secluded quiet retreat, 
 But single echoed notes, that bring 
 
 Their quota for a choir complete. 
 Each pipes his own peculiar strain. 
 
 On artful lute or simple reed, 
 And sings, and sings, and sings again. 
 
 To satisfy his own heart's need. 
 Yet may some raptured thought out-reach 
 
 Far, far the poefs dream above. 
 And some faint wavering heart beseech 
 
 To deeds of grace, and hope, and love. 
 To sing has given one heart employ. 
 
 And thus did end enough fulfill; 
 But if, resung, another's joy 
 
 Is more enlarged, 'twere better still. 
 And so, self-pleased, I give the song 
 
 That's kept my own past clear and bright. 
 If that, perchance, some other tongue 
 
 May lift the lilt, and find delight. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE DAISY. 
 
 Long had sunk the light of day. 
 
 When, prostrate on the cold, green sod, 
 Within Gethsemane, there lay. 
 
 Disconsolate, the Son of God. 
 With bitter sighs His bosom heaved. 
 
 In sorrow's voice He cried aloud. 
 Till, torn with grief. His heart relieved 
 
 Itself with sweat of crimson blood. 
 Down from His quivering brow it fell, 
 
 A dropping stream upon the ground; 
 And long that spot could passers tell. 
 
 So bare amid the green around. 
 
 And autumn came, and spring-time's show- 
 ers. 
 
 And summer's zephyrs softly blew. 
 Yet on that spot no other flowers 
 
 Save some sweet mountain daisies grew. 
 And <as each raised its drooping head. 
 
 Its serrate fringe was crimson dyed: 
 Memorial of the tears He shed. 
 
 And of the hour to blood He siglied. 
 As in salvation's world-wide flow. 
 
 The heaven-inspired apostle band. 
 First to God's chosen people go. 
 
 And then abroad to every land; 
 
 -© 
 
^- 
 
 312 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 So from that spot the daisy bears 
 To all the world a messag-e hrief : 
 
 The crimson of its fringe declares 
 The story of the Savior's grief. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF SUFFERING. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Forgiveness ! — grace benignant ! — what were 
 
 life 
 On earth without thine antidote to hate! 
 And heaven could offer but a barren bliss 
 That stayed thy cleansing of the darkened 
 
 past. 
 Or kept recorded unforgotten sins; 
 And in the vast Beyond, where no permit 
 To enter can be given thee, who may guage 
 The depths of life's eternal agotiy. 
 Because, through cycles of immensity. 
 No mind dare raise one thought of hope or 
 
 thee? 
 Thou art a flower planted by Love's gracious 
 
 hand 
 Within heaven's garden, and ere bursts its 
 
 buds. 
 The same Hand plucks them, that Himself 
 
 may bear 
 To earth, and let them blossom fuller there. 
 And give their fragrance unto doubting- 
 hearts ; 
 And men receive it as a proffered gift. 
 Smile in its hallowed joyousness of peace. 
 But yet forget to plant its scions anew. 
 That they tliemselves maj' have the flowers to 
 
 gift. 
 
 The chrysalis, in inert silence wrapped, 
 Shows not the golden-tinted wings within. 
 Until the summer's resurrecting power 
 Gives the freed prisoner unbounded flight: 
 And so, methinks, that when, in anxious 
 
 moods. 
 We speculate on life's uncertain range,— 
 The hazard of our daily walk — the loss. 
 The gain — so great to-day, so small to-mor- 
 row — 
 Tlic hopes so bright that end so oft in blight. 
 The weariness and care, the grief and paiu, 
 The poverty, the mourning, and the tears. 
 And at the last the coffin and the shroud, 
 Tlie grassy hillock, and the churchyard's 
 
 rest,- 
 Our minds sliould reason that there must be 
 
 found 
 Some compensation for the sufferings borne 
 Througliout life's journey,— some lasting 
 
 solace 
 Other than those fleeting hours can give- 
 Some balm to Ileal the wou ridings, quell the 
 
 pain,— 
 Some recompense to fill the voids of loss; 
 
 And therefore are we but as sowers here. 
 Scattering seed from which we'll garner grain. 
 Or laborers busy in the Master's work. 
 Scon to be called to get the wages due; 
 And we may deem death's long and dreamless 
 
 sleep 
 But as the folding into chrysalis rest, [ed 
 
 From whence, m season, we will Ijurst, array- 
 In garments fitted for immortal life. 
 
 Life flits like measured music day by day 
 Fi-om instruments which half-trained players 
 
 play. 
 With many notes that mar the symphony. 
 Yet on the whole right pleasant harmony. 
 In merry mood one would too fain employ 
 The trilling alto of hilarious joy ; 
 And in our toiling liours the world's refrain 
 Lilts in the tenor's euphony of strain; 
 And charity —life's sweetest lullaby- 
 Breathes forth its blessings as a melody; 
 But 'tis life's sorrow — 'tis its suffering — 
 
 brings 
 The heart, that " wondrous harp of thousand 
 
 strings," 
 Its mellow bass —the deep sonorous tone 
 Tliat softens all the parts to unison. 
 And yields the sweetly plaintive minor note. 
 That soothes the troubled soul, and helps to 
 
 float, 
 Like JEolian murmurs on the summer air. 
 One's tlioughts to heavenly regions calm and 
 
 fair. 
 
 Life unto each is measured off and given. 
 The bounds all circumscribed and fitly set. 
 Not as the strength that animates the arm. 
 Nor as the nerve that steels the aspiri;ig 
 
 heart: 
 But as the Master's first intent demands. 
 And his injected purpose has been gained: 
 So is the beauty of our lives enhanced 
 A thousand fold, because witli God we work, 
 For God we labor; — His eternal will 
 Deputes the agent for his special part 
 In building up heaven's glory, and lis King's: 
 And that accomplish'd, be it but to add 
 (^ne atom to the .architect's design. 
 Life is exhausted of its (iod-given aim; 
 And as the lal)orers when their task is done. 
 Receive the promised peiuiy of reward, 
 Eacli one nuist pass, as night's dark sliadows 
 
 close. 
 Into the Master's iii-esenee, and receive — 
 Wages enough! — His welcoming "welldonel" 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 For true it is, we may refine 
 The chiiractei- by naturi" rude,— 
 
 Its evil make the heart to tine, 
 Or cause it minister to good. 
 
 -« 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 313 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. EFFIE H. B. SWANSON. 
 
 Born: Hud80N, Wis., Feb. 19, 1864. 
 After atteuding- River Falls academy and the 
 state normal school at the same place, Miss 
 Effie entered upon the profession of primary 
 teaching-, which she followed for eight years 
 witli great success. In 1887 this lady was 
 united in marriage to A. W. Swansoii, editor 
 
 MRS. EFFIE H. B. SWANSON. 
 
 and publisher of the Banner, Royalton,,Miun., 
 in which city she now resides. The poems of 
 Mrs. Swanson have appeared extensively in 
 the periodical press. Besides attending- her 
 household duties, she assists her husband 
 greatly in his editorial work. 
 
 ®- 
 
 MY BOY. 
 
 I will tell you a sad, sad story. 
 
 Of my boy, so lo%nng and true; 
 
 He was laughing and bright 
 
 With a step so lig-ht, and eye of azure hue. 
 
 My beautiful boy grew day by day 
 
 Less laughing-, and briglit, and gay, 
 
 His step grew slow and aimless; 
 
 They were stealing mj- boy away. 
 
 I tried with my love and kindness. 
 
 To bring him back to me. 
 
 God knows my heart was breaking 
 
 For my boy as of old to see. 
 
 But he gave up all that was holy 
 
 To men; for the cursed cup 
 
 Made him slave to tlie mighty demon. 
 
 That was fast eating godliness up. 
 
 I will tell you now how it happened; 
 
 How my boy came to go astray. 
 
 He thouglit he could not be tempted; 
 
 So he went in the tempter's way. 
 
 He went though I prayed with him often 
 
 To go with the good and tlie true; 
 
 He was fearless and brave with the tempter; 
 
 Ah, the tempter was cunning then too. 
 
 He had not the strength that God giveth, 
 
 For he closed his heart to God's voice, 
 
 He -went like a wayward lamb ever 
 
 Taking the path of his ciioice. 
 
 One eve the tempter came to liim, 
 
 How little he dreamed it was he. 
 
 For the face was lovely to look at 
 
 And the eyes were truthful to see. 
 
 My beautiful boy wandered thoughtless 
 
 Where she with a face fresh and iDright 
 
 Beckoned all to drink with King Bacchus, 
 
 Who held feast and revel that night. 
 
 His comrade stood near him and urged him 
 
 To take one glass and no more. 
 
 A moment he thought of his mother; 
 
 Then yielded, and all was o'er. 
 
 Now his manhood is blighted forever. 
 
 His lot — a slave to the cup. 
 
 He has broken the heart of his mother. 
 
 And buried his future hopes up. 
 
 So hear me, O temperance workers. 
 
 For I'm aged and wrinkled and gray, 
 
 I have had much trouble and sorrow 
 
 Yet never such sorrow have felt till to-day. 
 
 Did you ever think of the thousands 
 
 Of beautiful boys like mine? 
 
 Who have been warned without ceasing. 
 
 Of the tempter, the power of wine? 
 
 Yet go, like wayward lambs ever 
 
 Not fearing or heeding or hearing our voice, 
 
 Down to ways dark and dangerous. 
 
 In evil paths of their choice. 
 
 As long as fathers will lead them. 
 
 As long as grog-sliops are near. 
 
 Our boys will ever be tempted. 
 
 And much we will have to fear. 
 
 So let old and young work for temperance, 
 
 And combat the enemy strong. 
 
 Let us fight hand to hand and not falter. 
 
 For right will be stronger than wrong. 
 
 THE HARVEST FIELDS. 
 I walked alone one summer day. 
 
 Among the fields so lately shorn; 
 I thought how a short time ago, 
 
 Tlie wind had emerald banners borne. 
 But now alas: What once was green. 
 
 And spread o'er valley, hill, and plain. 
 
 -© 
 
m 
 
 314 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAT^ AND NATIONAL TOBTS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 A.L.GEPFORD. 
 
 Born: Niantic, 111., Feb. 12, 1865. 
 Several iKicnis of iiu'i-i( liavo apiioarod from 
 
 A. L. GEl'FORD. 
 
 the pen of Mr. Gepford. He is still ;i resideut 
 of his native place. 
 
 ©- 
 
 LIVING FOR A PURPOSE. 
 
 The life we are living- here below 
 
 Is oidy a little span, 
 
 When compared with the never-ending- flow 
 
 Of tlie years that are to come. 
 
 We live for a certain purpose here; 
 
 To fulfill a certain plan. 
 
 The path we are treading- thro* this world 
 
 Leads only to the gate 
 
 Of a city in the Heavenly world; 
 
 We'll reach it soon or late; 
 
 And the purpose we liave lived out Jiere 
 
 Will then decide our fate. 
 
 If we've lived for self, and selfish ends. 
 
 And ever strove to gain 
 
 The world's applause, men's words of praise, 
 
 Great wealth, or liiiigly fame, 
 
 We will never enter the pearly g-ate 
 
 If this lias been our aim. 
 
 If we've lived out only the one word. 
 
 If it is the only name. 
 
 That we liave regai-ded in this life. 
 
 It would surely be in \ ain 
 
 To ask an entranci! into Heaven 
 
 On th(; strength of such a name. 
 
 .self,' 
 
 If we would pass the gate of pearl. 
 
 As revealed in God's own word. 
 
 We must take a standard high and pure. 
 
 Self must ever be ignored; 
 
 We must live for God's own holy Son, 
 
 For Jesus Christ our Lord. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Christmas, thou day of blessed days most 
 
 dear. 
 Return and bring thy joyous time of cheer; 
 Return, remind us, lovingly, of one 
 Who many years ago to earth did come, 
 Bringing good will from God to men, [of men. 
 The prophet called him Wonderful, the Prince 
 
 Look ! what means the rising of j'on bright 
 Outshining the sun at noon-tide hour; [star? 
 Traveling the sky toward ancient Bethlehem, 
 Where God had said should rise the Prince of 
 The babe that in that lowly manger lay, [men. 
 The Savior of the world was born that day. 
 Christmas, thou author of our blessed hope,— 
 Hope of each mortal in this wide world's 
 
 scope. 
 Come back to us and teach us o'er again 
 The Savior's lesson of Good will to Men; 
 O, may we learn it thoroughly and well. 
 And may each life the beauteous story tell. 
 
 REV. SILVANUS HAYWARD. 
 
 Born : Gilsum, N. H., Dec. 3, 1828. 
 After g-raduating at Dartmouth in 1853, Mr. 
 Hayward engaged in teaching; was precej> 
 tor of several academies in New Hampshire 
 and Vermont, and h:is been professor of 
 mathematics. He has tilled the pulpit the 
 greater part of his life.and is now pastor of the 
 Congregatioinil church at Globe Village, 
 Mass , where he is also engaged in completing 
 the history of Rochester, N. H. 
 
 FOR THE DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM. 
 Ye who ope this book, beware! 
 Let indifference never dare 
 Stain the page that mnv is fair. 
 This is Friendship's lioly shrine. 
 Here Atfection's tendrils twine. 
 And from clusters of her vine 
 Love shall press his golden wine. 
 Freely (juaff that sparkling flood; 
 "I'is the heart's most precious lilood; 
 'Tis the only earthly good. 
 
 May you, with those recorded here. 
 Find its currents bright and clear, 
 Unalloyed witli bitter tear. 
 And beyond thes(! clouded skies. 
 When the ettM'iiiil morn shall rise. 
 Drink it pure in Paradise. 
 
 51 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAl- POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 315 
 
 -® 
 
 DR. THOMAS W. GORDON. 
 
 The poems of Dr. Gordon liave appeared ex- 
 tensively from time to tinie iu tlie periodical 
 
 DK. THOMAS W. GORDON. 
 
 press. He practices his profession at Georg-e- 
 town, Ohio, where he is very popular. 
 
 BATTLE SONG. 
 From the ancient igneous mountain, from the 
 everlasting- liills. 
 Where the God of host was present to his 
 people on the morn. 
 Where the heavy thunders crashed to earth 
 and the vivid lightning- kills, — 
 The truth arrayed iu battle's din, anew on 
 earth was born. 
 From the highest crags o'er mount and plain, 
 it flashed a glittering- flame, 
 A sweeping: power within itself, the essen- 
 tial power of God, 
 Which to the poor black manacled gives a 
 glory and a name, 
 Whicli truth has 'graved on human hearts 
 with more than iroji rod. 
 'Till the battling din of thousands swept o'er 
 the fields and coasts. 
 All along the deep ravines, and on the flinty 
 mountain's path 
 Came the heavy tramp of armies, almost un- 
 numbered hosts. 
 As the messengers of heaven sweeping by 
 in lurid wrath. 
 
 Oh, 'twas glorious to behold the work, though 
 fearful was the strife. 
 Yet no fear was ever borne to our soldiers 
 in that shock; 
 'Twas the work of the ecstatic, who most free- 
 ly gave his life 
 To place the everlasting truth upon the 
 eternal rock. 
 Oh ! how deep we felt our mission when the 
 sulphurous flame arose 
 Into sheets, and streams, and flashes, amid 
 the horrid din. 
 When we stood as God's own children to flght 
 His ancient foes. 
 Who were hurled from heaven's battlements 
 because of primal sin. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE GREAT MASTER POET. 
 Far back of the ages, when time was un- 
 known. 
 And the substance of earth was in primeval 
 gloom. 
 When the planets were formless e'er God from 
 His throne 
 Had ordered these worlds from their chaotic 
 tomb. 
 And the essence of matter was floating- in 
 space. 
 And the kingdom of God had no kingdom of 
 grace ; 
 Then the form of the Master left heaven and 
 state. 
 And by His volition all things did create. 
 Then world after world in its orbit was 
 placed. 
 And the song of the spheres was proclaimed 
 near and far. 
 And the paths of the planets were all inter- 
 laced. 
 And His flatgave light to the sun, moon and 
 star. 
 And the symphony grand its wild chorus be- 
 gan. 
 Which hence should be learned and be sung 
 o'er by man ; 
 Have you thought. Oh my friends, that the 
 poet sublime. 
 Was the Being creating all planets and 
 time? 
 Have you dreamed that His epics are written 
 in stone? 
 That His lyrics are bathing the mountains 
 in mist? 
 That grandly sublime on His heavenly throne. 
 
 He sang the first note that did ever exist? 
 A harmony swelling with rhythm so grand. 
 That it echoes e'en now over oceans and 
 land? 
 And surges through space as it has all these 
 years. 
 
 m 
 
* 
 
 316 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL rOKTS OK AMBUICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 And is known among- men as the song- of the 
 spheres. 
 Yet a lyric as grand you may see in tlie night, 
 \Yhen auroras are spanning- tlie archway of 
 heaven. 
 And dancing-ly quivering- in the raylets of 
 light 
 As if the north fields to the flame God were 
 given. 
 And too when the storm-clouds have darkened 
 the scene. 
 And the wind drives themhurtling- in black- 
 est of green, 
 And the brow of the night on its Allot of gray 
 
 Is dazzled by flashes of lightning- in play. 
 Did you think Him a poet, the teacher sub- 
 lime. 
 Of all of earth's poets, and those who shall 
 be? 
 The Creator of worlds and the founder of 
 time? 
 That His lyrics comprise both the land and 
 the sea? 
 That His songs of the universe swell and pro- 
 long-. 
 Attracting- all spheres into harmonious 
 song? 
 And that only can man as a poet be known 
 When he gathers his songs from that har- 
 monic zone? 
 
 «■ 
 
 HARRIETTE G.PENNELL. 
 
 Born : Brunswick, Me. 
 The productions of Miss Pennell have been 
 published in the Boston Transcript, Budget, 
 Cottage Hearth and other prominent literary 
 publications. She resides in the old historic 
 town of Salem, Mass., where she is well known 
 and admired. Miss Pennell is represented in 
 the Poets of Maine. 
 
 THE ORIOLE. 
 
 Hark, 'tis the oriole's song, 
 
 Sweet, worshipful, deep in delight; 
 There's a spell divine in the radiant voice. 
 
 Outbreaking from morn till night! 
 O sweet in the flush of dawn 
 
 Comes the golden melody; 
 And for lonely shadows no place is found 
 
 In the message he sings to me! 
 Then the voice like a spirit floats 
 
 And breathes on the charmed air; 
 Till the long- .spring days more bli.ssfulseem. 
 
 And the suiiuy world more fair. 
 O creatures of life and beauty! 
 
 O voice divine and dear! 
 We know when we hear thy sweet notes 
 ring. 
 
 That the perfect summer's near! 
 
 MRS. FRANCES KNAPP. 
 
 Born: FABirs, N.Y., 1854. 
 This lady was married in 1871 to Edward 
 Knapp, and now lesides with her husband 
 
 MUS. FRANCES KNAPP. 
 
 and children in Spartansburg-h,Pa. Her poems 
 have appeared in the local press generally. 
 
 OrR MOTHERS. 
 Do the children of to-day 
 
 Love and reverence their mother? 
 Do they think the love she gives them 
 
 Could be given by another? 
 If they loved their mother truly 
 
 Could they have that look of scorn? 
 Gould their lips frame cruel speeches 
 
 At noondaj" night and morn? 
 Ah, dear children, little think you 
 
 Of the hearts you now are breaking; 
 Of the inisei-y and sori-ow 
 
 Tiiat tor mothers you are making. 
 Kind words and loving glances 
 
 For our motliers every day. 
 Will dispel tlie gloom and sadness. 
 
 And brighten all their way. 
 Then while mothers still are with us, 
 
 Let us love them more and more; 
 Help them bear their burdens daily. 
 
 Till with us they are no more. 
 Then for us they will be waiting. 
 
 Over on tlie other slior*'; 
 And with joy they will greet us, 
 
 When our trials here are o'er. 
 
 -« 
 
^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 .SIT 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. MINNIE W. PATTERSON 
 
 Born: Niles, Michigan, 1844. 
 At iin early ag'o this ludy tuuglit sc-liool and 
 took pupils iu iiiiisie ami painting-. Siiegradu- 
 atod witli lionof from Hillsdale college at the 
 age of twenty year.s, afterward receiving from 
 Alma Mater the degree of A.M. Soon alter 
 leaving school, she opened astudio in Chicago, 
 at tiie same time contributing to tlie Sunday 
 Times and other periodicals. In 1867 she was 
 married to Joiiii C. Patterson, a former class- 
 
 ilUS. MINNIE WARD PATTERSON. 
 
 mate at Hillsdale, who is now a prominent 
 member of tlie Michigan bar, and has also 
 been twice elected to the senate of that state. 
 The poems of Minnie Ward Patterson have 
 appeared in the Boston Transeiipt, Youth's 
 Companion, Wide Awake, Peterson's Maga- 
 zine, Detroit Free Press, and various other 
 publications. In 1875 she publislied Pebbles 
 from Old Pathways, a neat volume of over 
 two hundred pages of choice poems, whicli 
 bear the true poetical imprint. Mrs. Patter- 
 son has translated several volumes into Eng- 
 lisli from the Norse language and lileratnre, 
 which have received higli commendation. 
 
 ®- 
 
 PROEM. 
 Weary, the traveler turns his feet toward the 
 home of his childhood — 
 Golden its portals gleam, like a fane of en- 
 chanted glow; 
 
 Memory'., sacred altar flushes tlie waste of its 
 wildwood. 
 Burning his present joys to brighten the 
 long ago. 
 What though the Indies jiour their wealth in 
 iiis willing bosom';:' ^ 
 Little and light the boon, as the slow years 
 onward flow; 
 Little and light, to one who treasures a wither- 
 ed blossom. 
 Plucked by some loving hand, in the beauti- 
 ful long ago. 
 
 Amulets, quaint and fair, he bears on his 
 desert roaming- 
 Rings and ringlets of gold, and letters that 
 dearer grow ; 
 Sweet, to him, the mystic strains they sum- 
 mon at gloaming — 
 Echoes of voices loved in the wonderful 
 long ago. 
 Each has his treasures old — reminders of 
 early rambles. 
 Gathered with merrj' hands from the paths 
 we used to know ; 
 Yours maybe gems and flowers — mine are 
 but pebbles and brambles. 
 Yet may j'ou hold them dear, for the sake 
 of the long ago. 
 
 MY OWN WIFE MARY. 
 
 Oh, l)right is the glow of the deep starry skies, 
 And the sunshine that smiles everywhere; 
 But dim is their light by the love in thine 
 eyes. 
 And the flash of thy soft, sunny hair. 
 Though costly the treasures of palaces prince- 
 ly. 
 Though pleasure and wit meet in many a 
 hall. 
 Yet give me the cottage where Mary, sweet 
 Mary 
 And I dwell in happiness deeper than all 
 Come to me Mary, my OAvn wife Mary. 
 
 Come sit as of old on my knee. 
 While I clasp to my heart rarer treasures 
 than gold — 
 An Eden of gladn'Iss and thee! 
 Around us all glowing with purple and gold. 
 
 The blossoming meadows are spread; 
 And roses and lilacs our bower enfold. 
 
 All drooping with fragrance o'erliead. 
 The bright, cooing birds build their nests at 
 ^ Gur window. 
 And fearlessly warble the wealth of their 
 glee. 
 But sweeter, ah, sweeter the voice of my 
 Mary, 
 That whispers in low, cooing love-notes to 
 nie. 
 
 -® 
 
SB- 
 
 SIS 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 All honor to the fallen brave — 
 
 With lofty pagans greet the dead ! 
 Let garlands wreathe each lowly grave! 
 
 Let laurel crown each honored head ! 
 'Mid shot and shell and sabre stroke. 
 
 They bore our colors through the strife. 
 Till stricken 'mid the battle smoke 
 
 Thej' died to save our country's life! 
 
 Though augry skies in blackness bent, 
 
 Aud shook the shrinking world in wrath; 
 Though lurid lightnings madly spent 
 
 Their unchained fury in their path; 
 Through wilderness of woven pine. 
 
 Through slimy pool and tangled brier, 
 They marched in brave, unbroken line, 
 
 Or sunk beneath the clogging mire! 
 O'er scorching rocks tliat cut their feet — 
 
 In hospital and prison pen — 
 Some sank with liunger, thirst and heat, 
 
 But died no less like patriot men ! 
 Though spices may not wrap our dead. 
 
 Nor lofty pyramid arise — 
 Where justice triumphed while they bled — 
 
 Their names breathe incense to the skies ! 
 Dust may return to dust, but deep 
 
 Witliin the liearts of Freedom's sons, 
 Embalmed forever, love shall keep 
 
 The mem'ry of these faithful ones! 
 And coming years shall swell our lays. 
 
 And weave new laurels for each head, 
 While grateful freemen sliout the praise 
 
 Forever due our noble dead! 
 
 NOW WE PART. 
 Now we part, if ever parting 
 
 Shadows love of birth divine; 
 Still unspanned the gulf between us. 
 
 You soar your way, I plod mine; 
 But each laurel you may gather 
 
 Shall my altar fires renew. 
 And my hymns be all of gladness 
 
 That the world liolds such as you. 
 
 « 
 
 DOT AND DOLLY. 
 Sweet little Dot on the doorstep sits, with 
 
 Dolly wrapped in a'shawl,— 
 Her own thin dress is faded and patched, but 
 
 Dolly has none at all, 
 She kisses and cuddles her little pet in a way 
 
 'tis joy to see. 
 And whispers, " I know we's jioor, hut I's got 
 
 you, and you's got me! " 
 Rocking her treasure to and fro, in the silent 
 
 sunuiuT ail', 
 Her chubby chin to her bosom went, and her 
 
 liands forgot tiicir eare; 
 Her dimpled feet into dreamland slipped, just 
 
 as upon tlie scene 
 
 A lady rode, with jewels and silk begirt like a 
 very queen. 
 
 Her happy darling, just Dot's own size, the 
 
 child and the dolly spied, 
 Then pointed, grasping her mamma's arm, to 
 
 tlie half-wrapped pet, and cried, 
 " O, mamma! look at her dolly — see! are n't 
 
 you 'fraid its catching cold? 
 Please let me give it Rosa's dress — you know 
 
 its getting old." 
 
 She slipped from the carriage, and quick the 
 work of tlie little maid was done. 
 
 And Dot's poor dolly was in a dress, the pret- 
 tiest under tlie sun! 
 
 Gold and silver, satin and gauze, stockings 
 and brigiit blue shoes. 
 
 And money, as much in her pocket put, as a 
 doll in a year could use. 
 
 Then away, with a smile that almost laughed, 
 
 so great was the giver's glee. 
 She went, with many a backward look, and 
 
 said " I's afraid she'll see ! 
 Hurry up Tom, mamma! " and quick away to 
 
 their palace home they flew, 
 Wliile Dot was dreaming a Avonderful dream, 
 
 of fairies and Dolly, too. 
 
 They had satin'. dresses and gauzy wings, all 
 
 speckled with drops of gold; 
 They danced in troops on the lilac leaves, and 
 
 a leaf would a (Jozen hold ; 
 And Dolly was dancing with all her might, in 
 
 the prettiest dress of all. 
 And spangled wings, when up sprang Dot, 
 
 afraid lest her pet should fall. 
 
 She opened her eyes, and mei'rily laughed, in 
 
 happiness and surpri.se. 
 As Dolly dressed in her fairj liest, looked into 
 
 her wondering eyes. 
 "O mamma, what shall I do? " cried Dot, in a 
 
 comic tone of dismay, 
 " My Dolly has borrowed a fairy's clothes, and 
 
 the fairies have runiicd away! 
 
 ••I's afraid she's been naughty and stealed — 
 
 but then I don't most think she would; 
 I guess they did it o' purpose, cos my Dolly's 
 
 so awful good! 
 Vou pitty, sweet girl! I'll let you wear 'em 
 
 awhile, I guess, and then. 
 If they wants 'em ever, we'll give 'om back, 
 
 when the fairies come again ! " 
 
 Well, that was a long, long time ago — sweet 
 
 Dot is a woman grown. 
 And little ones gather to heai- her tell a tale 
 
 of her chiUihood flown; 
 And many a story she tells at eve, but nicest 
 
 of all she knows 
 Is the one that tells of Dot and her doll that 
 
 borrowed the fairj''s clothes. 
 
 -^ 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 319 
 
 -* 
 
 THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK. 
 
 Born: Cambkidge, O., April 16, 185:i. 
 After reociviiig his education iu Zanesville, 
 Mr. Peacock was for about ten years associate 
 editor of tlie Topeka Kansas Democrat. He 
 has published several volumes of poems : The 
 Vendetta and Oilier Poems appeared in 1876; 
 The Rliyme of the Border War in 1880, and 
 PoeniN ( if the Plains and Songs of the Solitudes 
 in 1--- Tin I 1st A iilllliii' ir H-licil ,-1 lliild rdi- 
 
 THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK. 
 
 tion io the first year, and has been translated 
 into the German. Mr. Peacock has been a res- 
 ident of Topeka, Kansas, for fifteen j'ears, 
 and was married in 1880 to Miss Ida E. Eckert, 
 a lady of fine congenial literary tastes. His 
 poetry is exclusively American. Although 
 comparatively a young man, Mr. Peacock has 
 already gained a national reputation as an 
 eminent writer and poet. 
 
 m- 
 
 KIT CARSON. 
 He comes! his steed with mighty bound 
 Flies swiftly o'er the echoing ground — 
 He seems a wanderer astray. 
 Whose past had been a better day ; 
 A being which to earth was hurled. 
 Whose home is in another world — 
 Who rides mysterious o'er the earth. 
 Surprised and dazed with his new birth? 
 A river runs before his course. 
 Which he must cross, and soon, perforce. 
 The channel's bank is reached, the wave 
 His courser's sides doth hem and lave. 
 
 The shore is won, and once again 
 He thunders o'er tlie endless pain I 
 The rider's stern and flashing eye 
 Speaks courage wrath, and vengeance nigh. 
 And well, I ween, his foes may fear 
 His anger in his mad career — 
 Ah! who is he that finds no rest? 
 'T is brave Kit Carson of the west I 
 And some dear friend he now doth aid, 
 Who stands on peril's brink, afraid. 
 
 THE KANSAS INDIAN'S LAMENT. 
 Our tribe is less'ning year by year. 
 
 The pale-face drives us back — 
 With us, the bison, bear, and deer 
 
 Before his onward track — 
 In battle with his armed power. 
 The Red Man fears but dares not cower. 
 The footprints of our moc'sins fade. 
 
 They once left paths for miles. 
 And the Great Spirit hides in shade, 
 
 No more we see his smiles: 
 Few wampum belts our tribe needs yet, 
 Foi' soon the warrior's star will set. 
 These broad prairies once were ours; 
 
 We fished the many rivers; 
 On yonder Kaw, embanked with flowers, 
 . With arrows in our quivers. 
 With dusky maids, wigwams behind. 
 We sailed before the singing wind. 
 The sunflower waved its yellow head , 
 
 Across the grassy plains — 
 And, like our chieftain, now are dead 
 
 The spirit-herbs for pains: 
 Pale-face, our mild clime's not for thee. 
 It moves, witli us, toward sundown sea. 
 Our moons arc few, our race is run. 
 
 Some dark fate drags us down; 
 Less bright the once all-glorious sun, 
 
 Tlie golden stars are brown — 
 The tall mounds black and dismal loom. 
 Each day speaks of our coming doom. 
 Our wasted race — my father brave. 
 
 My squaw and pappoose too. 
 All here lie buried in the grave, 
 
 Here rots my swift canoe — 
 The things I loved have passed away. 
 Ah ! soon will I be gone as they ! 
 Methinks the pale race might have spared 
 
 Some spot where we'd abide,— 
 Spared us, who once owned all, and shared 
 
 With them from tide to tide: 
 'T is strange, 't is passing strange to me. 
 Why they would drive us in the sea. 
 Our small tribe 's scattered like the leaves 
 
 And wasted to a few — 
 Each warrior for the bright past grieves, 
 
 Which vanished from our view! 
 They wait till Manitou's voice sounds. 
 Calling to Happy Hunting Grounds. 
 
 ® 
 
*- 
 
 320 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 ©- 
 
 We go! the white race takes oui- place; 
 
 Great Spirit, what am I! 
 Once thousands strong:, where 's now my 
 race — 
 
 On plains beyond the sky? 
 O take me too, 1 would not stay, 
 When all 1 loved have passed away ! 
 Perchance, when many moons have fled 
 
 And the Great Spirit's wrath. 
 Our many loved ones, from the dead. 
 
 Will come back to earth's path, 
 To hunt again the bufi'alo. 
 And no pale race to bring us woe. 
 But soft! methinks I hear a voice? 
 
 Great Manitou's! speaks He! 
 It makes my craven heart rejoice — 
 
 Owhat would'st Thou with me? 
 "Be brave! God's Happy Hunting Grounds 
 Are great and good, and have no bounds ! " 
 
 THE BANDIT CHIEF. 
 Hark! is a courser's clattering feet! 
 
 That courser madly speeds away— 
 The midnight moon from her high seat 
 
 Sheds on the earth her brightest ray. 
 Who comes? A rushing steed draws nigh, 
 
 Whose hoofs are sounding far and near? 
 As swift as though from ghouls he'd fly. 
 
 He passes forest, plain, and mere. 
 Perchance some wild fiend crazed with fright, 
 
 FUes on its way from Heaven down-hurled ! 
 Perchance some demon of the night. 
 
 Escaped from Hell, rides o'er the world! 
 Whoe'er he be so fearful near. 
 
 As dread as fiend or demon he, 
 To followers he rules through fear. 
 
 And leads through crimes to victory. 
 He nears! I see his eye of hate? 
 
 'T is gleaming like an evil star; 
 He seems th' embodied form of fate 
 
 Swift rushing to the field of war. 
 On, on, the terror of the sod, 
 
 A tempest in his heart of ire; 
 He fears no man, no fiend, no God, 
 
 In his wild, stormy soul of fire. 
 Ah! well each follower know his power; 
 
 They'd felt the thunder of his might— 
 They knew his wrath at any hour 
 
 Was like the awful storm of niglit. 
 To him all foes in combat quailed. 
 
 Before his arm and eagle eye — 
 His life seemed charmed -to him death paled- 
 He swept in power puissant by. 
 As when in darkness men do mourn, 
 
 And lo! a star breaks through the night! 
 That star a mighty genius Ijorn, 
 
 Grasps from the gloom immortal light! 
 So when great hosts had tiiem at bay. 
 
 And his wild elan deemed all were lost. 
 
 He led tliem from the night to day — 
 
 On like the storm-swept holocaust! 
 Woe! woe to them he seeks this night. 
 
 For they shall feel his vengeful hand - 
 They who have robbed, without the right 
 
 From him, the leader of the band ! 
 I see him yet! and lo! he's gone — 
 
 And yet I hear his steed of fire. 
 Whose steel-clad hoofs still clatter on. 
 
 Swift bearing him and all his ire. 
 Full twenty years James reigned supreme. 
 
 The monarch of his own desire; 
 His will was all the law, 't would seem. 
 
 That marked his mad career of fire. 
 And like the great Napoleon, 
 
 He passed in view before man's ken, 
 A great and strange phenomenon — 
 
 A Titan asking naught of men. 
 He did what others would not dare — 
 
 His deeds were rampant, fierce, and fell; 
 Throughout his life, and everj'where. 
 
 He braved eacli, all— man. Heaven, and Hell. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 The maniac sprang from off his bed. 
 
 And placed his hand upon his brow. 
 " I feel within, my soul is dead! " 
 
 His mind is wandering now. — 
 " Fiend ! open the door — unbar! unbai- 1 
 
 Wliy am I chained by arm to floor?— 
 But see, there's one bright, shining stai-, 
 
 Which kindlj' guards my prison door! 
 "It stands a silent sentinel, there; 
 
 With pity looks from its bright eye, 
 Adown on me in my despair — 
 
 Ah ! there's a serpent on the sky ! 
 "It's crawling, like the crawl of Death; 
 
 It coils; now buries in a cloud; 
 I feel its poisoned, fetid breath ! 
 
 It warns me of the burial shroud! 
 "Hark! hark! I hear, I see in the air. 
 
 Fiends, demons, dragons, and devils ! 
 Why tarrj' with me in my despair? 
 
 Why not ofl" to their wild i-evels? 
 " But still tliey stay — behold ! I see ! — 
 
 But this is madness, my keepers tell — 
 O! from out this prison, free me! 
 
 Wliy make my living death a liell?" 
 
 BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 
 Beautiful woman, thou art. 
 
 True th' womanhood, sweet! 
 God i)laces in thy heart 
 
 A wealth of love tiiat's meet. 
 And why, I cannot tell! 
 
 But oh, thy voice to mo 
 Sounds like some far-off bell 
 
 'I'liat w;ikes sweet memory! 
 
 ■«& 
 
® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 321 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 Born : New York City, May 27, 1819. 
 This iutellcctual woman has written numer- 
 ous poems, dramas, and lectures. She is a 
 very strong advocate of woman's suffrage, and 
 has lectured extensively in aid of reforms. 
 Her poetical worlss are Passion Flowers, and 
 Words of the Hour; two of her best works of 
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 
 prose are Life of Mag-aret Fuller, and Sex in 
 Education, which have especially received 
 much praise from both press and public. Mrs. 
 Julia Ward Howe is a devoted and loving- 
 mother, and is adored by her children. The 
 death of her husband in 18T6 was a severe blow 
 to so devoted and lo\'ing a wife. Mrs. Howe 
 is one of the editors of the Woman's Journal, 
 and has been president of -s-arious woman's 
 associations. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE NURSERY. 
 " Come, sing for us, dear Mother, 
 A soug of the olden times ; 
 Of the merry Christmas carol. 
 Of the happy New Year chimes ; 
 Nor sit here, idle-handed, 
 To hang your head and grieve. 
 Beside the blazing hearthstone 
 This pleasant Winter's eve." 
 
 Then she sang, to please the children. 
 With half -forgetful tongue. 
 
 Some merry -measured roundel 
 Of the happy days and young; 
 But, pierced wth sudden sorrow. 
 The words came faint and slow. 
 Till one, in childish panic. 
 Cried ; " Mother, sing not so 1 " 
 
 Then all the little creatures 
 Looked wondering in her eyes; 
 And the Baby nestled nearer. 
 Startled at their surprise; 
 The voice grew thin and quavered, 
 Low drooped the weary head. 
 Till the breath of song was stifled, 
 And tears burst forth instead. 
 
 For misty memories covered 
 The children from her ken. 
 And down the bitter river 
 She dropped — no mother then ; 
 No sister, helpmeet, daughter. 
 Linked to historic years ; 
 An agonizing creature 
 That looked to God in tears. 
 
 But when some sudden turning 
 Had checked her hopeless way. 
 She saw the little faces 
 No longer glad or gay: 
 And as they gazed, bewildered 
 By grief they could not guess. 
 Their sjTnpathetic silence 
 Was worse than her distress. 
 
 Tlien she tore the fatal vesture 
 Of agony aside ; 
 
 And showed, with mimic gesture. 
 How naughty children cried.— 
 And told of hoary castles 
 By giant warders kept. 
 Of deep and breathless forests 
 Where tranced beauties slept; 
 Weaving in rainbow madness 
 The cloud upon her brain. 
 Till they forgot her weeping. 
 And she forgot her pain. 
 
 'Twcre well to pour the soul out 
 In one convulsive fit. 
 And rend the heart with weeping. 
 If Love were loosened Irom it. 
 But all the secret sorrow 
 That underlies our lives, 
 Must wait the true solution 
 The great progression gives. 
 
 Those griefs so widely gathered. 
 Those deep, ab.vssmal chords. 
 Broken by wailing music 
 Too passionate for words. 
 Find gentle reconcilement 
 In some serener breast. 
 And touch with deeper pathos 
 Its sj-mphonies of rest. 
 
 ■m 
 
©- 
 
 ■1^ 
 
 322 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 HAMILTON H. WILCOX, M.D. 
 
 Born: Jefferson, N. C, Dec. 38, 1849. 
 In 1873 the subject of this sketch attended a 
 course of lectures at the Medical College of 
 Ohio at Cinciiumti. Two years later he was 
 married to Miss Mollie E. Abbott, and left 
 shortly afterward for several months of study 
 at the medical ollejie above mentioned. In 
 18T7 Mr. Wilcox and liis family moved to Glen- 
 
 ©■ 
 
 HAMILTON HAKDIN WILCOX, M. D. 
 
 ville, Minn., where he practiced his profession 
 and carried on a drug store until 1881, when 
 he again attended the medical college at Ohio 
 for a special course, subsequently graduating 
 with the highest honors. In 1883 he became a 
 resident of the city of Albert Lea, Minn., 
 where he h.as a lucrative practice. Dr. Wilcox 
 is a ready and voluminous writer of both 
 prose and verse, which have appeared in 
 medical publications as well as local and liter- 
 ary journals. He has been twice elected 
 coroner of Freeborn county, and has held var- 
 ious other positions of trust. Personally, Dr. 
 Wilco.x isof very fine stature, with brown hair 
 and eyes. 
 
 NEGRO BEV. 
 He's shaded dark. 
 With Cain-lilie mark. 
 
 Yet freedom marks his brow; 
 The chain is broke 
 Tyranny's yoke,— 
 
 All, where is slavery now? 
 
 Not here, thank God, 
 On Freedom's sod. 
 
 Where meu alike are free; 
 And may arise 
 To vict'ry's skies. 
 
 Though colored, dark as he. 
 'Tis not the shade 
 That God has made. 
 
 That marks our worth as men; 
 But honest worth, 
 Witli freedom's birth. 
 
 Gives glorj' to the pen. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 I strolled along the ocean shore. 
 
 O'er pebble, foam and shell; 
 I heard the rune and billows roar, 
 
 I heard my heart as well. 
 I grasp the shell and to it said : 
 
 Pray, canst thou lead me where 
 The sparkling bowl and liquid red. 
 
 Shall drown each dismal care? 
 In whirring tones the shell replied: 
 
 Though my realm is the sea. 
 We have no bowl or sparkling tide. 
 
 With which to make you free? 
 Beneath the restless, rolling waves, 
 
 'Mid crimson coral bones. 
 That gave form to a thousand braves, 
 
 I hear your wailing moans — 
 Not moans of the drowning — dying- 
 Wrecked of the furious gale. 
 But moans of the widow crying 
 
 For those wrecked in firy ale. 
 
 O, FOR A HEART. 
 
 Attuned to love and friendship's burning 
 glow. 
 My weary heart awaits the magic touch — 
 Awaits but a zephyr, the faintest blow. 
 
 From one in whom Td dare confide so much. 
 Know you the wealth and worth of such a 
 heart? 
 Nay, thou canst not know, no price can mea- 
 sure 
 True friendship's worth, or even in part 
 
 Understand the wealth of such a treasure. 
 O, for a heart so attuned — set on Are — 
 
 O, for a friend with lieart alike imbued. 
 As that one chord touched would music in- 
 spire, 
 In both these liearts, in ardent friendship 
 glued. 
 Tliere is one such friend, having one such 
 lieart. 
 Attuned always to the wailings of woe — 
 Make ready your lyre, play well your part. 
 Such a friend is Christ, the Savior, I know. 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 * 
 
 323 
 
 MRS.HANNAH CORNABY. 
 
 Born: England, March 17, 1822. 
 The poems of Mrs. Coniaby have appeared in 
 the Deseret News, Woman's Kxpinieiit and the 
 
 periodical press jienerallx'. Slir was married 
 
 ©■ 
 
 MRS. H.4NNAH CORNABV 
 
 in 1851 to Samuel Cornaby, wlio is now a no- 
 tary public at Spanish Fork, Utah. She pub- 
 lished in 1881 a volume entitled Autobiogra- 
 phy and Poems, which has had a fair sale. 
 
 WOMAN'S MISSION. 
 I never wished to be a queen, 
 
 To wear the robes of state, 
 Or have my name enrolled among 
 
 The famous or tlie great. 
 I never cared for "woman's rights," 
 
 Nor ever had a fear. 
 But that if woman sought, she'd find 
 
 Her own, her proper sphere. 
 I know that woman's mission's great. 
 
 Yet comprehends the small. 
 The tiny, trifling- things of life, 
 
 Important to us all. 
 In this, true woman finds her sphere. 
 
 Her happiness complete, 
 In loving, helping, blessing all 
 
 With whom she chance to meet. 
 Wliat need for her of Congress' halls. 
 
 Or legislative cares. 
 
 The prompting's of her woman's soul. 
 
 Is all the law she heai-s. 
 The law of love implanted tiiere. 
 
 By our great Parent's hand. 
 If not perverted, safely guides. 
 
 Woman in every land. 
 I wish 1 had llie power to write, 
 
 Woman to vindicate. 
 To tell her true nobility. 
 
 E'en in this fallen state. 
 I never wished for wealth or fame. 
 
 For I have understood. 
 How poor and valueless are these, 
 
 Compared witli being good. 
 
 OUR NATIVE FLOWEKS. 
 The favored flowers of other lands 
 
 Have claimed the poet's powers; 
 But let our harp be tuned in praise 
 
 Of Utah's native flowers. 
 We've culled them from the hilly slopes. 
 
 From canyon's rugged side, 
 From low and mossy river banks. 
 
 And from tlie benclies wide. 
 We've placed them in our garden plot. 
 
 And, growing side by side. 
 Their fragrance and tlieir beauty are 
 
 Our pleasure and our pride. 
 
 We've brought choice flowers from other 
 climes 
 
 And placed them near these gems, 
 Their mingled lustre far exceeds 
 
 The costliest diadems. 
 The flowers thus brought from dis tant lands 
 
 Suggest the thought so sweet, 
 God's chosen ones, though scattered now, 
 
 Together here may meet. 
 And like the flowers, their varied gifts. 
 
 Improve this sacred soil. 
 Making the wilderness to bloom. 
 
 Repaying- care and toil. 
 
 Father, we thank thee for the flowers 
 
 Thou hast so freely given. 
 And may our constant effort be 
 
 To make this earth a heaven. 
 
 WHEN I'M HAPPY. 
 Shall I tell you when I'm liappy':' 
 
 Wlien life to nie seems very sweet? 
 It is when evening shadows fall. 
 
 And we around the fireside meet. 
 'Tis when the children gather home. 
 
 From school, from labor and from play; 
 When little tongues all are telling 
 
 What they have done or learned to-day. 
 When each want ajid wish is cared for. 
 
 Or little sorrows put to flight. 
 Their childisli troubles all forgot, 
 
 And every little heart is light. 
 
 ^ 
 
»- 
 
 -« 
 
 324 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Now tell us. Ma, some pretty tale. 
 
 Some Bible story that you know. 
 Tell us about the mighty men, 
 
 Who lived a long, long time ago." 
 From memory's store is hunted up, 
 
 Some story to amuse or teach. 
 Some useful lesson, thus is taught. 
 
 Some truth, which thus the heart may reach. 
 
 The anxious look, the listening ear. 
 
 The tear which from the eye will steal. 
 The eager questions which they ask. 
 
 Will tell how soon a child can feel. 
 But little eyes will sleepy grow. 
 
 And, like the flowers, begin to close, 
 Like little birds, tiiey seek their nests. 
 
 For little forms will need repose. 
 The sweet good-night, and loving kiss. 
 
 The arms that fondly twine around, 
 Bring to my heart such happiness 
 
 And joy, as nowhere else is found. 
 
 LEAD ME TO THE ROCK. 
 
 When my spirit with sorrow is overwhelmed. 
 Then, from out of the depths comes the cry. 
 
 As my earthly friends leave me, lead me I 
 pray, 
 "To the rock that is higher than I." 
 
 As my children, by death, are called from my 
 arms. 
 
 To their Father and Mother on High ; 
 Then, all lonely and weak, I pray to be led, 
 
 "To the rock that is higher than I." 
 
 In affliction's dark hour, when heart and flesh 
 fail. 
 And temptations my faith sorely try. 
 Then, more earnest I cling, for strength and 
 defense, 
 " To the rock that is higher than I." 
 
 If prosperity sheds its light on my path. 
 And kind friends, t<i encourage, are nigh. 
 
 In thanksgiving and praise, I ever am led, 
 "To the rock that is higher than T." 
 
 When I seek at earth's cisterns, my thirst to 
 assuage. 
 And find them all broken and dry. 
 Then lead me I pray, for the life-giving 
 draught, 
 " To the rock that is higher than I." 
 
 Or, when persecution and trouble assail. 
 And their arrows arc swift hurling by, 
 
 I fear not the shafts; while for shcller I'm led 
 i. To the rock that Is higher than I." 
 
 E'en death, the last enemy cannot destroy. 
 While upon a strong arm I rely; 
 
 The Priesthood eternal is leading me on, 
 i.To the rock that is higher than I." 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 I often think, in mj musings. 
 
 How happy our trail lives would be. 
 If instead of the dark side of things, 
 
 Their bright side, we always could see. 
 We've need of all the sweet sunshine 
 
 We can get on life's gloomy way. 
 Oh! then let us catch ev'ry glimpse 
 
 Of its bright and fast fleeting ray. 
 In every condition of life. 
 
 Whatever our trials below. 
 Thrice happy to us is the thought. 
 
 Of " Father," to whom we may go. 
 If childhood's days were pure and free. 
 
 If youth had been happy and clear, 
 Why should its lustre be tarnished 
 
 By the bitter regretful tear. 
 Should sickness spread o'er us its shade. 
 
 Where health was accustomed to bloom. 
 Let's think of the land that's before, 
 
 Where dread sickness never can come. 
 Should our lot be sorrow and grief. 
 
 Repining will surely be vain. 
 We )iever have more than our share. 
 
 Of grief's bitter measure to drain. 
 And often, in draining the dregs, 
 
 Joy's sweet, purest drop we may find. 
 When the clouds of sorrow roll ofif. 
 
 The silver-lined cloud lies behind. 
 
 MRS. MAGGIE WOLF. 
 
 BORK : Eaton, O., Feb. 8, 1861. 
 This lady was a graduate of the Eaton high 
 school, and was married tn 1889 to John Wolf, 
 with whom she now resides at Dayton, Ohio. 
 Since 1882 her poems have appeared more or 
 less in the Cincinn.iti Post, Dayton Daily 
 Herald, Journal, Monitor, Record, and the 
 periodical press general Ij'. 
 
 THINK OF ME. 
 
 When my brow is crowned with sorrow. 
 
 And I walk not in the light. 
 When T fear lest coming morrow 
 
 Bring me darkness of the night. 
 Then I'll think of joys of olden. 
 
 Though thy patli far from me be. 
 Of the memories rare and golden, 
 
 I will think, yes, think of thee. 
 
 Wilt thou sometime think of me? 
 When the bliss and when the gladness 
 
 Of life's joy thy lieart shall know. 
 Though my head be bowed in sadness 
 
 'Neath a burden-weight of woe,— 
 In the silence all unl^roken 
 
 Of the years that :ire to be. 
 Though be given ne'er a token, 
 
 I will think, yes, think of thee. 
 
 Wilt tliou sometime think of me? 
 
 «■ 
 
 -« 
 
© — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 325 
 
 -© 
 
 LAWRENCE S. MCDONALD. 
 
 Born: Glendale, Pa., May 14, 1866. 
 At fourteen lie attended a high school at 
 Clearfield, Pa., where he now resides; begin- 
 ning' in the primary department and making 
 such rapid progress that he graduated with 
 the first honors four years afterward. His 
 talents are comprehended in ])aiiiting-, music, 
 i>i'!itiii.\ ,inil i)(K'ti\ , .111(1 .1 r,iciilt\ ( f jiciici'ali- 
 
 lawkence s. m'donald. 
 zation that amounts to g'enius. He is essen- 
 tially an orator, and as such has made a wide 
 reputation in his native state. Mr. DcDonald 
 is now practicing law at the county seat of 
 Clearfield, and has made a success of journal- 
 ism, but finds the practice of law more lucra- 
 tive. He stands reasonably high as a poet. 
 
 ©- 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 My soul is sad to-day. I know not why 
 Shadowy presentiments come and go. 
 Though yet I roam the precincts of her hazel 
 eye 
 It is not well that mortal man should know 
 The hidden destinies that, swinging to and 
 fro, 
 Cast their short shadowings across the page I 
 
 sing. 
 As if cast there by some strange bird on lofty 
 wing-. 
 
 But the press of my lips to her marble cheek 
 Is a sacrilegious touch ; 
 
 There is yet one thing that binds us. 
 
 Though our throbbing Iiearts unheard. 
 And tliat is the g-olden binding cord 
 
 That is made of her truthful word. 
 But still she loves, I know it, 
 
 As true as death's our goal. 
 And the sky of truth hangs smiling 
 
 O'er the shades of her lovely soul. 
 
 From heath and highland purple all nightlong 
 
 Two drowsy sentinels from starlit towers, 
 Call to each other in the trembling silence, 
 
 The passage of the hours. 
 Faint streaks of violet from jasper capes 
 
 In trembling- splendor, as on wings of love. 
 And some bright soul— deep-robed in spotless 
 white. 
 Delights me from above. 
 Some rustling spirits move across the floor — 
 
 As if sweet angels thereupon do rove. 
 To me they're whisperings of a voice no more 
 
 To soothe my soul with love. 
 Across my bed the curtain fringes flow. 
 
 Kissed by the amorous zephjrs from above. 
 To me they're like the presence of a loved one 
 now 
 In lands of light and love. 
 
 I do believe our fathers' faith of old — 
 
 Each letter of its every hallowed word,— 
 Its accents from the lips of nature rolled 
 
 The golden dictates of creation's Lord. 
 The spirit of that book in trembling beauty — 
 
 As fragrant incense from old fanes will rise, 
 That God the same that paved the path of 
 duty. 
 
 As writ in light the pages of the skies. 
 
 And the day that's far awa.v— 
 Day that knows no noon, no night, 
 
 Fast it breaks in purple streaks- 
 How my eyes do drink the light — 
 
 Fast it breaks o'er hills and peaks, 
 Jasper amber golden streaks — 
 
 Thus that day streams on my sight. 
 
 Since that hour I courted Nature's 
 
 Scenes eclipsing skies of gold. 
 And I sipped the honeyed beauties 
 
 That the fields and forests' fold. 
 But to-night here in the silence. 
 
 As the twilight in the west 
 Sends its golden bars asky ward 
 
 Kissing silver luna's crest. 
 I am sitting, thinking, thinking 
 
 Of my mother in the grave. 
 Near where graceful Susquehanna 
 
 Tosses shoreward on iier wave. 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 326 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -ffl 
 
 DR. JOSEPH P. RUSSELL. 
 
 Born : Bourbon Co., Ky., July 23, 1815. 
 
 For thirty j-ears Dr. Russell has practiced 
 medicine in Waveland, Indiana. From his 
 youth this {ientleuian lias written poems 
 
 DR. JOSEPH P. RUSSELL. 
 
 from time to time, which have received puhli- 
 cation. He contemplates the public;ition of his 
 vei-se in boolf-form in the near future. 
 
 ©- 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 Butterfly, butterfly 
 
 Where are you wending? 
 '• Tliis a way, that a wiiy," 
 
 Whither now tending? 
 With your gaudy rich tints, 
 
 That rivals all art. 
 Bliss surelj' is center'd 
 
 In your little Iieart; 
 From a clirysolite state. 
 
 From darkness so drear. 
 You have fledged into light. 
 
 You wing tlirough the ;iir. 
 You sip at the nectar 
 
 Of each op'ningflow'r. 
 Your liomc in the giirden. 
 
 And l)l()oming gay l)ow'r 
 So graceful and litlielj- 
 
 You wander at will. 
 You wabble in valley, 
 
 And zig-Z!igo'er hill, 
 Sf) crooked your cour.se seemed 
 
 Never intended. 
 Yet freedom and free will 
 
 Most clearly blended; 
 Seen adrift in the air. 
 On roadside or dell. 
 There's naught in all nature 
 
 Your grace can excel. 
 With your summer so short. 
 
 Your life but a span. 
 Are you a fair model. 
 Or type of the man? 
 Oh ! butterfly tell me. 
 
 Have you a dread fear 
 Of j'our dissolution, 
 Of death that's so near? 
 Will you be immortal 
 
 With life cloth'd anew. 
 And in a new world 
 
 Your pleasures pursue? 
 A world of sweet flowers 
 
 That bloom all the year, 
 A butterfly heaven. 
 
 Wit h no death to fear — 
 Or, doomed by the frost-king 
 
 To death and decay, 
 
 Will death be eternal. 
 
 Oh! butterfly, say? 
 
 THE PERSECUTED RABBIT. 
 
 Poor timid hare, and innocent as well, 
 I would I could thy wrongs redress, and tell. 
 Of persecutions meted out to you ; 
 Fain would I be thy friend and advocate. 
 Hold up the horrors of thy bloody fate. 
 Till man relenting, would not thee pursue. 
 Thy graceful form aud manners mild should 
 A warrant for thy peace and liberty, [be 
 
 That rest, sweet rest miglit be to thee secure; 
 Those brownish mild benignant eyes of thine. 
 Ought to repress the lawless hordes of crime, 
 And hold inviolate a life so pure. [strife. 
 
 No armor thine to shield from murd'rous 
 A modest meekness marks tliy gentle life; 
 With hungry eagles hover'riug o'er thy head; 
 And num'rous foes do intercept thy joys. 
 Yet man more cruel, most of all annoys, 
 By wholesale slaughter gives thee most to 
 
 dread. 
 The heartless huntsman with his dog and gun. 
 Thinks it rare sport to see you start and run. 
 Regardless of your common right to life; 
 And if by speedy flight you reach your den, 
 He sends his cruel red mouth'd ferrets in. 
 And tragic horrorendslhe bhxxly strife. 
 Oil guilty man who will no mercy know, 
 .Siii-cas'd and liai'deii'd will no i)ily show. 
 Can you a jiray'r for heav'iily nu'rcy fiaiiie 
 With heart so obdurate, with hands blood- 
 
 stain'd? 
 To lift them up o'er all the dead and niaini'd, 
 And plead for self, what you denied the game? 
 
 © 
 
s- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 HEXRY FAUNTLEROY. 
 
 Bokn: Salem, Va., Jan. 2, 1820. 
 Commencing to wi-ite at the age of twentj^- 
 three, the productions of this gentleman liave 
 since that time appeared in tlie leading maga- 
 zines of America, from which they have been 
 extensively copied by the local press. In 1S8S 
 Mr. Fauntlcroy published a novel entitled 
 Who's to Bhiiiic? whicli I'tM'civt'd ;i, fair circii- 
 
 HENRV FADNTLEROY. 
 
 lation. Mr. Fauntleroy has also had quite a 
 little experience on the lecture platform. He 
 has held several important public positions. 
 Though defrauded of some fifty thousand dol- 
 lars in tlie lumber business in Chicago, he still 
 has a handsome independent fortune, and 
 lives a quiet and secluded life in the city of 
 Chicago. 
 
 ©- 
 
 FORTUNE. 
 A boy pursued a golden butterfly 
 With gaze intense, and upward kept liis eye; 
 With eiiger hope lie ran, as in a spell. 
 Unmindful of his steps, he tripped and fell. 
 Another boy took up the luring chase. 
 More cautious he, and downward turned his 
 
 face 
 To pick his way, lest he might also trip ; 
 The fly, by sudden turn, gave liim tlie slip. 
 And still another boy pursued the prize; 
 Now up, now down, with sldll he cast his 
 
 eyes. 
 
 And even race maintained, so when to rest 
 The fly alit, he clasped it to his breast. 
 So Fortune turns on all her golden smiles; 
 Those over-sanguine tangle in her wiles. 
 And those too cautious miss their chance for 
 
 care. 
 But wise of "means to ends " her prizes bear. 
 
 MY DEAR WIFE. 
 May morning, noon, and evening bless thee — 
 
 Thy moments cluster into happy hours -.^ 
 And weeks, and months, and years impress 
 thee. 
 
 As gathering dews upon the downy flowers. 
 May passing Time, with gentlest finger. 
 
 But chasten with a hallowed touch thy 
 brow. 
 And Beauty's grace about thee linger [now. 
 
 Through lapse of many years, to charm as 
 As flowers sunward bend in blooming. 
 
 And bow caressing o'er the fresh'ning 
 brooks, 
 I turn to thee for life's illuming. 
 
 And drink my being from thy tender looks. 
 Through years of trial, and cold desertion, 
 
 And wrong that makes the ardent soul its 
 prey. 
 Thy pure love foiled the world's aspersion. 
 
 And closest clung when darkest grew the 
 day. 
 Ah ! sorrows rouse the heart's best feelings, 
 
 W' bile fortune tends to foster selfish pride; 
 Our mutual griefs, to each appealing. 
 
 In tend'rest sympathy our souls have tied. 
 All praise for thy meek self-denial, [care. 
 
 Thy ministering skill, with constant, saving 
 That poverty's soul-crushing trial 
 
 Bow not the objects of thy Christian prayer. 
 Thy fashion is thy standard virtue; 
 
 Thy jewels blazen in thy children's minds; 
 Thy reign is where no hearts desert you. 
 
 Enthroned where home-love every subject 
 binds. 
 Vain slaves of fashion may not know thee; 
 
 But theirs the loss — for virtuous minds like 
 thine 
 Illume the world with moral glorj' ; 
 
 As vestal beacons they forever shine. 
 Oh! what despair, what woe forever. 
 
 Would close around my happy manhood's 
 years. 
 Should Fate our lives and spirits sever. 
 
 And leave me lone to darkness and to tears. 
 Kind Heaven ! so crown thy constant blessing 
 
 That, when the calls of Duty and of Earth 
 are done, 
 Ovy souls in spirit love caressing. 
 
 In death may surely, as in life, be one. 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 © 
 
 328 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 YES, AND NO. 
 Dear lady, let thy lips say Yes, 
 Consent's sweet word my soul to bless, 
 Wreathing- with smiles thy sunny face. 
 And charming- aU hearts with thy grace. 
 Distort not face and mouth with No, 
 That blights my life with hopeless woe — 
 That chills thy own heart's happy springs. 
 And shadows all bright earthly things. 
 'Twas Yes God spoke, when angels saw 
 The universe leap into law — 
 Saw light and life, and love, and bloom, 
 Consorting, press the world for room. 
 No was but chaos, when no form 
 Could gather, and no heat could warm 
 The empty void and boundless cold. 
 The nothingness, that naught could mold. 
 Then, lady, speak that magic word, 
 That brings creation in accord. 
 Let No not jar, divide, distress. 
 But hearts with love melt into Yes. 
 
 ffi- 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 O tell me not she's dead ; she lives, 
 
 1 am more dead than she : 
 'Tis death that here her life survives — 
 
 Her life 's by death set free. 
 
 free from tears, from pain, from wrong, 
 To walk the golden street, 
 
 'Mid joys where witli the ransomed throng 
 
 Their blessed Savior greet; 
 Where mother clasps her long-mourned son 
 
 In never-ending bliss; 
 Where Faith's triumphant crown is won: 
 
 That, that is life — not this. 
 Yes, cold her lips I madly kiss; 
 
 Her bosom knows no thrill; 
 Affection's warm response I miss 
 
 From lieart and hands now still. 
 
 1 wildly call her dear, sweet name. 
 And list to hear her speak; 
 
 But Silence locks her moveless frame. 
 And peace seals brow and cheek. 
 
 she's not here ; she's gone — she's gone, 
 Her soul, her life, her love. 
 
 That once this casket's jewels shone. 
 
 Now drink God's light above. 
 But O in darkness here I grope. 
 
 In lonely walks obscure; 
 No more shines out Life's star of Hope 
 
 To make my footsteps sure. 
 
 1 stretch my empty arms in vain, 
 And call my other self; 
 
 No form, no voice comes back again 
 
 But Echo's, mocking elf. 
 Yet know I, in my anguish keen. 
 
 That still my life thou art; 
 I feel thy presence, like unseen. 
 
 Soft beatings of my heart. 
 
 I clasp thy picture to my breast — 
 
 My eyes its beauties trace ; 
 But in my soul thy Image pressed 
 
 Has all thy living grace. 
 Dear spirit-wife, sweet love, mj^ friend, 
 
 As Nature's yearnings mourn; 
 Come, lead me to Life's joyous end. 
 
 For where thou art 's my bourn. 
 
 CHARLES A NELSON A. M. 
 
 Born : Calais, Me., April U, 1839. 
 This gentleman graduated at Harvard in 
 1860. For a while he taught in Boston, and 
 later was civil engineer of Newbern, N. C, 
 wliere he was elected to various civil offices. 
 For seven years Mr. Nelson was in the book- 
 trade in Boston, doing literary, library and 
 editorial work. Was librarian at Gorham 
 academy; New York Astor library; and now 
 holds that position at the New Orleans Me- 
 morial library. Mr. Nelson has written num- 
 erous fine poems wliicli have appeared in St. 
 Nicholas and other publications. 
 
 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 In shade of spreading beech I lie. 
 And watch tlirough blue depths of the sky 
 Proud argosies go sailing by. 
 While Fancy pictures in their train 
 The castles we all build — in Spain, 
 That come, and go, and come again. 
 Without these figments of the air. 
 Our lives, so filled with toil and care, 
 Would darken with a deep despair. 
 But Faith and Fancy, sisters bright. 
 Illume our darkest days with light 
 That streams from Heaven's sublimest 
 height. 
 
 BROTHERS. 
 
 Brothers once are brothers ever. 
 
 Though the storm of discord rage 
 For awhile, and blinded passion 
 
 Mar the erst unspotted page. 
 Once the dark clouds have passed over, 
 
 EveiT year, as swift it rolls. 
 Fans into a brighter glowing 
 
 Fires of truth within men's souls. 
 Common blood of common mother 
 
 Binds with an eternal chain, 
 Whose broke links are welded closer 
 
 At the forge of connnon i)ain. 
 One in heart and one in purjwse; 
 
 One of many — all in one; 
 Ours bo .' Liberty and union " 
 
 While the stars their couises run. 
 O'er the graves of hero brothers. 
 
 Wore they blue or wore t hoy gray. 
 Spread sweet Howers for remembrance 
 
 Sacred, each Memorial Day. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 329 
 
 m 
 
 MARIA AUGUSTA AGUR. 
 
 BoHx: Arlington, Mass., Feb. 15, 1836. 
 EMiGR.iTixG to Wisconsin from the east in 18.53 
 with her parents. Miss Ag'ur lived on the prai- 
 ries until 1866, when she removed to Darling- 
 ton in the same state. In 1876 she gave her 
 first poem to the public. From the death of 
 her father she took care of her aged mother 
 until 1883, at which time Miss Agur became 
 insane, and a year thereafter her mother died. 
 
 Alth(ill'_;li liiT r;isi' of iiicl:inrh( ilia (ifliiriit i;i 
 
 Si 
 
 MARIA AUGUSTA AGUR. 
 
 was considered a hopeless one, she was dis- 
 charged as cured in 1888, but the following 
 year she again returned to the Mendota State 
 Asylum, and it is hoped she will now receive 
 a complete cure in a short time. The poems 
 of Miss Agur have been well received, and it 
 is hoped that a collected volume of her pro- 
 ductions will receive publication at no distant 
 date. 
 
 WHERE ARE THE ORIOLES? 
 'Tisthe first snow; it tells that winter's near; 
 Above, below, and all around seems drear; 
 The patient kine, e'en, low tlieir discontent. 
 The dripping landscape, frowns a grim con- 
 sent. 
 
 Mournfully coo the pigeons from their shed, 
 Dreading.yethardlyknowing what they dread ! 
 Casting my eye above, behold I see 
 A high-swung nest, on yonder maple tree! 
 
 With cunning woven threads, 'tis caught and 
 
 twined 
 Upon the bough, and on the autumn wind 
 It tosses to and fro, mayhap in glee,— 
 Mayhap 'tis angry — struggling to be free! 
 Forsaken dwelling! wilt thou tell me where 
 Are thy sweet builders, who witii busy care 
 Thatched thee within, without and all around, 
 Then hung thee high above the dangerous 
 
 ground? 
 
 O wanton wind I swift moving overhead. 
 Wilt thon not tell me, where the birds have 
 
 fled? 
 The birds that came to us in budding May, 
 And cheered us thro' the summer's fervid 
 
 day? 
 
 All-powerful sun ! coquetting with the mist. 
 In some fair sunny chme hast thou not kist 
 A wealth of foliage, where is hid away 
 Another nest, like that one o'er the way ! 
 O friendly moon ! come with the fall of night. 
 And light the path the songsters winged their 
 
 flight. 
 Tell where thine ears have heard them on their 
 
 nest. 
 Lulling with twittering song their babes to 
 rest ! 
 
 army of bright stars! in deeps of night. 
 Have ye awakened them with twinkling light? 
 Then w.atched in hiding thro' the roof of 
 
 leaves. 
 So gently lifted by the southern breeze? 
 Can no one tell me if they flit and sing. 
 In balmy climes where cypress fringes swing? 
 Where 'mid dark orange groves gleam globes 
 
 of fire. 
 And summer's verdant footsteps never tire? 
 
 Ah! none will tell me; still I see the nest. 
 And love to think of downy bosoms pressed 
 Against its russet sides, and hair-lined floor,— 
 
 1 dream the joj'ous birds will come once more. 
 
 ARBOR VIT^. 
 Canst thou not tell me how my mother sleeps? 
 Does she not come when the bright stars of 
 even 
 Light all their lamps to gild each cloud that 
 weeps 
 Pure crystal teardrops from the fount of 
 HeaA-en? 
 When busy sounds die out, and hushed is 
 mirth. 
 Does she not come again to bless the Earth? 
 Did she not send a chalice filled with hope. 
 
 That I no more should shed regretful tears? 
 No more in dark uncertainty should grope 
 
 Along the way of overclouded j-ears? 
 Did she not waft upon thy spicy breath 
 A loving kiss, from her pale realm of death? 
 
 SB 
 
© 
 
 330 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES B. KENYON. 
 
 Born: Frankfort, N. Y., April 36, 1858. 
 After receiving a collegiate education he 
 taught for three seasons iu the common schools 
 and at the age of twenty entered the ministry. 
 He is highly esteemed at Watertown, N. Y., 
 where he is now preaching. Mr. Kenyon has 
 published four volumes of poetry. The Fallen 
 and Other Poems.Out of the Shadows, Songs in 
 All Seasons, and In Realms of Gold. He is a 
 constant contributor to the leading periodicals. 
 
 ELUSION. 
 Ah, happy poet who may guess 
 The ever-changing loveliness. 
 The lightsome grace, the airy wiles 
 Wherewith coy nature masks her smiles. 
 And, stealing on her unaware, 
 Behold her when she is most fair! 
 
 IF IT WERE. 
 
 Love, that thou lov'st me not, too well I know. 
 Yet shouldst thou look to-night on my dead 
 
 face 
 For the last time on earth, and thei'e shouldst 
 trace 
 The silent meaning of a heavy woe, 
 Wouldst thou not feel a pang that it were so? 
 Would not regret within thy heart find place. 
 That thou didst stay the guerdon and the 
 grace 
 Thy lover so besought thee to bestow? 
 Wouldst thou not feel a want unknown before ; 
 
 A something gone familiar grown so long? 
 A vanished light— a ship gone from the shore— 
 A presence past from out the world's great 
 throng? 
 O Love, wouldst thou not miss the voice of 
 yore? 
 The song-bird flown, wouldst thou not miss 
 the song? 
 
 VANISHED. 
 
 It was but yesterday I saw his sheep. 
 
 The while ho led them up the height to feed. 
 And heard him merrily pipe upon his reed. 
 
 And mock the echoes from yon rocky steep; 
 'Twas yesterday I found him fast asleep, 
 
 His flock forgot and wantoning in the mciul, 
 
 His pipe Hung liglilly by with idle heed. 
 And shadows lying round him, cool and deep. 
 But though r seek I shall not And hini more. 
 
 In dewy valley or on grassy height; 
 I listen for his i)iping — it is o'er. 
 
 From out mine ears gone is the music (luito. 
 There on the hill the sheep feed as before. 
 
 But Pan, alas, has vanished from my sight! 
 
 A ROMAN QUEEN. 
 Imperious on her ebon throne 
 
 She sits, a queen, in languid ease; 
 Her lustrous locks are loosely blown 
 
 Back from her brow by some stray breeze 
 Lost in that vast, bright hall of state. 
 Where thronging suppliants fear and wait. 
 
 A dreamy fragrance, fine and rare, 
 Of sandal, nard and precious gum, 
 
 With balmy sweetness fills the air. 
 And mingles with the incense from 
 
 A quaint and costly azure urn, 
 
 Where Indian spices ever burn. 
 
 A jeweled serpent, wrought in gold. 
 Coils round her white and naked arm; 
 
 Her purple tunic, backward rolled, 
 Reveals the full and regal charm 
 
 Of her fair neck, and ivory breast. 
 
 Half veiled beneath her broidered vest. 
 
 Her eyelids droop upon her ej'es. 
 And curtained Viy the silken lash. 
 
 The smoldering Are that in them lies 
 Is scarcely seen, save when a flash, 
 
 Like that whichliglitsthe polar snow. 
 
 Gleams from the dusky depths below. 
 
 Her proud, cold lips are lightly wreathed 
 In smiles, as if wuh high disdain 
 
 She scorns to show her hate is sheathed. 
 And that he sues not all in vain 
 
 For favors of her haughty will. 
 
 Or e'en lo%'e's rarer guerdon still. 
 
 He stands before her white and fierce: 
 His bosom with swift passion shakes: 
 
 His burning vision seeks to pierce 
 Her very soul; he pleads; he wakes 
 
 Within her heart a wild desire. 
 
 That flames and mounts like sudden fir«\ 
 
 A subtle glance, a whispered word, 
 A waving of her perfumed hand. 
 
 He feels his secret prayer is heard — 
 That she will know and understand : 
 
 The queen is hid, and for a space 
 
 A love-swayed woman holds her place. 
 
 He bows, he leans toward the throne; 
 
 Her breath is warm upon his cheek; 
 She murmurs, and in every tone 
 
 He hears the love she dai'es not speak; 
 What though the surging hundreds pi-ess? 
 No eye shall see her swift caress. 
 
 Let him beware; he toys with fate; 
 
 False as the glittering serpent is 
 On her white arm, her love to hate 
 
 Shall change eftsoons; then every kiss 
 She gives him with her fickle breath 
 Shall be surcharged witli secret death. 
 
 ©- 
 
®- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 331 
 
 ALEXANDER R. FULTON. 
 
 Horn: Ross Co., Ohio, Oct. 11, 1833. 
 Mu. Fulton has been representative in the 
 Iowa legislature, and has held numerous oth- 
 er important oflieial positions at various 
 times. In 1882 he published a volume of five 
 hundred pag-es, entitled Red Men of Iowa, and 
 lia>; also written a number of smaller books 
 am] pampliletsof a liistoriral cliarndiT. For 
 
 ALEXANDER li. fULTON. 
 
 about twelve years Mr. Fulton was connected 
 with the Western Newspaper Union at Des 
 Moines as editor of ready-print sheets, and is 
 still so engaged. This writer has contributed 
 from time to time numerous poems of merit 
 to the periodical press. Mr. Fulton is presi- 
 dent of the Des Moines Academy of Science. 
 
 B- 
 
 IF WE COULD KNOW. 
 O fortune-favored heirs of pride. 
 
 Who feel no daily round of care. 
 Ye little know what ills betide 
 
 The poor, or how the lowly fare. 
 O wonder not, that soon or late. 
 
 Some, fainting in the struggle fall; 
 Our hearts might pity, more than hate, 
 
 If we could only know it all. 
 As pestilence may come unseen, 
 
 Nor human skill the scourge control. 
 So fjite's decree may intervene. 
 
 And mar the beauty of some soul. 
 
 Could we behold, and feel no pain 
 
 For those who drink life's cup of gall. 
 Or pass such by, in cold disdain. 
 
 If we could only know it all? 
 'Mid semblances of joy, and mirth. 
 
 There often lurks a secret grief; 
 The things men deem of priceless worth, 
 
 May fail to bring the soul relief. 
 We might not envy some who flaunt 
 
 Rich purple robes in gilded hall. 
 And yet for something, pine in want. 
 
 If we could only know it ail. 
 'Tis well that we this truth should learn — 
 
 That under rags true hearts may beat, 
 While clothed in silks, we oft discern 
 
 Base envy, falsehood, and deceit. 
 Not all who pose in dazzling hue 
 
 'Neath gilded domes, and steeples tall, 
 Might prove at heart, gilt-edged, and true. 
 
 If we could only know it all. 
 While modest worth, unknown may plod — 
 
 Its pathway strewn with noble deeds — 
 Rank arrogance may only nod. 
 
 And all the world applauding heeds. 
 Mere rank of birth no merit brings. 
 
 But lords there are with trappings small, 
 Who may not tread in courts of kings. 
 
 If we could only know it all. 
 
 ANTHRACITE. 
 
 Back in the misty ages past, 
 
 Thei-e grew a forest by the sea, 
 Whicli o'er the land daik shadows cast. 
 
 And shelter'd snail-like mollusks free. 
 Late, passing from chaotic time. 
 
 This orb unfitted was for man ; 
 Strange creatures burrow'd in the slime 
 
 Tliat marred its yet unfinished plan. 
 But not in vain that forest grew 
 
 By steamy sea, or warm lagoon ; 
 From beams of ancient suns it drew 
 
 For coming time a needed boon. 
 Then rose the floods and cover'd deep 
 
 That old-time forest from the light; 
 Now, after seons vast of sleep. 
 
 Behold it in the anthracite! 
 What angry seas have surg'd and roU'd, 
 
 Exchanging places witli the land. 
 Since floods swept down that forest old. 
 
 Entombing it 'neath beds of sand: 
 There, in each tissue, stem, and frond. 
 
 Were seal'd the latent light and heat. 
 Till, in the ages long beyond. 
 
 The world for man should be complete! 
 Releas'd now from its darksome bed 
 
 Bj- force of sturdy miner's blow. 
 It gives to man the sunbeams, shed 
 
 Perchance a million years ago! 
 There, in that grate of anihi-ieite. 
 
 ■© 
 
*- 
 
 332 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 « 
 
 Weird forms in wreaths of blue flame 
 curl'd. 
 May thy observing eye delig-ht 
 
 With visions of an ancient world! 
 What sluggish monsters slumber there, 
 
 In sigillarian jungles deep — 
 Amphibians gigantic, where 
 
 The carbonif reus fauna creep ! 
 Amid the conifers and ferns 
 
 Naught anthropoid may we behold; 
 But prophecy the eye discerns 
 
 Of what the future sliall unfold! 
 In marshes warm tall tree-ferns grow; 
 
 The calamite its stem uprears. 
 Where steaming vapors noxious, flow 
 
 From carbon-laden atmospheres. 
 And there the sunlight, and the rain. 
 
 With all the elements combine. 
 To store beneath some ancient main 
 
 These hoarded treasures of the mine! 
 No graceful wing of tuneful bird. 
 
 With song to greet the rosy morn. 
 Is in that primal forest heard, 
 
 And flowers sweet are yet unborn. 
 But, seething in the sun's hot glare. 
 
 O'er beaches strewn with chamber'd 
 shells, 
 Behold what seas sweep wildly there. 
 
 Engulfing all beneath their swells! 
 Unknown what epochs rolled away. 
 
 With their ascending types of life, 
 Ere dawned the world's more perfect day. 
 
 When Man evolved from Nature's strife ! 
 Tho' now erect, lie treads the earth. 
 
 And things of hutnljler form disdains. 
 To him a boon of wondrous worth 
 
 Are that primeval world's remains! 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE UNWRITTEN SONG. 
 Some song unwritten, all have heard. 
 
 But not with mortal ear ; 
 It breathes without one spolien word, 
 
 In music, sweet and clear. 
 Down, floating from the dream-like past, 
 
 It murmurs, to recall 
 The scenes that dimly still are cast 
 
 On mem'ry's fading wall. 
 The organ's peal may thrill indeed, 
 
 And joys of tone impart. 
 But tones tliat we, as mortals, heed, 
 
 Are only notes of art. 
 In silence, and in solitude. 
 
 Where moves no busy throng. 
 Nor cares of gro.sserlife intrude. 
 
 We liear the sweeter song. 
 Sometimes, far off it seems, and then 
 
 In nearer cadence swells. 
 As floats adown some sylvan glen 
 
 Tlie cliime of ev'ning bells. 
 
 How few there are who have not known 
 
 Some song they could not sing, 
 But eacli one for liimself alone, 
 
 May hear its whispering. 
 As witli tlio spirit's eye. In dreams. 
 
 Things beautiful we see. 
 Or catcli in slumber's hour the gleams 
 
 Of In'ighter scenes to be; 
 So, far away, through lieaven's bounds. 
 
 The music of the spheres. 
 In harmony of silent sounds. 
 
 The soul HI rapture hears. 
 There is a song tliat comes to each — 
 
 It's music undefined — 
 Whose mystic strains the heart may reach, 
 
 And all its chords unbind. 
 These strains, that oft our spirits haunt. 
 
 Do not to earth belong. 
 For only angel voices chant 
 
 Tlie soul's unwritten song. 
 
 MRS. MAMIE G. TYLER. 
 
 Born: Byron, N.Y., 1847. 
 The poems of Mrs. Tjier have appeared from 
 time to time for the last quarter of a century 
 in tlie Sterling Gazette and other local papers 
 of Kansas. She now resides in that state on 
 a farm in Reno county. 
 
 THE ANGEL-NAME. 
 
 What do the angels call my child, 
 What is his angel-name'^ 
 O, is there in all that world of light 
 A name that is fit for a soul so white. 
 My darling boy who was swept from me [sea, 
 When a storm came down on our still home 
 And I drifted alone in a starless night 
 On a wild mad sea with no ray of light? 
 What do the angels call my child? 
 What is his angel name? 
 We tried to give him a name when here. 
 He was only loaned to us but one year! 
 And when his little form sickened and died. 
 Then the angels took him, our darling, our 
 pride. 
 What do the angels call my child? 
 What is his angel-name? 
 Do they call him Lota, is his name the same? 
 It seemed the sweetest our lips could frame. 
 Ah! his name they know for he heard them 
 call [fall, 
 
 Where the brook's light waves in the river 
 And O, if beautiful deeds of love 
 Are garnered by angels and wrought above 
 In names and homes that await us there. 
 If all kind words and tho bread we share. 
 And the loving tones, and the hope and cheer 
 We give 1o eartli's sufl'ering children here, 
 Are merged in the names they give to us there. 
 Lovely and sweet is the name he must bear. 
 
 -k 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 333 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. M.PICKERING. 
 
 BOBN : Steubenville, Ohio, in 1830. 
 Commencing to teach at an early age, this hidy 
 followed that profession for thirteen years, 
 when she was married. Mrs. Pickering- was 
 left a widow with three small children seven 
 
 MKs. ,M. I'K ki:kim:, 
 years hitcr. Tlie i]ueiiis of this lady have 
 been extensively published, as well as several 
 stories from her pen. She hopes to publish a 
 volume of her collected poems in the near fu- 
 ture. 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 Dear mother.O come to my bed side to-night — 
 Cold winds are wailing, and there's no one in 
 
 sight; 
 Unloved and uncared for, I'm dying alone — 
 O come.dearest mother, and call me your own ; 
 Come in your beautiful garments of light, 
 And smile on your daughter — O just for 
 
 to-night! 
 Enfold me again in your dear arms of love. 
 And sing mean anthem from Heaven above. 
 Yes, and sing to me, mother, of days that 
 
 are fled. 
 Those days of sweet pleasure before I was 
 
 wed, 
 When, fair as a dew-spangled lily's pure ray. 
 Just opening its petals to the warm light of 
 
 day. 
 Each beautiful scene sank deep in my breast, 
 
 6- 
 
 As deep as my thoughts of heaven's pure rest. 
 Nor dreamed I, the world could be fal.se or 
 
 untrue. Let" was you. 
 
 For my loved books were nature —my teach- 
 My wanton destroyer came clothed in disguise. 
 With smiles on his lips — and love-lighted 
 
 eyes — [light. 
 
 He spoke of the world with enraptured de- 
 But said all its brightness to him would be 
 
 night, 
 If abandoned by her, who was part of his life — 
 I listened — believed him and soon was his 
 
 wife. [true? 
 
 merciful heaven, his wife! then can it be 
 Ah yes, I remember, 'twas night — and on- 
 ward we flew ! 
 
 O'er woodland and valley, far away from my 
 
 home; [mourn; 
 
 Leaving you, darling mother, in anguish to 
 
 1 loved, and I wed him — soon another wife 
 
 came— [my name. 
 
 Then cold grew the world — and it blackened 
 A poor homeless wanderer with no place to go, 
 Condemned by the high, and jeered by the 
 
 low ; [alone. 
 
 Then an outcast for years, I have wandered 
 For a great sin that was his — but little my 
 
 own. 
 But God in his mercy took you to his rest — 
 Ah, you're here, darling mother, once more I 
 
 am blest. 
 
 THE POET, THE MUSICIAN AND THE 
 PAINTER. 
 
 Within bright Eden's shades, and near Eu- 
 phrates' shore. 
 
 Where copse and wildwood shrubs, by creep- 
 ing vines hung o'er 
 
 The earth — in vernal vesture clad — and 
 woods, and sky and air. 
 
 Was clothed in peace and balm-fraught beauty 
 everywhere. 
 
 There, on a mossy bank, all bathed in amber 
 glowing light. 
 
 Reclined a fair and pensive maid, in raiment 
 pure and white. 
 
 Celestial beaut^y o'er her shone, as when old 
 Sol's last gleam 
 
 Caressing kissed the lily's brow, upon the near 
 pellucid stream, 
 
 While nymph and naiad wandered forth in 
 gay disportive mood; 
 
 Sipping from out the nectar-laden flowers, of 
 that primeval wood. 
 
 Her soul drank in each varied form of beauty, 
 matchless wrought. 
 
 In all the voiceless imagery of glorious thrill- 
 ing poet thought. 
 
 Until its potent power touched lip and tongue, 
 and broke the spell, 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 334 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 And Poesy sprang forth to breathing life 
 where e'er a creature dwell. 
 
 A goodly youth who lived near by, within a 
 lonely cot, had heard — 
 
 And forth he sprang in ecstacy, to catch each 
 soul-enthralling word; 
 
 Companionless he'd roamed o'er many a va- 
 ried scene of light and shade. 
 
 But ne'er in all his wandering life, beheld so 
 fair a maid. 
 
 A feeling indefinable, a sympathy of heart, 
 most sweet and dear. 
 
 Unconscious o'er him stole, as this inspiring 
 maid drew near — 
 
 And every word she spoke, breathed forth a 
 strangely echoing thought. 
 
 Until his deep-toned lyre, (henceforth his 
 pride) he quickly caught 
 
 And music's glorious melodies in anthems 
 sweet, burst forth.-before un- 
 known. 
 
 Till love and light sprang up, in many a bos- 
 om dark and lone. 
 
 Ere long another youth appeared of modest 
 mien, and sparkling eye. 
 
 In radiant dew-gemmed garments clad,bright 
 as the orient sky — 
 
 Upon his calm and youthful brow, proud ge- 
 nius sat enthroned. 
 
 Whom muse and minstrel hailed -whose 
 kindred power they owned — 
 
 He roamed with them o'er hill and vale, begirt 
 with rock and wood, 
 
 Where costly mansions graced the scene, or 
 lonely hamlets stood. 
 
 And forms portrayed beneath his hand, have 
 
 mocked at Time's 
 Relentless grasp, and age on age within all 
 
 nation's 'lightened climes 
 Great marbled heroes frowned — and modest 
 
 grace on canvas smiled 
 Till brow and lip in beauteous life-like joy- 
 
 ance oft beguiled 
 Each loving one to think them near, and pray 
 
 a blessing on the art 
 Which gave the cherished image back, to 
 
 soothe and bless the lonely heart. 
 
 Yet, as I've heard it said, when sinks proud 
 Sol at eve's glad hour. 
 
 A bright electric flame hangs trembling o'er 
 each golden flower — 
 
 Even so each love-charged soul emits an an- 
 swering flame of light. 
 
 As true as images, or lays, or painter, muse or 
 minstrel bright. 
 
 Ah then fair maiden, each shines fortli in 
 grandeur most sublime. 
 
 When soul is answering back to soul— and 
 mind to mind by modesty refined. 
 
 ®— — 
 
 MRS. KATE E. NORCROSS. 
 
 Born: Winchester, Tenn., 1843. 
 Commencing to write at an early age. the 
 poems of this lady have received pubhcation 
 from time to time in the periodical press. 
 Married in 1865 to Sidney F. Norcross, she was 
 left a widow six years later. Mrs. Norcross is 
 a resident of Bolivar in the state of Missouri. 
 
 RECIPROCITY. 
 My money, and labor, and love. 
 
 Which I've freely given my son, 
 On his heart did make such a move- 
 Last Christmas a present I won. 
 Some smoking tobacco he gave. 
 
 Quite freely 1 thought at the time. 
 And I was glad to see him behave 
 
 With feeling, for him, quite sublime. 
 Reciprocity is a glorious thing. 
 
 The jewel above all I admire — 
 A warmth to the heart it will bring 
 
 Like that to the body by fire. 
 But alas', there's a spurious thing 
 
 I've followed so long; now. I tire. 
 An ignus fatus on the wing 
 
 Vulgarly called fox-fire. 
 The foothold, I thought I had gained 
 
 On the reciprocity plan — 
 Ere the first moon, of the new year, had 
 waned, 
 
 I found it was made in the sand. 
 
 The sad discovery thus was made. 
 
 I relate it with regret: . 
 
 I awoke one morning much afraid 
 
 My boy was in a pet. 
 It was late,- the fires were out. 
 
 I had a kind of chill; 
 And a " catch " about my back. No doubt 
 
 Just like Old Women will. 
 1 tried; but couldn't rise, you see. 
 
 And He, had to make the fire: 
 Then, in the place of reciprocity: 
 
 The fat, was in the fire. 
 But .. the feather that broke the camel's 
 back " 
 Had yet, my friends to come 
 His " sass," while 1 was in a rack. 
 
 1 bore without a moan. 
 For then one thought I had to soothe 
 
 Mv Christmas gift remained; 
 And I felt, as a mother, it did behoove - 
 * Me best, not to ct)mplHi"- 
 But don't you think the - injun " sneak. 
 
 Stole back my Christmas gift; 
 And left me here so lame and weak, 
 mi fcnred to beg a whiff. 
 
 -* 
 
88- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 335 
 
 « 
 
 EDMUND FLAGG. 
 
 Born': Wiscasset, Me., Nov. ^4, 1815. 
 The present residence of Edmund Flagg- is 
 Highland View, Virginia; lie is a retired law- 
 yer, and liis only occupation of late has been to 
 look after his real estate interests. Mr. Flagg 
 was married in 1862 and has three sons. While 
 yet a student, articles from his pen appeared 
 in several prominent periodicals. After gradu- 
 ating at Bowdoin college in 1835, he taught 
 school and wrote for the press a series of 
 sketches of western life and scenery, wliicli 
 was subsequently published by the Harper's 
 in two volumes, entitled Tlie Far West. Since 
 
 EDMUND FLAGG. 
 
 that time he has written extensively for the 
 leading periodicals of America, and has edited 
 several volumes of law reports. He has also 
 held numerous positions of public trust — 
 United States consul at Venice in 1851; super- 
 intendent of statistics at Washington ; and in 
 1861 had charge of the library in the interior 
 department. His prose works have been well 
 received, and published in elegant style by 
 Scribner an<l Peterson. Mr. Flagg is now en- 
 gaged on a volume of Reminiscences based on 
 a daily journal of more than forty years. 
 
 *- 
 
 EARTH'S CHANGES. 
 
 On all earth's dearest things decay is writ: 
 Only to wither, blooms the fairest flower: 
 
 The bough is bent in beauty but to fade; 
 And the summer-cloud like a glimpse of 
 
 Heaven 
 O'ershadows us, only to flee away 
 Into its azure home, and leave the heart 
 To muse upon its loveliness and morn. 
 The sunny isles which slumber on tlie breast 
 Of the calm tropic sea, beneath its waves 
 Are whelmed; and the red coral spreads her 
 
 fan. 
 And ocean monsters roam, where cities stood. 
 Like meteor-exhalations, empires, tlirones, 
 And dynasties rise on the night of time; 
 And, then, into oblivion's rayless depths 
 Are swallowed. 
 
 And, with the bow of spring, 
 The summer flower, the cloud, the ocean isle,- 
 With crowns, and thrones and scepters,— with 
 
 the great. 
 The wise, the reverend,— how many forms 
 Of human loveliness,— the bright, the brave. 
 The beautiful, are passing evermore 
 Away from earth ! Dust,— dust is on the 
 
 brow 
 Of pride and power, and it is sleeping 
 In the soft tresses of the fair-haired girl. 
 The burning lip of eloquence is hushed. 
 And wan and shrivell'd is the lip of age. 
 Upon the minstrel's temples fades the bay, 
 And, on the conqueror's plumed and blood- 
 stained helm 
 Withers the glorious laurel. 
 And, like the summer rose,— th' autumnal 
 
 leaf,— 
 The fleecy flake of winter,— like the bow 
 Which with bright fillet binds the brow of 
 
 heaven 
 In dewy springtime, — like as the foam bell 
 Iris'd on the brook and mists of morning 
 By the dawn rolled up the mountain's side,— 
 
 thus. 
 Visions of happiness are hast'ning hence 
 To visit us no more. In ev'ry breeze 
 That whispers on the ear, passes the sigh 
 Of joy,— the sigh of sorrow. Not a flower 
 Bedecks the vale,— the wood,— the hill, which 
 
 springs 
 Not from the dust of one of earth's bright 
 
 sons 
 Or gentle daughters. Not a leaf is there 
 In all the blooming coronal of spring. 
 Which numbers not a withered heart. There's 
 
 not 
 An evening cloud, that like a spirit floats 
 In the blue sky above us, which is not 
 The vanished vision of a happy dream. 
 And all the fair and fleeting things of life 
 Are but as emblems of hope, love and joy. 
 And faith, and fame, and fancy, which, with 
 
 them. 
 And us, and all, are passing from the earth. 
 
 -m 
 
*- 
 
 -® 
 
 336 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 THE WIND HAKP. 
 Lyre of the wild wind ! sweetly art thou blend- 
 ing 
 Passion and pathos in thy mystic tones; 
 And, over thee a weary hrow is bending-, 
 As though thy quivering chords the night- 
 breeze moans. 
 And, as I listen to thy sad, sweet numbers. 
 And bid thee charm the storm within that 
 dwells, Lslumbers, 
 
 Methinks, in mine own heart the harp-string 
 
 And, roused by feeling, into music swells. 
 Fitful and sad the low-voiced zephyr sighing, 
 
 Waljens the spirit in thy silent strings; 
 Dream-lilie it rises, swelling, lingering, dying, 
 
 'Till almost soars the soul upon its wings. 
 Thou hast a varied song, sweet harp of Heav- 
 en! Lrf^ve; 
 A proud, majestic chant when tempests 
 And, oh, the touchingtenderness that's given, 
 When scare a ripple curls the moonlit wave ! 
 Thou hast a glad and gleeful song at morning. 
 When through the forest boughs the | 
 breezes play ; 
 When bird, and wiud, and blossom hail the 
 dawning. 
 Thy antliem rises on its heavenward way. 
 And, seraph-harp! thou hast a strain of sor- 
 row; 
 A strain full welcome in the hour of woe; 
 The brolien heart no sadder voice can borrow. 
 Than that which from shy silken strings 
 doth flow. 
 Harp of the heart! unrivaled are the treas- 
 ures 
 That softly slumber on thy haunted chords; 
 Oh, there's a pathos in thy magic measures 
 
 More choicely eloquent than choicest words. 
 Thou spirit of the wind! Thou weird enchant- 
 ress ! 
 Whether the monarch of the storm I hail, 
 Or, of the evening zephyr gentle empress, 
 
 Harmonious evermore is thy wild wail. 
 Farewell, Farewell! It were a vain endeavor 
 
 Of all thy matchless minstrelsy to tell:— 
 Peal on, unechoed and unequaled ever,— 
 Thou wizard of the wind, farewell, farewell. 
 
 MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 A mother's love ! 
 Oh, there is not, in all this cold, and false. 
 And hollow-hearted world, one fount of love 
 So pure, so deep, so deatliless, strong as 
 
 death,— 
 A love, whose joy might swell an angel's 
 
 breast — 
 Whose tear wou Id sully not an angel's cheek,- 
 Upon whose pride a Deity might smile,— 
 As that, which in a youthful mother's breast 
 
 Wells up, while bending o'er her first-born 
 
 child! 
 Ocean's dark caves can boast no pearl so pure, 
 And earth upon her bosom holds no flower. 
 And, in her jewel'd depths, no gem so rare!— 
 A mother's love! Oh, it can bear all suffering, 
 It will dare despair, death, peril, ev'n crime- 
 All that the spirit shrinks f rom,-drain the cup 
 Of sorrow to the dregs, nor drop one tear. 
 Nor know an instant's pause, though met by 
 
 pride 
 And petulance from that so wildly loved — 
 Be it deformed, and swart, and hideous. 
 Or, bright and beauteous as a poet's dream. 
 Unchill'd - unfevcr'd _ evermore it glows. 
 Unchanged, unchanging;- in this fickle world 
 The one thing stable,- evermore the same! 
 If as a garment, suffering wraps the frame. 
 Who, like an angel, hovers round the couch? 
 If on the brow the laurel-leaf doth bloom. 
 Who, in her noiseless joyance is more glad? 
 If ignominious crime - the world's contempt - 
 The ban of infamy is resting there,— 
 If all the nearest,- dearest -do forsake? 
 And, like a livid leper, all alone 
 He stands amid the crowd, doth she forsake? 
 Ah, no! For the world's hate he is to her 
 Only the dearer - for its desertion 
 She the closer clings -their charge of crime 
 Is calumny - contempt -contumely: [God 
 And though all earth may cast him off, and 
 Himself may seem upon his Cain-like brow 
 His signet to have set, yet will her love- 
 A mother's love, survive it; and will be 
 That world which hath forsaken, and will give 
 That blessing which e'en Deity denies. 
 
 THE VISIONS OF LIFE. 
 
 When the visions of life, evanescent and vain. 
 
 With the hopes of our youth, like a vapor 
 
 depart, lagain,- 
 
 Oh what shall relume those glad visions 
 
 Oh how shall those hopes be reborn to the 
 
 heart? tmo'""' 
 
 When fading -still fading, like stars of the 
 
 The Pleiads of gladness go out in our sky, 
 And, like lamps from the damps of the sepul- 
 cher borne. 
 May only illumine our pathway to die:— 
 When the flowers of enjoyment are scentless 
 and dead, Lcrushcd 
 
 And the chords of life's harmony silent and 
 Oh what shall restore tlK)se ephemeral* fle.l.- 
 Those stars so illusive,-those harp-strn.gs 
 so hushed? 
 They are gone - they are gone,-they can nev- 
 er return,- l-^ •''"'; 
 Those rainbow-phantasma, deceptive ancl 
 And hope's vivid visions may brilliantly burn. 
 Yet never more visit that bosom again. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IKKI0A. 
 
 837 
 
 -® 
 
 S. H. M. BYERS. 
 
 As tlieautlior of Slierman's March to tlie Sea, 
 Mr. Byers lias beL-ome well known as a poet of 
 no mean ability. He is the author of a volume 
 entitlfil The HaiM'y Isles and Otlier Poems, a 
 
 ^ 
 
 S. H. M. BVERS. 
 
 work containing many touching-, graceful and 
 spirited poems. Mr. Byei's is a resident of Os- 
 kaloosa, Iowa, where he is well known and 
 highly respected. 
 
 SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 
 Ourcamp-flres shone bright on the mountains, 
 
 That frowned on the river below. 
 While we stood by our guns in the morning. 
 
 And eagerly watched for the foe; 
 When a rider came out from the darkness 
 
 That hung over mountain and tree. 
 And shouted " Boys, up and be ready! 
 
 For Sherman will march to the sea! " 
 Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman 
 
 Went up from each valley and glen. 
 And the bugles re-echoed the music 
 
 That came from the lips of the men; 
 For we knew that the stars in our banner 
 
 More bright in their splendor would be. 
 And that blessings from Northland would 
 greet us. 
 
 When Sherman marched down to the sea. 
 Then forward, boys ! forward to battle ! 
 
 We marched on our perilous way. 
 And we stormed the wild hills of Resaca — 
 
 God bless those who fell on that day ! 
 
 Then Kenesaw, dark in its gUjry, 
 
 Frowned down on the flag of the free; 
 But the East and the West bore our standard^ 
 
 And Sherman marched on t<i the sea. 
 Still onward we pressed, till our banners 
 
 Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls. 
 And the blood of the patriot dampened 
 
 The soil where the rebel flag falls. 
 Yet we paused not to weep for the fallen. 
 
 Who slept by each river and tree. 
 But we twined tiiem a wreatii of the laurel, 
 
 And Sherman marched on to the sea. 
 We heard not the threat'ning of foemen. 
 
 Embattled they stood by each gun — 
 One shout and the sea lay before us. 
 
 One charge and Savannah was won. 
 Then sang we a song for our chieftain, 
 
 That echoed o'er river and lea, 
 And the stars in our banner shone brighter. 
 
 When Siierman marched down to the .sea. 
 
 MY WHITE ROSE AND RED. 
 So you've come from the South, have you, 
 darlings? 
 
 And slept snug as mice all the way? 
 And wasn't it cold on the mountains. 
 
 For rosebud, and myrtle, and baj'? 
 And she packed you up so together. 
 
 And blessed you, and kissed you, and said, 
 " Keep sweet as my memory for him is. 
 
 My darlings, my white rose and red." 
 And what'did she tell you at parting! 
 
 Some message for me, I know well; 
 Some praise of our boj% then, God bless him ! 
 
 Some words of our sweet little Nell. 
 And the dear tiny hands of tiie children. 
 
 Have they touched your petals so fair? 
 O, rosebuds, you're happy if Helen 
 
 But kissed you one moment, when there! 
 This white rose siiall bloom in tiie study. 
 
 This red one I'll wear on my breast, 
 O, I wonder if she will be thinking 
 
 How often your petals are pressed ! 
 Did she tell you how long we've been married? 
 
 Ten years — 't is another year, soon,— 
 And though we've had snow in December, 
 
 We've always had roses in June. 
 How far it is here from San Remo, 
 
 The gem of the beautiful sea! 
 But you've come with your petals all fragrant 
 
 With incense, from her unto me. 
 How strange it all is ; and her letter — 
 
 This much and this only it said: 
 " The children are well here, and happy. 
 
 And my love's like the white rose and red." 
 I'll write her no letter to-morrow. 
 
 But something I'll send her instead — 
 Two rose leaves,— she'll guess at their mean- 
 ing. 
 
 One each from the white rose and red. 
 
 -© 
 
«- 
 
 338 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 EDWARD C. DOWNING. 
 
 BOBN : WoosTEK, Ohio, Feb. 34, 1863. 
 Gkaduating at the uuiversity of Wooster in 
 1885, Edward devoted his attention to teaching-, 
 accepting the priucipalshipof schools at Wol- 
 cott. The following year he was tendered the 
 professorship of the Greeli and Latin lan- 
 guages in the Missouri collegiate institute at 
 Carthage, which position he flUed with credit 
 
 EDWAFU) C. DOWNING. 
 
 for two years, when lie was called to take 
 charge of the Illinois academy at Toulon. In 
 the midst of his labors Prof. Downing has 
 taken time to cultivate the muses, and is 
 known for the simplicity and elegance of his 
 verses. In 1888 he published a small volume 
 of poems entitled Minutes With the Muses. 
 
 ©- 
 
 APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 There are many days that are full of clieer. 
 
 In the summer sun and the winter snow; 
 But the sweetest time of all the year 
 
 Is wlien the apple blossoms blow. 
 Oh! then I think that nature seems 
 
 All decked like a bride with orange flowers. 
 And the high ideal of lovers' dreams 
 
 Has come down to this workl of ours. 
 Tliere is a time in the year of life. 
 
 In the pleasure that precedes woe. 
 In the hoping time before the strife. 
 
 When the heart's apple blossoms blow. 
 
 But the blossoms fall and the splendor fades 
 
 From out of my life in its noontide rays; 
 Tlie phantom I follow my grasp evades. 
 
 And lo, I am far in the autumn days. 
 So of all the things that I hold dear 
 
 In springtime or in life, I know 
 The sweetest time of all the year 
 
 Is when the apple blossoms blow. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 There is a dear one whom I love with all 
 The wealth of love of which I am possessed. 
 Her liand that smoothed my brow is laid to 
 rest; 
 
 Her ears can never bear me when I call. 
 
 Sometimes I think life's sweetness and its gall 
 Are so well mingled here they make us blest. 
 And that I might grow W'eary in the quest 
 
 For happiness, that I might tire and fall. 
 
 Despairing by the way, if it were not 
 For separations. On the unseen wings 
 
 Of my affection, now, my dearest thought 
 Goes out to visit her, and backward brings 
 
 Imagined whispers from the fairer land. 
 
 That lead me as she led me by the hand. 
 
 I AM TOO FOND. 
 I am too fond: I know I am. 
 
 Sometimes I wish it were not so; 
 And like one who has less of heart, 
 
 I should be happier, I know. 
 I am too fond. When I look down 
 
 Into the depths of her brown ejes. 
 And they do not look back my love. 
 
 There is a pain in the surprise. 
 I am too fond. If day goes by 
 
 Without some tender word or kiss, 
 Without some token of her love. 
 
 You cannot tell how mucli I miss. 
 I am too fond. Give me no love. 
 
 Or give it to me full and free. 
 There is no medium between 
 
 No love and perfect love, for me. 
 
 QUESTIONS. 
 
 Why do we evermore regret 
 The way that we have lived with those 
 
 Who will not come again, and yet 
 
 Day after day again forget 
 To treat the living better"? Knows 
 There not each one of us some woes 
 
 That press our souls and fill our hearts 
 Too full for utterance or tears 
 
 Sometimes, when memory starts 
 To wander back along the years? 
 
 Why do we not redeem the time 
 Tiiat we havt> lost and try to make 
 
 Our lives and others' more a rhyme. 
 Both for our own and Jesus' sake? 
 
 -5 
 
fl&- 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 339 
 
 A.A.BARTOW. 
 
 Born: Hukon, Ohio, Sept. 3, 1851. 
 This grentleman was married at the age of 
 nineteen,and lias a bright family of three boys. 
 Mr. Bartow followed the profession of a teach- 
 er until 1889, when he beeame editor of theCin- 
 cinatti Publiu School Journal. He has also 
 
 A. A. BAKTOW. 
 
 held and still holds iiublic positions of trust. 
 The contributions of this writer have appear- 
 ed hi the leading papers of the east, from 
 which they have been extensively copied by 
 the local press. At the age of twelve he was a 
 drummer boy in the union armj'. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 We were si.\ as jolly explorers 
 
 As one will often see, 
 All smoking around our camp-flre, 
 
 In the fall of seventy-three. 
 The gaunt gray wolves in the distance. 
 
 Were howling in chorus the while. 
 But we didn't seem to mind them. 
 
 For that is the woodman's style. 
 
 Outside of the glow of our camp-flre. 
 
 Where the shadows were thick and 
 black. 
 We saw in our minds the frightened deer 
 
 Fleeing the ravenous pack. 
 And fancied a last death struggle; 
 
 Like others, we'd noted, by signs, 
 On the banks of the Flatrock river. 
 
 In the shade of its towering pines. 
 
 ®— 
 
 When suddenly, into our circle. 
 
 Without any notice or noise. 
 Came the chief of our little party. 
 
 Saying: Well, I am tardy, boys. 
 But I have something to tell you, 
 
 Consider it my excuse; 
 Though I would gladly forego it. 
 
 If that were of any use. 
 
 Although I have been an explorer 
 
 For twenty years or more, 
 I never was so over-matched 
 
 By anything before. 
 When I'd passea on my way to the city 
 
 'Till I reached the Flatrock road. 
 Just where the marble tombstones 
 
 Stand guard over death's abode, 
 
 I heard the loud hallooing 
 
 Of hundreds far and near. 
 And met a troop of horsemen 
 
 With footmen in the rear; 
 Who had gathered out of the city 
 
 To hunt for a little child. 
 The son of humble parents, 
 
 Lost in the forest wild. 
 
 I joined them, who could help it? 
 
 And hunted far into the night. 
 For I pitied his heart-broken mother. 
 
 And the child in this awful plight; 
 But the trail was lost in the water. 
 
 Where the pine plain meets the 
 swamp. 
 And somehow I couldn't find it. 
 
 Though I took an awful tramp. 
 
 Next morning I joined the huntei's. 
 
 But not till the sun went down 
 Did we find him, on the river road. 
 
 Full seven miles from town ; 
 He sat on a little mound of moss. 
 
 His hand held up his head; 
 But his eyes were fixed and sightless, 
 
 We had only found him dead. 
 
 I didn't go back to the city. 
 
 But slunk oft' like a thief. 
 For I couldn't meet his mother. 
 
 And witness her terrible grief. 
 Twould have given a twinge of con- 
 science. 
 
 That maybe I should not feel. 
 For if I hadn't skill enough, 
 
 I had surely plenty of zeal." 
 
 We were six as hardy explorers 
 
 As one will often find. 
 But we all sat 'round for an hour 
 
 And no one spoke his mind, 
 'Till saying, •> let's go to bed, lads," 
 
 Big Charlie kicked down the pile 
 Of dying maple embers, 
 
 In regular woodman's style. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 340 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ->s 
 
 EDWIN M. P. BRISTER. 
 
 Born: Cadiz, Ohio, June 26, 1850. 
 At an early age Edwin learned the trade of 
 printing-, wliich be followed for fourteen 
 years. At the age of seventeen he went into 
 the printing business for himself, and three 
 years later moved his office to Granville, where 
 he worked his way through a two-years' pre- 
 paratory and a four-years' classical course at 
 Deuison nniversify, at tlie samo time PiippoTt- 
 
 liDWIN M. P. BHI-STKK. 
 
 ing himself and his motlier. Graduating in 
 1877, he then studied law, and was admitted to 
 the bar three years later. Mr. Blister is un- 
 married, and lives in Newark, Ohio. He is now 
 Probate Judge of his county. 
 
 *- 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 Do you remembei-, darling. 
 
 That balmy night in June 
 Wlien stars were softly shining 
 
 And silvery beamed the moon? 
 You told me that you loved me. 
 
 And sealed it with a kiss; 
 The angels bright above me 
 
 Envied me my bliss! 
 Peace filled the quiet gloaming, 
 
 The moon slept on the lake, 
 Alas I from that sweet dreaming. 
 
 That we should ever wake! 
 But a mist crept up the valley 
 
 And blotted out the moon; 
 
 It chilled our hearts, my darling. 
 
 That balmy night in June. 
 'Twas cruel fate, my darling. 
 
 That tore you then from me, 
 And told us that our happiness 
 
 Could never, never be. ... 
 Long, long years have passed away. 
 
 To-night the wild winds rave. 
 And cold and drear the snow is piled 
 
 Above my darling's grave! 
 
 MY MOTHER'S FACE. 
 I know that such a sinner 
 
 As I feel mj-sclf to be. 
 Should scarcely hope to enter 
 
 A blest eternity. 
 But, I've dared to dream of Heaven — 
 
 That far-off world of bliss. 
 Whose lightest joy transcends 
 
 The greatest good of this. 
 And I've thought, were I so happy 
 
 As at the last to stand 
 With the hosts of blest immortals 
 
 That dwell at God's right hand; 
 And to catch a glimpse of Heaven 
 
 In all the glorious grace 
 That serves to fitlj- make it 
 
 Our God's own dwelling place; 
 With its walls of crystal jasper. 
 
 Whose foundations ne'er grow old; 
 With its gates of purest pearl. 
 
 And its streets of glittering gold; 
 With its throngs of happy spirits 
 
 Whose bliss no mortal knows. 
 Redeemed from all earth's sorrows. 
 
 Redeemed from all life's woes. 
 Not these, nor all the beauteous tints 
 
 That bloom on Heaven's skies. 
 Could win the first, long, eager 
 
 Worship of mine eyes. 
 But, I'd turn from all these glories — 
 
 Lord, forgive! if 1 lack in grace — 
 To take one long and rapturous look 
 
 At my darling mother's face! 
 
 THE LARGER HOPE. 
 
 Ambition's fires will pale and fade, 
 
 Hope's brightest visions perish. 
 And in the toml) at last are laid 
 The loves and joys and all that made 
 
 This life a thing to cherish. 
 Above life's dark and troubled way. 
 
 All tempest tossed and driven, 
 Down through the leaden clouds of gray 
 Comes to the soul a single ray 
 
 Of light and elieer from Heaven. 
 Reign on, oh! sorrow, death and woe. 
 
 Still burns this star above! 
 Though joys may come, and joys may go. 
 This truth alone I care to know — 
 
 That God, that God is love! 
 
*- 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 341 
 
 CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK. 
 
 Born: Fkiendship, N.Y., Nov. 8, 1842. 
 For two terms Mr. Buskirk lias been attorney- 
 peiicral of Indiana, and lias a lucrative prac- 
 tice at Priiieeton. He is tlie author of a neat 
 little jioeni entitled A CaveiMi for a Herniitajfi'. 
 
 CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK. 
 
 Although a poem of some lenjirtli, the fre- 
 quent chang-e of meter prevents sameness. The 
 story is ingenius, the meditations are deeply 
 pliilosophical, which together with the rich- 
 ness of its rhythm, proves very interesting. 
 
 ®- 
 
 'TIS NOT FOLLY. 
 'Tis not folly to be jolly 
 
 Here below; 
 Better mirth than melancholy, 
 
 Wit than woe. 
 Would the Rainbow's arch be duller. 
 
 Or more fair. 
 Were there but a single color 
 
 Shining there? 
 Let to-morrow bear its sorrow 
 
 As it may; 
 Neither tears nor sighs we'll borrow 
 
 For to-day. 
 Only man is born with features 
 
 Fit for mirth ; 
 Only men, of all the creatures, 
 
 Laugh on earth. 
 From our lives let breezy laughter 
 
 Blow the dust; 
 We can mope and sigh hereafter — 
 
 If we must. 
 
 In a world where melancliDly 
 
 Shadows man, 
 'Tis not folly to be jolly — 
 
 If we can. 
 
 A CAVERN FOR A HERMITAGE. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 At last I've found a Hermitage, 
 
 From all tiie hives of men apart. 
 
 Deep in this trackless solitude. 
 
 How oft a poor, down-trodden heart. 
 
 Writhing- and bleeding, and despairing 
 
 Beneath tlie cruel feet of fate. 
 
 For some such refuge dreams and longs, 
 
 Away from guile and greed and hate? 
 
 A man among his fellow-men 
 
 Oft finds himself by wolves beset. 
 
 Whose hungry eyes torment his soul. 
 
 Whose teeth are with his life-blood wet; 
 
 At last he wearies of the strife. 
 
 And hates the vile, voracious herd; 
 
 He flees to Nature's outstretched arms. 
 
 And hears her voice in brook and bird. 
 
 True, men are born with social needs, 
 
 Gregarious both in blood and brain; 
 
 True, solitude with all its joy 
 
 Brings likewise bitterness and pain; 
 
 Yet to adjust the jostled .scales 
 
 When rudely struck aside by wrong. 
 
 If oft beyond a generous soul, [throng. 
 
 Sucli frauds and falsehoods 'round It 
 
 A cavern for a hermitage. 
 
 From all the hives of men apart — 
 
 What fitter place wliere peace may reign. 
 
 And patience fortify the heart? 
 
 Ambition, envy, greed and hate. 
 
 They perish in the solitude; 
 
 Their roots that midst the gutters thrive, 
 
 Can never there intrude. 
 
 A cavern for a hermitage, 
 
 From all the hives of men apart. 
 
 There trees and birds calm counsels give, 
 
 And grass and flowers protect the heart; 
 
 There wolves may howl or bears my growl. 
 
 But men, at least, are far away ; 
 
 There peace, a mighty Inca rules. 
 
 And Spaniards hold no sway ! 
 
 Youth quickly tires of calm retreats. 
 And loves the tumult of the streets; 
 Age loves the noise of peaceful rills. 
 But not the noise of babl)ling men; 
 Age loves the stretch of quiet hills. 
 While mortared bricks fatigue its ken. 
 Youth fondlj' seeks tlie glittering strife 
 And gayeties of busy life; 
 Age seeks the balm of solitude 
 To heal the hurts the world be.stows — 
 The balm that's found in lonely wood. 
 Or converse witli a blushing rose. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 342 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 JOHN SHOCK. 
 
 Born: Stark Co., Ohio, Dec. 11, 1831. 
 Engaging first in farming, Joiin Sliock then 
 engaged in merchandizing. After much expe- 
 rience he became a placer and quartz miner. 
 He has been postmaster under three commis- 
 sions, and now is located at Preston, Col. Al- 
 tliough the pmduclinns of John Sliock are 
 
 And there close by a cabin rude. 
 With walls of log and stone, 
 
 Stands 'neath a grove of waving firs, 
 This is my mountain home. 
 
 Fair spot! Tl>o' 1 may wander far, 
 In other lands may dwell, 
 
 Yet, my own rude mountain home, 
 I shall remember well. 
 
 JOHN SHOCK. 
 
 mainly in prose, a few sparkling gems of poe- 
 try occasionally flash from his pen. His writ- 
 ings generally appear under the nom de plume 
 of Dash Warn. Mr. Shock is the owner of some 
 very valuable mining property containing 
 gold and silver ore, which will yield him an 
 enormous revenue at no distant date. 
 
 »- 
 
 THE LIFE-SAVING MARINER. 
 
 Through roaring surf, on billows mountains 
 
 higli 
 
 And fleecy, puffy, floating wljitecaps nigh; 
 
 Between the yawning breakers, and their roar, 
 
 He lands the shipwrecked safely on the shore. 
 
 GOLD HILL, 1861. 
 Wild is the glen on mountain's wild 
 
 Bedeck'd with tow'ring pines. 
 Where first I courted fortune's smiles, 
 
 In Colorado's mines. 
 Here all the long warm summer day.s. 
 
 Fair boughs of evergreen. 
 To hide the sun's fierce burning light, 
 
 Are nature's woven screen. 
 From out the mountain's side, a, rill 
 
 Of water spai'kling bright, [rocks 
 
 Comes rippling o'er the tlie moss-grown 
 
 A sti-eam of liquid light. 
 
 MRS. CORA G. LYLE. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Lyle have been extensively 
 published throughout the United States, and 
 have received favorable mention. She resides 
 in Bennett, Nebraska, where she is well known 
 and greatly admired. 
 
 A BIRD SONG. 
 When the " Bluebirds " come again. 
 With the April sun and rain. 
 And they chant a sweet refrain, 
 Just outside the window pane. 
 Then we know that 
 
 Spring is here — 
 Happiest time 
 Of all the year. 
 When "Thrushes" on the willows swing. 
 And their mellow notes they fling, 
 Hear how their voices sweetly ring. 
 How blithe, and merrily they sing. 
 Darting, flying without rest. 
 Gathering straws to build a nest. 
 Now they tell it 
 
 Don't you hear? 
 That summer's best 
 Of all the year. 
 When the others all have flown, 
 ..Robin " reigns a king alone; 
 The leafless maple is his throne; 
 And, see how saucy he has grown. 
 He says, he sings, 
 In winter drear, 
 The sweetest song 
 Of all the year. 
 When the .. Bluebirds" come again, 
 With the springtime sun and rain, 
 .. Bonny " inside the window pane 
 Sends back their carol, strain for strain. 
 When ..Thrushes " in the willow's nest, 
 And sing their baby-birds to rest; 
 ..Bonny " opens liis little throat. 
 And pays the debt, with note for note. 
 Does .. Robin " reign a king alone. 
 Through the cheerless months of gtooniV 
 Ah! no, for from his gilded throne. 
 Sweet .. Bonnie's'' voice tills all the room. 
 And witli eheerful twitter 
 
 He says, don't feai»; 
 I'll sing for you 
 Through all the year. 
 
 * 
 
 I 
 
ffl- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 343 
 
 ® 
 
 AMELIA JANE SMELTZER. 
 
 Born in Canada, Oct. 28, 1864. 
 Removing to Michigau when a child, she has 
 resided in that state ever since, and lives now 
 atJoyfleld. She has taught school with very 
 
 A'# 
 
 AMEMA JANK >.MKI.T/.EK. 
 
 good siiCL'es-s, and has been sciioul inspector 
 for several years. The poems of Miss Smelt- 
 zer have appeared from time to time in the 
 local press. 
 
 ®- 
 
 DEAR VALENTINE. 
 I feel that thou art far above 
 The silly flirt with pretty face. 
 Whose heart knows naught of earnest love. 
 Who studies not the soul's true grace, 
 I know some say that beauty wins: 
 But then, dear girl, be true to worth. 
 We know not all the out's and in's 
 That lie between our deatli and birth. 
 Still do your duty and still strive 
 To live in beauty, not to seem: 
 And some day you may realize 
 A sweet and beautiful love-dream. 
 Dear Valentine, we may not know. 
 As on we struggle to life's goal. 
 How richest treasures sometimes flow 
 From the most lonely, saddest soul. 
 Dear Friend, I hope that in tlie years 
 That are to come to you and me. 
 To smiles may be changed all your tears 
 To sweetest peace, your misery. 
 
 I wish thee now, dear Valentine, 
 Within this present year, that Fate 
 May favor unto thee incline 
 And give to thee thy •> Heart's True Mate." 
 
 LOST AT SEA. 
 'Twas a bright, starlight night in the spring- 
 time. 
 And the earth was in beauty clad, 
 When a vessel sailed out from the harbor 
 Bearing a blue-eyed lad. 
 He had whispered farewell to his sweetheart 
 And the mother he left on shore. 
 Ah 1 little he thought that he never 
 Should gaze on their faces more. 
 The moonbeams shone softly around him. 
 The stars twinkled bright overhead. 
 And he watched the foam made by the vessel 
 As over the waters she sped. 
 With her cargo of human souls laden 
 The old ship bounded gladly on. 
 Till the bright rosy flush all around them 
 Betoken the coming dawn. 
 A brighter red light shone around him 
 As Fancy a sweet picture frames. 
 Look aloft! look aloft! careless dreamer. 
 See ! the vessel is wrapped in flames, [nobly. 
 Then brave hearts and strong hands labored 
 But small was the work they could do. 
 And the vessel blazed bright as a meteor 
 As over the waves she flew. 
 The forked flames leaped up like demons. 
 The strongest and bravest grew weak. 
 And the dreamer awoke from his dreaming 
 As the flames' hot breath swept his cheek. 
 The wind and the sea wailed around them, 
 Strong men knelt in prayer on the deck, 
 (The sun had withdrawn in the shadows,) 
 The waves alone witnessed the wreck. 
 Next morning a fisherman lonely. 
 While hanging his nets to dry. 
 Saw, borne on the crest of the billows, 
 A corpse that the waves brought nigh ; 
 And there floated and rolled to the sand at 
 
 his feet 
 A j'outh with curly hair: 
 The seaweed served as a winding sheet. 
 His hands clasped as in prayer. 
 Dimmed is the light of those blue eyes now, 
 Silent that throbbing heart. 
 The fair hair kisses the marble brow. 
 The pale lips lie apart; 
 
 And he looks like an image carved from stone 
 Awaiting the Master's will; 
 But a trace of the beautiful spirit flown 
 Is seen in his sweet face still. 
 Oh, many a heart was heavy and sad 
 As he lay on his bier ne.\t day. 
 His mother sighed •> He was all I had; " 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -m 
 
 344 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEIUCA. 
 
 MRS. M. P. A. CROZIER. 
 
 born: RICHMOND CENTHE, N. Y, FEB. 23.1834. 
 
 THIS lady was educated at Bloomfleld acade- 
 mv and at New York Central college. At the 
 ao"eoft9she became ti.e wife of Kev. Owen 
 R L Crozier, and they removed to Grand 
 
 THE POET IN JUNE. 
 
 'Tis bliss to have the poet's heart 
 That loves the quietude of things, 
 
 Where nature smites her hidden rocks, 
 And brings out sweet and cooling- springs. 
 
 The June-green grass beneath my feet. 
 
 The dandelion's disk of gold. 
 The corn's slim spires justpushing out 
 
 From clean brown beds of kindly mold. 
 
 Bid welcome as I pass along 
 The nearest way across the lea; 
 
 While songs of birds are in my soul, 
 And eyes of flowers make love to me. 
 
 Down in the meadow's gliding stream 
 Tlie children splash their snowy feet, 
 
 And all their laughter comes to me 
 Across the fields of growing wheat. 
 
 MRS. M. r. A. CROZIER. 
 
 Rapids, Mich. They afterward removed to 
 Ann Arbor. She is the mother of eleven 
 children, eight of whom are now living. A 
 small volume of her poems was published by 
 her son, in 1887, witliout her previous know- 
 ledge. 
 
 LITTLE ILLS. 
 I question, if to bear the greater i|ls 
 God sends, to us we need the greater grace. 
 Tlie ceaseless coming of those little cares. 
 The ceaseless toiling through the weary days. 
 Tire out the soul and make us half forget 
 That it is sin to worry so and fret. 
 We brace ourselves against a gatliering 
 
 storm. 
 Lie prone wlien desert blasts sweep o'er the 
 
 land; 
 We meet great flames with flres we light our- 
 selves. 
 And on tlie brown, burnt sward securely 
 
 stand ; 
 But thorns that pierce us as we gather flowers 
 Teach us we lack the grace we thougiit was 
 ours. 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 The years, like humming birds, 
 
 Just poised a moment on tlie wing, 
 To sip the nectar from the cup 
 
 Of life's sweet offering; 
 
 The homestead's old familiar halls. 
 
 The grassy meadow where 1 played. 
 The orchard with its melting fruit. 
 
 And soft refreshing shade; 
 The blacksmith-shop where, all day long. 
 
 My noble father toiled and sang. 
 Where in the morning and at eve, 
 
 Tlie music of the anvil rang; 
 The garden with its spreading vines. 
 
 Its roses and its daffodils; 
 The dark old forest in the east; 
 
 Beyond the heaven-aspiring bills. 
 
 ® 
 
 GIFTS. 
 I stand in tbe orchard's deepest shade. 
 
 The blackberry fields before me. 
 And smell the sweet of the apple fruit 
 
 That hangs in the branches o'er me. 
 But it hangs so high -I can not reach 
 
 The golden fruit above me; 
 I can only go to the berry-fields 
 
 To pick for those who love nic. 
 Blackberries ripe, blackberries sweet - 
 
 But oh, for the golden apples! 
 I covet for you the high-hung fruit 
 
 Whieli the yellow sunshine dapples. 
 But fake the berries, my friend, with love. 
 
 For love is the sweet of living. , , . . 
 
 And it may be the fruit from the loftast 
 boughs 
 
 Would not be worth the giving. 
 
 ^ ffi 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 845 
 
 -© 
 
 DR. C. S. PERCIVAL. 
 
 DriUNG his residence in Tennessee, Dr. Perci- 
 val was a constant contributor of verse to the 
 Louisville Journal, at the same time writing 
 for the New York Tribune and the daily pa- 
 pers of Nashville and New Orleans. Since 
 then he has written extensively for the lead- 
 ing dailies of America. The poems of Dr. 
 
 DR. C. S. PERCIVAL. 
 
 Percival have also been accepted by the Cen- 
 tury Magazine, the New York Critic, and Lit- 
 tell's Living Age. His poem of the Shipwreck 
 is considered a gem. Dr. Percival is known 
 among the poets of the country for his fine 
 fancy and poetic diction; yet he has made 
 poetry subordinate to the business of his life 
 as a faithful pastor. 
 
 ®- 
 
 ^SCULAPIUS AND THE BLOOD OF 
 
 MEDUSA. 
 Minerva, so the legend .says, 
 
 (And facts proclaim it true, sir,) 
 Gave Dr. ^sculapius 
 
 The blood of slain Medusa. 
 Of all the blood that ever flowed. 
 
 This surely was the oddest. 
 To vouch for all that's claimed for it 
 
 I really am too modest. 
 With that which from the right side came. 
 
 Unless the legendsmock us. 
 He healed the sick and raised the dead : 
 
 Among the last, young Glaucus. 
 
 But that which issued from the left. 
 
 He used to put an end to 
 The lives of those unfortunates 
 
 Whom he was not a friend to. 
 
 A dangerous power is this, I ween. 
 
 To wield o'er mortal bodies; 
 Unless, like .^Esculapius, 
 
 The one who wields, a god is. 
 
 But him the nymph Coronis bore 
 
 To the divine Apollo; 
 So he was quite immaculate, 
 
 Whate'er he made men swallow. 
 
 But Jove was angry that this god 
 Should raise to life the dead, sir, 
 
 And with his hardest thunderbolt 
 He bit him on the head, sir. 
 
 And so he died, as many a one 
 
 Has died for doing good, sir; 
 But to an endless line of heirs 
 
 He left this wondrous blood, sir. 
 
 Each self-styled ^scuiapius 
 Will make his loudest brags, sir. 
 
 That he has got his share of it 
 Safe in his saddle-bags, sir. 
 
 Some bin ndering quacks have got it mixed. 
 
 And deal it out in doses 
 That sometimes kill and sometimes cure. 
 
 As stupid Chance disposes. 
 But ye, true Asclepiades, 
 
 Still keep the two parts separate : 
 Cork up the riglit for future use. 
 
 And let the left evaporate — 
 
 Or keep a little hid away 
 
 Within j'our safest coffers. 
 To dose the hated race of quacks, 
 
 Whene'er occasion offers. 
 
 The men who sport with human life 
 
 Are not a whit too good, sir. 
 To take, as sedative, a dose 
 
 Of left Medusan blood, sir ! 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 » And were none saved?" 
 
 Ah, masters! here behold 
 The greatest wonder of this wof ul tale !— 
 All,all were saved, who courage had and faith! 
 For wliile the dreadful storm was at its worst 
 And the mad waves were rolling mountain 
 
 high. 
 And that wrecked ship, "The World," with all 
 
 its freight 
 Of precious souls, was wildly tossed about 
 In the engulfing Maelstrom of despair, 
 Lo! o'er the foaming billows hove in sight 
 A bark whose sails, instinct with life, were 
 
 filled 
 
 -aE« 
 
©■ 
 
 346 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 iSii 
 
 MAY ADELIA GLEASON. 
 
 Born: Rochester, N.Y., March 34, 1862. 
 Miss Mat Gleason is by profession an elo- 
 cutioiiist, and as a teacher has been very suc- 
 cessful. She resides in Lawrence, Kansas, 
 where she is very popuhir. Miss Gleasoii is 
 spoken of by the press as the leading lady el- 
 
 MAY ADELIA GLEASON. 
 
 ocutionist in America; she is simply "rand — 
 her manner is charming, her voice is sweet 
 and of much power, and her character delin- 
 eations are of tlie best. Both prose and verse 
 of Miss Gleason have appeared occasionally 
 in the periodical press. In person this lady is 
 a little below the medium height, with light- 
 brown hair and dark-blue eyes. 
 
 TO MY ROSES. 
 Roses! Smiling Roses! 
 
 Hearts of pink and white, 
 Sweetest flowers tliat blossom — 
 
 Ye are my deligiit. 
 
 Shedding fragrance 'round you; 
 
 Joy you give to me; 
 You fill my tliouglits with wonder 
 
 Of the life that ..is to be!" 
 
 Wondering whence can come. 
 The power tliat gave thee birth — 
 
 Painted thy lovely petals 
 And made thee things of earth. 
 
 Each sepal and each petal 
 
 Placed so fair and fine. 
 Seems to speak in voice so meek, 
 
 Of the Love that is Divine — 
 
 Of a love that never faileth. 
 For earth's children sore oppress't 
 
 Thou givest the life of thy sweet flowers. 
 To bring them peace and rest. 
 
 For tlie perfume of my Roses 
 Seems to quiet my weary brain; 
 
 Their brightness and fragrance 
 Makes glad the eye 
 
 And gives me new life again. 
 
 SB- 
 
 SING MERRY BIRD. 
 
 Sing, merry bird — 
 
 Sing all the day,— 
 Drive from my lonely heart 
 
 Sorrow away; 
 Chase from my pathway 
 The clouds all so dark; 
 Sing, for thou'rt happy. 
 
 Sing like the lark ! 
 
 Can'st sing on forever 
 
 My beautiful bird? 
 The sorrow of some poor heart 
 Hast thou not heard? 
 Thou seom'st to drive care 
 
 Away from me here. 
 Sing as forever, and 
 
 Stav always near. 
 
 THE STARS. 
 Beautiful stars that shine ever bright — 
 Beautiful stars that glow every night; 
 E'er tho' clouded the sky sometimes be. 
 If the clouds be removed 
 Then we shall see thee. 
 
 Who knows but the angels look down from 
 
 above — 
 With eyes like the stars that seem full of 
 
 love — 
 So briglit is their twilight. 
 So merry witli liglit — 
 And yet the world heeds them not. 
 For this is the night. 
 
 Sleep on, peaceful dreamer, sleep on if thou 
 
 will — 
 For to-morrow we journey again up life's hill. 
 In the midst of the cares and the sorrows of 
 
 hfe- 
 In the midst of the turmoil 'mid tlie scenes 
 
 of strife. 
 Night, like a beautiful angel comes in 
 And leaves us in peace from the world and its 
 
 sin. 
 
 -5 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 347 
 
 -® 
 
 EDWIN ETHELBERT KIDD. 
 
 IJOKN IN AlabAiMA, Dec. 18, IKHi. 
 APTKK receiving' liis educatiuii ;it Talladega, 
 young Edwin studied law, in wliich profession 
 he lias been actively engaged for the past 
 thirty years. He is regarded as a fine crimi- 
 nal lawyer, and one of the most eloquent pop- 
 ular orators in Louisana, to which state he 
 came in 18(i7. Mr. Kidd has been a member of 
 the Louisiana legislature for se\eral terms. 
 
 EDWIN KIIIKI.ISKHT KIDD. 
 
 and was a delegate from the state at large to 
 the St. Louis convention which nominated 
 Tilden for the presidency. Mr. Kidd was cap- 
 tain in the confederate army, and was woun- 
 ded in the battle of Mausiield. Capt. Kidd 
 now resides at Ruston, La., where he is well 
 known and highly respected. His poems have 
 received quite a circulation, and two of his 
 songs have been put to music. 
 
 ®- 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 How weird the night-winds steal 
 Along the heath. 1 feel 
 A spirit of the olden time 
 Commingliug with their silver chime. 
 The olden time when I was young 
 And earth's bitterness had not wrung 
 My soul with anguish. Sad the day 
 Wlien its bright memory fades away. 
 And yonder stars! they tell me, too. 
 
 Of other days when life was new. 
 And childiiood, with unselfish love. 
 Gazed in their diamond depths above; 
 The soul of nature seems to-night 
 Attuned to strains of pure delight, 
 And mine doth beat in unison. 
 And the deep feelings coming on 
 Impel me back to days long gone. 
 Again in infant paths I stray: 
 I mark the dancing streamlet's way, 
 I wanton with its plashing spray, 
 
 A wayward child. 
 Or with the butterfly 1 play 
 
 Out on the wild; 
 Or now upon my nurse's knee, 
 Close where the ingle blazes free, 
 
 I list her tale — 
 Her wondrous tale of airy sprites. 
 And ogres seen on stormy nights. 
 
 And tlieir loud wail. 
 And things that stayed just o'er the hill 
 Or haunted by the old stotie mill. 
 Or by the churchyard lingering near. 
 Things bloody, dark and full of feai-. 
 1 list 'till in my fancy's train 
 Sleep brings their awful shapes again. 
 Or now my mother's song I hear, 
 For music ever charmed my ear; 
 Her song of times long, long gone by. 
 Of rebel fends and warriors high. 
 Of sorrowing maidens, love oppressed. 
 And how his wrongs were oft redressed; 
 And as the strains so sweetly rise. 
 Just higher than the night wind's cries. 
 Commingled with the moaning sound 
 Of that old wheel whirred round 
 
 round. 
 How soft within my downy nest, 
 1 sink to childhood's balmy rest. 
 The nurse's tales, my mother's song. 
 
 The nightrwind's strain. 
 All make me wish I were a child again 
 
 and 
 
 SONG OF AN INDIAN MAIDEN. 
 How wildly wakes the night-winds' song. 
 
 How weird their music seems. 
 As if the stars they dwelt among 
 
 And led their dancing beams. 
 Or to some Wcewa did belong 
 
 And soothed its pearly streams. 
 But not of stars their music sings 
 
 And not of waves to mc. 
 There is a wilder transport springs 
 
 From out their melod.v: 
 They waft sweet strains upon their wings. 
 
 My woodland chief of thee. 
 Oft in the lone and stilly hours 
 
 I hear their murmuring breath. 
 And as their witching music pours 
 
 Along the silent heath. 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 348 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 I hear them whisper, he is j'ours, 
 
 Yes, yours poor girl 'till death. 
 And then I've loved that gentle strain 
 
 And wondered if it Isnew, 
 And oft have called it from the plain 
 
 To say again of you; 
 To-night I hear its voice again, 
 
 To-night I feel 'tis true. 
 
 A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 The nurse is nodding by the waning fire 
 
 And the kitten's asleep in the children's bed. 
 The shadows are flickering along the wall, 
 
 And the clock is tolling for time that is dead. 
 Over the snow comes the dog's lone howl. 
 
 And the shelterless cow shakes her restless 
 bell; 
 The shivering swine draw close in the leaves. 
 
 And with whimpei-ing cries their sufferings 
 tell. 
 Hark! liow the gusts of the wintry winds 
 
 Shriek and moan through the snow-bent 
 trees ! 
 God pity the poor who are out to-night; 
 
 God shelter the shorn from the icy breeze! 
 What sound is that? How the timbers fall! 
 
 And blacker and blacker the dark clouds 
 grow, 
 A storm is crashing along the hills, 
 
 A winter storm, of sleet and snow. 
 Oh ! who may be out on a night so dread. 
 
 Out upon sea or land? — 
 But the God who rears the awful storm. 
 
 Lifts, too, the shielding hand. 
 Even now I hear the far-off roar 
 
 Of winds already past; 
 And where were darkening clouds before 
 
 The light is beaming fast. 
 Behold! the moon's calm, steady ray. 
 
 And stars with glittering eyes. 
 Where storm and darkness reigned supreme, 
 
 Are blightening all the skies. 
 Thus is it on " life's devious way "— 
 
 When clouds of sorrow loom. 
 An unexpected light may come 
 
 And banish all our gloom. 
 
 LILLIEN B. FEARING. 
 
 This lady has written for publication from 
 lier j'outh, and her poems have been well re- 
 ceived. She is now — 1890 — a student in the 
 Chicago Union college of law. 
 
 ©- 
 
 LOST. 
 A moment's Hash — a sudden ray of light. 
 And lo, the wonder of two souls that stood 
 In naked beauty of tlieir angelhood. 
 Love's gentle crown on either brow of might. 
 
 Their brave white wings stretched to the dark 
 
 for flight. 
 Vibrating to the music of the good. 
 Majestic with the thought of all they would,— 
 One flash, then darkness 'twlxt those two, and 
 
 niglit! 
 Gone is that bright apocalypse of soul. 
 Left but a low vibration through life's arc, 
 As lightning leaves no footprint on the dark, 
 Only the thunder-wheels' low after roll! 
 Lost, like the dear words that are sought in 
 
 vain 
 By some sweet tune that sings about the brain! 
 
 NOTHING NEW. 
 
 Now rock nie gently. Mother Earth, 
 That I may sleep with this dead year 
 On whom drops many a frozen tear 
 From night's cold cheek. Of little worth 
 I count the year that is to be; 
 I'm weary of the constant moon 
 Whose path with flakes of fire is strewn, 
 Her deathless passion for the sea. 
 No new tides thunder at their bars; 
 There is no quickening in the sun; 
 Men scan the track which he must run, 
 And count the footsteps of the stars. 
 With iron laws they cliain all things 
 From sea to sun, from earth to star; 
 They hear the whirlwind pant afar. 
 And point the circuit of its wings. 
 Oh, rock me forward toward the dawn! 
 She Cometh, blushing faint and far,— 
 Within her forehead a wliite star. 
 The glad young year her breast upon. 
 But wake me not. What profits it 
 To grind one's soul against Life's wheel. 
 Ho pant and straui, and still to feel 
 There's wrought no lasting benefit? 
 All that my fervent soul to-day 
 Unto the shrine of beauty brings 
 
 Is but an echo of past things. 
 And ecl.o-like shall die away. 
 What has been, is; what is shall be. 
 
 cyclic track on which we run! 
 I'm dizzy, circling 'round the sun 
 'Twi.\t eve and dawning ceaselessly. 
 Tlien rock me gently ; let me rest? 
 
 1 would not sec this babe ot Time 
 With prophet brows and eyes sublime; 
 The Old Year's heart beats in its breast. 
 A hand has ijushed us toward the sun; 
 Tlie infant year doth stretch liis arms. 
 And woo n\e with his rosy charms: 
 What spell is on me? I am won ! 
 Mysterious passion that doth thrill 
 'Twixl time and mortals! though we try 
 To shun the wizzard in his eye. 
 We cleave to him against our will. 
 
 -* 
 
® 
 
 Li^CAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 349 
 
 -© 
 
 VIRGINIA MAY HAYWARD 
 
 BOKN : Muddy Ckeek, Va., March 2S, 1870. 
 The poems of Miss Huywiud have appeared 
 in the Sunday Graphic, Erie Observer, and 
 
 VIRGINIA MAY HAYWARD. 
 
 the local press generally. She is the daughter 
 of a clergyman, with whom she resides at 
 Erie, Pa. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 A WOMAN'S DEFENSE. 
 No, do not tliiuk you broke my lieart; 
 
 Though I admit it gave me pain 
 That night you said tliat Mf must part. 
 
 And never, never meet again. 
 You were so wise, it seemed to me. 
 
 And from your wisdom used to tell 
 Of all that life and love might be. 
 
 Ah, this you told to me so well. 
 So well that ere I was aware 
 
 I knew like you thtj hidden things, 
 And breatlied with frightened heart, the air 
 
 Of longing which earth's passion brings. 
 Not much of this; enough at best 
 
 That I had learned it comes in life; 
 Enough to leave for calm, unrest; 
 
 And for life's peace, to leave its strife. 
 Yet, do not think you broke my heart 
 
 That night you left me tliere alone; 
 Nor that although we're miles apart 
 
 My life and love are still your own. 
 You know that since then years have passed 
 
 And they have taught me to forget; 
 
 A better love has come at last, 
 
 And I am happier, — and yet — 
 Well, yet sometimes I think of you; 
 
 And wisli, while knowing it is vain, 
 That our two lives might backward go. 
 
 And bring us to that night again. 
 And then that you who first unsealed 
 
 The book of knowledge to my sight 
 Had but been worthy of my love. 
 
 And I have loved you as I might. 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 
 If we knew what friends who greet us 
 
 With a cordial look and tone. 
 And who give us warmest welcome 
 
 Say about us when we're gone; 
 If we only knew their honor 
 
 When perchance they see us come. 
 Or their joj' at our departure. 
 
 Don't you think we'd stay at home? 
 If you only knew the lover. 
 
 Who in you has "met his fate," 
 Tells another that same story 
 
 Down beside the pasture gate; 
 If you met him walking slowly 
 
 Through the fields where daisies grow. 
 And you knew where he was going, 
 
 Don't you think you'd " let him go?" 
 If you knew the faithful sweetheart, " 
 
 Who has sworn she will be true. 
 Swears the same thing to another 
 
 Don't you fear that you'd swear too? 
 If you chanced to see her strolling. 
 
 Bright and gay and all heart whole. 
 With the "Other " in the twilight. 
 
 Don't you think you'd let her stroll? 
 If we only knew the preacher 
 
 Who each Sunday eve and morn 
 Breaks to us the bread of heaven. 
 Wishes we had ne'er been born; 
 And if we who fill his benclies. 
 
 Every holy Sabbath day. 
 Knew just where he'd like to send us. 
 
 Don't you think we'd stay away? 
 If the preacher in the pulpit 
 
 Who with holy zeal is stirred, 
 Knew we criticised his necktie. 
 
 And attended not a word; 
 If he knew when, service over, 
 
 And at home we sit and sup. 
 How we laugh about his sermons. 
 
 Don't you think he'd give it up? 
 If the preacher in the pulpit. 
 
 And his hearers all sedate. 
 If the sweetheart in the twilight. 
 
 And the lover by the gate; 
 If the friends who talk about us. 
 
 And if we who all talk too. 
 Knew a great deal that we don't know. 
 
 What do you suppose we'd do? 
 
 -© 
 
©■ 
 
 350 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARIA W. CONNERS. 
 
 Born: Cincinnati, O, July 10, 1843. 
 This lady was married in 1880 to John Conuers, 
 and resides in Stanwood, Wash., where she was 
 known as tlie Pug-et Sound Poetess. In 1888 
 
 .MRS. M. W. CONNERS. 
 
 appeared a neat volume of tlie collected 
 poems of this lady, entitled A Wreath of Maple 
 Leaves, a work that has been highly praised 
 by the press. She now resides in Indiana. 
 
 © 
 
 TO LEROY. 
 We are on life's ocean, sailing. 
 
 From the harbor land of youth, 
 W' here our liearts were once united 
 
 And we pledged our vows of trutli ; 
 But our boats were drifted outward 
 
 On tlie tossing waves of life, 
 .\nd tlie fondest hopes were blighted 
 
 By the storms of care and strife. 
 Tiiough the glooms of night may gather 
 
 And tlie stars be lost to view. 
 Still T almost feel the throbbing 
 
 Of your loyal heart and true; 
 And I how my waiting spirit 
 
 On liope's anclior as 1 drift. 
 Silently on Time's broad current. 
 
 Be her tide waves slow or swift. 
 Yes, we both are sailing liomcward 
 
 To eternity's fair sliore. 
 And no passion storms can liinder 
 
 As we enter heaven's door. 
 
 All our fleeting years are passing, 
 And our boats are side by side; 
 
 Yes, we both are sailing liomeward 
 On a swiftly ebbing tide. 
 
 IN THE PAST. 
 In the paths of pleasantness, 
 
 Bj^ the rivulet of love, 
 I have wandered hand in hand, 
 
 'Neath the sunlight from above — 
 With the aged and the young, 
 Witii tlie timid and the strong; 
 I have loved them, sad or gay. 
 In home's sweet familiar way. 
 I have watched the seasons go. 
 
 When each hour seemed to be. 
 From the spring to winter's snow, 
 
 A fragment of eternity. 
 Riches of immortal growth. 
 Gathered from the fields of earth; 
 I have watched them, day by day. 
 Store their wealth for heaven away. 
 In the future home of bliss, 
 
 When the river's brink they've crossed, 
 May I meet them, day by day. 
 
 When the soul is free from dross — 
 With the aged and the young. 
 With the timid and the strong: 
 I have loved them, sad or gay, 
 As I met them day by day. 
 
 SONG OF THE SUMMER RAIN. 
 Sweet is the song of summer rain. 
 Falling gently on golden grain. 
 Dropping freshness on blade and spear. 
 Washing dust from the silken ear. 
 Dripping, dripping from bough and leaves, 
 Dripping softly from roof and eaves: 
 Sweet is the patter of the summer rain. 
 Cooling the breast of tlie sunburnt plain. 
 Out of the heart of nature springs 
 The voice of welcome for all fair things; 
 Flowers of beauty drink the rain, 
 Offering fragrance to God again. 
 Only lor man doth raindrops fall — 
 Just where he wants the sunbeams all — 
 Over his little world to rest. 
 Over the fields that he loves best. 
 Finding no joy in the saving rain. 
 Falling, like i)eace, on the heights to plain; 
 Filling the sjiriiigs on the mountain side. 
 Rippling down to the river's tide. 
 Cooling the parched and dusty street. 
 Traveled o'er 1)3' the weary feet; 
 Cooling tlie dry and sweltering air. 
 Feeding the li\es of the foul and fair. 
 Ah I the sweetness of summer showers — 
 What is the loss of a U'W brief houisi' 
 Waiting for nature with boundless health. 
 Over all her children to scatter her wealth. 
 
 -« 
 
® 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 351 
 
 MRS. ESTELLE M. AMORY. 
 
 Born: Ellisburgh.N.Y., June3, 1846. 
 This lady has taught school at different times 
 in Iowa and Illinois, and has been governess 
 in private families both in Cliiuago and New 
 Yorli; and also taught musie more or less 
 since her youth. The p.K-m^ nf Mrs. Amory 
 
 MRS. ESTELL?; M. AMORY. 
 
 have appeared in more than a hundred of the 
 leading publications of America, from which 
 they have been extensively copied by the local 
 press. She is now a resident of Dows, in the 
 state of Iowa, The poems of Mrs. Amory have 
 been highly spoken of by press and public. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S CASTLE. 
 Beyond, unseen, in the land of dreams. 
 
 Is this mystical castle of ours,— 
 Wliere the fickle muse of the pen and quill, 
 
 Sits enthroned with regal powers. 
 
 Witli tapestry rare are in its high walls hung, 
 Tliat fairies have woven with skill. 
 
 Of my ladies fine and glittering knights. 
 Who court and marry at will. 
 
 Here are treasures gathered from ev'ry where 
 
 To be woven in story or tale; 
 Here are pearly teeth 'neath lips of red, 
 
 With cheeks of rose and lily pale. 
 
 Here are feet and hands a fairy might wear. 
 And a few to match giants bold ; 
 
 While of faces and forms, of eyes and hair. 
 The number could not be told. 
 
 Its ev'rj^ nook holds a picture rare. 
 The artist's canvas can never know; 
 
 Of grassy slopes, pure purling streams, 
 Of Pisgali heights and vales of woe. 
 
 And here are the children of our thought — 
 Oh, how dear to our heart do they seem ! 
 
 We jom In their glee and weep o'er their 
 griefs. 
 Though living but in our dreams. 
 
 Beautiful castle, hidden from view, 
 Thou ai-t trellised with fancies most fair; 
 
 While fragments of lyric and song unsung. 
 Ever float on thy dreamj- air. 
 
 Many a strange tale thy stones could tell, 
 Of battles crowned with victor's cry, 
 
 And of hopes that were vanished 'mid the 
 strife 
 So brave and fair, but bOrn to die. 
 
 TO A LITTLE BIRD. 
 
 Rirdie, birdie on the tree, 
 
 You're going south with your twee-dle-dee- 
 
 dee; 
 How I miss you all day long. 
 And your happy warbling song. 
 But you are singing to little folks now. 
 From lemon tree or orange bough. 
 And In the spring you'll come to me. 
 To sing again your twee-dle-dee-dee. 
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 
 The sun was setting on a life misspent — 
 And as the mind o'er the past j'ears went, 
 From the dying lips came the sad refrain, 
 •' Could I but live my life again ! 
 
 Oh then my aim should be so high ! 
 That at life's close I need not cry 
 In deep distress, yet all in vain. 
 
 To live the wasted j'ears again!" 
 
 A LITERARY WIFE. 
 Ah, the woes of the man 
 
 With a literary wife! 
 He has to do the cooking. 
 
 That he may save his life. 
 
 He sews on the buttons — 
 
 Or slaps on a patch, 
 Wliile his better half, with pen, 
 
 Doth scratch, scnitch, scratch! 
 
 The house and the bairns 
 Are the gossip of the town. 
 
 And the writer's name is famous 
 For many blocks around! 
 
 -* 
 
8B- 
 
 352 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAl, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. OLIVES. ENGLAND. 
 
 Born : Salem, Ore., Jan. 29, 1851. 
 In 1869 this lady was married to William L. 
 England, a gentleman of integrity and finan- 
 cial standing. Mrs. England is a graduate of 
 the musical conservatory of the Willamette 
 university of her native city. She has been 
 called line of the fincsf jiianisls in the state of 
 
 MRS. OLIVE S. ENGLAND. 
 
 Oregon. Mrs. England has also delivered sev- 
 eral popular lectures and addresses, whicli 
 have been published in pamphlet form. Her 
 poems have been extensively published in 
 many of the leading periodicals. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP TRUE. 
 I gazed upon her winsome face 
 
 Which glowed with intense feeling; 
 How I admired the kindly grace 
 
 Her tender eyes revealing! 
 I knew that I had met a soul 
 
 Who read aright my mission; 
 T knew that to us both had come 
 
 All friendship's full fruition. 
 Her face is tender, sweet and fair. 
 
 And yet so strong and noble,— 
 Reveals a friendship that will wear, 
 
 Lend strength in times of trouble. 
 Few friends will love us with our faults, 
 
 Alas, we all are human, 
 But this friend loves nie as I am. 
 
 Ah, noble love of woman. 
 
 «- 
 
 How seldom in this life of ours. 
 
 Where jealousy and envy 
 Oft lurks amid the fairest flowers, 
 
 And poisons feelings friendly. 
 Do we thus meet with earnest love. 
 
 Which is all free from passion. 
 The gross and sensual far above, 
 
 O, would It were in fasliion. 
 Friendship, although a golden chain 
 
 That binds fond hearts together. 
 How easy 'tis to part its links. 
 
 Aye! sunder them forever. 
 But she is always true to me; 
 
 She makes me nobler, better. 
 Her friendship is a chain of flowers, 
 
 I love each shining fetter. 
 She is not rich ! nor beautiful ! 
 
 And her's a mission lowly. 
 But yet she is my patron saint,— 
 
 Her influence pure and holy; 
 And though she claims no special creed. 
 
 She holds a deep communion 
 With Him who knowS the soul's great 
 
 need. 
 Divine, or sadly human. 
 And, as some sinful penitent 
 
 Before his saint in kneeling. 
 Pours out his soul in passion's prayer. 
 
 And seeks for God's revealing; 
 'Tis thus I often go to her. 
 
 Sweet, tangible and human. 
 And she and I speak heart to heart. 
 
 As woman unto woman. 
 As Christ had one, his " best beloved," 
 
 Who leaned in trust upon him. 
 So may we hold some precious friend, 
 
 With special love may crown liim. 
 True friendship is a holy thing. 
 
 Above, beyond all passion ; 
 It is of that which angels are, 
 
 Alas! 'twere more in fashion. 
 
 THE VIOLET'S LOVE. 
 Close to earth a violet blossom'd. 
 
 Yet it raised its modest eyes — 
 Upwar<i gazed in imrple ethei-. 
 
 Drawing ct)lor fi-om tlie skies; 
 While its golden heart, so tiny. 
 
 Was like a star that shone above. 
 Where the violet gazed with longing 
 
 'Till 'twas like its shining love. 
 But it sighed, "My humble mission 
 
 Is to bloom one little hour. 
 While, fair star, thou art inunortal. 
 
 Grand tiiy work is, great tliy jiower 
 Brief my day of scent and blossom. 
 
 Filled with dewy tears my eyes. 
 Yet 1 lotig to b(> immortal, 
 
 Like the stars in purple skies." • 
 
 —9 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 353 
 
 -© 
 
 ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 
 
 Born : Greensborough, Pa., July 30, 1844. 
 One of the most original and prolitic humorous 
 writers now living- is Robert J. Burdette. Two 
 years after the birth of Robert, his parents re- 
 moved to Cleveland, Ohio, and six years later 
 to Peoria, Illinois, where he was educated. 
 After ser\'ing as a private through the war he 
 returned to Peoria, where he was employed as 
 clerk in the postofflce. Subsequently he be- 
 came a proof-reader on the Peoria Transcript, 
 
 m- 
 
 
 ROBERT J. BXTRDETTE. 
 
 and later filled the position of night-editor on 
 the same newspaper. Mr- Burdette married 
 in 1870. In 1874 he was engaged on the Burling- 
 ton Hawkeye, where he soon gained for himself 
 and the journal a world-wide reputation. Ten 
 years later he left the editorial staff of the 
 Hawkeye and engaged himself with the Brook- 
 lyn Eagle, the only journal with which he is 
 now connected. In 1879 he removed to Phila- 
 delphia'; since 1882 Mr. Burdette has resided at 
 Ardmore, where his wife died two years later. 
 
 The greatest success of Mr. Burdette has 
 been as a lecturer; several of his humorous 
 books, however, have attained fair circulations. 
 The subject of this sketch frequently drops in- 
 to poesy, generally of a humorous strain, and 
 his productions are widely read by his numer- 
 ous admirers. 
 
 He commenced lecturing in 1876, and has 
 since been one of the drawing cards of the 
 platform. 
 
 The death of Mr. Burdette's wife was and is 
 the great sorrow of his life. So much of her 
 hand and influence ran not only between but 
 in the lines of his work, and he says that what- 
 ever he wrote should have been signed Robert 
 and Carrie Burdette. 
 
 RUNNING THE WEEKLY. 
 
 In the twilight, in the sanctum sat the editor 
 alone. 
 
 And his mighty brain was throbbing in a very 
 lofty tone ; 
 
 But he checked a deathless poem, that was 
 fraught with fancies dim. 
 
 And he thought of Quill, his .. e. c," and con- 
 trived a pit for him. 
 
 Then he stopped right in a leader on the Euro- 
 pean war. 
 
 While he wrote a puflf tor Barleycorn's new 
 family grocery store ; 
 
 And just as he got started on the •• Outlook of 
 To-day," 
 
 The foreman came to say the •• comps." had 
 struck for higher pay. 
 
 Then he started on a funny sketch, a fancy 
 
 bright and glad. 
 When Slabs, the undertaker, came to order out 
 
 his •• ad.;" 
 He smiled and wrote the title, " The Reflections 
 
 of a Sage," 
 When the panting devil broke in with — 'they 
 
 have pied the second page 1 " 
 
 He sighed, and took his scissors when the ever 
 funny bore 
 
 Said, "Ah, writing editoria— " then he welter- 
 ed in his gore. 
 
 And as the scribe was feeling happj', writing 
 up the fray, 
 
 His landlord came to know if he " could pay 
 his rent to-day." 
 
 In deep abstraction then he plunged the paste 
 
 brush In the ink, 
 And stammered, "Thank you, since you will 
 
 insist on it, I think " 
 
 When from the business oflBce came the cashier, 
 
 "Here's a mess! 
 Composish & Roller's put a big attachment on 
 
 the press." 
 
 Then broke the editorial heart ; he sobbed and 
 
 said, "Good-bye! " 
 And forth he went, to some far land, from all 
 
 his woes to fly. 
 But ere the second mile was flown, he sank in 
 
 wild despair — 
 The Wabash line took up his pass and ma<le 
 
 him pay his fare. 
 
 « 
 
m- 
 
 -® 
 
 354 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. 
 
 Born: Alexandria, Va., March 8, 1813. 
 Chrisopher is the son of the great jurist, 
 William Cranch, who was chief justice of the 
 circuit court of the District of Columbia, to 
 which he was appointed by President Jefferson 
 in 1805, a position Mr. Cranch held until his 
 death in 1855. During this period of fifty years 
 but two of his decisions were overruled by the 
 United States supreme court. 
 
 Christopher Pease Cranch has attained a re- 
 putation as a painter, which profession he fol- 
 lowed from 1846 to 1870. He is a graceful writ- 
 er of both prose and verse. In 1875 appeared 
 Bird and the Bell, with Other Pcems. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 So, fair Moon, again I'm dreaming 
 On thy face above me beaming ! 
 Orb of beauty, mid star-clusters 
 Hanging heavy with thy lustres; 
 Saturated with the sun-fire. 
 Which thou turnest into moon-fire. 
 Raying from thy fields and mountains, 
 Silvering earth's rejoicing fountains. 
 Crystal vase with light o'er brimming; 
 Eye of night with love tears swimming; 
 Heaven's left heart, in music beating 
 Through the cloud-robes round thee fleeting 
 
 8B- 
 
 THE BOBOLINKS. 
 When Nature had made all her birds. 
 
 And had no cares to thinli on. 
 She gave a rippling laugh —and out 
 
 There flew a Bobolinkon. 
 
 She laughed again,— out flew a mate. 
 
 A breeze of Eden bore them 
 Across the fields of Paradise, 
 
 The sunshine reddening o'er them. 
 
 Incarnate sport and holiday. 
 
 They flew and sang forever : 
 Their souls through June were all in tunt 
 
 Their wings were weary never. 
 
 The blithest song of breezy farms. 
 Quaintest of fleld-note flavors, 
 
 E.xhaustless fount of trembling trills 
 And dcmisemiquavers. 
 
 Their tribe, still drunk with air and light 
 And perfume of the meadow. 
 
 Go reeling up and down the sky, 
 In sunshine and in shadow. 
 
 One springs fi'oni out the dew-wi't grass, 
 
 Another follows after; 
 The morn is ilu-illing with their songs 
 
 And peals of fairy laughter. 
 
 From out the marshes and the brook 
 They set the tall reeds swinging. 
 
 And meet and frolic in the air. 
 Half prattling and half singing. 
 
 When morning winds sweep meadow lands 
 
 In green and russet billows. 
 And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs. 
 
 And silver all the willows, 
 
 I see you buffeting the breeze, 
 
 Or with its motion swaying. 
 Your notes half-drowned against the wind 
 
 Or down the current playing. 
 
 When far away o'er the grassy flats. 
 Where the thick wood commences. 
 
 The white-sleeved mowers look like specks 
 Beyond the zigzag fences. 
 
 And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam 
 White in the pale-blue distance, 
 
 I hear the saucy minstrels still 
 In chattering persistence. 
 
 When Eve her domes of opal flre 
 
 Piles I'ound the blue horizon. 
 Or thunder rolls from hill to hill 
 
 A Kyrie Eleison,— 
 
 Still, merriest of the merry birds, 
 
 Your sparkle is unfading,— 
 Pied harlequins of June, no end 
 
 Of songs and masquerading. 
 
 What cadences of bubbling mirth 
 
 Too quick for bar or rhythm I 
 What ecstacies, too full to keep 
 
 Coherent measure with them! 
 O could I share, without campagne 
 
 Or muscadel, your frolic. 
 The glad delirium of your joy. 
 
 Your fan un-apostolic. 
 Your drunken jargon through the fields. 
 
 Your Bobolinkish gabble. 
 Your fine anacreontic glee. 
 
 Your tipsy reveler's babble! 
 Nay,— let me not profane such joy 
 
 With similes of folly,— 
 No wine of earth could waken songs 
 
 So delicately jolly ! 
 O boundless self-contentment, voiced 
 
 In flying air-born bubbles'? 
 O joy that mocks our sad unrest. 
 
 And drowns our earth-born troubles! 
 Hope springs with you; I dread no more 
 
 Despondency and dullness; 
 For Good Supreme can never fail 
 
 That gives such i)erlect fullness. 
 The liife that floods the hapi)y fields 
 
 With song and light and color. 
 Will shape our lives to richer states, 
 
 And heap our measures fuller. 
 
 -* 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 355 
 
 -« 
 
 HENRY ALLEN BRAINERD. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass.,Nov. 4, lb5T. 
 After receiving' a g-ooti education, Mr. Braln- 
 crd settled in Lancaster county, Nebraska, in 
 
 issl. Three \ears later lie tddk eli;ii\i;e dl'the 
 
 m 
 
 HENRY ALLEN BRAINERD. 
 
 Bennet Union, and in 1890 purcliased the Mil- 
 ford Nebraskan, which paper he is at pres- 
 ent sole owner and publisher. The poems of 
 this writer have appeared extensively in the 
 local press. 
 
 NEBRASKA, THE PRIDE OF THIS 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 air:— COLUMBIA, THE GEM OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 Nebraska, the pride of this countrj'. 
 With its wide rolling- prairies so green. 
 Its vast fields of corn and its meadows. 
 Is tlie fairest of sights ever seen. 
 Its woodlands, its vales and its rivers; 
 Its farms stretching wide o'er the lea. 
 Oh'. Nebraska, the gem of this country. 
 Is the home in this free land for me. 
 Chc— Oh, Nebraska, Nebraska, Nebraska, 
 The fairest of lands we have seen. 
 The land of the free and the faithful, 
 'Tis the home in this free land I ween. 
 A few years ago 'twas a prairie, 
 'Twas a vast, rolling wild sanded plain. 
 But now by the hand of pi-ogression. 
 It is bounding with ripe golden grain. 
 Tis the storehouse of peace and of plenty. 
 
 Its products extend to the sea. 
 
 Oh, Nebraska the gem of this country. 
 
 Is the home in this free land for me. 
 
 'Tis a land filled with milk and with houey. 
 
 Its storeliouse is filled to the beam. 
 
 This land is for all who may eater. 
 
 To till its broad acres so green. 
 
 Look around you and see peace and plenty. 
 
 You can travel fi-om sea unto sea. 
 
 But you'll find tliat the plains of Nebraska, 
 
 Is the home in this free laud for thee. 
 
 There is room in this country for many. 
 
 And all who may come, you can hear. 
 
 The watchword ring out, and the echo. 
 
 Peace, plenty. Be thou of good cheer. 
 
 Look out on our fields, see there's plenty. 
 
 See our storehouses loaded with grain. 
 
 Hear the echo ring back for Nebraska, 
 
 Three cheers, once again, and again. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A LADY FRIEND. 
 One flower has left a household fair. 
 Plucked by our Father's hand; 
 With us she never more will be. 
 She walks the golden strand. 
 
 We'll miss her long. 
 
 Our hearts are sore; 
 
 We'll meet again 
 
 On a brighter shore. 
 One budding rose, of promise rare. 
 So soon was called away : 
 But He, who rules the earth and sky. 
 Has taken her to-day. 
 
 Our hearts bowed down. 
 
 But in his power 
 
 We place our hope 
 
 And trust, each hour. 
 Her feet now walk the heavenly shores, 
 Calletl in the early morn ; 
 She's watching at the golden gate. 
 Clad in an angel's form. 
 
 'Twill not be long, 
 
 But soon we'll be 
 
 Gathered as one 
 
 In eternity. 
 
 DAISY C. WILLIAMS. 
 
 The poems of this young lady have occasion- 
 ally appeared in the local press. Miss Daisy 
 is now living in Cincinnati. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Let cannon peal their deafening sound, 
 Re-eclioing o'er the land. 
 And waving flags on every breeze. 
 From lake to ocean strand, 
 Proclaim with one united voice 
 The glories of the West, 
 A country of a noble race; 
 With peace and plenty blessed. 
 
 -^ 
 
®- 
 
 356 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 MRS. KATE E. JONES. 
 
 Born : Cedarville, N. Y., Jan. 10, 1843. 
 Mrs. Jones has been identified for years 
 with the Women's Relief Corps, of which she 
 is national chaplain, nialiing- her headquarters 
 at Ilion, N. Y. She has delivered addresses 
 before numerous G. A. R. encampments, and 
 
 .MHS, KATK, K. .KINES. 
 
 has become very popular thimighuut the 
 United States. In her spare time Mrs. Jones 
 is engaged in teaching music, French and Ger- 
 man. The poems of this lady have appeared 
 in all the leading Grand Army publications, 
 and the periodical press generally. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 'Twas in the time of the civil war, and dark 
 seemed the Nation's fate. 
 
 Our martyred Abraham Lincoln then sat in 
 the halls of State; 
 
 One day a poor old mother, from the hills just 
 south of here 
 
 Went up the streets of Washington, with 
 trembling hope and fear; 
 
 A weary one, with tear-dimmed eye, with tot- 
 tering step, and bent. 
 
 She came thro' the gate to the White House 
 door and asked for the President ; 
 
 His car, ever open to sorrow, caught the wail- 
 ing grief in her tone. 
 
 She looked so pale and pitiful ; so weary, and 
 old, and lone. 
 
 He turned from the ollicer waiting, with grace 
 
 so tender and true. 
 Said, "I am he you seek, good woman!" 
 
 .. Pray, what can I do for you? " 
 'Twas the story of a widow's only son, wound- 
 ed, dying, could fight no more. 
 They had promised his discharge; Oh, so ma- 
 ny weeks before ! 
 And he was weary of waiting, had made as a 
 
 last request 
 To look once more on his dear old home, ere 
 
 they laid him down so rest; 
 >* Would the President write an order, that she 
 
 might take with her away, 
 "To tell them her son could go; Oh, would he 
 
 do it that day? " 
 He turned to the official standing and bade 
 
 him wait his return, 
 Then led the way out with a courtly grace no 
 
 school of manners could learn, 
 Down the avenue thro' the street, together 
 
 these two did go — 
 The Chief Magistrate of our Nation — she in 
 
 her faded calico — 
 
 Then to the War Department thro' the sultry 
 
 heat they speed, [f ul need. 
 
 He in his liigh calm dignity — she in her piti- 
 
 Thro' the various departments, the wearisome 
 
 round he went, [signed and sent. 
 
 And saw for .-Instant Dismissal" an order was 
 
 'Twas a little deed of kindness, but the spirit 
 
 of Christ you see, [unto me." 
 
 " As ye do to the least of these ye do even so 
 
 This pity for the suflering that in this Great 
 
 Heart of the Nation beat 
 Is what our Lord and Master meant when he 
 
 washed the disciples' feet. 
 It shone forth in the Proclamation that bade 
 
 the oppressed go free. 
 When God smiled on Abraham Lincoln, and 
 
 gave us the victory. 
 When they, who rule this Nation, forget this 
 
 sacred trust. 
 Then shall "Our Great Republic" fall, her 
 baiuier trail in dust. 
 
 MRS. MATILDA C. DILTZ. 
 
 Born: H.\rrison, Ohio, 1829. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in tht 
 local press generally. She resides with lici 
 husband at Covington in the state of Ohio. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 The room is bright with a ruddy light 
 From the anthracite coal in the grate. 
 Flowers, paintings and mirrors bright 
 Reflect four-fold the scene as I wait. 
 As she clasps her Iwaiitiful Ijiibe to her breast 
 'Mid the gems of nature and :irt, 
 'Tis a glimpse of heaven with soul at rest 
 In the temple of the heart. 
 ■* 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 357 
 
 -® 
 
 KATE GOODE. 
 
 Born : Boydton, Va., Nov. 22, 1863. 
 Under the nom de plume of Bert Ingiiss 
 this lady has written for the Chicago Ad- 
 vance, Christian Weekly and various otlier 
 
 KATK Gndlii; 
 
 publications. Miss Goode still resides in the 
 place of her birth, where slie is surrounded 
 by a host of friends. 
 
 THE SONGS MY MOTHER USED TO SING. 
 There's many a tone hath power to wake 
 
 Old memories in the heart: 
 There's many a well-remembered air 
 
 Can make the teardrops start; 
 
 The song- of mirth brings back the hour 
 Wlien the festal board was spread. 
 
 And the song of love can bring- a sigh 
 To the lip when love has fled; 
 
 And dear the gay and the tender strains 
 
 Of other days may be. 
 But the songs my mother used to sing 
 
 Are the sweetest songs to me. 
 
 I've heard the plowman's careless lay 
 
 Borne blithely on the gale: 
 I've heard the merry hunter's tune 
 
 Resound from hill and dale; 
 
 I've heard the song the soldier sings 
 
 Beside the bright camp-flre. 
 Till his eye burns with a fiercer light. 
 
 88 
 
 And lus martial pride leaps higher; 
 
 And the sailor's .song when the sails are 
 spread 
 
 And the winds are blowing free; 
 But the .songs my mother used to sing 
 
 Are tlie sweetest songs to me; 
 
 I've heard the Alpine shepherd's voice 
 King from the mountain's lieiglit; 
 
 I've heard the cottage songs that cheer 
 The peasant's liearth at night. 
 
 I've heard the wandering minstrel 'neath 
 
 Tlie olive and the vine ; 
 And the blithe grape gatlierer whose song 
 
 Flows smoothly with the Rhine; 
 
 And the gondolier, as his light oar dips 
 
 To the music of the sea,— 
 But the songs my mother used to sing 
 
 Are tlie sweetest songs to uie. 
 
 I've heard the stately anthem peal 
 
 Along- the minster aisle. 
 I've heard the grand Te Deum roll 
 
 'Round the cathedral pile; 
 
 I've heard the slow and solemn chant 
 
 Rise from the cloister dim. 
 And through the twilight, soft and low. 
 
 The nuns' sweet vesper hymn ; 
 
 And the songs of the worshipers beneath 
 No roof but the forest tree,^ 
 
 But the songs my mother used to sing- 
 Are the sweetest songs to me. 
 
 I've heard those airs the trouljadour 
 
 Gave to the breeze afar. 
 And those the dark-eyed Spanish maid 
 
 Sang to her light guitar; 
 
 And the strains that once through the high- 
 land halls 
 
 To the ancient harp hath rung. 
 And the strange, wild melodies of old 
 
 That Erin's bards have sung; 
 
 And my heart hath felt the lingering spell 
 
 Of the by-gone minstrelsj-,— 
 But the songs my mother used to sing 
 
 Are the sweetest songs to me. 
 
 The cradle songs she used to sing 
 When the noise of the day was done. 
 
 And she folded me close in iier arms to rest. 
 Like the flowers at set of sun ; 
 
 These have the strangest power to wake 
 
 Old memories in my heart; 
 And often when I hear them flow. 
 
 The tears unbidden start. 
 
 And dearer far In other ears 
 
 Some grander strain maybe. 
 But the songs my mother used to sing 
 
 Are the sweetest songs to me. 
 
 -ee 
 
©- 
 
 358 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 A. A.WOODBRIDGE, PH.D. 
 
 Born: Newcastle, Me., July 20, 1840. 
 At the age of seventeen Mr. Woodbridge 
 taughtschool, and upon graduating entered 
 the teacher's profession. He was principal 
 of Riclnnond academy five years ; professor of 
 classics in Gorham's seminary one year; prin- 
 cipal of Rockland high school Ave years; pres- 
 ident of Maine Educational Association, and 
 
 AHIKL. A. WOODUIUDGE, PH.D. 
 
 conductor of teacher's institutes and educa- 
 tional lecturer several years. He has been 
 associate editor and contributor to .some of 
 the leading periodicals of America. In 1877 
 he took a voyage to tlie coast of Africa and 
 spent a year in trade and travel. Returning 
 to America he again entered the education;il 
 field, in whicli work he continued until 18S7, 
 when he became connected with a large pub- 
 lisliing iiouse in Boston. As a lecturer Mr. 
 Woodbridge has gained a national reputation. 
 His lectures and .sketches of travel are gen- 
 erally enlivened by a vein of humor, and are 
 always enjoyable. 
 
 « 
 
 SANDY'S WILL. 
 Wal, the boys liave gone to 'Frisco, .-ind left 
 
 me on the dun) p. 
 'Taint their fault, fur they wanted me to g'o; 
 But I seemed to feel as ef I wanted jest about 
 
 a week 
 To listen and to talk to I'Iikmm' .loe. 
 
 But ef anything- should happen to any of 
 
 them pals, 
 I never should forgive myself, I know; 
 For cribs is mighty plenty iu that city full uv 
 
 sin, 
 And them boys kin make a cyclone think 
 
 she's slow. 
 
 'Taint es 1 am any better jest because I kep' 
 
 the ranch. 
 An' did'ut go to Frisco on a tear. 
 I've ben thar too, an' you kin bet I'm dealin' 
 
 from the top. 
 When I tell ye I an' Sandy made a pair. 
 
 Pizen an' Indjans! did'nt we have — no, that 
 
 ain't jest the thing, 
 Poor Sandy's off his roost, an' you kin swar. 
 That when a feller's planted, I ain't givin' 
 
 him away. 
 Especially when he alius dealt 'em squar. 
 
 'Twas a Sunday mornin', jest like this when 
 Siindy quit the game, 
 
 An' everytliing was quiet as the dead. 
 
 An' a shower er g-old-dust could'nt er beat 
 the sunshine as it dropped. 
 
 Through the scrub-oak leaves awigglin' over- 
 head. 
 
 All on sudden, Sandy sez,— sez he, "Old pard, 
 come here." 
 
 He'd ben rastlin' witli a fever more'n a week. 
 
 An' this mornin' artersunnin he'd been actiu' 
 kind er queer; 
 
 It had ben two days he had'nt tried to speak. 
 
 Sez he, "Old pard, I'm goin'— I sliall break 
 
 camp 'fore an hour. 
 There, jest shet down that wood mill, and 
 
 don't fuss. 
 I'm dyin'— that's tlie English on't, an' one 
 
 thing I must tell 
 Afore the boys git 'round to raise a muss." 
 
 THE IMMOitTAL. 
 
 Ever-living snow-capped Sierra! 
 
 Ever-living? or everlasting? 
 
 Is it living? or is it lasting? 
 
 Pan me the truth and throw over the error. 
 
 Wintry-locked seer! Are you eternal? 
 
 No? "What am I tlien'?" Once you were 
 
 youlliful. 
 Come, now, let's reason. Let us be truthful. 
 Read me the rock-records locked in yoni- 
 
 joui'iial. 
 Leaf after leaf, to the l)irlhday— the vernal, 
 Back through the roll of the infinite ages, 
 Down to the i>lastic, the single-word pages 
 Warm from the womb of the molten mater- 
 
 -« 
 
®- 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 369 
 
 ELLA ELVIRA GIBSON. 
 
 Born: Winchendon, Mass., May 8, 1821. 
 During the early part of the late war Miss 
 Gibson was engaged in organizing soldiers' 
 ladies aid societies in Wisconsin. She was 
 connected with the 8th Wis. reg. vols., known 
 as the Live Eagle regiment — the history of 
 the eagle, Old Abe, which during three yeai-s 
 shaii'd the foitiini'-- of tlir war, is familiar to 
 
 KLLA KLNIKA (ilBSl ).\. 
 
 the public. In 1864 she was elected chaplain 
 of the first Wisconsin heavy artillery, which 
 was stationed in Virginia at Fort Lyon, which 
 duties she performed until the close of the 
 war. She has delivered numerous lectures. 
 
 fr 
 
 THE JUBILEE. 
 From Scotia's frozen region 
 
 To Texas' burning zone. 
 Where Afric's swarthy legion 
 
 The driver's lash have known; 
 From many a flowing river. 
 
 From many a cotton plain, 
 Tliey call us to deliver 
 
 Their land from slavery's chain. 
 What though the balmy breezes 
 
 Blow soft o'er southern soil. 
 Though every prospect pleases. 
 
 The slave must sweat and toil. 
 In vain with lavish kindness. 
 
 The gifts of God are strewn, 
 The master, in his blindness. 
 
 Sells muscle, brain and bone. 
 
 Shall we by Freedom lighted. 
 
 With banners floating liigh. 
 Shall we to slaves benighted 
 
 A freeman's rights deny? 
 O shout Emancipation, 
 
 The jubilee proclaim 
 Till earth's remotest nation. 
 
 Has heard Abe Lincoln's name! 
 Waft, waft, ye winds, the story. 
 
 And you, ye waters, roll. 
 Tin, like a .sea of glory. 
 
 It spreads from pole to pole ; 
 Till o'er our ransomed nation 
 
 The Flag of Freedom wave. 
 And slavery, wrong, oppression, 
 
 Find one eternal grave. 
 
 THE STAR OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 O, what to me is golden treasure! 
 
 O, what to me is famed renown I 
 O, what to me is worldly pleasure ! 
 
 O, what to me is beauty's crown! 
 For thieves may steal my golden treasure; 
 
 And tongues may blast mj- famed renown— 
 Or death may end my worldly pleasure. 
 
 And stars may faU from beauty's crown. 
 O, this shall be my golden treasure! 
 
 O, this shall be my famed renown ! 
 O, this shall be my sweetest pleasure! 
 
 One star to own in friendship's crown ! 
 
 REBECCA INGERSOLL DAVIS. 
 
 Born: East Haverhill. Mass., Dec. 15, 1828. 
 Gleanings from Merrimac Valley is a neat 
 little volume of prose and verse from the pen 
 of this lady. She is still a resident of the place 
 of her birth, where she is well known and ad- 
 mired, not only for lier literary standing, but 
 also for her pleasant and graceful ways. 
 
 BRIDAL HYMN FOR A PUPIL. 
 
 Crown, O crown the bride with flowers,— 
 
 Pluck the rose and lily fair; 
 Seek ye 'mid the fairest bowers. 
 
 Orange blossoms for her hair? 
 Youth upon licr brow is smiling. 
 
 And her heart is light and free. 
 Beating high with expectation. 
 
 Of bright days she hopes to see. 
 Now before the altar kneeling. 
 
 Sealed on earth the marriage vow; 
 Quickly borne to Heaven's record, 
 
 Lol the angel writes it now. 
 May those vows so pure and sacred. 
 
 Bind forever heart to heart; 
 In sucli lasting, blest communion. 
 
 As stern death alone shall part. 
 And when earthly scenes have faded. 
 
 May they re-unite above. 
 Where fond ties are never severed. 
 
 In that Home of peace and love! 
 
 © 
 
® 
 
 -* 
 
 360 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLEN JAKEMAN. 
 
 Born : Beavek, Utah, March 7, 1859. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 Womau's Journal, Western Galaxy and the 
 periodical press generally, and in 1887 Mrs. 
 Jalieman published The Border Scout, a long- 
 
 SB 
 
 DELUSIONS. 
 A little mniden witli wind-hlown hair. 
 
 Was strayins' 'lone on a summer beach. 
 She saw a sliell like a jewel rare. 
 
 Slow swept by wavelets out of her reach. 
 Tiie waves swept in, and tlie waves swept out. 
 
 Among- the rocks where it found a home. 
 And softly floated the sliell about; 
 
 The mai-gin bordered with pearls of foam. 
 She viewed the treasure with longing- eyes; 
 
 A shell .so love)y is seldom seen ; 
 It had the tinting-s of rainbowod skies. 
 
 In crimson, violet, g-old and green. 
 For hours she strayed with joy unfeig-ned. 
 
 To gather shells from the sliining- sand; 
 
 None lovely seemed but the one ungained. 
 
 She threw them down with a careless hand. 
 She bared her feet to the cutting- sand. 
 
 The water cold that she dreaded more. 
 And seized the shell with an eager hand. 
 
 And brine-bespattered she sought the shore. 
 Delusive water! delusive light! 
 
 For ashen dim in her palm it lay. 
 The beauty vanished, but now so bright, 
 
 She flung it with deep disgust away. 
 Soft came the chime of the vesper bells. 
 
 In minor strains sang the restless sea; 
 She blithely sought her discarded shells. 
 
 And homeward went o'er the grassy lea. 
 I bitterly said: "Is my life like this?" 
 
 I cast all treasures of youth away, 
 I bartered mj' soul for a dream of bliss, 
 
 Whose roseate hues turned dim and gray. 
 'Tis thus, yet not like the child at play. 
 
 If false, love dooms us to endless pain; 
 The treasures of youth once thrown away. 
 
 We may not gather them up again. 
 
 MRS. Elil.EN .7AKEMAN. . 
 
 story in verse. Slie is the wife of J. T. Jake- 
 man, editor of the Home Sentinel, of which 
 publication Mrs. Jakeman is assistant-editor. 
 She is president of the Woman's Sufl'rage As- 
 sociation for San Pete county, and has filled 
 other positions with great credit. She still re- 
 sides in her native state at Nanti. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 Could I but read the heart of him I love. 
 And claim the half of every secret thought, 
 Or as a white dove folds its wings above 
 The little nest its tenderness hath wrought; 
 Might my love compass him by night and 
 
 day. 
 And that dark hour when God seems far 
 
 away. 
 Could I but drink from lips I love too well 
 The wine of life, for which I faint and thirst. 
 No song of earth my holy bliss could tell. 
 Sorrow and death, defied, might do their 
 
 worst; 
 Like Bethel's radiant star that love should be 
 To light the dark road to eternity. 
 Thought, heart and soul bows to this love of 
 
 mine, 
 I wonder what must be a love divine! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I saw you smile once, when I .sought to prove, 
 Through logic's chosen channels, that. .True 
 
 Love " 
 And ..Happiness" identical might be, 
 1 saw you smile indulgently on me. 
 As at some favored child's (juaint vagaries. 
 Perhaps you marvel — one who ne'er express- 
 ed, 
 Sliould ever keep Love's image in her l)reast. 
 Years gone, I dreamed, upon a cloud afloat, 
 A pearl encrusted, fragrant, fairy boat, 
 I met Love's self in sweet immortal guise. 
 __ ® 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 361 
 
 -% 
 
 N. J. CLODFELTER. 
 
 Born: Alamo, Ind., Dec. 14, 1852. 
 
 N. J. Clodfeltek, the Wabash Poet, and au- 
 thor of Early Vanities, Snatched from the 
 Poorliouse. etc., was from his youtli a boy 
 of strong hope, vivid inuigiuation, and a great 
 lover and close observer of nature, but pecu- 
 liarly averse to farm life. He became au ear- 
 ly and careful student of ancient history, 
 biography and poetry, and read with deep 
 
 ©- 
 
 N. J. CLODFELTER. 
 
 interest and much care all the most promi- 
 nent poetical works of ancient and modern 
 times. Mr. Clodfelter commenced his efforts 
 at poetic writing when a mere boy, many of 
 his shorter poems having been written when 
 between the age of thirteen and seventeen. 
 His first volume of poems was published in 
 1886, and has met with a very large sale. 
 Snatched from the Poorhouse, a prose work, 
 has also been received with great favor, the 
 sales of this book alone having reached ncarlj' 
 one hundred and sixty thousand copies. J'rom 
 the sale of his works he has erected a beauti- 
 ful home, known as Knoll Cottage, on a high 
 knoll in the city of Crawfordsville, Ind., at a 
 cost of nearly .$30,000, where he now resides, 
 and which in 1889 was visited by death, and 
 cruelly took from him his pretty and accom- 
 plished little wife Cinderilla.the star and light 
 of his beautiful home. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE STOKM. 
 
 Roll, thunders, roll! 
 On the cold mist of the night. 
 As I watch the streaming light, 
 Lurid, blinking in the south. 
 Like a mighty serpent's mouth 
 
 Spitting fire. 
 Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing. 
 And the streaming liglitning's flashuig. 
 Like great giants coming o'er us. 
 Dancing to the distant chorus. 
 In their ire. 
 
 Sowing Are, 
 From the wild sky higher, higher, 
 While the heaving angry motion. 
 Of a great aerial Ocean, 
 Dashes cloud-built ships asunder. 
 As the distant coming thunder 
 
 Bolls, rolls, rolls. 
 And shakes the great earth to the poles. 
 
 Roll, thunders, roll! 
 You awake my sleeping soul. 
 To see the war in rage before me, 
 And its dreadful menace o'er me, 
 Lightning, 
 
 Brightening. 
 Flashing, 
 Dasliing; 
 Thunders booming in the distance, 
 Till the earth seems in resistance 
 To the navies sailing higher. 
 O'er the wild clouds dropping fire; 
 And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes. 
 
 Beneath great Jove whose mighty arms 
 Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums 
 
 Her awful roll of sad alarms: 
 He stamps the clouds, and onward prances. 
 As from him the wild lightning glances; 
 
 By his neigh the world is shaken. 
 And his hoof so fleetly dances 
 That the lightning's overtaken, 
 And he feeds upon its blazing 
 Shafts, as if he were but grazing; 
 Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form, 
 Then gallops o'er the raging storm; 
 Flies on ! his long disheveled mane. 
 Streams wildly through the leaden plane 
 
 Of the dull skies. 
 The while the drapery of the clouds, 
 Wraps this spirit as in shrouds, 
 Our darting eyes 
 In vague surprise 
 Arise, 
 And trace the wandering course 
 Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse! 
 
 Roll, thunders, roll! 
 As lightnings in the arching scroll, 
 Streak the heavens in their flight 
 By their dazzling flow of light; 
 While old Neptune, all alone. 
 Is sitting on his mountain throne. 
 
 * 
 
« 
 
 -* 
 
 360 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLEN JAKEMAN. 
 
 Born: Beaver, Utah, March 7, 1859. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared iu the 
 Woman's Journal, Western Galaxy and the 
 periodical press generally, and iu 1887 Mrs. 
 Jakeman published The Border Scout, a long- 
 
 MRS. EI.I,I;N .lAKEMAN. 
 
 story in verse. Siie is the wife of J. T. Jake- 
 man, editor of the Home Sentinel, of winch 
 publication Mrs. Jakeman is assistant-editor. 
 She is president of the Woman's Sutfrage As- 
 sociation for San Pete county, and has filled 
 other positions witli great credit. She still re- 
 sides in lier native state at Nanti. 
 
 DELUSIONS. 
 A little maiden with wind-blown hair. 
 
 Was straying 'lone 0!i a summer beach. 
 She saw a sliell like a jewel rare. 
 
 Slow swept by wavelets out of her reach. 
 The waves swept in, and the waves swept out. 
 
 Among the rocks wiiere it found a home. 
 And softly floated the shell about-; 
 
 The margin bordered wiUi pearlsof foam. 
 She viewed the treasure witli longing eyes; 
 
 A shell so lovely is seldom seen ; 
 It had the tintings of rainbowed skies, 
 
 In crimson, violet, gold and green. 
 For hours she strayed with joy unfeigned. 
 
 To gatiier shells from the sinning sand; 
 
 None lovely seemed but the one ungained. 
 
 She threw them down with a careless hand. 
 She bared her feet to the cutting sand. 
 
 The water cold that she dreaded more. 
 And seized the sliell with an eager hand. 
 
 And brine-bespattered she sought the shore. 
 Delusive water! delusive light! 
 
 For ashen dim iu her palm it lay. 
 The beauty vanished, but now so bright. 
 
 She flung it with deep disgust away. 
 
 Soft came the chime of the vesper bells, 
 In minor strains sang the restless sea; 
 
 She blithely sought her discarded shells. 
 And homeward went o'er the grassy lea. 
 
 1 bitterly said: "Is mj' life like this?" 
 
 I cast all treasures of youth away, 
 I bartered my soul for a dream of bliss. 
 
 Whose roseate hues turned dim and gray. 
 'Tis tlius, yet not like the child at play, 
 
 If false, love dooms us to endless pain; 
 The treasures of youth once thrown away. 
 
 We maj- not gather them up again. 
 
 4P 
 I 
 
 A SONNET. 
 Could I but read the heart of him I love. 
 And claim the half of every secret thought, 
 Or as a white dove folds its wings above 
 The little nest its tenderness hath wrought; 
 Might my love compass him by night and 
 
 day. 
 And that dark hour when God seems far 
 
 away. 
 Could I but drink from lips I love too well 
 The wine of life, for which I faint and thirst. 
 No song of earth my holy bliss could tell. 
 Sorrow and death, defied, might do their 
 
 worst ; 
 Like Bethel's radiant star that love should be 
 To light the dark road to eternity. 
 Thought, heart and soul bows to this love of 
 
 mine, 
 I wonder what must be a love divine! 
 
 © 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I saw you smile once, when I sought to prove. 
 Through logic's chosen channels, that .'True 
 
 Love '* 
 And "Happiness" identical might be, 
 I saw you smile indulgently <in me, 
 As at some favored child's quaint vagaries. 
 Perhaps yini marvel —one wlio ne'er express- 
 
 e<l. 
 Should ever keep Love's image in her breast. 
 Yeats gone, 1 dreamed, upon a cloud afloat, 
 A pearl encrusted, fragrant, fairy boat, 
 I met Love's self in sweet immortal guise. 
 -® 
 
a&- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 361 
 
 -® 
 
 N, J.CLODFELTER. 
 
 Born: Alamo, Ind., Dec. 14, 1852. 
 
 N. J. Clodfelter, the Wabash Poet, and au- 
 thor of Earlj- Vanities. Snatched from the 
 Poorhovise, etc., was from his youth a boy 
 of strong hope, vivid imagination, and a great 
 lover and close observer of nature, but pecu- 
 liarly averse to farm life. He became an ear- 
 ly and careful student of ancient history, 
 biography and poetry, and read with deep 
 
 ©- 
 
 N. J. CLODFELTER. 
 
 interest and much care all the most promi- 
 nent poetical works of ancient and modern 
 times. Mr. Clodfelter commenced his efforts 
 at poetic writing when a mere boy, many of 
 his shorter poems ha\nng been written when 
 between the age of thirteen and seventeen. 
 His first volume of poems was published in 
 1886, and has met with a very large sale. 
 Snatched from the Poorhouse, a prose work, 
 has also been received with great favor, the 
 sales of this book alone having reached nearlj- 
 one hundred and sixty thousand copies. From 
 the sale of his works he has erected a beauti- 
 ful home, known as Knoll Cottage, on a high 
 knoll in the city of Crawfordsville, Ind., at a 
 cost of nearly $20,000, where he now resides, 
 and which in 1889 was visited by death, and 
 cruelly took from him his pretty and accom- 
 plished little wife Cinderilla,the star and light 
 of his beautiful home. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 
 Roll, thunders, roll! 
 On the cold mist of the night. 
 As I watch the streaming light. 
 Lurid, blinking in the south. 
 Like a mighty serpent's mouth 
 
 Spitting flre. 
 Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing. 
 And the streaming lightning's flashing. 
 Like great giants coming o'er us. 
 Dancing to the distant chorus, 
 In their ire. 
 
 Sowing fire. 
 From the wild sky higher, higher, 
 While the heaving angry motion. 
 Of a great aerial Ocean, 
 Dashes cloud-built ships asunder. 
 As the distant coming thunder 
 
 Rolls, rolls, rolls. 
 And shakes the great earth to the poles. 
 
 Roll, thunders, roll! 
 Xou awake my sleeping soul. 
 To see the war in rage before me. 
 And its dreadful menace o'er me. 
 Lightning, 
 
 Brightening. 
 Flashing, 
 Dashing; 
 Thunders booming in the distance. 
 Till the earth seems in resistance 
 To the navies sailing higher. 
 O'er the wild clouds dropping flre; 
 And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes. 
 
 Beneath great Jove whose mighty arms 
 Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums 
 
 Her awful roll of sad alarms: 
 He stamps the clouds, and onward prances. 
 As from him the wild lightning glances; 
 
 By his neigh the world is shaken. 
 And his hoof so fleetly dances 
 That the lightning's overtaken. 
 And he feeds upon its blazing 
 Shafts, as if he were but grazing; 
 Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form. 
 Then gallops o'er the raging storm; 
 Flies on ! his long disheveled mane. 
 Streams wildly through the leaden plane 
 
 Of the dull skies. 
 The while the drapery of the clouds, 
 Wraps this spirit as in shrouds. 
 Our darting eyes 
 In vague surprise 
 Arise, 
 And trace the wandering course 
 Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse! 
 
 Roll, thunders, roll! 
 As lightnings in the arching scroll. 
 Streak the heavens in their flight 
 By their dazzling flow of light: 
 While old Neptune, all alone. 
 Is sitting on his mountain throne. 
 
 — © 
 
©- 
 
 362 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 -S 
 
 «- 
 
 O'er the sea. 
 In a mood so lonelj-, he 
 Thrusts his trident by his side. 
 
 With such force that the great mountain 
 Opens a deep cavern wide. 
 
 And bursts forth a living- fountain 
 Sparkling- with its silvery tide; 
 And the Nereids, fifty strong, 
 To the water's babbling song. 
 Like fairy wands 
 From Neptune's hands 
 Sally from this cavern wide. 
 Sailing o'er the gray cold rocks. 
 With their fairy rainbow locks, 
 Down upon the water's brim, 
 Either way the surface skim. 
 Till their taper'd fingers' tips 
 Gently in the water dips; 
 Then beneath the raging skies 
 Neptune in his chariot flies 
 
 O'er the sea. 
 With his trident in liis hand, 
 In a bearing of command. 
 Fitting to liis majesty. 
 
 He calls to his daughters 
 To quit the wild waters,— 
 He calls but they heed not his word: 
 Then his trident he hurls 
 At his sea-nymph girls. 
 But the truants — they flee from their lord. 
 Unto the clouds they go 
 In the whirlwinds of the storm, 
 Arethusa leads the way 
 Wheresoe'er the winds may blow. 
 She lithely moves her graceful form 
 As if she would herself survey. 
 And then she rides the southern wind 
 
 And bids her sisters follow. 
 And leave old Neptune far behind. 
 Lord of his mountain hollow,— 
 To nurse his wrath 
 And tread his path. 
 And curse his fairy daughters, — 
 These mountain elves 
 That freed tiiemselves 
 From the lord of ocean's waters. 
 He grasped a trident in his hand 
 That mystic rose at his command. 
 And wildly blew till the great ocean 
 
 Trembled like an aspen-tree, 
 And winds that were in wild commotion. 
 
 Whirling tlirough immensity, 
 He'd by his magic art control 
 And gather in a secret scroll 
 And hurl them at his Dorian daughters 
 O'er the heaving angry waters. 
 Till the growling thunders roll. 
 Giving spleen to Neptune's .soul 
 As he .sees them dart through air. 
 Daughters fifty, all so fair. 
 
 Free from the Ionian Sea, 
 
 Designed to be 
 Their destiny. 
 EoU, thunders, roll! 
 Till the many church-bells toll 
 
 Once in unity. 
 Touched by the enchanting wand 
 
 Of his majesty. 
 Who's arbiter of sea and land. 
 And marks each destiny. 
 But there! 
 
 The fair-faced nymphs of air. 
 Metamorphosed from the Dorian sea, 
 O'er the waters. 
 Lovely daughters. 
 Through the misty clouds they flee. 
 Their fairy forms 
 Float o'er the storms 
 So swift and magic'ly 
 
 That on the wings of the long streaming 
 flashes 
 They ride, and they dance their delight, 
 Wear crowns of electrical dashes, 
 And bask in their dazzling light. 
 Where the deep-voiced thunder peals louder, 
 And the long sheeted lightnings play fast, 
 We see them peep through the dark cloud, or 
 
 Ride off on a sulphurous blast. 
 When the storm to its fullness is raging. 
 
 And all Nature at war seems to be, 
 Tlie cloud-sphere is then more engaging 
 
 To them than a wild breaking sea. 
 But now the growling, rolling, grumbling, 
 Thunders in the distance mumbling, 
 Fainter, fainter, dying, dying. 
 And the lightning dimmer flying, 
 O'er the dark cloud westward lying. 
 As the morning in her glory 
 Bursts forth like an ancient story,— 
 The while the resting suiibpams light 
 On this dark cloud of the night. 
 And the arching rainbow's given 
 To the spirit- forms of heaven. 
 In a moment unrolled 
 In its pinions of gold. 
 And quick as its birth 
 It o'ercircles the earth: 
 And there the spirits of the storms 
 Sit and rest their weary forms. 
 
 EXTRACTS FKOM .. SIOUSKA." 
 Their trysting place, their trysting place. 
 
 Adown V)eneath ths slanting hill. 
 Where weaving ivies interlace 
 
 With creeping vines above the rill. 
 And reeds and flowers grow down beneath 
 And deck the wild and glowing heath. 
 
 And vipers rustle in the weeds. 
 As antler'd deer leap by with grace. 
 
 And panthers prowling thi'o' the reeds. 
 Are welcomed to their trysting place. 
 © 
 
»- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 363 
 
 -® 
 
 She feeis a kiss upon her lips, 
 A pressure of her flug-er tips, 
 In sweet compassion ; is lier mind, 
 Though peopled with such thoughts re- 
 fined, 
 In a deep rhapsody, while keeps 
 Tlie hawthorn's vigil as she sleeps 
 So placidly? — 
 
 The pretty water-lilies bloom 
 Amid the flag and knotted weeds 
 
 So purely white, like rays of light 
 Thej' sliine among the tangled reeds. 
 
 DANCE ON THE LETHE. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Roared the River, clashed the bones. 
 Chimed the harps in softer tones. 
 Every sound was in its place. 
 Every fairy moved with grace, 
 Not a discord broke the spell. 
 All was music in the dell: 
 
 Some would wake, and some would sleep. 
 Some would dance, and some would weep. 
 Some would laugh, and some would cry. 
 Some would sob, and some would sigh; 
 
 Roared the Styx in thunder tones; 
 Beat the water with their bones. 
 Every crash, and gentle chime. 
 Kept within its proper time. 
 
 »- 
 
 PLEASURES OF HOME. 
 
 EXTR.\CTS. 
 
 Oh ! sweet days of romping childhood. 
 Oh! the Httle ills of childhood. 
 Each day turns its written pages. 
 Turns them gently out of sight, then 
 Folds them down in logic order. 
 To remain in dusty covers. 
 For the age of meditation. 
 Down this deep dark vale of silence, 
 Hands will gently rise before us. 
 There to point the weary traveler. 
 Backward o'er the path he's traveled:— 
 Oh! the golden thought, if golden; 
 Oh! the gloomy thoughts, if gloomy; 
 Will still follow, onward, onward, 
 Down the valley dark or golden. 
 As the light or shade behind us. 
 That we made to follow onward, 
 In the footsteps left behind us. 
 Let me live within the sunshine 
 Of the loved ones in my cottage. 
 Where hearts flutter with winged joy. 
 When my step is heard approaching;— 
 Home, oh ! home ! the sweetest harbor. 
 For the weary soul to rest in ; 
 Where is treasured love and joy. 
 Peace and honor, born of heaven, 
 All uniting into pleasure. 
 
 THRENODY. 
 And I have sung in vain so long, 
 
 I scarce can feel new courage ri.se. 
 The wealth of soul I've giv'n to song. 
 
 Still to my sorrow multiplies: 
 I know not why I've sung in vain. 
 
 For in my breast I've felt the power, 
 Of poesy swell up again. 
 
 And blossom in a lonely hour;— 
 The hope I've nursed within my breast, 
 
 Is now of doubtful mien and cast;— 
 The Are is smothered, and oppressed. 
 
 That glows spontaneous to the last. 
 
 PURITY. 
 Where is the maid so chaste and pure. 
 
 That virtue firmly blends with grace, 
 And honor binds herself secure, 
 
 Above a ruined, fallen race? 
 'Tis not — oh, no,— the vain coquette, 
 
 Whose roguish eye is steeped with woe, 
 And sober mien a woven net. 
 
 To catch some ti-iste or silly beau. 
 'Tis not the flirt who steals your heart. 
 
 And in return gives hers forever. 
 Then steals it back by cunning art. 
 
 And leaves you love's strong cords to sever, 
 'lis not the one whose painted cheeks 
 
 Are powdered up and crimsoned red. 
 Who primps her mouth up when she speaks. 
 
 Till words seem fast within her liead. 
 'Tis not the handsome giddy jilt. 
 
 That by superior charm allures 
 Whose very conscience aches with guilt. 
 
 And g-uilt itself her soul insures. 
 'Tis not the quaint loquacious maid. 
 
 Whose flattering tongue inclines to move 
 In language that true hearts evade. 
 
 And virtue never can approve. 
 It is the maid whose potent mind. 
 
 Stands zealously at virtue's test, 
 Whose inmost being is refined. 
 
 And purity her soul's bequest. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ACROSTIC SONNET. 
 Naught this volume have I penn'd for praise 
 Or condemnation, and I shall disclaim 
 All early expectations of a name; 
 However, plea.sant hours in early days 
 Came to me as I wrote these simple lays. 
 Lost in the labyrinthine bowers, or shame 
 Of poesy, it matters not — there came 
 Despondency to greet me, and the plays. 
 For sporting childhood, had no charm for me. 
 Enough to know, then, why I wrote to kill 
 Long time that drags me on against my will, 
 To the dark brink of vast eternity, 
 Encompass'd by oblivion's silence, still 
 Retiring in the vale of Lethe's hill. 
 
 © 
 
«- 
 
 364: 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL FOMTS OF^iUSKiCA. 
 
 -* 
 
 CLINTON LYSANDER LUCE. 
 
 Born: Stowe, Vt., Sept. 28, 1854. 
 At the age of eigliteen Cliut left home, his 
 mother having died tlie same year, and went 
 to Minnesota, near Albert Lea, making his 
 home with an uncle. He never admired farm- 
 ing as an occupation, and consequently em 
 braced an early opportunity to attend the 
 high school of Albert Lea and fit hmiself for 
 teaching, which calling, coupled with farming, 
 he pursued until the autumn of 1878 when he 
 
 SB 
 
 CLINTON LVSANDER LUCE. 
 
 entered the office of the Freeborn County 
 Standard. In 1882 he became attached to the 
 Albert Lea Enterprise in tlie capacity of asso- 
 ciate editor, and in July of the ne.\t year he 
 succeeded to a half interest in that paper, and 
 still holds the position of editor and proprietor 
 jointly Willi Hon. M. Halvorsen. Mr. Luce 
 enjoys studying literature, ancient mythology 
 and medicine, and writes more for other pub- 
 lications than liis own, both in prose and verse. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 I dream of days now long forever fled — 
 
 A time when life was <>arnest, real and true. 
 Before the liope of happiness was dead; 
 
 Before life's sorrows tilled my heart anew 
 Witli fleeting fancies — wishes never gained— 
 Thougli oft they seemed close to my eager 
 grasp; 
 Ambition lured to heights I ne'er attained. 
 
 To friends whose hands I always failed to 
 clasp. 
 
 I often dream of days that now are here. 
 
 Of hopes that urge me on my toilsome way ; 
 Of stars that shine,my wayward path to cheer, 
 
 Up to the realms of longed-for famed day. 
 The more I strive the farther off it seems — 
 
 This goal for which I vainly dream and hope, 
 The sun obscured — to me it hides its beams — 
 
 While I in doubt my rayless pathway grope. 
 Then I have dreams of life not yet begun. 
 
 Hidden away in years — long years — to be. 
 On wheels of life — where golden threads are 
 spun 
 
 When toil is done — the weary spirit free. 
 This dream is one I fain would realize; 
 
 To prove that life is not quite all in vain. 
 But if it reaches far l:)eyond the skies — 
 
 Before death comes — oh, let me dream 
 again. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 How deep our vigils or how flow our tears. 
 Is not determined by the length of years 
 We live — and living find how false a friend 
 Can be. 'T is thus we find the world does 
 trend. 
 
 Who lives for friendship lives not wise or well, 
 He j'et will live to hear its funeral knell. 
 
 A ONCE FAMILIAR FOOTFALL. 
 I hear a footfall on the stair without. 
 
 Ascending, now, how loud it greets mine 
 ear, 
 1 seek to know the owner — oh the doubt. 
 
 That fills my soul with anguish and with 
 fear. 
 How long that stairway— step by step I hear 
 
 Tliat sound once so famlliar.now how rare — 
 Upon my hearing comes the sound so clear. 
 
 It seems to vibrate heaven and earth and 
 air. 
 But list the top, the fatal step is passed! 
 
 It comes! My doorway close. It draweth by! 
 Be still, sad heart ! The world that is so vast 
 
 Has little need for sorrow or its sigh. 
 My door is reached— and will he come to me — 
 
 And take the diair now vacant — woe be- 
 tide— 
 He enters not — that I should live to see — 
 
 Him pass me bj' upon the otlierside. 
 If this be life as others find, I swear, 
 
 1 get no pleasure frimi the useless strife- 
 There is no hajjpiness without despair. 
 
 In every lieart I find tliat woe is rife. 
 And so for footfalls now no more I list. 
 
 How wt)rse than foolish e'en to have a friend, 
 I close my heart alike to one and all. 
 
 And to the world no coi"dial greeting send. 
 
 •® 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 365 
 
 REV. W. AVERY RICHx\RDS. 
 
 Born: Clyde, Ohio, Dec. 28, 1838. 
 At the age of twenty-one Mr. Richards en- 
 tered the ministry of the Methodist church, 
 and has been stationed at Dixon, Prairie City, 
 Sioux City, Fort Dodg-e, Spirit Lake and sev- 
 
 AMiHY HlLHAKli; 
 
 eral otlier places in Iowa. He has written 
 poetry more as a pastime. The poems of the 
 Rev. Richards have appeared in the leading 
 christian periodicals, from which they have 
 been extensively copied by the local press. 
 
 AUTUMNAL. 
 
 Purple, and Green and Gold ! 
 Lo! the year is growing- old. 
 And the night-winds cliill the dews 
 Until they are pale with cold ; 
 New tastes old trappings refuse, 
 And the groves and prairie wide, 
 And landscapes on every side. 
 Are donning Autumnal hues 
 Of Purple, and Green and Gold. 
 Purple, and Green and Gold? 
 'Tis a painter skilled and bold 
 That is touching the picture fair; 
 And the tints he is seen to hold 
 In his hand, are rich and rare. 
 And they assume a Magic place 
 In the scene he deigns to grace. 
 While he shades it here and there 
 With Purple, and Green and Gold. 
 Purple, and Green and Gold ! 
 There's a loveliness untold 
 
 SB- 
 
 In the fading grass and leaves. 
 
 And he wlio cannot behold 
 
 A glad beauty here, but grieves 
 
 At Autumn's change, stands aloof 
 
 From charms, and a somber woof 
 
 In life's web he throws, and weaves 
 
 No Purple, and Green and Gold. 
 
 Purple, and Green and Gold! 
 
 The buds which we saw unfold 
 
 In bursting Spring, spreading wide 
 
 Such a charm-spell uncontrolled. 
 
 But ope'd to the Autumn tide— 
 
 This brighter, maturer stage 
 
 Of verdure, and foliage. 
 
 And of fruits now glorified 
 
 In Purple, and Green and Gold. 
 
 Purple, and Green and Gold! 
 
 Oh ! when we are growing old. 
 
 When youth and the ripening prime 
 
 Of life are past, and the cold. 
 
 Cold winds shall blow, may the time 
 
 Of our Autumnal show 
 
 A moral glory bright, and glow 
 
 In colors more sublime 
 
 Than Purple, and Green and Gold. 
 
 ANEMONE. 
 Wind-flower, blooming 
 In the spring. 
 Cosily, 
 Gracefully my path along, 
 Thou art coming. 
 And I'll sing — 
 List to me 
 While I chant a welcome song. 
 Wrapped in slumber — 
 Fast asleep — 
 
 Dreaming they. 
 All besides on Nature's breast — 
 All the number — 
 Vigils keep 
 
 Wind-flower gay. 
 Harbinger of all the rest. 
 Tho' a tender. 
 Fragile thing. 
 Ere the snow 
 All has gone, and winter cold — 
 Strong tho' slender 
 Up you spring. 
 Quickly grow. 
 Then thy pretty blooms unfold. 
 
 Thee defending — 
 All around 
 
 (Queer defence) 
 Now thy downy guard-leaves stand; 
 They are lending. 
 With profound 
 Vigilance, 
 All the aid at their command. 
 
 -® 
 
i^ 
 
 366 
 
 ^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 MOODY CURRIER. 
 
 Bokn: Boscawen, N. H., April 22, 1806. 
 Graduating in 1834 with high honors from 
 the Dartmouth college, this gentleman has 
 since received from his alma mater the degree 
 of LL.D. For a number of years he practiced 
 law at Manchester, X. H.. and since 1848 has 
 
 ® 
 
 MOODY CURRIER. 
 
 been a prominent banker. Mr. Cnrrier was 
 the governor of his state in 1884 and 188.5 
 and has filled many other prominent political 
 positions. In 1881 a neat volume of poems 
 appeared from the pen of this gentlemen, 
 entitled Early Poems, which has had a wide 
 sale and has received the enconiums of the 
 press throughout the United States. 
 
 THE ADIEU. 
 Lady mine, I need not tell j'ou 
 
 What the tears of anguish spoke. 
 When my fainting eyes beheld you. 
 
 As they gave the parting look. 
 In my bosom then were swelling 
 
 Feelings such as none can tell. 
 As, with tongue and heart unwilling, 
 
 Falt'riug sighed 1, .-Fare thee well." 
 Not my native land forsaking. 
 
 Where my infant lot was cast. 
 Where a thousand scenes awaken 
 
 Thoughts of frii'nds and pleasures past; 
 Not to green and sunny bowers. 
 
 Where my childish moments flew; 
 Not to pleasure, scenes, or flowers, 
 
 Weeping, sighed I that adieu. 
 
 No, 'twas not companions leaving; 
 
 No, 'twas not the sweets of home: 
 Which was in my bosom heaving, — 
 
 'Twas the thoughts of thee alone. 
 Could I leave thee, vainly striving 
 
 To conceal what sighs might tell? 
 Not without the keenest anguish. 
 
 Could I utter, '• Fare thee well." 
 
 HOPE. 
 Mary, the night may look black 
 
 With clouds, with tempest and storm; 
 But hope cheers the traveler's track. 
 
 With the speedy approaches of morn. 
 Mary, the shadows of woe 
 
 May threaten to burst on our head; 
 But sweeter the transports shall flow, 
 
 When the anguish of sorrow is fled. 
 Mary, misfortune may spread. 
 
 O'er the prospects ot youth, itsdark shroud; 
 But hope in its brightness will shed 
 
 Its sweet beams of joy o'er the cloud. 
 Marj-, th' affections of youth. 
 
 And the soft smile of friendship maj- die; 
 But hope, like the fountains of truth. 
 
 Flow down from regions on high. 
 Marj', though life, like a flower. 
 
 May wither and fade in its bloom; 
 Hope points to a bright sunnj' bower. 
 
 Through shadows that hang o'er the tomb. 
 
 IF I WERE A CHILD. 
 If I were a child I'd sport and play; 
 
 I'd rove through woods and fields; 
 I'd pluck the earliest flowers of May, 
 
 And drink the sweets they yield. 
 I'd sit by the side of the babbling brook. 
 
 As the zephj-rs passed along; 
 I'd hide in the alders' shady nook. 
 
 And mock the red-breast's song. 
 I'd find where the painted rainbows rise. 
 
 And chase them from morn till noon: 
 By night I'd watch at the fool of the skies. 
 
 And catch the rising moon. 
 I'd seek where the sweetest wild flowers blow; 
 
 I'd find wliere the streamlets run : [grow. 
 In the meadows I'd find where the fox-gloves 
 
 The tall wild grass among. 
 I'd make me wings to fly in the air; 
 
 I'd rise at the break of day. 
 And catch the larks that were singing there; 
 
 And drive the liawks away. 
 I'd build me a boat, a jolly boat, 
 
 .Vs light as the lightest feather; 
 And on the dancing waves I'd float 
 
 In the briglit and sunny weatlier. 
 If-I were a child how sweet 'twould be 
 
 To prattle atid Inngli and play; [knee. 
 
 Then at eve to be rocked on my mother's 
 
 And sleep my cares away. 
 
 -m 
 
gB- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 367 
 
 REV. JAMES H. EDWARDS. 
 
 Born: Columbus, Ind., March 16, 1SJ9. 
 Reared on a farm, James coutiuued on it un- 
 til 1863,wht'n he entered the Union army, serv- 
 ing- in the Army of the Tennessee about three 
 years. He then went to school and taught in 
 the schools for about ten years. Afterward 
 Mr. Edwards entered the ministry, and ever 
 since has boon ncti'V'oly nicvijiT'd in it, servitifr 
 
 REV. JAMES H. EDWARDS. 
 
 some of tlie prominent churches of the Dis- 
 ciples in Indiana and elsewhere. In 1885 he 
 received a call to a cong-regation in the city of 
 Melbourne, Australia, which he accepted and 
 served for thirteen months. Returning home 
 via Adelaide S. A., Aden in Arabia, Egypt, 
 Italy, England, Ireland and New York, Mr. 
 Edwards thus circumnavigated the globe. 
 
 ®- 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Who can hear the heaving sigh, 
 
 Wrung from hearts forsaken; 
 Watch the dimmy, tear-set eye. 
 
 When the soul's o'ertaken 
 First with sorrow's bitter tide; 
 
 See the .sets of jewel, 
 That upon the tear-paths ride 
 
 From a cause so cruel ; 
 Hear the moans that cursed shame 
 
 Wrings when hearts are broken ; 
 Witness rising up the flame 
 
 Which conscious guilt betoken ; 
 
 And feel not to him 'tis wrong. 
 
 Shameful wiong, who, turning 
 Quick away with soulless song 
 
 From the anguisli burning. 
 Careless heeds the ruin made, 
 
 Feeling naught of pity? 
 Cold the heart that never paid 
 
 Debts of sun-lit Sympathy ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 Do you hear tho.se silver chimes, 
 Ringing out so loud and clear! 
 Yes; 'tis merry Christmas times. 
 Gayest times of all the year: 
 Cho.— For, Happy hearts and happy voices 
 Sing the songs that Christmas brings ; 
 And every little one rejoices 
 Over Santa Claus' things. 
 Let the children now alone. 
 
 Cheery words to them be said. 
 Blessed joys their spirits own. 
 
 As they dance in happy tread: 
 Once a year these gladsome scenes 
 
 Bring to them their welcome cheer. 
 Drive away what intervenes. 
 
 If it mar their pleasures dear: 
 Be one day in every year 
 
 Consecrated to their glee. 
 Christmas be the children's cheer. 
 Cheery as glad cheer can be: 
 
 BETTER THAN A ROSE. 
 A little rose came forth one day. 
 And blush'd in hues of early morn; 
 Its odors sweet were borne away. 
 Where lay one feeble and forlorn. 
 
 Its beauty made the spirit glad. 
 And help'd to cheer a lonely hour; 
 Its fragrance sooth'd away the sad 
 And dreary gloom with silent pow'r. 
 
 A fretful wind broke off its stem, 
 (Its hues impal'd, its odors ceas'd,) 
 And, dropping down, it soon became. 
 Of things that were, the very least. 
 
 So, too, a little child was born. 
 And smil'd its innocent delight 
 Through all the day, from rosy morn 
 Till deepen'd shadows made the night. 
 
 The mother-heart soon learn'd to pride 
 Each token ot its wak'ning pow'r; 
 But, like the rose, it drooped and died. 
 And cast its fragrance in an hour. 
 
 And yet, not like the rose which fell 
 And perish'd on the humid land, 
 This little one can rise and tell 
 The sweeter joys of a heav'nly band. 
 
 -© 
 
®- 
 
 368 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ELWOOD ELDENNE SMALL. 
 
 Born: Marshall, Mich., July 23, 1869. 
 Attending the high schools of Marshall and 
 Valparaiso.Elwood later took a literary course 
 in the University of Chicago, which institu- 
 tion conferred upon him the degree of Bach- 
 elor of Literature. A printer by trade, Mr. 
 Small drifted into ioiiniali^m and has pub- 
 
 ELWOOD ELDENNE SMALL. 
 
 lished various periodicals. His poems have 
 appeared in the Chicago Times and Inter- 
 Ocean, Cosmopolite of Cincinnati, and other 
 prominent papers. In 1880 a small collection of 
 the poems of Mr. Small were published under 
 the title of Rhymes with Reason and Without, 
 a work which received favorable mention. 
 
 )^ 
 
 THE "MIGHT HAVE BEEN." 
 Oil, the " Might Have Been " is a lovely path. 
 
 Decked out with the sweetest flowers; 
 It leads from the dust of the world's highway. 
 
 Thro' eternal blooms 
 
 And sweet perfumes. 
 To lovelier, holier realms than ours. 
 Weary and dark is the world's highway; 
 
 But the "Might Have Been " patli is fair. 
 Soft breezes blow o'er its pleasant lengtii, 
 
 And on either side 
 
 The lilies in pride 
 liaise their lovely heads in the fragrant air. 
 As I plod in tlic heat of the common way, 
 
 A wondrous vision I see 
 In the .. Might Have Been " of a dainty home. 
 
 And a woman fair, 
 Witli golden hair. 
 My wife, who is watching, half-beck'iiing me. 
 And I do not mourn that I leave her there. 
 
 Away from the dust and heat 
 Of the path I trod, with my burdensome load 
 Of trouble and pain. 
 While my throbbing brain 
 Aches, as I plod on with faltering feet. 
 No. It is far better as it is. 
 
 My life may be lonely and drear; 
 But " my wife," the sweetest, most precious 
 of sounds. 
 With an echo of love 
 From far above, — 
 From the heights of the " Might Have Been " 
 I hear. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 I sit to-night at my opened desk. 
 
 And turn its treasures o'er, 
 While my thoughts glide l)ack on airy wing 
 
 To daj's of the happy yore. 
 And among the reminders of fleeing j-ears, 
 
 I find,— Oh, pity me, 
 A token pale of a love long dead, 
 
 I ne'er thought more to see. 
 'Tis a lover's fond gift, a faded rose. 
 
 Pinned to a parchment white, 
 On which He wrote, "I'm coming, Maude, 
 
 Expect me bj' to-night. 
 To greet your waiting lips again. — 
 
 Your Harry." That is all. 
 But how my heart enraptured leapt 
 
 At Love's impassioned call! 
 And so he came ! And my memory paints 
 
 Again that summer day, 
 Witli its wealth of joy and happiness, — 
 
 Which I thought would last alway. 
 The words of love he spoke, I'd hoped 
 
 Forgotten long ago. 
 When first I learned their treachery. 
 
 Oh, God! The pain and woe. 
 For he counted glittering wealth and pow'r 
 
 Worth more than love, true and pure. 
 And in the pride of vanity, bowed 
 
 To the tempter's golden lure. 
 
 But I would not that his pretty wife 
 
 Sho\ild know the heart and vow 
 He broke, or guess at the crui'l wrong, 
 
 For she may be happy now. 
 So, I'll keep thee now, thou faded ro.se. 
 
 Lest, some day, in my ear. 
 Another may whisper his tale of l()\e. 
 
 And I bo tempted to hear. 
 But I'll look on thee, and my heart will turn 
 
 From his passionate words away. 
 For t lie lesson learned in tliat hour of pain 
 
 Cannot be forgot in a day. 
 
 -« 
 
©■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 369 
 
 -m 
 
 GEORGE F. NUTTING. 
 
 Born: Mason, N. H., Dec. 18, 1821. 
 The poems of Mr. Nuttiug have appeared for 
 the past quarter of a century in the Fitch- 
 burg Sentinel, Watchman, and various other 
 
 GEORGE FRANKLIN NUTIING. 
 
 publications. He has followed the occupation 
 of train inspector and car painter for over 
 thirty-five years. The poems of Mr. Nutting 
 have been well received. 
 
 »■ 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Here now I wait, witli staft' in hand. 
 Encamped quite near the beulah land. 
 Near life's evening twilight, which seems 
 Eeflected from some land of dreams. 
 Yellow and sere — I now appear 
 
 Worn and weary. Seventy-fifth year 
 
 At length comes round. These rolling years 
 
 Re-echo back their joys and tears. 
 
 Deep in my heart, a deeper joy 
 
 Sits there enthroned, than when a boy. 
 
 Witliiu my heart, e'en then, I found. 
 
 Oft cropping out a rhyme, most drowned. 
 
 Revive afresh, wlien manhood came. 
 
 Till rhymes and poems led to tame. 
 
 Her honors yet I never sought, 
 
 Led thus along, dame n.nture taught, 
 Or muses fair, to wield my pen. 
 Not sword or sabre, killing men — 
 
 Gift most supernal, maj' your rays 
 From muses shine, to guide my lays. 
 E'en through the remnant of my days. 
 Like autumn leaves, o'er hill and phiin. 
 Linked with tlie spring, the sun, the rain. 
 Oh! let me die; (and yet I may) 
 When autumn leaves are painted gay. 
 
 Silent emblems, yet how they fade — 
 Emblems of life, in light and shade, 
 Vainly 1 strive, and all iu vain. 
 Endeavoring to be young again. 
 Nature's voices, and reason, too, 
 Teach me that all things die, below, 
 Yet mortal man, in sin and strife, 
 
 From earth, puts on immortal life — 
 In our Redeemer's work sublime, 
 Vain man may share, in every clime; 
 E'en here I rest — here ends my rhyme. 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 Not a sound was heard, nor a bugle-horn 
 note. 
 As on a fair cot a fair couple were sleeping. 
 Save, now and then, a snore from the throat 
 Of the bridegroom, and bride in his keep- 
 ing. 
 'Twas a hot summer night, and their screen- 
 ing was thin. 
 And the gauze window curtains much thin- 
 er. 
 The window was up, and here they came in. 
 This serenade band, now led by a sinner. 
 
 He now bids them halt, and then sails around, 
 Takes notes, sings a song, and then up and 
 kisses 
 The bride — singing anon — she hears not the 
 sound. 
 Nor the band in its chorus of blisses. 
 
 By a toot of his horn, the singers advance — 
 The ramparts unguarded, the sleepers are 
 snoring ; 
 They strike up a march, as tliis couple in 
 trance 
 All the while this sweet music ignoring. 
 
 Like the zephyrs, they sing the best on the 
 wing, I 
 
 (I venture, their wings do the singing) — 
 On their arms, on their face, in their ears they 
 will sing. 
 And kiss with their bills, wliile chorus is 
 I'inging. 
 Oh ! sweeter than nectar that Juijiter sips. 
 These honey-moon sleepers — oli! goodness. 
 Saint Peters! 
 John ! look at my arms, my face and my lips— 
 We're covered completely with bites of "jnei-- 
 skeeters." 
 
 -® 
 
«- 
 
 -© 
 
 370 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DANSKE DANDRIDGE. 
 
 She commenced writing- verses at the age of 
 eight. Her first poem appeared in Godey's 
 Lady's Booli in 1885. Since that time she has 
 published several volumes of poems, among 
 which might be mentioned Joy and Other 
 Poems. Many of her poems have also appear- 
 ed in miscellaneous periodicals. 
 
 PLEASURE. 
 
 Alas! I have an ancient enemy, 
 Whose robes are tinsel, and her face a lie, 
 Men call her Pleasure, but I know her twin 
 Is Pain; their age. Remorse; their Shadow, Sin. 
 
 MOON. 
 We dart through the void: 
 
 We have cries, we have laughter: 
 The phantom that haunts us 
 
 Comes silently after. 
 This Ghost-lady follows. 
 
 Though none hear her tread; 
 On, on, we are flying. 
 
 Still tracked by our Dead; 
 By this white, awful Mystery, 
 
 Haggard and dead. 
 
 DESIRE. 
 Come, dear Desire, and walk with me; 
 We'll gather sweets, and rob the bee; 
 Come, leave the dimness of your room. 
 
 We'll watch, how since the morning rain 
 The spider sitteth at her loom. 
 
 To weave her silken nets again. 
 I know a field where bluets blow 
 
 Like frost from fingers of the night. 
 And in a sheltered coppice grow 
 
 Arbutus trailers, blush and white. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 We are akin, dear soul: 
 
 Akin as are the rainbow in the sky, 
 The runnel on the knoll; 
 
 We are akin in spirit, you and I. 
 Ah! how serene and bright! 
 
 You Stand with shining feet, 
 
 And lustrous arch complete 
 Of rounded life upon the cloudy height: 
 
 You catch the light of heaven and repeat 
 All its transcendent splendor in your face. 
 And beautify a place 
 With radiance of a glory and a grace. 
 
 Thus is your lite, O soul! 
 But I am like the stream 
 
 That hurries down the knoll. 
 As changeful as a drepti; 
 
 As restless and as wild 
 
 As an impatient child: 
 Yet thankful, dear, if in some tranquil space, 
 I may reflect the radiance of your face. 
 
 MAURICE THOMPSON. 
 
 Although Mr. Thompson Is chiefly known 
 through his prose, perhaps his best work is 
 poetry. Songs of Fair Weather are fresh and 
 breezy as a May morning; Between the Poppy 
 and the Rose is a gem ; and Ceres is also a very 
 fine piece of versification. He has been a 
 member of the Indiana legislature, and has 
 lately resigned the ofiice of State Geologist of 
 Indiana. 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 He is a Poet strong and true 
 Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew; 
 And like a brown bee works and sings. 
 With morning freshness on his wings. 
 And a gold burden on his thighs,— 
 The pollen-dust of centuries! 
 
 A FLIGHT SHOT. 
 
 We were twin Brothers, tall and hale. 
 
 Glad wanderers over hill and dale. 
 
 We stood within the twilight shade 
 
 Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade, 
 
 He said: " Let's settle, if we can. 
 
 Which of us is the stronger man. 
 
 We'll try a flight shot, high and good. 
 
 Across the green glade toward the wood." 
 
 And so we bent in sheer delight 
 
 Our old yew bows with all our might. 
 
 Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head. 
 
 Were poised a moment ere they sped. 
 
 As we leaned back a breath of air 
 
 Mingled the brown locks of our hair. 
 
 We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang. 
 
 As one away our arrows sprang. 
 
 Away they sprang; the wind of June 
 
 Thrilled to their softly whistled tune. 
 
 We watched their flight, and saw them strike 
 
 Deep in the ground slantwise alike, 
 
 So far away that they might pass 
 
 For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass! 
 
 Then arm in arm we doubting went 
 
 To find whose shaft was farthest sent. 
 
 Each fearing in his loving heart 
 
 That brother's shaft liad falliii short. 
 
 But who could tell by sucli a plan 
 
 Which of us was the stronger uianV 
 
 There at tlie margin of the wood, 
 
 Side by side our arrows stood. 
 
 Their red cock-feathers wing and wing. 
 
 Their ainV)er nocks still (luivering. 
 
 Then- points deep-planted where they fell 
 
 An inch apart and i)arallel! 
 
 We clasi)ed each other's hands; said he, 
 
 "Twin champions of the world are we 
 
 -ft 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 371 
 
 « 
 
 SAMUEL SLAYTON LUCE. 
 
 Born : Stowe, Vt., Feb. 1, 1819. 
 Since 1839 Mr. Luce has contributed both 
 prose and verse to the periodical press fren- 
 erally, and publislied in 1876 a volume of 
 poems in conjunction with his wife, wlio is 
 also represented on this page. In 1881 Mr. 
 Luce published a volume of poems entitled 
 Echoes of the Past, and six years later appear- 
 ed The Woodman. Since 1857 he has resided 
 in Wisconsin at Galesvllle, where he estab- 
 lished a newspaper in 1860. Five years later 
 he sold out the publication and was elected 
 county superintendent of schools, serving two 
 terms of two years each. Mr. Luce next edited 
 the Galesville Independent, which publication 
 he boujiht two years later, editing- the same 
 until 1889, when it was sold. 
 
 THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 
 I see him still, as erst of yoi-e, 
 
 With furrowed cheek and whitened brow; 
 Though he's been dead of years a score, 
 
 I see him stand before me now. 
 I seem to see his withered form 
 
 Beside his faithful white-laced mare, 
 With old brown saddle-bags behind. 
 
 Whose odor 'twas a grief to bear. 
 With chronic cough I hear him pass — 
 
 He digs his steed with vigorous heel. 
 Whose callous sides, from daily thumps. 
 
 Had long since lost the power to feel. 
 The constant grin upon his face — 
 
 His light "te-he!" at human pain. 
 As oft he wrenched the offending tooth. 
 
 Our memory ever will retain. 
 But deeply down within his breast. 
 
 Beneath a mail-like Milan steel, 
 'Twas said by those who knew him best, 
 
 " The doctor has a heart to feel." 
 'Twas in the old Green Mountain State, 
 
 'Mid deep, dread winter's drifting snow. 
 The evening hour was waxing late. 
 
 Some forty years or more ago. 
 We sat around the ample hearth. 
 
 Where maple logs were blazing bright; 
 Glad songs arose, and social mirth 
 
 Upon that dismal winter night. 
 The storm-cloud hung on Mansfield's brow — 
 
 The wind blew piercingly and chill; 
 Fierce through the leafless branches shrieked. 
 
 And roared along the flr-clad hill. 
 The deepening snow that all day long 
 
 Had fallen silently and fast. 
 Now densely filled the frosty air. 
 
 And piled In drifts before the blast. 
 And still we sat — the hours sped — 
 
 The storm increased with fearful might;— 
 
 8B 
 
 '• I hope," our tender mother said, 
 
 " No one's abroad this dreadful iiiglit." 
 Our mother's voice had hardly ceased. 
 
 When sudden through the opening door. 
 O'er drifts, the quaint old doctor sprung. 
 
 And forward fell upon the floor. 
 His brow was crusted o'er with ice. 
 
 And crisp and frozen was his cheek; 
 His limbs were paralyzed with cold; 
 
 For once, the doctor could not speak. 
 With genial warmth, and tender care. 
 
 He soon revived, and said: " Come Bill, 
 Be kind enougli to get my mare,— 
 
 I must reach Martin's, on the hill." 
 Then on again, o'er trackless snow. 
 
 Against the biting winter blast. 
 Without the hope of worldly gain. 
 
 Through mountain drifts, the doctor passed. 
 Far up the winding mountain road. 
 
 Through forest dark and blinding snow. 
 He reached the desolate abode 
 
 Of sickness, poverty and woe. 
 Long years have passed; yet oft I ask. 
 
 As howls the tempest in its might. 
 While sitting by the evening fire, 
 
 " What faithful doctor rides to-night?" 
 Yes, faithful; though full well I know 
 
 The world is sparing of its praise; 
 And these self-sacrificing men 
 
 But seldom tempt the poet's lays. 
 And yet, I trust, when at the last. 
 
 They leave the world of human strife. 
 Like him " who loved his fellow men," 
 
 Their names shall grace the Book of Life. 
 
 MRS. HANNAH GALE LUCE. 
 
 Born: Waterbury,Vt., Dec. 28, 1824. 
 Prior to her marriage this lady taught school. 
 Her poems have appeared quite extensively 
 in the periodical press, and in 1876 she pub- 
 lished, in conjunction with lier husband, a 
 beautiful volume of Poems, which has receiv- 
 ed favorable comment from press and public. 
 She was married to Samuel Slayton Luce in 
 1847, and now resides in Galesville, Wis. 
 
 COMING W^EST. 
 Frohi the grand majestic mountains. 
 
 Where the storm-cloud loves to rest- 
 From the deep, dellglitf ul valleys. 
 
 They are coming, coming W'est. 
 From those eastern towns and cities. 
 
 Come forth earnest, noble men — 
 Men of labor — men of learning. 
 
 That can guide the plow or pen. 
 Not alone from dear New England, 
 
 But from other lands they come. 
 
 -fiB 
 
m 
 
 372 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOKTS OF A5IEU1CA. 
 
 © 
 
 O'er the broad Atlantic's billows. 
 
 Here to find a peaceful home. 
 From green Erin, and brave Scotland — 
 
 From old England's pleasant shore. 
 And from Germany and Norway. 
 
 There are thousands coming o'er. 
 They are leaving home and country. 
 
 And the friends they love the best — 
 They are seeking wealth and freedom. 
 
 And shall find them in the West. 
 We extend a hearty welcome 
 
 To each brave, industrious hand; 
 He, -whose heart is true and honest, 
 
 Is right worthy of our land. 
 With united, true devotion. 
 
 Let us work with earnest wills; 
 All along our own broad prairies 
 ' And among our vales and hills; 
 We will build fair towns and cities. 
 
 Halls of wisdom — works of art- 
 Colleges, and schools and churches. 
 
 That shall honor mind and heart. 
 Here shall dwell a mighty people. 
 
 Poets, scholars, world-renowned: 
 Building up a vast Kepublic, 
 
 With a God-like glory crowned. 
 
 ♦-<-♦ 
 
 MRS. LYDIA M. S. MUDGETT. 
 
 Born: Canada, 1831. 
 The poems of Mrs. Mudgett have appeared in 
 the religious press and the local papers. She 
 is now a resident of Elmore, Vt. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 
 We're passing through a vale of tears; 
 We leave our sorrows, hopes and fears. 
 
 And go to wear a crown; 
 In that bright world our sinless feet 
 Shall walk the everlasting street 
 
 And by his side sit down. 
 The cadence sweet we list to liear, 
 A note or two strike on the ear 
 
 From that celestial plain. 
 Then Satan comes to make us doubt. 
 All pandemonium gives a shout; 
 
 We lose the magic strain. 
 The dark and chilling stream I fear. 
 And Jesus prayed when he was here 
 
 The cup iiiiglit be removed; 
 But came to do his Father's will, 
 A heavenly mission to fulfill 
 
 Of never-dying love. 
 O Jesus, take my every care. 
 And all my sorrows help me bear. 
 
 And let me lean on thee; 
 The heavenly liosts thy praises sing. 
 Give glory to their God and king 
 
 Through all eternity. 
 
 88 
 
 MRS. HARRIET N. FOSS. 
 
 Born: Limington, Me., 1819. 
 Quite a number of the productions of this 
 lady, both prose and poetry, have been pub- 
 
 MRS. HARRIET N. FOSS. 
 
 lished in the Maine newspapers. She has a 
 pleasant home in South Limington, wiiere she 
 is surrounded bj' numerous friends. 
 
 THE CRADLE. 
 
 In an attic stands a cradle brown ; 
 
 No longer swaying to and fro — 
 She wlio rocked it has long been gone — 
 
 Sleeping quietly under tlie snow! 
 As I pause, and sadly on it gaze. 
 
 In fancy I see my dear mother's- form 
 As when slie smiletl on each baby face. 
 
 Quietly nestled in pillows warm. 
 Each child, in turn, found here a rest,- 
 
 Each shared alike her loving care; 
 Now, all have left the parent nest. 
 
 While all liave silver in their hair. 
 Darling Father! Precious Mother! 
 
 We never shall forget your love. 
 God grant we m;iy again together 
 
 Dwell in his glorious home above. 
 Farewell little cradle!— ancient thing. 
 
 Gladly 1 gaze again on tliee; 
 Sacred tliou art. for thou dost bring 
 
 Holy, sweet memories unto me! 
 
 — » 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 373 
 
 -© 
 
 MRS. HELEN M. COMSTOCK. 
 
 Born: Chesterfield, N. H., Sept. 3, 1840. 
 The subject of this sketeli is a liidy of medium 
 lieig-lit aud form, possessing- a very pretty 
 flg-ure. Her sliapely liead is adorned witli 
 luxuriant dark and curij' liair, relieved by a 
 silvering of gray. She lius large, dark, ex- 
 pressive eyes, in whose liquid depths at times 
 uan be read lier innermost thoughts; a com- 
 plexion clear and bright; hands and feet small 
 
 MRS. HKLh.N .M. ( I ).\1S re )( K. 
 
 and of perfect mold, and is a handsome wo- 
 man, with a heart overflowing with love and 
 charity for the human race and a disposition 
 remarkable for affection and gentleness. It is 
 not to be wondered at that she gained the 
 gratitude and esteem of the poor and needy, 
 to whom she has ever been a faithful friend. 
 Mrs. Comstock is possessed of a good educa- 
 tion. Her intellect is clear, forcible, piquant 
 and is kept bright and active by constant stu- 
 dy. She has been a writer for the Chicago 
 Tribune, has contributed to The Religio-Phi- 
 losophical Journal, also to a Health Journal 
 published in this city, and other periodicals. 
 In her honored sphere of wife and mother she 
 presents a shining example to her sex. With 
 tender solicitude she ever seeks to secure the 
 comfort and happiness of her husband and 
 children, and her home at all times presents 
 an appearance of neatness and cheerfulness 
 that is gratifying and attractive to the family. 
 
 THOU'LT NEVER KNOW. 
 The years will come, the years will go. 
 While blessings from my heart will flow 
 To thee, my ever-cherished one. 
 Who art my life's immortal sun, 
 Drinking the dewy incense up 
 That rises from my soul's deep cup 
 In nectar sweet — I love thee so, 
 The half, alas! thou'lt never know. 
 Outflowing from the placid deeps 
 Of eyes where fairest soul-hght sleeps, 
 Gleamed such a wealth of tenderness. 
 In language words can ne'er express, 
 Unconsciously my yearning heart 
 Grew of thy very self a part; 
 And now I love thee— love thee so. 
 The half, alas! thou'lt never know. 
 E'en now the light, caressing touch 
 Of soft, white hand, loved over-much. 
 To music-waves my soul-chords thrill. 
 While dainty, dewy lips distill 
 The acme of unmeasured bliss 
 Love's crowning joy, thy perfect kiss; 
 And O I love thee — love thee so, 
 The half, alas! thou'lt never know. 
 Rare jewels at thy feet I fling. 
 My worshiped, crowned, and sceptred King. 
 Withholding naught, I gave my all. 
 Nor would I now the gift recall. 
 Altho' apart the long years through 
 We'll one day meet like sun and dew. 
 My hearts best love to thee will go ~ 
 The half, alas! thou'lt never know. 
 
 I watch no more across the street 
 The hurried tread of eager feet. 
 Hoping to catch one swift glance more. 
 From eyes that speak Love's mystic lore. 
 Gone is my sunny Summer-time; 
 My days are dark with frosty rime 
 And bitter cold, I miss you so — 
 But this my loved one cannot know. 
 
 I miss thy soft hand 'neath my curls. 
 And voice whose tones are liquid pearls, 
 And tender eyes — brow clear and white, 
 Where,grandly throned, sits Reason's light, 
 That speaks a soul intense to feel 
 Unmeasured depths of woe or weal, — 
 O soul most rare, I love thee so. 
 The half, alas ! thou'lt never know. 
 
 O treasured joys, so rare and sweet, 
 With untold happiness replete. 
 Such perfectness of Love's sweet art 
 Can come but once to any heart.. 
 Outflowing from the Love Divine, 
 To fill a life's most sacred shrine. 
 And O my own ! I love thee so. 
 The half, alas! thou'U never know. 
 But years will come, and years will go. 
 While blessings evermore will flow 
 
 -® 
 
m- 
 
 374 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 From out my life's deep chalice-cup, 
 As rich soul-nectar bubbles up 
 For thee to quatf, my love! my own! 
 Whose presence far too dear hath grown 
 For peace of mind, 1 love thee so, 
 The half, alas! thou'lt never know. 
 
 PAPA'S LITTLE GIRL. 
 Sweeter than spring violets. 
 
 Asleep 'mong mosses rare. 
 Is one wee, budding blossom. 
 
 The darling of mj' care. 
 None fairer hath the summer. 
 
 When softest zephyrs curl; 
 My fragrant opening rose-bud; 
 
 My own dear little girl. 
 Love's sweet dream of beauty wrought 
 
 Her life's bright natal hour. 
 And Love hath tinted richly. 
 
 The petals of my flower. 
 Guarded by affection's hand. 
 
 She grows in childish grace; 
 Heaven narrows down to me 
 
 In her dear little face. 
 Jewels hide in lips and ej'es, 
 
 Too costly for an Earl ; 
 Fairest gem in all Love's crown, 
 
 My pure and priceless pearl. 
 Deeper grows Life's mystery 
 
 In her rose-heart of bliss ; 
 Fondly all my being fold 
 
 My own to clasp and kiss. 
 Who would miss the strange, sweet 
 thrill. 
 
 Where baby-fingers rest? 
 Pure, exquisite happiness ! 
 
 Unknown, 'tis all unguessed. 
 Sweet life, clinging 'round my heart 
 
 Doth softly curl and curl. 
 Drinking dainty dews of love. 
 
 My own dear little girl. 
 Yearning light in tender eyes, 
 
 And hair with sunshine glossed. 
 Dream-like bringeth back to me 
 
 A something I have lost. 
 Star-gem, O, so proudly worn I 
 
 My treasured gift of Love. 
 Dear God ! slielter from life's storms 
 
 My bosom nestling dove. 
 
 ®- 
 
 IN THE DEPTHS. 
 O eyelids so heavy with weeping. 
 
 And tears that are yet unshed; 
 O heart, that so sorely is keeping 
 
 The half of its woe unsaid ; 
 O soul-life, so grievously wounded. 
 
 Thy moans doth thy hurt betray, 
 And de(!ps that no mortal lias sounded, 
 
 'Tis dark in thy depths to-day. 
 
 O bosom, with agony heaving, 
 O'erswept by the tide of wrong, 
 
 Beneath the dark billows, yet breathing 
 The low, sweet cadence of song; 
 
 In misery's dark thou art sailing 
 O'er wild, tempestuous waves, 
 
 No beacon the darkness unveiling. 
 No beckoning light that saves. 
 
 O sister! thro' sorrow made kindred. 
 Have courage! be patient and strong; 
 
 I, also, have stemmed the dark current 
 Of falsehood, injustice and wrong; 
 
 And know there is sure compensation 
 For all of life's troubles and ills, 
 
 Thro' time and earth's discords unchang- 
 ing. 
 Which destinj' ever fulfills. 
 
 O think not, in Love's dark Valhalla, 
 Thy spirit should still weep its dead. 
 
 Where all the past's bitter memories 
 Steal ever with phantom-like tread; 
 
 There are hearts whose love will not falter. 
 True souls that no dross can alloy. 
 
 According thee justly thy merits 
 The same thro' all trials and joy. 
 
 The flowers of thought breathe a fragrance 
 And healing naught else can impart. 
 
 With tenderest sympathies glowing. 
 If born in the true poet-heart. 
 
 O sensitive soul ! gather comfort. 
 And singing, grow hopeful and strong; 
 
 For only the beautiful spirit 
 Can triumph o'er sorrow in song. 
 
 And others, less gifted, shall bless thee. 
 And feel as they read less alone, 
 
 For lifting another life's burden, 
 A blessing will fall on thine own. 
 
 LOVE'S DELIGHT. 
 
 Wafting us on, o'er sea of gold. 
 In gem-lined barque of fairy mold: 
 Lingering long by happy isles. 
 Lighted with nature's choicest smiles; 
 Iiicense wafied from spice-groves rare, 
 Amber-tinted the sky and air. 
 Merging all sense in dreamy bliss, 
 Thrillingly sweet as rapture's kiss. 
 Airily skims our boat along. 
 Yet, jmusing to the Naiad's song. 
 Li(iui(i and iow, 'till lulU'd to rest. 
 Old Neptune's gently swelling breast; 
 Reflected in the waters briglil ; 
 Each hue of day's declining liglit. 
 Advancing o'er the sylvan scene. 
 Twilight traileth her mystic screen; 
 Only our barque disdains the night, 
 Nearing the shore of " Love's Deliglit." 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 375 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. MADELINE D. MORTON. 
 
 Born: New Orleans, La., Sept. 2, 1849.- 
 As a girl this writer was very studious, and 
 at au early ag-e contributed to such publica- 
 tions as the Home Journal of New York, Cel- 
 tic Magazine, Sunday Chronicle, New York 
 Sunday Mercury, Kedpath's Weekly and the 
 St. Louis Magazine. In all the poems of Mrs. 
 Morton every idea is expressed clear and 
 sparkling- as a diamond, and tlie pictures she 
 
 MKS. MADELINE D. MOKTON. 
 
 draws from nature stand out very distinct. 
 Before the close of the war this estimable 
 lady entered into a n^mantic marriage with 
 Dr. J. C. Morton, a young surgeon in the un- 
 ion army, and they have lived together ever 
 since in happiness and prosperity in the city 
 of New York. Mrs. Morton is a handsome 
 lady of high literary attainments, a fascinat- 
 ing conversationalist, and has ahost of ardent 
 friends and admirei'S. Her prose writings 
 are welcomed by tlie best literary publica- 
 tions, generally, however, api>earing over a 
 nom de plume or anonymously. Mrs. Morton 
 intends soon to prepare for permanent publi- 
 cation a collection of her beautiful poems. 
 
 ®- 
 
 NATURES SONG. 
 The streamlet whispers on its winding way: 
 
 " I scatter life and health as on 1 glide. 
 And fringe my banks with flow'rets gay, 
 
 While verdure blooms on every side. 
 
 I murmur to the earth all bleak and bare 
 
 My happy, rippling, gladsome tunc,— 
 Refresh and cool the dusky, burning air 
 
 Of summer's scorching heat in misty June." 
 The little bird with outspread fluttering 
 wings 
 And merry heart he gaily skims along; 
 Listen, for this is the song he sings: 
 
 " I cheer the mourner with my song, 
 I teach the drooping ones their ills to bear; 
 
 I lell the sinful from their ways to turn,— 
 To leave their eartlily dross and care — 
 
 They will need them not in funeral urn." 
 The painted flower all joyous cries: 
 
 '• How sweet the breath of my perfume — 
 My blended hues will g-ladden weary eyes. 
 
 And from the sorrowing lift their gloom. 
 Then come the humming bird and bee 
 
 To sip their All from out my cup; 
 The butterfly from harm will flee — 
 
 Within my bloom safe covered up." 
 The shining star set twinkling high 
 
 In the evening-'s crown a gem of light. 
 This lesson writes upon the sky : 
 
 •' He created us and all things right,— 
 He formed the worlds — a countless host — 
 
 And hurled them swinging into space; 
 At Heaven's gate we have our post 
 
 As beacons bright for human race." 
 And man in pride must not forget 
 
 To join this chorus raised on earth. 
 By bird, and stream, and flow'ret 
 
 And star of bright celestial birth. 
 Honored was He in this creation's past. 
 
 Being the soul, and tongue and heart, 
 'Til woman came ! the last but not the least 
 
 Of the Creator's will — the perfect part ! 
 
 WOMAN'S WORTH. 
 Beautiful things of every kind 
 
 God scatters with generous hand. 
 Charming the soul, delighting the eye, — 
 
 They are found in everj- land. 
 But woman's love — most precious of alll— 
 
 With the highest and holiest light — 
 Unwavering shines to illumine our lives. 
 
 Inspiring to good and the right. 
 We must delve very deep for the glittering 
 gems 
 
 That are buried so low in the mine; [bed 
 We must stir up the depths of old Neptune's 
 
 Where the pale pearls glimmering shine. 
 But woman's love — the queen of all gems I— 
 
 Is hidden from sight far down [truth,— 
 
 In her heart's deep well, with faith and 
 
 A jewel for life's bright crown. 
 In that richest of mines— a woman's heart — 
 
 The gleam of pure love is found. 
 Shedding its light o'er the suffering soul. 
 
 Spreading peace and all joys around; 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 370 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEKCIA. 
 
 Giving- forth to the world its treasures rare. 
 
 As a sister, a mother, or wife. 
 And leading- man upward to mystic heiglits 
 
 Through the weary pathways of life. 
 The gem of all worlds by the Deity wrought, 
 
 Woman's worth no man may know [harp — 
 'Til lie stirs the chords of her soul's sweet 
 
 When a song- of true love will flow, 
 And swell in music's low, rich tones 
 
 With harmonies g-randly divine. 
 Awakening- liis soul,bring-iDg better thoughts: 
 
 O, woman such power is thine! 
 
 IN MY KOOM. 
 'Tis midnight hour, and in my room 
 
 The lights are burning- soft and low, 
 The tree that stands my window near 
 
 Its leafy boughs waves to and fro. 
 A babe is sleeping- sweetly nigh. 
 
 Its tiny arms thrown out in rest — 
 An imag-e of pure innocence. 
 
 The truest and the very best. , 
 Alone I sit and think of one 
 
 With soft clear eyes and loving- smile, 
 Whose accents linger still with me. 
 
 And many weary hours beguile. 
 I can but think liow bleak and drear 
 
 My life would be without his love, 
 Which fills my soul with echoes sweet, 
 
 A faint resound from choirs above. 
 I feel a love as strong: and deep. 
 
 As full and vast as ocean's tides. 
 Where every pulse but for liim beats. 
 
 And all my bosom's faith abides. 
 I've listened to his 'witching words, 
 
 I've listened and 1 have believed; 
 Into my dreams a voice has come 
 
 And told me I am not deceived. 
 But, oh I I feel that if, perchance. 
 
 Should come the hour, with his love fled. 
 The world for me had nothing left, 
 
 For all my cherished hopes were dead. 
 But no! I've felt his dear heart's beat. 
 
 His strong- arms firmly 'round me press'd, 
 And when his eye's fond glance I meet 
 
 My doubting soul finds quiet rest. 
 In this sweet faith I'll firmly trust. 
 
 Should glad joys shine or st)rrows looin. 
 And pray we be unpartod when 
 
 Another life dawns through the toml). 
 
 ®- 
 
 BIRDS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Mirds, sweet birds, of lightsome wing. 
 
 How ye sport and spring! 
 Skimming over bank and brook, 
 Mossy marge and grassy nook, 
 
 Wliere you sit and sing. 
 
 THE REVEL OF THE WINTER WINDS. 
 Hark! liow tlie storm is raging without! 
 
 In tlie distance it clamoring swells! 
 All check and resistance it sternly defies. 
 
 Its voice the fierce contest foretells! 
 The trees shake bare branches in quivering 
 dread 
 
 As they bow their tall forms to the blast, 
 Or measure the earth with their fallen length 
 
 And with swift-drifting- snows are o'ercast. 
 Up from the depths of tlie darkness it comes 
 
 With a wail and a sobbing- shout. 
 Whispering, shrieking and sighing by turns — 
 
 The wild spirits of air have come out! 
 With a gusty bound, a rush and a whirl. 
 
 It tears tlirough the firs o'er the way. 
 With the moanings that only sore anguish 
 might know — 
 
 Hoarse mutterings like giants in the fray. 
 It piles up the snow in great, ghostly drifts; 
 
 The moon liides her face in despair; 
 Not one starry beam through the wild-rifted 
 clouds 
 
 Falls athwart the night's keen, cutting air! 
 Now away in tlie distance it shuddering dies 
 
 Like the sound of a lost soul's woe; 
 Then it gathers new impulse and violent 
 
 strength 
 • On its errand to blast and o'ertlirow. 
 What way will it take on its long journey 
 hence 
 
 To wander o'er lands distant far. 
 With its lion-like roar, or its soft sleepy snore. 
 
 Or clangor of storm-gods at war? [wild. 
 
 O'er mountain, and vale and dense forest 
 
 It hisses and sputters along. 
 Sweeping the lieights with impetuous force, 
 
 Or again sings a lullaby song. 
 Although with the hoarsest of voices it speaks 
 
 Where the long roll beats on the drear shore. 
 The wind blasts and waves croon a solemn re- 
 frain 
 
 Of eternity's vast Evermore. [war, 
 
 But still while the winds and the waves wage 
 
 And the snow king sweeps over the plain. 
 We hear His clear voice 'nii.l the fiercest of 
 storms. 
 
 Saying: " Hope till the dawn comes again !" 
 For to-morrow the snows from to-night's weird 
 storm 
 
 Will sparkle and flash in siinliglit, 
 A soft, Heecy robe o'er the earth's cold breast, 
 
 All gone the niaddi-eain of the nigiil. 
 And all will be peaceful lied fear and 
 alarm -- 
 
 We'll hear but lli(sleigli-bt>lls' swecl jingle. 
 And inside — the household all inei-i-y and 
 glad, 
 
 Gathered 'round the bright, cheery home 
 ingle. 
 
 ■* 
 
©■ 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 377 
 
 JONAH L. ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Sparta, Wis., Oct. 19, 1856. 
 After receiving his education Mr. Kobinson 
 taught school for several terms. He was ad- 
 mitted to the bar in 1882. Since 1883 he has 
 maintained a law otlice at Watertown, Dakota, 
 but has devoted much of his time to newspa- 
 per work and politics. He was editor of the 
 Dailv rmirier in 1SS4, and lias siiict- lui-ii ('en- 
 
 JONAH L. ROBINSON. 
 
 tral Dakota editorial correspondent of the 
 Minneapolis Tribune. Mr. Robinson was ap- 
 pointed secretary of the Territorial Railroad 
 and Warehouse Commission in 1889 by the 
 governor of Dakota. Both his prose and verse 
 have appeared in the press since his youth, 
 generally under the nameof Doane Robinson. 
 
 8&- 
 
 A DAKOTA YARN. 
 Which this talk of a teown that you mean to 
 
 survey 
 All over the kentry for miles around here, 
 Makes me rekerlect what I seed one day. 
 When we struck the big Muddy at the town 
 
 of Fort Pierre. 
 For Johnny and me with a big lot of rockets,— 
 That 's what we boys called the bright nuggets 
 
 and knots,— 
 Distributed 'bout incur pantaloon's pockets 
 Had come deown from the Hills to invest in 
 
 teown lots. 
 Bigteown out there? Well nowyer jes' talkin'. 
 
 Ye'll doubt what I say, but I hope to die 
 
 Ef we dident spend all day a walkin'. 
 
 To some lots deown teown a fake hoped we'd 
 
 buy. 
 An' we camped over night on a gumbo hill, 
 Whar that boomer who took us for tender- 
 feet 
 Said " Fellars fore long this very spot will 
 Be the busiest part of the principal street." 
 But Johnnj' nor me want nary spring chicken. 
 To be ketched and picked by a fakir like him; 
 So we took the next train and next day was 
 
 kickin' 
 Round Huron the capital teown on the Jim, 
 Whar a smooth-muzzled covey soon got us in 
 
 tow. 
 An' he puffed up the town with amazin' good 
 
 skill [go 
 
 As a place to invest, then proposed we should 
 To his west site addition on Capital Hill. 
 Well we tramped out with him, while he kept 
 
 a showin' 
 t"s objects of int'rest that we couldent see. 
 College and factory (in his mind) a growiu' 
 An' broad acres of parks with nary a tree. 
 At last we climbed up on a big cradle knoll, 
 An' it was jolly good fun to hear that rustler 
 
 tell, 
 O' the picteresk beauty and magnificent roll, 
 O' them lots he so badly wanted to sell 
 How the Capital-house of the future grand 
 
 state 
 Would be built on that very identical spot; 
 That the chance for investment wan't never 
 
 so great. 
 An' he showed us all over the neighboring lot 
 Where we found whar but lately had burned 
 
 a camp-tire. 
 An' the hull place to me looked familiarly 
 
 queer: 
 You can blast my tongue for a cussed liar 
 If it wan't the same we had camped on in 
 
 Pierre. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 Behold: the great, light-giving sun 
 Arose above the western hills. 
 While eastern skies, with stars bestud, 
 No promise gave of breaking day. 
 Its glowing face dispelled the gloom 
 And filled the land with light and life; 
 And while its warm breath bathed the earth. 
 Rich harvests, planted in the morn. 
 Were ripened at the midday bell. 
 But trait'rous weeds, grown rank and foul 
 In the dank, dark, late-ended night. 
 Withered and dried beneath its heat. 
 And when the well-spent day was done. 
 The rankest weeds of treason slain. 
 The rich sheaves safely garnered in. 
 The great sun found immortal rest. 
 
 -^ 
 
"5- 
 
 LOOAL AND NATIONAL FOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. JOSEPHINE B. CRUMP. 
 
 BORs: Bloott Co^ Texx.. Sept. la, 1S41. 
 The poems of Mrs. Crump have appeared 
 quite extensively in the local press. She was 
 
 -^v - r ' i"; '' c^ -n'-^ ■' ^TV- 
 
 MRS. JO>EPHI>"E B. CF. 
 
 loiiows the professioti of an att._ :•;--> ■.: Har- 
 rison. Ark. In person Mrs, Crump is a linle 
 above the average height, rather robust, with 
 li^t- brown hair and blue eyes. 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 When timid lips shrink back from words 
 
 That frame in prayer, the soul's desire. 
 When utter weakness wards off speech 
 
 That interchange of thoughts require; 
 When all we cannot understand. 
 
 The sudden grief, the staggering blow 
 May just be left in the kind hand 
 
 Thiit finds a blessing in our woe. 
 The soothing sense of this dear way 
 
 Markted out by him who loves us best. 
 Must needs be full of love and faith 
 
 In attitude of gracious rest. 
 And the full value of this hush, 
 
 Tl»e confidence that baffles speech 
 Is more of eloquence to him 
 
 Than human ken can ever reach. 
 The ut - rs and heart throbs. 
 
 Are 1 fn>ni divine eyes. 
 
 But wuii ..i 1-n.iunic touch 
 
 Expand in more than speech implies. 
 
 And as the hxuuan soul communes 
 In silence with this courily Guest, 
 
 The baser self is ushered out— 
 The message brings its promised rest. 
 
 THE GREAT REPFBIJC. 
 With its mission banner flying 
 
 In love"s service to and fro. 
 This grand boat with prow uplifted. 
 
 Breaks the rippling waters flow- 
 As it laves the Mississippi. 
 
 While the waves on either baud 
 Kjss the banks that dimly mirror. 
 
 Charm of shore or shining strand. 
 
 On its track of mercy driving, 
 
 Sound of oar and splash of wave 
 Blend in harmony with voices 
 
 Long immured in living grave. 
 As the spirits seeking Balsam. 
 
 That kind nature hides so well 
 In her shady haunts and woodlands. 
 
 Are relaxed by pleasure's spelL 
 
 On it bounds with freight and tonnage. 
 
 Gathered from lifes lowliest ways. 
 Steering to the goal where Freedom 
 
 Like a psalm is sung in praise. 
 In the odor of the flowers. 
 
 In the witchery of the wood. 
 Where the trees in mock defiance 
 
 Have for ages grandly stood. 
 
 We who woo the morning zephyrs. 
 
 And with dewdrops glad our eyes. 
 Never dream how bare existence. 
 
 In brick wall and pavement lies. 
 Where the chirp and song of warbler. 
 
 Where the leaping of the stream 
 And the breath of nature's wildings 
 
 nil alone the feverish dream. 
 While we laud great deeds of power. 
 
 That have quelled the Giant Wrong. 
 Let this mission of the hour 
 
 Swell with fullness every song. 
 Tor the hands that dare to rescue 
 
 Victims from misfortune's blast. 
 Stamp tby time not even canceled) 
 
 Records sealed by heaven at last. 
 
 A MOTHERS SOLTLOQUT. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Then I watched the bud of your spirit 
 
 Unfold, as hour by hour 
 It developed in beauty and sweetness. 
 
 And rich in the promise of flowers. 
 Then I caught your soft, soothing prattle. 
 
 And laugiied at your claiming as right. 
 With hands all dimpled and outstretched 
 
 Everything that came in your sight. 
 
 5- 
 
 fB 
 
©- 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AJfV NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. IDA V. JARVIS. 
 
 Born: Washingtox, D. C, May 20, 1844. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 Gospel Advocate, Nashville Republican and 
 the periodical press i^enerally. Siie was mar- 
 
 MKS. IDA V. JARVIS. 
 
 ried in 1866 to J. J. Jan-is, a lawyer and bank- 
 er of Fort Worth, Texas, where she now re- 
 sides. The poems of Mrs. Jarvis have always 
 been well and favorablj- received. 
 
 51- 
 
 SUNSHIXE. 
 There's sunshine o'er the mountain 
 
 That drives the mist away. 
 That pours a flood of glory 
 
 Adown the rocks so gray. 
 And lights each darksome crevice 
 
 With many a cheering ray. 
 There's sunshine o'er the forest 
 
 That makes the tree-tops glow. 
 With light from thousand restless leaves. 
 
 Where summer breezes blow. 
 And glancing through the leafy maze 
 
 Lights up the sward below. 
 There's sunshine on the river 
 
 O'er many a gloomy cave. 
 Where pure pelucid waters 
 
 Tlie pearly pebbles lave. 
 And glowing, glittering glory 
 
 Crowns every crested wave. 
 O'er land and sea there's sunshine. 
 
 A beaming, brightening thing. 
 
 A free and heaven-born blessing. 
 
 For peasant aad for king; 
 As flowers for all in every clime. 
 
 Their blooming beauty bring. 
 There's sunshine glad and glowing. 
 
 In this happy heart of mine. 
 Where voices loving, cheering. 
 
 Make all with pleasure shine. 
 And sunny smiles from those I love 
 
 Their brightest garlands twine. 
 Tliere's sunshine o'er my spirit 
 
 That Cometh from above. 
 And oft methinks there comes with it 
 
 The holy heaven-sent dove. 
 That whispers in its spirit voice 
 
 That God and Heaven are love. 
 Thank Heaven for the sunshine. 
 
 O'er earth, and heart, and soul. 
 And may that spirit radiance 
 
 In glorious billows roll. 
 Till every heart with blessed light 
 
 Grows warm from jKile to pole. 
 
 AX INVITATION. 
 Come nearer, sweet warbler, dont stay in the 
 
 tree. 
 Come build in the woodbine and sing here for 
 
 me. 
 Its bright, blooming tendrils will twlne'round 
 
 th> nest. 
 And night-winds so sweetly will soothe thee 
 
 to rest ; 
 They'll rock thee and lull thee through all the 
 
 night long. 
 If thou wilt repay them, wild minstrel, with 
 
 song. 
 Then come to the woodbine that climbs by my 
 
 door. 
 Thy voice will bring gladness till summer is 
 
 o'er. 
 The dove, ever plaintive, may stay in the 
 
 grove. 
 Too sad in her lay, and too murmuring her 
 
 love; 
 Though sweet the low cadence, there's grief in 
 
 her song 
 As if 'twere bewailing unkindness and wrong. 
 Each heart, when she sings, can but echo her 
 
 sadness. 
 But songs such as thine ever fill us with glad- 
 ness. 
 Then come to the woodbine, red berries and 
 
 flowers. 
 Will shade thy loved nest through the long 
 
 summer hours. 
 Though others may boast of a plumage more 
 
 bright. 
 Though colors more gorgeous may dazzle the 
 
 sight. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 380 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 Thy swift wing-'s too somber to glow in the 
 sun. 
 
 Yet thou art still peerless, thou musical one. 
 
 With voice rich as thine not a hue can com- 
 pare, 
 
 As it g'ushes in song so hewild'ring' and rare. 
 
 Then come to the woodbine, 'twill make thee 
 a home 
 
 So blooming: and lovely thou'lt ne'er wish to 
 roam. 
 
 Come on, sweet enchantress, no longer delay. 
 
 The woodbine is beckoning: this bright sum- 
 mer day — 
 
 Just see how it spreads out its long, trailing- 
 arms 
 
 And offers a shelter abounding in charms. 
 
 Then^when the bright May flowers in loveli- 
 ness come. 
 
 The clematis, too, will creep up to thy home. 
 
 'Twill twine with the woodbine full many a 
 bloom, 
 
 And yield thee for incense the rarest per- 
 fume. 
 
 Then come to the woodbine that climbs by my 
 
 door. 
 Come with thy gay carols, again I implore. 
 Come sing 'mid the vine-leaves,— too long 
 
 you've been roaming. 
 Come haste to my lattice and sing till the 
 
 gloaming-. 
 Then when the pale night queen in beauty 
 
 shall shine 
 Thou'lt warble lier praise from thy home in 
 
 the vine. 
 Forever, sweet minstrel, I'd have thee here 
 
 sing. 
 Forever I'd have thy wild melodies i-ing. 
 
 8B- 
 
 THE WATER LILY -QUEEN OF THE 
 
 LAKE. 
 On the limpid glassy waters. 
 
 Sheltered in by many a brakelet. 
 Reigns the queen of Flora's daughters. 
 
 On a crystal inland lakelet. 
 Where the bending, weeping willow 
 
 Forms a canopy of green. 
 There on many a mimic billow- 
 Floats the fairy water queen. 
 Rules she in her waxen beauty 
 
 By the magic i)ower of love; 
 All lier subjects pay their duty, 
 
 'Round about, beneath, above; 
 Rend to lior, who in the sunliglit 
 
 Cheering them with beaming smile, 
 Rreathing fragrance tiirougli the dark night, 
 
 Does their slumber soft beguile. 
 Where the babbling water gushes 
 
 Ry t lie (i;unii and miry lianks, 
 Tliiekly 'lonnd lier stand lier rushes 
 
 With their speais in serried ranks — 
 
 Watching there to ward off danger. 
 
 From her in the willow-s shade. 
 Quick to pierce the daring ranger 
 
 Who her kingdom would invade. 
 Rushes, such as guarded Moses 
 
 From the current of the Nile, 
 As the thorns protect the roses 
 
 From the spoiler's crafty wile. 
 
 See behind her in the distance. 
 
 Basking on a floating- log. 
 Quick to bring his queen assistance 
 
 'Gainst marauders from the bog, 
 Basks a scaly alligator 
 
 Borne along- above the flood. 
 Fierce as Roman Gladiator 
 
 Thirsting for the sight of blood. 
 
 In this monster we discern a 
 
 Likeness to the Hydra dire 
 Which, within the Marsh of Lerna, 
 
 Hercules destroyed with fire. 
 Or the Dragon who would grapple 
 
 With the hero in his might. 
 When he stole the golden apple 
 
 From the daughters of the Night. 
 
 'Round her feet are fishes gliding 
 
 Through the liquid glassy waves. 
 Who through all the night were hiding 
 
 In their silent, darksome caves. 
 How thej' make the wavelets quiver. 
 
 Bearing- messages afar. 
 Flashing outward toward the river. 
 
 Flashing like a shooting star. 
 
 Butterfly with wings all glowing 
 
 With their spots of beauty bright. 
 Comes while summer winds are blow-ing. 
 
 Glancing in the mellow light. 
 Bearing words of love and greeting 
 
 From the blushing- hill-side rose. 
 Then some gay-hued comrade meeting 
 
 O'er the meadow green he goes. 
 
 Hark! there came a southern minstrel. 
 
 Who, when winter's reign is o'er. 
 Comes to praise in song his mistress. 
 
 Like some gallant t roubatlour; 
 Clad in dazzling, glittering plumage 
 
 Borrowed from t lie .southern sky. 
 Rivaling in brilliant colors 
 
 E'en the rainbow's richest dye. 
 
 Cloaked in green and crimson vested. 
 
 Came the love-struck humming bird. 
 And upon her bosom rested 
 
 Breathing many a loving word. 
 Telling her of all his travels. 
 
 Why lie thus had tarried long. 
 And liis tales of love uiu-avels 
 
 With his tireless wing of song. 
 
 See the cow so sleek and glossy 
 Lowing homeward o'er the lea. 
 
 -® 
 
a& 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKllIOA. 
 
 381 
 
 * 
 
 m- 
 
 With her bell so sweetly sounding-, 
 
 Stops beside the mimic sea; 
 Stops awhile the waters qu;ifBng 
 
 With her soft and velvet lips. 
 Waves around her feet are laughing-, 
 
 While she in their coolness dips. 
 Then she lows her oblig-ation 
 
 To the waters and their queen, 
 Till the tintinnabulation 
 
 Faintly dies far o'er the g-reen. 
 
 As the evening: shades g-row longer. 
 
 From the ferns within the glade. 
 Frogs, with voices sounding stronger 
 
 Croak their ipighty serenade. 
 Serenade the lily sleeping 
 
 On the bosom of the lake. 
 While the stars their watch are keeping 
 
 With bright eyes all wide awake. 
 
 Thus upon the pearly lakelet 
 
 Passing- days in love and sport. 
 Sheltered in by many a brakelet. 
 
 Dwell the Lily and her court. 
 They in every thought are loyal 
 
 To their dainty, snowy queen — 
 She well fitted for the royal 
 
 Rule o'er such a fairy scene. 
 
 Egypt's lovely star-eyed daughter. 
 
 When her scented silken sails 
 Flashed on Cydnus' glowing water. 
 
 Breathing perfdmeon the gales. 
 Might have envied thee, sweet flower. 
 
 In thy purity and grace; 
 Thou mighfst smile at all the power 
 
 Which wo in her liistory trace. 
 
 Solomon in all his glory. 
 
 With his palaces and gold. 
 Famous in Judea's story. 
 
 With his riches still untold. 
 With his robes of glowing carmine. 
 
 Brought in ships across the sea. 
 With his purple and his ermine 
 
 Never was arrayed like thee. 
 
 All his pomp and all his splendor 
 
 Only nourished human pride, 
 Thou in lowliness art grander 
 
 Hocked upon the gleaming tide, 
 For thy robe of snowy whiteness 
 
 Was the work of God's own loom, 
 Dewdrops form thy crown of brightness. 
 
 And thy breath is rare perfume. 
 Tlien if God so clothe the Lily 
 
 Blooming in the forest wild. 
 Never in His goodness will He 
 
 E'en forget his humble child; 
 But through all life's devious mazes, 
 
 He, with His all seeing eye. 
 Guards us 'round as down He gazes, 
 
 From his throne beyond the sky. 
 
 CHARLES CHASE LORD. 
 
 Born: South Bekwick, Me., July T, 184L 
 After receiving his education Charles devot- 
 ed himself to the christian ministry, but not 
 finding that vocati<jn congenial,he has mainly 
 given his time to journalistic and literary 
 pursuits. . The poems from the pen of this 
 writer cover a wide range of subjects, and 
 have received recognition in the leading per- 
 iodicals of America. Mr. Lord has for many 
 years resided at Hopkinton, N. H., where he 
 is now engaged in compiling a local history. 
 
 UNDER THE STARS. 
 
 Look up, sweet fi-iend, the silent orbs behold. 
 The restless eyes that watched in other 
 years 
 Each mortal step, and to sagos told 
 
 The secret end, of anxious hopes and fears. 
 Day droops in shadows, but the faithful 
 night [eyes 
 
 Smiles on the sleeping world and lures our 
 With cheerful gleams of ever present light. 
 
 Like life that tastes of death but never dies. 
 Thought glooms for fate, but love's bright 
 star imparts 
 A message like the mystic word of old; 
 Above earth's dark, it beams to tell our 
 hearts. 
 Ye boat through time and change and ne'er 
 grow cold. 
 
 ALTER EGO. 
 Though earth is dark, and cold, and bare, 
 
 Mj' soul ignores the gloomy vast. 
 For far beyond the haunts of care. 
 
 My other self long since has passed. 
 Though bright, warm fields of leaf and bloom. 
 
 And fruitage under hiippy skies. 
 My other self, in amplest room. 
 
 E'er on some thankful mission flies. 
 So grief with hope will now abide. 
 
 And pain its wounded heart restore. 
 Till ruthless time and sense divide 
 
 My other self and me no more. 
 
 REVERIES. 
 
 I sit beside the restless sea,— 
 
 A bird within the wood sings •• willow!" 
 And mj' heart for a song is sad in me, 
 
 And my soul tossed like a billow. 
 I sit beside the restless sea, — 
 
 The bird withiTi the wood sings •' willow!" 
 But my heart for the song is glad in me, 
 
 And my soul swims like the billow. 
 I sit beside the restless sea, — 
 
 A bird within the wood sings •• willow!" 
 O my heart for a song is changed in me. 
 
 And my soul shifts like a billow ! 
 
 « 
 
®- 
 
 382 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAIi AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 GEORGE B. GRIFFITH. 
 
 Born: Newburypokt, Mass., Feb. 28, 1841. 
 As the editor and compiler of The Poets of 
 Maiue, George Bancroft Griffith has become 
 well known. He has written some beautiful 
 poems that have received publication in 
 
 GEORGE B. GRIFFITH. 
 
 Youth's Companion, St. Nicholas, and other 
 equally prominent journals. He is now en- 
 gaged on a new work. The Poets of Massachu- 
 setts, which will be published in 1890. 
 
 LILACS. 
 Begemmed with April rain 
 They nodded in the lane. 
 The fragrant, purple clusters, the lilacs loved 
 
 of yore; 
 With gentle touch again 
 They tap the window pane. 
 Those sprays that waved so gracefully beside 
 
 our cottage door! 
 
 THE SPHINX OF THE WHITE HILLS. 
 Nature's grand sphinx art thou, O man of 
 
 stone. 
 With face colossal gazing from thy throne; 
 Not as the fabled monster stern and cold. 
 Though in wild majesty thou reign'st alone. 
 But set in splendid spheres 
 Of flame when morn appears. 
 Sublime for aye, unrivaled and world-old! 
 No iron circlet shall thy brow offend, — 
 
 Dawn's royal robe shall trailing splendors 
 
 lend. 
 And flaming leaves their golden glory show. 
 And light ineffable around thy forehead 
 
 blend; 
 Thy startling beauty free 
 Forever more shall be, 
 Wliile silver fountains sing far, far below. 
 Nor tell me, worldling, that yon granite face. 
 Patterned by God, shall crumble from its 
 
 place — 
 That figure spanned by Eden's dazzling light! 
 Worshiped with awe by earliest unknown 
 
 race, 
 When spring's first breath was blown 
 Where holy flowers shone, 
 And starry lamps were hung o'er Chaos' 
 
 night! 
 Molded mute offspring from the solid rock, 
 Man's art with rugged grandeur e'er to mock; 
 With pulseless heart, yet speaking evermore 
 Of peace, of perfect rest; 
 Soothing each troubled breast 
 VV^hile light in satin sandals hovers o'er. 
 
 m- 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Though gathered are the sheaves, 
 
 Still glow the crimson leaves 
 
 By many a stream, my darling; and the sun. 
 
 Where the waves are all a-quiver, 
 
 Shows a pathway o'er the river. 
 
 When the dapple shades remind us day is 
 
 done. 
 Hark ! robin's flute is heard. 
 Though no other summer bird 
 Dares to linger, Bessie, darling, by the pool; 
 What care we though the rose 
 Nor the lily longer blows. 
 And the dreamy noontide hour is growing 
 
 cool ; 
 The shimmering meadow, still. 
 The woodland and the hill. 
 Have charms that woo us, darling, none the 
 
 less ; 
 And till sudden change and spell 
 Blight tlie shrines we love so well, 
 Will the after summer soothe us, cheer and 
 
 bless! 
 
 OUR PUREST .TOYS. 
 Our joys may oft be tender shadows 
 
 That grief alone had power to cast. 
 Yet shine, as shine in summer meadows. 
 
 The bright drops when the cloud has past 
 
 SELF SACRIFICE. 
 The coral worker but an atom gave 
 
 To help iiprear tlie pile lie ne'er could see. 
 But now it stands above the top-most wave. 
 
 He has a part in temples yet to be! 
 
 ■« 
 
«■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 383 
 
 -® 
 
 JOHN A. WILSTACH. 
 
 Born : Washington, D. C, July 14, 1824. 
 As lawyer, ling-uist, poet, Mr. Wilstach ha."? 
 earned quite a reputation. After receiving 
 his education, he studied law and began prac- 
 ticing that profession in Indiana in 1850. For 
 ten years he was a master in chancery, and in 
 1867 was sent to Paris as one of the United 
 States commissioners to tlie Paris universal 
 exiiDsitiiiii. Dinini; isr,';-';:.' Mi-. Wilstach was 
 
 JOHN A. WILSTACH. 
 
 commissioner of immigration for the state of 
 Indiana. His orations and speeches have fre- 
 quently appeared in pamphlet form, and his 
 numerous published works have been well re- 
 ceived. A volume of Mr. Wilstach's original 
 poems is in process of collection, and will be 
 issued in book-form in 1890. Mr. Wilstach has 
 gradually withdrawn from the practice of law, 
 and devotes his time to literary study and tlie 
 management of liis private estate at La 
 Fayette, Indiana, where he now resides. 
 
 ® 
 
 FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE 
 ^NEID. 
 
 THE SHADE OF ANCHISES DECLARES TO yENEAS 
 THE FUTURE HISTORY OF ROME. 
 
 "Wlio thee shall leave unmentioned Cato 
 
 great? 
 Or Cossus? Who the Gracchi's race? Or who 
 Tlie Scipios grim, twin thunderbolts of war 
 And Libya's scourge? Fabricius strong, 
 
 though poor? 
 
 Or thee, Serranus, from thy furrows called? 
 Or where drive ye, great Fabii, wearied me,— 
 Ye, of whom thou the greatest, art the one 
 Who by delay to us the state restored? 
 More softly others may bright bronzes mold. 
 Until tliey seem to breathe, and better bring, 
 As freely I concede, from marble carved. 
 The living features forth, and better plead 
 The cause, and with apt lines the measures 
 
 trace 
 Of heaven, and tell where rise and set the 
 
 stars ; 
 But thou, O Roman, mind thee the great arts 
 Of government to learn. These shall be thine. 
 Thou Shalt thine empire on the peoples lay. 
 Thou shalt the ways of peace unto them teach. 
 Thou shalt the conquered spare, but shalt 
 
 light down 
 The proud contemners of thy state and laws." 
 Father Anchises thus had said; and then, 
 To those who heard and marveled at his 
 
 speech. 
 These further words he added thereunto: 
 
 FROM THE THIRD BOOK OF THE 
 INFERNO. 
 
 VIRGIL AND DANTE REACH THE GATEWAY OF 
 HELL AND BEGIN THEIR PROGRESS 
 THROUGH THE LOWER WORLD. 
 
 "Through me are found the grieving city's 
 walls, 
 Tlirough me the way is to eternal pain. 
 Through me those lost are never found 
 again. 
 Justice the founder urged of my grim halls 
 And Power Divine which reared the courts 
 
 above 
 And Wisdom Infinite and Primal Love, 
 Save things eternal, was created naught 
 Before myself, eternal I and drear. 
 All hope surrender, ye who enter here." 
 Mine eye the legend's sombre colors sought 
 Above a gateway's lofty arch of gloom; 
 "The meaning's hard, it speaks an awful 
 doom," 
 I to my Master said ; but he, as one 
 Prepared,made answer: " All distrust lay by, 
 Within thine heart let slavish terror die. 
 For we the place whereof I spoke have won. 
 Where we the souls shall see in misery tost 
 Who God, the mind's best dower and prop, 
 have lost." 
 His looks were looks of joy, his welcome hand 
 Reached forth for mine, its clasp brought 
 
 sweet relief. 
 And into secret things led me my chief. 
 Her wailings deep and screams and sighs 
 Stirred all the starless air of that black deep, 
 Whereat at first I could not choose but weep. 
 Tongues diverse, deafening yells, and horror's 
 cries. 
 
 ■© 
 
* 
 
 384 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 JOHN PARKER. 
 
 Born : England, Jan. 1", 1822. 
 Settling in Pennsylvania in 1849, Mr. Parlier 
 in 18('4 went to Mahanoy City, edititifi- Anthra- 
 cite Monitor, the organ of the miner's and la- 
 borer's association of Pennsylvania. In 1873 he 
 boug-ht tlie Malianoy Valley Record, which he 
 
 JOHN PAltKER. 
 
 published as a wt^ekly paper until 1877. 
 when it was changed into a tri-weekly, of 
 which he is still the sole publisher iind pro- 
 prietor. Mr. Parker has taken an active part 
 in all labor movements, and served four years 
 in the Pennsylvania senate, from 1878 to 1882. 
 
 HOLD UP YOUR HEAD. 
 
 Hold up your head! what need to cower? 
 
 Hold up your face to view the sun; 
 For tli(j' your worldly wt-allh b(< jioor. 
 
 You've got the glorious form of man. 
 Let that not bend, l)ut proud and high, 
 Erect your head toward the sky. 
 Hold up your head! that gaudy thing 
 
 With all its gorgeous pomp and show; 
 That boiirs the tarnished name of king; 
 
 To which base slaves bow down so low. 
 Without the toys that gild it now. 
 Is only flesh and blood like you. 
 Hold up your head! 'tis no disgrace 
 
 To show a visage marked with toil; 
 Far better sweat-drops wet thy lace 
 
 Than live by rapine fraud or guile. 
 Thou'rt useful to the world, and thou 
 Can'st well afford to lift thy brow. 
 Hold up your head!— move boldly on. 
 
 To right or left — turn not aside; 
 Keep honor's beauteous path and sfiuu 
 
 The devious ways of worldly pride; 
 Then those who may thy actions scan 
 Will say: " Behold an honest man!" 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 When worldly sorrows o'er us throw 
 
 Their lowering clouds so dark and drear; 
 How sweet it is to feel — to know. 
 
 That friendly hearts are beating near. 
 That friendly smiles, amid the gloom. 
 Shines forth the darkness to illume. 
 How sweet to know that other tears 
 
 Are mixed with ours — that other eyes 
 Are moist with .sympathetic cares; 
 
 Tlmt friendly breast will heave with sighs 
 When ours pulsate with pain or grief. 
 And share the load or give relief. 
 Friendship! thy genial smile doth throw 
 
 A beauteous radiance o'er life's path; 
 Makes pleasures greater, lightens woe. 
 
 And gilds the dreary hour of death 
 With heavenly beams that softly shed 
 Their light around our dying bed. 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 In the silvery moonlight 
 
 Sporting meri'ily. 
 Dancing on the green sward 
 
 'Neath the old oak tree; 
 Little, laughing fairies. 
 
 Ever blithe and gay. 
 Reveling through the midnight 
 
 Fritter life awiiy. 
 Drinking from the dewdrops 
 
 That hang upon the flowers; 
 Swinging on the green leaves. 
 
 In the shady bowei's; 
 And wlieii smilingmorning 
 
 Sends the night away. 
 Deep among the rose leaves. 
 Sleeping through the day. 
 Happy, sportive creatures. 
 
 Free from every care; 
 Life to them is joyousness, 
 
 Ever bright :ind fair. 
 Oh, to be a fairy! 
 
 Krolicksome and g;iy. 
 Underneath tlie moonbeams 
 Dancing life away. 
 
 JESSIE LOVE. 
 Oh, sweet art tliou my Jessie Love, 
 
 As flowers tliat grow in May; 
 As birds that sing at early (lawn 
 
 Upon the pearly spray: 
 
 »■ 
 
 -« 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 385 
 
 -* 
 
 EDMUND C. STEDMAN. 
 
 Born: Hartford. Conn., Oct. 8, 1833 
 
 In 1849 he entered Yale college. Two years 
 later he received first prize for his poem of 
 Westminister Abbey. He edited various news- 
 papers and contributed to Vanity Fair, Put- 
 nam's Monthly, Harper's Magazine, and other 
 periodicals. 
 
 The writings from his pen during the last 
 quarter of a centurj- have been numerous. In 
 1884 a Household Edition of his poems was pub- 
 lished. Mr. Stedman is now engaged in editing 
 a Library of American Literature, to be com- 
 pleted iu ten volumes, half of which have 
 already appeared. 
 
 Thou art mine, 1 have made thee mine own,- 
 Heneeforth we are mingled forever: 
 But in vain, all in vain I endeavor. 
 
 Though round thee my garlands are thrown 
 
 And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone. 
 
 To master the spell that alone 
 My hold on thy bemg sever. 
 
 KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. 
 
 So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,— 
 The story of Kearny who knew not to yield ! 
 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, 
 and Birney, 
 Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 
 Where the red volleys poured, where the clam- 
 or rose highest. 
 Where the dead lay in clumps through the 
 dwarf oak and pine. 
 Where the aim from the thicket was surest and 
 Highest,— 
 No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole 
 line. 
 
 When the battle went ill, and the bravest were 
 solemn. 
 Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still 
 held our ground. 
 He rode down the length of the withering 
 column. 
 And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a 
 bound: 
 He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the 
 powder,— 
 His sword waved us on, and we answered the 
 sign: 
 Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh 
 rang the louder, 
 "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the 
 whole line!" 
 
 How be strode his brown steed ! How we saw 
 his blade brighten 
 
 In the one hand still left,— and the reins in 
 his teeth! 
 He laughed like a boy when the holidays 
 heighten. 
 But a soldier's glance shot from his visor be- 
 neath. 
 Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 
 Asking where to go in,— through the clear- 
 ing or pine'? 
 '•O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same. 
 Colonel: 
 You'll find Lovely fighting along the whole 
 line! " 
 
 O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 
 That hid him from sight of his brave men 
 and tried! 
 Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the 
 white lily. 
 The flower of our knighthood, the whole 
 army's pride! 
 Yet we dream that he still,— in that shadowy 
 region 
 Where the dead form their ranks at the wan 
 drummer's sign, — 
 Rides on, as of old, down the length of his le- 
 gion. 
 And the .word still is Forward! along the 
 whole line. 
 
 THE WORLD WELL LOST. 
 
 That year? Yes, doubtless I remember stilJ,— 
 Though why take count of every wind that 
 blows! 
 'Twas plain, men said, that Fortune used me 
 ill 
 That year — the self-same year I met with 
 Rose. 
 
 Crops failed ; wealth took a flight ; house, trea- 
 sure, land. 
 Slipped from my hold— thus Plenty comes 
 and goes. 
 One friend I had, but he too 'oosened his hand 
 Or was it I? the year I met with Rose. 
 
 There was a war, raethinks; some rumor, too. 
 Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows; 
 
 Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view. 
 Throve, spite of all; but I,— I met with Rose! 
 
 That year my white-faced Alma pined and died: 
 Some trouble vexed her quiet heart,— who 
 knows? 
 
 Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side. 
 Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose. 
 
 Was there no more? Yes, that year life began : 
 All Ufe before a dream, false joys, light 
 woes,— 
 
 All after-life compressed within the span 
 Of that one year,— the year I met with Rose! 
 
 w 
 
»- 
 
 ■« 
 
 386 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 WILLIAM B. DOWNER. 
 
 Born : Fenner, N. Y., Dec. 13, 1815. 
 Since liis youtli Mr. Downer has contributed 
 versf iiHirc nr less t<i tlit' lui'.il press. Ht- was 
 
 WII.M \M i; 1" >\\ ^ I i; 
 married in 1839 and is still a resident of his 
 native state at Cazenovia. 
 
 OUR PICNIC. 
 
 Once on a time, as poets say. 
 
 The tenth month and second daj-, 
 
 The weather being' nice and fine. 
 
 In eigliteen hundred sixty-nine — 
 
 Some friends whom I had linown before 
 
 In district numl^er twenty-four. 
 
 All looliing- well, for none were sick. 
 
 Came to my house for a picnic. 
 
 Their names I need not now rehearse. 
 
 And thereby much prolong- my verse, 
 
 But of the doings of that day 
 
 Proceed to write witliout delay; 
 
 Not doubting- but my friends will find 
 
 My narrative quite to their mind. 
 
 And nothing: put in malice down. 
 
 To merit or receive a frown. 
 
 As fast as e'er my guests did come 
 
 Unto the place I call my home, 
 
 Tliey were invited to alight. 
 
 An act in which they look delight. 
 
 For all had come a day to spend 
 
 Witli one they seemed to tliink a friend, 
 
 And wliat was kind, to say the least. 
 
 All brought an offering for the feast. 
 
 Then soon long tables three were spread. 
 With cakes and honey, pies and bread. 
 While other things, both good and nice, 
 Were added to them in a trice; 
 And then around those tables three 
 Were gathered quite a company. 
 And of those good things with a will. 
 Both one and all did eat their All. 
 
 Once and again those tables 'round, 
 A new supply of guests was found. 
 And from the abundance there displayed. 
 Each one of them a dinner made; 
 Nor yet exhausted the supply 
 Of food and drink, though all kept dry. 
 For of the fragments there were still 
 Enough to manj' baskets fill. 
 
 The dinner through, the sports began, 
 Down to the lake some walked, some ran. 
 Nor waited they for wind or tide. 
 But in the boats all took a ride: 
 And on the waters of the bay 
 Some pleasant hours thus passed away. 
 For all did seek with happy mind 
 Their mutual pleasure thus to find. 
 
 Of other pleasures, too, I sing. 
 For many did enjoy the swing. 
 And what, perhaps, was not the least. 
 All had of grapes abundant feast: 
 And thus throughout the livelong day 
 The happy hours did glide away. 
 For all seemed joyous thus to spend 
 A social picnic with their friend. 
 
 But earthly joys are not for aye. 
 They come and go without delay. 
 And as the shades of night came on. 
 The joyous throng had come and gone; 
 Leaving to memory's thoughtful care 
 The face of those so young- and fair. 
 Who kindly once endured my rule 
 As teacher of their district school. 
 
 And now, kind friends, permit me here 
 To tender thanks to you sincere, 
 And when again you care to spend 
 A plea.sant picnic with a friend. 
 Remember that I'll be at home. 
 Whene'er to see me you may come. 
 And do my best in every way 
 To lielp you pass a pleasant day. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 A FRIEND LOVETH AT ALL TIMES. 
 Tlie patriot loves his native l.-md. 
 
 With its rocks, and mounts and rills. 
 And e'en its very poorest strand, 
 
 His heart with rapture thrills; 
 Hut still that love may change and die. 
 
 Or pass to other climes, 
 Yet this great truth will still apply: 
 
 A friend loveth at all times. 
 
SI- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 387 
 
 -* 
 
 THOiMAS C. HARBAUGH, 
 
 Born: near Middletown, Md., Jan. 3, 1849. 
 Thomas Chalmers Harbaugh has written 
 numerous poems of the events of the civil 
 war. He has delivered many of his poems at 
 regimental re-unions and grand army gather- 
 ings, and liis presence always insures a larg:e 
 audience. In 1883 Mr. Harbaugli publislied a 
 
 f 
 
 TIKIMAS C. llAliliArOH. 
 
 volume of poems entitled Mai)le Leaves, which 
 was favorably received by press and public. 
 He hopes soon to publish another volume of 
 his poems. Mr. Harbaugh devotes the whole 
 of his time to literature, working in his study 
 for two hours in the morning and two in the 
 afternoon; and in his leisure hours he strolls 
 around the fields and glens surrounding Cass- 
 town, Ohio— very often with rod and gun. 
 
 THE ROSE OF WATERLOO. 
 
 How fragile art thou, little flow'r! 
 
 And yet how very fair; 
 The fragrance of thy one brief hour 
 
 Still lingers on the air. 
 Thy home is where the god of war 
 
 Trod down the brave and true. 
 And where went out an empire's star, 
 
 O rose from Waterloo! 
 The soil that nourished thee was red 
 
 With blood one summer day ; 
 
 It groaned beneath its weight of dead 
 
 Where nations fought tor sway. 
 The royal Timor of his age 
 
 Was cooquered where ye grew, 
 To die within his ocean cage, 
 
 Fair rose from Waterloo! 
 The Belgian lion guards the plain. 
 
 And Mars' l)aptismal font; 
 The spectres of the gallant slain 
 
 Stand guard at Hugomont. 
 Thy sisters in the soft starlight 
 
 Receive the spotless dew. 
 And wonder wliere thou art to-night, 
 
 O rose from Waterloo ! 
 The cannon ruts, those scars of hate, 
 
 Have vanished with the years; 
 The cricket calls his timid mate 
 
 Where died the grenadiers. 
 The soaring lark her matins sings 
 
 Amid the balmy blue; 
 With happy notes thy birth-place rings. 
 
 Sweet flower of Waterloo. 
 The lambkins sport where battle's wave 
 
 Beat high that fateful day. 
 And where the bravest of the brave 
 
 Went down, the children play. 
 The language that thy petals speak 
 
 They whisper 'neath the yew, 
 Till blushes crown the lassie's cheek, 
 
 O rose from Waterloo ! 
 Now, as I look thee o'er and o'er. 
 
 And touch my lips to thine, 
 I hear the tide of war once more 
 
 Roll down the allied line! 
 But ah ! the flags that floated then 
 
 Wave o'er a pensioned few. 
 And silent is thy native glen. 
 
 Lone rose from Waterloo ! 
 
 GRANT- DYING. 
 It seemed to me " that yester-night 
 
 I heard the branches sighing 
 Beneath my window, soft and low: 
 
 " The great war chief is dying ! " 
 His marches o'er, his battles won. 
 
 His bright sword sheathed forever, 
 The grand old hero stands beside 
 
 The dark and silent river; 
 Whilst fame for him a chaplet weaves 
 
 Within her fairest bowers. 
 Of Shiloh's never-fading leaves. 
 
 And Donelson's bright flowers; 
 Grim Vicksburg gives a crimson rose, 
 
 Embalmed in deathless story. 
 And Appomattox adds a star 
 
 To crown the wreath of glory. 
 He's dying now!— the angel Death, 
 
 Insatiate and impartial, 
 With icy fingers, stoops to touch 
 
 The Union's old fleld-marshal. 
 
 ■m 
 
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 388 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Who, like a soldier brave, awaits 
 
 Where the stars of southland shine — 
 
 The summons so appalling-. 
 
 On the crest of the palmetto. 
 
 While o'er the land, from sea to sea, 
 
 And the plumage of the pine. 
 
 The silent tear is falling-. 
 
 Where the waters in their beauty 
 
 Still in liis veterans' hearts to-day 
 
 Oft through groves of orange run. 
 
 His battle drums are beating-; 
 
 Whei-e the rivers seek the ocean 
 
 His bugles always blew advance — 
 
 Thro' the shadow and the sun. 
 
 With him was no retreating-; 
 
 Sleep the boys who did their duty 
 
 And tenderly, with moistened eye. 
 
 On the lurid battle line. 
 
 Columbia bends above him. 
 
 Some around the tall palmetto. 
 
 And everywhere the son-owed heart 
 
 Others underneatli the pine. 
 
 Tells how the people love him. 
 
 Once their camp-fires lit the darkness. 
 
 From golden-fruited orange g-roves 
 
 Once their snowy tents were spread 
 
 To where the pines are sighing-. 
 
 Where the bluebird woos his sweetheart. 
 
 The winds waft messages of love 
 
 And the lily lifts her head. 
 
 To Grant, the hero, dying. 
 
 Long ago o'er hill and valley. 
 
 The Old World sends across the waves. 
 
 Stretched their gleaming picket lines. 
 
 A token of its sorrow; 
 
 From the fair sun-kiss'd palmettoes 
 
 The greatest chief alive to-day 
 
 To the shadow of the pines. 
 
 May fall asleep to-morrow. 
 
 O'er a country undivided 
 
 touch the hero gently. Death! — 
 
 Peace hath spread her gentle wings. 
 
 The land is filled with weeping; 
 
 Where the cannon hoarselj' thundered. 
 
 And be his passing like a child's — 
 
 'Neath a leaf the cricket sings; 
 
 The counterfeit of sleeping. 
 
 And in hamlet, home and city. 
 
 A million boys in blue now stand 
 
 Lovely hands sweet chaplets twine 
 
 Around their djing brother; 
 
 For the graves beneath palmetto. 
 
 The mighty world know but one Grant, 
 
 And tlie mounds around the pine. 
 
 'Twill never know another. 
 
 There are many gallant comrades 
 
 So let him die with honors crowned 
 
 Who from war will never come; 
 
 To live fore'er in story; 
 
 They are those whose hearts beat gladly 
 
 The fields he won, the land he saved. 
 
 At tlie rattle of the drum. 
 
 Will be his lasting glory. 
 
 Over them from night till morning 
 
 mighty Ajax of the North ! 
 
 There's a guardianship divine. 
 
 Old field-martial immortal! 
 
 And above them bend in beauty 
 
 My saddened heart's with thee to-diiy 
 
 The palmetto and the pine. 
 
 Before the darkened portal. 
 
 Many a patient one is waiting- 
 
 I listened to the winds last night. 
 
 In an aureole of pray'r. 
 
 How mournful was their sigliing! 
 
 And upon the shrouded hearthstone 
 
 It seemed to me a nation's sobs 
 
 Stands to-day a vacant chair; 
 
 O'er Grant, tlie soldier, dying. 
 
 Waiting- for the hero sleeping 
 
 touch him, touch him softly. Death — 
 
 Wliere the dark and dreamy vine 
 
 Insatiate and impartial; 
 
 Seeks the heart of the palmetto, 
 
 He is the Union's mightest cliief — 
 
 And the coronets of pine. 
 
 My cherished old fleld-marshal ! 
 
 Lips to be will chant their praises, 
 
 
 Ages yet will come to tell 
 
 PALMEIRO AND PINE. 
 
 How they marched to loyal music. 
 
 Once again the flow'rs are falling 
 
 How they fought and how they fell; 
 
 On the gallant and the true. 
 
 And each year will grateful Freedom 
 
 Who to-day are sweetly dreaming 
 
 Deck anew her saered shrines 
 
 'Neatli the canopy of blue. 
 
 For the sleepers 'neath palmetto. 
 
 'Tis for tlicm we weave the chaplet, 
 
 For licr sons among the pines. 
 
 'Tis for them tliat we entwine 
 
 In their silent camps of glory. 
 
 The leaves of the palmetto 
 
 Stretching far from sea to sea — 
 
 Willi the brntiches of tlic pine. 
 
 Reaching from tlie land of siunvHakes 
 
 Ah ! methinks their drums are b(>ating 
 
 To the sliade of cypi-ess tree. 
 
 In tlieir long deserted camps, 
 
 Lie to-day our bliie-clad warriors 
 
 And I seem to liear tlie music 
 
 On nil iMidU'ss batt le line- 
 
 or their grand and martial tram|)s. 
 
 Guarding still their loved palmetto. 
 
 But I know they march no longer 
 
 Keeping free the waving pine. 
 
 1; 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 iH9 
 
 Buds iind blossoms sweet are fulling-, 
 
 On the tender and the true. 
 And the land we love does homage 
 
 To her chevaliers in blue; 
 While the flag- for which the bravest 
 
 Pour'd their blood like crimson wine. 
 Waves aloft in spangled g-randeur 
 
 Over palmetto and pine I 
 Let it float ! They fell around it. 
 
 On the land and on the foam, 
 From the fire and smoke of carnage 
 
 Gallantly they bore it home; 
 And till time is time no longer. 
 
 May its stars with splendor shirue 
 On the home of the palmetto, 
 
 And the birthland of the pine! 
 
 © 
 
 THE JINGLE OF THE BELLS. 
 
 Ah! the fleecj^ flakes are falling 
 
 Through the frosty winter night. 
 And December's winds ax-e calling 
 
 Us to scenes of rare delight! 
 There are roguish eyes that glisten. 
 
 As the snow of pleasure tells; 
 And the rustic sweethearts listen 
 
 For the jingle of the bells — 
 For the jngle and the tingle 
 
 Of the merry winter hells. 
 In the Cupid-haunted valley, 
 
 'Twixt the old hills lying- low. 
 Where the summer breezes dally. 
 
 Falls the lover-cherished snow; 
 Oh! the silence of to-morrow 
 
 Will be broken in tlie dells! 
 And the heart will gladness borrow 
 
 From the jingle of the bells — 
 From the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle 
 
 Of the never-ceasing bells. 
 Jingle! jingle! in the starlight. 
 
 Tinkle! tinkle! in the dark. 
 Gliding swiftly toward the far light 
 
 In the window but a spark ! 
 There can be no joys completer 
 
 Than the ones the snow foretells; 
 Ah! my darling, what is sweeter 
 
 Than a kiss behind the bells — 
 As they jingle, jingle, jingle 
 
 O'er the snow, the sleighing bells! 
 Life is but a dream of pleasure 
 
 That returns with everj' snow. 
 Winter fills to-day the measure 
 
 Emptied often long ago. 
 'Neath the cutter's furry covers 
 
 Many a heart with rapture swells. 
 And the merry laugh of lovers 
 
 Greets the jingle of the bells — 
 Greets the laughter and the jingle 
 
 Of the ever-merry bells. 
 On the road and in the wildwood 
 
 Nature dons a robe of white. 
 
 And the happy laugh of childhood 
 
 Will be heard to-morrow night! 
 Everywhere the bells will jingle 
 
 'Neath the starry sentinels, 
 And the lassie's cheek will tingle 
 
 With the kiss the sound impels — 
 AVith a kiss that gently mingles 
 
 With the laughter of the bells. 
 
 Oh, the bells my heart remembers. 
 
 With their music soft and low! 
 Oh, the sleigh bells of Decembers 
 
 Buried in the long ago! 
 I remember eyes that glistened 
 
 When the snow was in the dells; 
 I remember ears that listened 
 
 For the jingle of the bells — 
 For the jingle, jingle, jingle 
 
 Of the rich December bells. 
 
 MRS. SARAH J. BLOUNT. 
 
 Born: Stowe, Vt., June 17, 1843. 
 Under the nom de plume of Beth Thome, 
 many bright verses have appeared from the 
 pen of this lady in the Chicago Inter-Ocean 
 and other papers of equal prominence. Mrs. 
 Blount has held prominent positions in the 
 Grange as lecturer, master, etc. 
 
 MY MORNING GLORIES. 
 Out on the porch each morning I stand. 
 
 At sunrise's dewy hour. 
 Training the vines with a tender hand. 
 
 Loving each dainty flower. 
 Sweet flowers that to the morning light 
 
 Their loveliness enfold. 
 And fairest hues of heaven smite 
 
 With sunrise's brightest gold. 
 Over the vines of tenderest green. 
 
 Blossoms of every hue. 
 Purple and daintiest white I ween. 
 
 And fairest shades of blue. 
 Some have the tint of the sea-shell caught. 
 
 And others the rose 's i-ed. 
 While some have brightest crimson brought 
 
 The emerald vine to wed. 
 At sunset hour of purple and gold. 
 
 Only vines and leaves of green; 
 At dawn from silken buds unrolled. 
 
 Bright flowers in silken sheen. 
 I do not envy the rich their gold. 
 
 Their gems and jewels rare. 
 The while my morning glories unfold 
 
 Their blossoms to my care. 
 Their dainty beauty and purity. 
 
 With every sense I drink. 
 And their influence lingers round one 
 To keep me pure I think. 
 
 m 
 
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 390 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MARGARET FAULK. 
 
 Born: Clarkstown, Ohio. 
 Miss Faulk follows the profession of teach- 
 ing. Her pnoms have h(>en piiblistied quite 
 
 M^UJGARET FAULK. 
 
 frequently in the eastern journals, 
 resides in Beaver, Pennsylvania. 
 
 She now 
 
 SB- 
 
 MA Y. 
 
 The last of May ! its close — so near. 
 The crowning days of another year; 
 The fresh sweet fl(3wers opening to bloom. 
 Are strewn at the toilet, and over the tomb, 
 
 The fairest and sweetest of roses. 
 
 Are strewn where the hero repo.ses. 
 The thirtieth day, has come — 'tis here, 
 The old spangled banner h;is many a year 
 In triumph waved on latid and sea, 
 Embl(!m of peace and liberty. 
 
 This day in peace she waves, 
 
 Over her country's braves. 
 Oh, the charming month of May, 
 Queen of the year, must pass away; 
 A smile for tlie living - - I'oi' the dead a tear — 
 As we marcii along the rest of the year; 
 
 Smiles like the sunsliine, tears as the dew. 
 
 In the gr(!at grand army of the brave and 
 true. 
 Tlie crowning d;iy of all sometime. 
 Will dawn uj) in another clime; 
 The valiant soldier then will shine. 
 In glittering crowns pure and divine, 
 
 Witli never-fading t1()W(>rs, 
 
 l''oun<l in celestial l)owers. 
 
 A SOLDIER'S PICTURE. 
 
 Noble boy I ail buttoned to the chin. 
 That patriot heart must surely victory win, 
 A smile upon those lips so sweetly plays! 
 The full blue eyes that seem at me to gaze 
 Are full of hope and beauty. Oh ! for grace, 
 That I may look again upon his smiling face. 
 Noble soldier! off in the horseman's rank 
 The fairest brow in all that loyal flank! 
 The brightest locks, e'er fell on mortal brow. 
 Speak more than gold; sweet liberty e'en now 
 They seem to say: the glad, glad day is here. 
 When liberty brings every heart a cheer! 
 Gallant soldier! among the rebel crew. 
 Where shot and shell in thickest volleys flew; 
 That steed and armor through the battle came I 
 All honor to the gallant soldier's name, 
 " But where is he? 'tis only this 1 see ! 
 The picture and the rose he sent to me. 
 " A rebel rose," he said, " I send to thee," 
 " Please bring back again to loyalt.v. [weight 
 That rose long pressed by old time's heavy 
 Now tells the story of its Northern fate; 
 And my wonder is if it can be 
 That he forgot his own loyalty. 
 Years have gone by; ah j-es! full more. 
 If I should backward count than half a score. 
 Since boy and girl upon the school ground 
 
 played 
 The blue-eyed soldier and the dark-eyed maid- 
 All passed those days of yore,— war is turned 
 
 into peace. 
 Yet naught of his return,— since war's release. 
 Dead,— ah no,— that picture telleth me 
 Of life,— of hope,— of purest liberty. 
 Of battle's way, of dreadful w(iunds and scars 
 So nobly borne through all the cruel wars; 
 Of vanquished foes with heart of living grace, 
 I yet may see my soldier's smiling face. 
 
 THE CHARITY MAN. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Beautiful oceans, gulfs, seas and lakes; 
 Beautiful raindrops and pretty snowHakes; 
 Beautiful sky in the blue " far away;" 
 Beautiful earth in its mantle of gray ; [plan 
 But the dearest and loveliest of God's holy 
 Was when he created the charity man. 
 Beautiful mountains, valleys and hills; 
 Beautiful rivers and rip]>ling rills; 
 Reautiful sun in his glorious light; 
 Beautiful moon and stars so bright; 
 All the works of God's great plan. 
 But none to equal the crcjition of man. 
 Wanted, wanted — this charity niiin. 
 Wliere has he wandered since the world began? 
 Down in the little •• dug-out " is he .still'? 
 No; he is everywhere, just at his will. 
 Tp where the stars are I1.\ed for his sight, 
 Di)wn,'neat lit lie earth, in the regions of night, 
 
 * 
 
® — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 391 
 
 -© 
 
 LEMUEL G. WILSON. 
 
 Bokn: Mount Gilead, Ohio, April 30, 1830. 
 Mr. Wilson iittended Cornell college for three 
 years, and then taught school for a year. He 
 next became a photographer, then started a 
 store, and still later filled the ])osition of com- 
 mercial traveler for seven \e;]rs. His wife 
 
 LEMUEL G. WILSON. 
 
 died in 1881. The poems of Mr. Wilson have 
 appeared in the Chicago Current, Ledger, 
 Inter-Ocean and other leading periodicals. He 
 is at present engaged in horticulture at Wes- 
 sington Springs, Dakota. 
 
 |9 
 
 BE EARNEST. 
 
 They tell me that 'mid Alpine snow. 
 
 And rock, and avalanche and storm. 
 Some flowers in regal splendor grow, 
 
 Beauteous alike in hue and form. 
 That, in old ocean's deptlis profound, 
 
 Where undisturbed the waters lie. 
 Are finer forms and flowers found, 
 
 TJian ever greet the common eye. 
 That in the deepest, darkest mine 
 
 Is found tlie richest, purest gem 
 That e'er on regal breast did shine, 
 
 Or sparkle in a diadem. 
 From these I learn this single truth : 
 
 'Tis not the tliouglitless, heedless throng 
 Who find earth's richest joys forsooth 
 
 Or live her grandest scenes among. 
 
 But rather they wlio seek witli care, 
 In earnest action, word and thought. 
 
 And find them only when and where 
 The fickle crowd had never sought. 
 
 IS THERE ANY BY-AND-BY? 
 
 They tell me that 'tis all of life 
 
 To live, and toil and die; 
 Ending at once all care and strife, 
 
 There is no bj'-and-by. 
 Our cherished hopes that we shall find 
 
 A Heaven above the sky 
 Are but the merest mists of mind- 
 There is no by-and-by. 
 On .> earth to earth and dust to dust " 
 
 Alone can we rely ; 
 There's nothing further we can trust- 
 There is no by-and-by. 
 Oh : can it be that all our hopes 
 
 Of final home and heaven,— 
 Of life and i-est, of joy and peace. 
 
 In one short hour are riven? 
 Will those dear friends we'v-e loved so 
 true 
 
 In endless slumber lie? 
 N(J fond embrace — all ages through 
 
 No meeting — by-and-by? 
 This curious web we here call life — 
 
 Unfinished, soon must lie; 
 The rarest patterns incomplete 
 
 If there's no by-and-by. 
 Oh, tell me ye who look beyond 
 
 The range of mortal eye. 
 Is this alone the sum of life? 
 
 Is there no by-and-by. 
 Ab, yes, I hear a whispered tone — 
 
 A glad, exultant cry : 
 "There is a rest, a heaven, a home, 
 
 I've found the by-and-by." 
 
 WE MET AND PARTED. 
 We met and parted, you and I, 
 
 One year ago to-morrow ; 
 You did not note, perhaps, a sigh 
 
 That 'scaped my lips in sorrow. 
 We parted by the garden gate — 
 
 No formal words were spoken. 
 You knew not wliat a heavy weight 
 
 Lay on my heart — now broken. 
 We parted, and you went away 
 
 With no sad thought at parting. 
 While I in sorrow knelt to pray. 
 
 The tears, unbidden, starting. 
 We parted — but you'll never know 
 
 How mucli of pain and sorrow 
 Was mingled in my cup of woe 
 
 One year ago — to-morrow. 
 
 -© 
 
m 
 
 392 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 JOHN ALBERT MURPHY. 
 
 Born: Davidson Co., N. C. 
 This g-eutleman received his education at 
 Catawba college at Newton. He was married 
 early in life to Miss Louisa Jane Yokley. In 
 1857 Mr. Murphy joined the St. Louis confer- 
 ence of the M. E. Church South, and for twen. 
 
 
 
 
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 1 
 
 .JOHN ALBERT MURPHY. 
 
 ty-two successive years he served as pastor in 
 honored positions. In 1879 he was transferred 
 to the northwest Texas eonference.and is now 
 located at Brouaugh.Mo. Jolin Albert Murphy, 
 A. M., D. D., has written numerous very fine 
 poems, and has contributed extensively to*the 
 periodical press and many standard works. 
 
 THE FIRST FALLEN SOLDIER OF 1861. 
 The bow is in the clouds 
 Whose arch lies in tlie sky and spans the race, 
 With peace, slain hero, it enshrouds 
 Tliy resting place. 
 
 The star is in the sky 
 That once illumed tlie sepuicher divine; 
 Now, in the march of centuries bj'. 
 
 It shines on thine. 
 
 There's sweetness in the air. 
 Lent for perfumes to constant nature's c4aim, 
 That she may, with her latest care. 
 
 Embalm thy name. 
 
 There's beauty on the lea ; 
 Its myriad charms their ample wealth 
 
 combine. 
 And closing round, thy memory 
 
 And dust enshrine. 
 
 There's music everywhere, 
 In earth and sky, and in the ocean surge; 
 'Tis nature's mournful way to share 
 
 Thy funeral dirge. 
 
 There's light in heaven above ; 
 Its burning lamps their shining station keep; 
 And day and night while cycles move, 
 They guard thy sleep. 
 
 There's love in human hearts 
 That over death achieves the victory. 
 And will, as hoary time departs, 
 
 Kemember thee. 
 
 The gold-winged butterflies 
 In pensive groups display, like living bloom, 
 Their blended beauties e'er they rise 
 
 From off thy tomb. 
 
 Beneath the sod to lie; 
 If thus, perchance, thy comrades dared to 
 
 pause 
 To put thee there, who dared to die 
 
 For freedom's cause. 
 
 Death brought thee late renown; 
 But gave tliee not the soul the patriot bears; 
 Nor put upon thy head the crown 
 
 The hero wears. 
 
 Thy bed of clay unknown. 
 The bitter tears of solitude receives. 
 And of the flowers by nature strown 
 
 A garland weaves. 
 
 Her deepest mourning wears; 
 Her brow and breast with flashing diamond 
 
 spread. 
 The sable virgin Night her tears 
 
 Weeps o'er thy head. 
 
 And Day, with vesture bright. 
 And lavish smiles jipon the good and brave, 
 Awards to thee the .soldier's right. 
 
 An honored grave. 
 
 No midnight bugla blast. 
 From peaceful sleep shall rou.se thy valiant 
 
 .soul. 
 Till heaven's Commander calls at last 
 
 The Judgment-roll. 
 
 Then, in the great review. 
 When uniforms and crowns shall never fade, 
 Hero, receive thy hotiors due 
 
 On grand parade. 
 
 ®- 
 
 •)3 
 
®- 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 393 
 
 MRS. HKXRY B. JONES. 
 
 Born: England, Mahch 15, 1843. 
 By tlie title of Mother Jones this lady is known 
 thi'ougliout the United States and Canada, 
 and wears the badge and emblem of the B. of 
 K. R. B. She is now editress of the Brake- 
 
 MRS. HENRY B. JONES. 
 
 men's Journal, published at Galesburg-, Illi- 
 nois. She has contributed to various local 
 papers, and has edited several journals of 
 prominence. She resides in Washington, In- 
 diana, with her husband and children, of 
 whom she has five. 
 
 S 
 
 IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE? 
 
 Charley Singleton wrote a letter one day 
 To his friend, Frank Hunter, far away ; 
 "There's a question that troubles me more 
 
 and more. 
 And oftentimes makes me feel quite sore ; 
 So your advice I now will seek, 
 (For I know you can a secret keep,) 
 And I'll be your friend as long as I live. 
 If you your council to me will give. 
 Is marriage a failure?— I've puzzled so 
 An answer square to this to know — 
 But I think the dearest sweets of life. 
 Is to own a charming handsome wife." 
 
 Frank soon sat down and took up his pen. 
 And answered Charley there and ihen: 
 
 • I Well, as to marriage, 'tis little I know. 
 But I'll tell you a fact I think is so,— 
 Courtship's a failure — at least in your case. 
 For in my muid it is dire disgrace 
 To so universally show your fears. 
 As to keep up courtship for years and years; 
 And as courtship seems such a failure to you, 
 I suggest that you try what marriage will do; 
 At least it will be a relief from tlie mode 
 Of the everlasting courtship code." 
 
 Frank now thought he had Charley fast. 
 And to his friend of years long past, 
 Mother Jones of Washington did go, 
 His send-off to Singleton to show. 
 
 She met him thus :— •• You sly old fox. 
 Don't say a word — you're in the same box. 
 And a pair of gloves to me you will give. 
 Or I'll expose you in print as sure as I live." 
 The gloves were sent, and so — oh well, 
 The above will to your readers tell. 
 That those who live in glass-made zones. 
 Should at each other never throw stones. 
 
 For taking the part of both to-night 
 I expect to get a wedding invite; 
 If not, more tales I might tell that's true 
 Of Hunter and of Charley too; 
 And a closing request I here will make, 
 "Frank — Please remember that fishing 
 scrape." 
 
 NOW AND THEN. 
 When those restless hands are folded 
 
 Across my silent breast. 
 When my pen, so seldom idle now. 
 
 Shall lie, for aye, at rest. 
 When the snowflakes flutter downward. 
 
 Or the wind with rushing wave 
 Shall blow in all its fury 
 
 Upon my grassy grave. 
 
 The cars shall still be speeding 
 
 Across the western plain. 
 And my boys, as now, be keeping 
 
 Their watch upon the train. 
 I ask no greater favor than peacefully to lie 
 
 Within some graveyard's mossy slope 
 Where the trains go daily by. 
 
 If ever soul be granted 
 
 The freedom from above 
 To view with care and tenderness 
 
 The friends they used to love. 
 Then I shall ask that boon of heaven 
 
 No matter what its joys. 
 That I am granted still to watch 
 
 O'er my loving brakej' boys. 
 
 I care not where they lay me down. 
 Where the summer sun shines forth. 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 -© 
 
 394 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Or the western breezes gently blow, 
 
 Or in the icy north. 
 I care not for a marble shaft. 
 
 Or a granite headstone crave. 
 But let me rest where my boys can come 
 
 And look upon my grave. 
 
 And when the trumpet's blast shall shake 
 
 That little grassy mound, 
 And when the day of reckoning comes 
 
 May our record clear be found. 
 And as with radiant smiles we meet 
 
 And grasp each other's hand. 
 May I then, as now, the mother be 
 
 Of our honored Brotherhood band. 
 
 ©- 
 
 TO THE B. OF L. E. IN CHICAGO. 
 
 Cheer up ! take courage, noble brothers, 
 
 Stand firm together for your right ; 
 And remember, now, unwavering, 
 
 In this battle to unite. 
 Fierce and long has been the struggle. 
 
 But your hearts are true and good ; 
 Long on record be the bravery 
 
 Of the noble Brotherhood. 
 
 Never heed the grim oppressor. 
 
 Trust in God, and still keep firm, 
 Let not capital in future 
 
 Lead and crush you as a worm. 
 Stand together now as brothers. 
 
 Heart to heart and hand to hand; 
 Sympathizei-s by the thousands 
 
 You have gained throughout the land. 
 
 Tliink of those who dearly love you. 
 
 Think of those you hold most dear; 
 Many prayers ascend to Heaven 
 
 For the sturdy engineer. 
 In the pages of your history 
 
 You have earned a golden fame; 
 Now, tho' sorely tried, dear brothers, 
 
 Still be worthy of your name. 
 
 Show the world what noble courage 
 
 Beats witliiti each maiily l)icast; 
 That as one your hearts are throbbing. 
 
 North and south and east and west. 
 Sliow the gr'eat, th(> high and mighty. 
 
 The magnate and the millionaire. 
 That you mean to tight as freemen. 
 
 And tor tliem you little care. 
 
 In bi'ave Arthur you've a leader. 
 
 Worthy he to be your chief; 
 Then obey liim as true brothers. 
 
 Be the struggle long or l)rief. 
 Sliame tliat some sliould thus oppress you. 
 
 Loyal men so true iuid good; 
 But hurrah we'll sliout in honor — 
 
 Arthur and tlie Brollierliood! 
 
 MRS. EMMA A. TIFFANY. 
 
 Born: Jefferson, Ohio, 1845. 
 Being left a widow with two children, this 
 lady then tauglit school for a livelihood, and 
 later entei'ed the mercantile business in which 
 she is at jireseiit engaged. Her i>ocins li;ive 
 
 MRS. EMMA A. TIFFANV. 
 
 appeared from time to time in the local press, 
 and have been favorably received. In jjerson 
 Mrs. Tiffany is a little above the medium 
 height, is very frail and has brown hair and 
 eyes. Slie is now a resident of her native 
 state, at Orwell. 
 
 THE ISLE OF SOMEWHERE. 
 
 Oh, the beautiful isle of soniewliere! 
 Tliat beyond our vision lies; 
 The brusli of the artist hath sketched it 
 In crimson and purple dyes. 
 
 Oil, the tranquil isle of somewliere! 
 Where the storm-tossed bark tlnds rest, 
 Within tiie harbor its anchor cast, 
 No more the waves 'twill breast. 
 
 Oh, tlie fragrant isle of somewliere I 
 Tliere blooms rose and eglantine. 
 And 'mid tlie sturdy oak's foliage. 
 The tender ivy-leaves twine. 
 
 Oil, the enchanted isle of somewhere 
 Sliall we riNicli it, .\ou and I; 
 And l)ask in the ladiimt sunliglit 
 Of the golden by-and-by? 
 
 * 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 395 
 
 -* 
 
 LIZZIE WALDEX. 
 
 The poems of Miss Waldeii have appeared in 
 the local press for tlie past few years, and 
 have been favorably received. She is a res- 
 
 LIZZIE WALDEN. 
 
 ident of Union City, Indiana, where she is 
 well-known and greatly admired for her many 
 attainments. 
 
 fi&— 
 
 THE RING. 
 
 He kissed her rose-red lips — 
 
 'Twas in the month of May — 
 Her hand into his own, he slips. 
 
 And softly wliispers: May 
 I place a little sliining thing 
 
 Upon your linger? Say ^ 
 It's but a tiny gold ring. 
 
 '• I'll wear it night and day; 
 And I'm the happiest of any 
 
 Under the light-blue sky," 
 Thought the lady fair. 
 
 Roses are her lips and golden lier hair. 
 Again he kissed her ro.se-rcd lips — 
 
 The angels witnessed it above — 
 And on lier finger he .slips 
 
 The golden pledge of love. 
 Wear it, dear, but don't put it by. 
 
 This may change, but ne'er can I. 
 "O, I am as happy as any 
 
 Under llie light-blue sky," 
 Thought the lady fair. 
 
 Ro.ses are her lips and golden her hair. 
 The ring? I've worn it most-a year; 
 
 And though her tears to him did peer, 
 To give it back is queer; 
 
 But, if I must? Why, liere. 
 And from lier finger lore it. 
 
 Saying, " If I had never worn it 
 I would he as happy as any 
 
 Under the light-blue sky," 
 Said the lady fair. 
 
 Pale, pale, are her lips. 
 Though golden is her hair. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 The resurrection day is nigh at hand 
 
 Cried a voice from on high ; 
 Repent ye every nation of the land. 
 
 An awful day is drawing nigh; 
 When a storm with peals of thunder,[tion; 
 
 Shall come to shake the earth's founda- 
 Not a soul on earth shall slumber, 
 
 'Twill be known to every nation. 
 Lightnings flash, and look not slendei-, 
 
 Leaping, dancing in mid-air; 
 And to our wicked hearts will render. 
 
 Greatest of agony and despair. 
 Many voices will be speaking. 
 
 Asking why they are not saved; 
 Many and many a soul be weeping, 
 
 O'er his own neglected grave. 
 Loud and clear are many voices. 
 
 Some are shouting songs of praise; 
 Others weeping, sorrowing, waiting, 
 
 Down upon their knees. 
 They raise their voice, to ask forgiveness: 
 
 Jesus answers them "Too late;— 
 In life you did not ask for mercy. 
 
 Now you're subject to your fate." 
 Loud and clear, a Christian singing; 
 
 " Glory to my Lord, my King; 
 Closely to the cross I'm clinging. 
 
 My conscience, heart at peace with him." 
 Jesus with all his kindness, • 
 
 Deals with hearts of christian light; 
 Go to him in your blindness. 
 
 He will help you,— give you sight. 
 Do not listen for the story 
 
 To be told you o'er and o'er,- 
 Hasten, hasten on to glory. 
 
 Safely your heart with Jesus store. 
 Cail upon the Lord in prayer; 
 
 Seek the Lord with confidence; 
 He will keep you from the slayer 
 
 At the end you recompense. 
 
 When our voices to God we uplift. 
 
 And our hearts to him are given. 
 It seems but a step o'er a snow-white cliff 
 
 And you're in the gates of Heaven. 
 Methinks, how grand 'twill be 
 
 When around God's throne we gather. 
 Our God in all his glory we see, 
 
 To serve him there forever. 
 
 -a 
 
^ 
 
 •5f 
 
 396 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOSEPH BYRON BROWN. 
 
 Born: Eldorado, III., March 30, 1861. 
 Since 1884 the poems of Mr. Brown have ap- 
 peared quite extensively in the periodical 
 press For awhile he was employed on the 
 correspondence staff of the St. Louis Daily 
 Republican, and was sent by that paper on a 
 tour througli Texas and Old Mexico. He next 
 engag-ed with the Rocky Mountain News, and 
 in "1883 returned to Morgaiifield and began 
 the publieation of a country newspaper, but 
 soon .lisposed of that peilodical. He then re- 
 
 JOSEPH BYRON BROWN. 
 
 turned to St. Louis Republican, and was sent 
 abroad as traveling correspondent for that 
 paper. He sailed from San Francisco to tlie 
 Argentine Republic, traveled extensively in 
 that country and Brazil. From Rio Janeiro 
 he voyaged to Capetown, Africa, touched St. 
 Helen's Islands and stopped for some time in 
 the West Indies. His coi'respondence is a 
 lasting record of this great voyage. After 
 his return honii; he was ai)pointed to a posi- 
 tion in the signal service. He next received 
 an appointment as Indian Inspector under 
 Cleveland's administration. Since then he 
 has been engaged in tlie mercantile business 
 in Corydon, Ky. 
 
 THE DEAR OLD HOME. 
 The dear old home 1 have left behind. 
 The homo of love and truth. 
 
 No more to roam the woods and vaies 
 
 As in the days of youth. 
 I have left the home I love so well 
 And my mother and father dear: 
 I have left them all — for another kind 
 
 To live through the coming year. 
 The home that sheltered me in childhood. 
 The fond mother that tended me well — 
 All left behind with loving regret 
 
 More deeply than words can tell. 
 My brother, too, I have given up 
 For another as loving and kind; 
 But my heart will cling to dear home ties 
 
 I liave left so far behind. 
 I have bid farewell to the days of old. 
 
 To the friends I loved so dear; 
 I have passed from out their midst 
 
 With sad heart and bitter tears. 
 I have taken upon me the sacred vows 
 
 For better for worse, come weal, come woe; 
 What the future has in store for me 
 
 Only God in heaven knows. 
 How my heart turns back to the joys that's 
 past. 
 To the songs, the dance and mirth. 
 Before I left my father's roof — 
 
 The dearest spot on earth. 
 I do not regret the step I have taken : 
 
 Oh ! no it could not be 
 That I would be so unjust to one 
 
 Who has been so kind to me. 
 He sought me out from a world so full 
 
 Of damsels, both rich and fair; 
 I had neither beauty nor wealth to give, 
 
 But for this he did not care. 
 I won from him a heart as true 
 
 As ever beat in human breast ; 
 I am happy from the choice I made. 
 
 For my lot is peace and rest. 
 We have left our home, our friends behind, 
 
 And started out togetiier 
 To battle with cruel fate alone 
 Thn)Ugh storm or sunny weather. 
 
 FRANCES ANNIE GREGG. 
 
 Born: Andover, Me., 18ti0. 
 The sprightly and melodious poems of Miss 
 Gregg have appeared in various publications. 
 She resides with her parents on the Pines' 
 Stock Farm, a delightful summer resort In 
 her native town. 
 
 THE COTTERS SONG. 
 O, the snow lies deep and the snow blows 
 
 high; 
 Tlu! winds they shriek and moan and cry. 
 But what care I, O. what care I ? 
 
 «- 
 
 -« 
 
^-' 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 39^ 
 
 « 
 
 WILLIAM W, STOCKWELL. 
 
 Born: Noiithampton, Mass., Feb. 7, 1829. 
 The poems of Mr. Stockwell have appeared in 
 the Cincinnati Enquirer, Kansas City Times 
 and otlier papers of prominence, lu 1864 Mr. 
 Stockwell moved to Indianapolis, Ind., liaving 
 contracted to carry tlie mail on two routes 
 from that city. In tlie spriuu- of 186.5 he wrote 
 
 WILLIAM -SVATSON STOCKWELL. 
 
 Incidents in the Life of George W. Murray, 
 treating of events of the civil war and Lihbj' 
 Prison. In 1866 Mr. Stockwell removed to 
 Brown county, Inl., where he still resides. In 
 1888 he was elected trustee of the township. 
 During- the past thirty years he has written 
 numerous poems, and will publish his pro- 
 ductions in hook-form at some future time. 
 
 ®- 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 When we differ from another 
 
 Wliom we think to rashly err. 
 We shall ever act most wisely 
 
 Kindly with him to confer. 
 Friendly interchange of feeling 
 
 Fills no human heart with guile. 
 But with men of worthy motives 
 
 It will all hearts reconcile. 
 Friendly words can win to friendship 
 
 Hearts that are most cold with liate; 
 For where threats can never enter. 
 
 Friendly words can penetrate. 
 
 Threats avail mankind but little; 
 
 Harsh words grate upon tlie ear; 
 Words of sympathy and kindness 
 
 Mortals soonest bend to hear. 
 Yes, all words with coldness spoken 
 
 Further set our souls apart. 
 While the words that glow with friendship 
 
 Bring us nearer, heart to heart. 
 Then remember, ye who differ. 
 
 Ye whose hearts are filled with guile, 
 Friendlj- interchange of feelings 
 
 Always tends to reconcile. 
 
 STRANGE THINGS. 
 'Tis strange that men of common sense 
 
 Can be so taken in. 
 By drinking at their own expense. 
 
 Of whiskey, rum, and gin. 
 Which lead to every grave offense. 
 
 And every form of sin — 
 Since all should strive in going hence 
 
 A shining goal to win. 
 'Tis strange that men with open eyes 
 
 Will go where they must fall ; 
 That men, professing to be wise. 
 
 Can stoop to things so small. 
 The soul to iionor sinks and dies. 
 
 And soriows dark appall, 
 Wlien there's a path in which to rise. 
 
 Inviting to us all! 
 'Tis strange men choose a path so low. 
 
 When they might rise so high I 
 'Tis strange men buy the cup of woe. 
 
 When joj-'s free glass is nigh ! 
 'Tis strange that men false colors show. 
 
 Since all disclaim to lie! 
 'Tis strange that men can live as though 
 
 They never were to die ! 
 'Tis strange that while light paths lead up. 
 
 And dark paths lead us down: 
 While light will fill the .soul with hope. 
 
 And darkness hope will drown — 
 So many will in darkness grope. 
 
 Who might enjoy renown. 
 And, Uke the world's most favored group, 
 
 Wear honor's shining crown. 
 
 HOW TO LIVE. 
 
 I hold that all should strive on earth 
 
 To gain life's richest treasure. 
 That which is of enduring worth. 
 
 And yields the purest pleasure: 
 Our powers of mind we should unfold — 
 
 Look forward hopeful ever. 
 And every day till we are old. 
 
 Grow strong through high endeavor. 
 Each should espouse some worthy cause. 
 
 From duty never swerving. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -^ 
 
 398 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. NELLIE MARIE BURNS. 
 
 This lady was married iu 1878 to Thomas H. 
 Burns, the actor aud comedian. Slie was also 
 a member of the dramatic profession, but 
 abandoned it a few years after her marriage. 
 For nearly a decade the poems of Mrs. Ihiins 
 
 MI!S. M;M.IE MAIUK BIH.NS. 
 
 iiaSL-ai)peared ill tlie leading- journals of the 
 east, and she is now preparing a volume of 
 her collected poems for publication. When 
 not traveling witli her husband, Mrs. Burns 
 resides on the shores of the Atlantic, at Kit- 
 tery Point, Maine. 
 
 ©- 
 
 CRICKET. 
 
 The golden-rod nods l)rightly. 
 
 The tliistle-wraiths float liglitly 
 Like a band of fairy goblins thro' the air; 
 
 Still Balder holds tlie fortress 
 
 And Nanna is tlie portress, 
 Yet this morn I heard a cricket chirping tliere. 
 
 O, banshee of the summer! 
 
 Tliou soniljre little comer. 
 In tliy pallium of monasterial black. 
 
 Each tender breeze that passes 
 
 Thy synod midst the grasses. 
 Brings the Inirden of thy mournful coronach. 
 
 Wiieii merry sleigh-bells jingle, 
 
 'I'hy sung l)esi(l(i tlie ingU^ 
 Is tlie lullaby of I$aby, John and Dot, 
 
 While memory grows silly 
 
 At thought of stupid Tilly 
 Dre!iming,open-mouthed,in Peerylnnglc's cot. 
 
 But for me beloved faces 
 
 From scented summer places 
 To the battle-field of life base gone away. 
 
 The ocean rote grows stronger. 
 
 The autumn evenings longer 
 When thy solemn little pibroch 'gins to play. 
 
 Tliougli robin in the thicket 
 
 May drown thy cliirping, cricket: 
 Yet the warning of thy prelude doth appear; 
 
 Thou'lt sing the flowers to sleeping. 
 
 Thy tiny masses keeping, [bier. 
 
 Till the last red leaf drifts downward to its 
 
 DREAMS. 
 Beyond the din and wrestling 
 
 Of this common life and woe, 
 'Mid fairy-forests nestling 
 
 The flowers of dreamland grow. 
 To the somljre hills of science 
 
 That would scatter fancies bright, 
 We waft back our defiance 
 
 From each narcotic height. 
 And the soul no more regretting 
 
 Its failures of the day: 
 In this lotus-land forgetting — 
 
 All trouble casts away. 
 »• Adieu," we say to sorrow. 
 
 As those slumberous mountains rise; 
 While we rest until the morrow 
 
 In the realm of folded eyes. 
 From our haVids we throw the burdens 
 
 That the weary senses weigh. 
 To find tlie waiting guerdon 
 
 'Mong isles of dreamland gray. 
 
 WINDS. 
 When the north winds blow and waysides lie 
 
 White in the arms of December; 
 My heart wakes up with a pitiful cry 
 
 To moan with the winds and remember. 
 And what say the winds from their far lieight 
 blown 
 
 Over the sunset towers? 
 Rending the air with such desolate moan, 
 
 Tliat the frighted eagle cowers. 
 Shrieking aloud as they I'ass the door. 
 
 Hurrying on to the river: 
 Lasliing the sea into maddened roar, 
 
 'Till the placid shore lands shiver. 
 .. Hear, oh hear! " chant the sigliing winds. 
 
 Thro' tlie outer turret waning; 
 " By a mighty power we are forced to find 
 
 Relief in our eoniplaining." 
 .. Wanderers we from our home of cloud, 
 
 Hiding in places dreary : 
 Goaded to wrath 'till we smite tlie prouti. 
 
 Soothed "till we fan the weary." 
 We are avengers who challenge the soul, 
 
 A Nemesis sad to awaken. 
 We are the steeds of creation, who roll 
 
 Our courses till worlds are shaken. 
 
 ® 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 399 
 
 ALBERT ULYSSES LESHER. 
 
 Born : Fayetteville, Pa., Oct. 4, 18(55. 
 After receiving- liis education, Albert taug-ht 
 school during- the winter months for seven 
 years; he then read law and was admitted to 
 the l)ar in 1890. Mr. Lesher lias written a num- 
 
 ALHKKT ULVSSES LESHER. 
 
 ber of poems which have been widely publish- 
 ed in the papers throughout eastern Pennsyl- 
 vania. He lias lield numerous positions of 
 honor at Maiiheim in liis native state. 
 
 m — 
 
 THE GOLDEN-ROD. 
 
 From Maine to California, 
 
 From AUeghanies' crest. 
 To where the Rocky Mountains 
 
 Stand g-uardiaus of the west; 
 From fair Dakota's fountains 
 
 To tropic Mexic wave — 
 From where the proud Potomac 
 
 Flows by our chieftain's grave - 
 Thou growest beauteous flower. 
 
 Sown by the hand of God; 
 Thou symbol of our power. 
 
 Thou blessed golden-rod. 
 When soft blow summer zephyrs, 
 
 When fall the autumn leaves. 
 Or when the wind of winter 
 
 Through lordly forests grieves - 
 Tliou liftest still thy golden crest 
 
 Above the winter's snow 
 
 And heedest not November winds. 
 
 However fierce tliey blow. 
 Oh, lovely little flower. 
 
 Uplifting from the sod — 
 Thou symbol of our power — 
 
 Thou blessed golden-rod. 
 Like thee — the golden-crested. 
 
 Our mighty land has grown ; 
 Like thee, the tempest breasted. 
 
 Like thee, her summer's known: 
 But God — the Great All Father — 
 
 Who marks the sparrow's fall. 
 Has raised both plant and nation. 
 
 Has watched and prospered all. 
 'Mid storm, 'mid hail, 'neath sunshine, 
 
 Still wave thy golden crest. 
 Still live the symbol flower — 
 
 The Shamrock of the West. 
 Though thrones and crowns may crum- 
 ble. 
 
 And kingdoms rise and fall. 
 Fair western land, the last and best. 
 
 Thou Shalt survive them all; 
 For thee, the Great Jehovah, 
 
 Hath lifted from the sod. 
 And given thee, with many gifts. 
 
 The blessed golden-rod — 
 The g-olden-rod of empire. 
 
 Which shall endure alway. 
 Until the sun to darkness turns 
 
 And earth shall pass away. 
 
 WHEN THE FRIENDS OF YOUTH ARE 
 GONE. 
 "There are gains," the poets tell us, 
 
 "For all losses " of the heart. 
 For the sorrows that subdue us. 
 
 For the tears that freely start. 
 For the golden sun of morning. 
 
 For the vanished stars that shone ; 
 But there is no compensation 
 
 When the heart is left alone : 
 Cho.— For, though Heaven seem more near 
 tliee 
 
 With life's battle fought and won. 
 Nothing on the earth can cheer thee 
 
 When the friends of youth are gone. 
 There are joyous hours for sorrow- 
 Future joy for present pain. 
 For to-day — a briglit to morrow, 
 
 For the draught-refreshing rain; 
 For the vanished years of childhood 
 
 Manhood's prime reserves reward; 
 For the desert stands a wildwood 
 
 Pleasant peace for gory sword : 
 There is consolation surelj' 
 
 In the thought of future life. 
 There is time for contemplation 
 
 In the rest that follows strife. 
 There are thoughts of old-time voices 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 400 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 In the future chorus grand, 
 And the weary heart rejoices — 
 
 Almost stirs the palsied hand: 
 Like the noble g-ray-haired statesman, 
 
 You may win life's battles all, — 
 Victor triumph o er your trials 
 
 Like the sage of Donegal, 
 Wear the civic crown of laurel 
 
 When thy active life is done. 
 But the joyous past will haunt thee 
 
 When thy heart is left alone. 
 
 TWO HARVESTS. 
 
 As you look across the grain-fields. 
 
 In the beautiful month of June, 
 When all the voices of nature 
 
 Blend in harmonious tune; 
 As you see the golden harvest 
 
 Gleam on the vernal hills; 
 As the merry song of the reapers 
 
 Your heart with rapture thrills; 
 As you gaze in admiration 
 
 On the eartlily fields so fair, 
 Do you think of the beautiful harvest — 
 
 Of the Father over there? 
 Of the harvest that lasts through the ages, 
 
 In the Heaven that smiles above, 
 Wliere all is light and glory. 
 
 And peace, and joy and love? 
 For it seems to me that in Heaven 
 
 The blest have their work to do; 
 That eacli by His wisdom is given 
 
 Some object to pursue. 
 Some exalted work for the Master,— 
 
 Some task supremely blest; 
 For the tireless labor of Heaven, 
 
 Meaneth "eternal rest." 
 
 m 
 
 MRS. HANNAH E. M. ALLEN. 
 
 Born: Paris, Me., Oct. 6, 1831. 
 Under the nom de plume of Ro-se Sanborn, 
 this lady has contributed quite extensively 
 to the periodical press. She now resides in 
 the state of Nebraska at Agnew, where she is 
 well kr.own and liighly respected. 
 
 A WINTER PANSY. 
 Once in the morning twiliglit of our love, 
 When Hope's first red had scarcely tinged the 
 
 g-ray, 
 I plucked a pansy from its winter bed 
 And gave it you: In its fresh face, perchance. 
 You read a vague, sweet propliecy of good. 
 Of Love .surviving life's ani umnal cliill. 
 And blossoming even in its winter days. 
 After long years, once more I pluck for you 
 A pansy than liat braved a frosty sky 
 And worn a snow-wreath on its purple brows. 
 For a sweet sign tlmt in our hearts to-<lay. 
 We find the okl-time prophecy come true. 
 
 MRS. JOSEPHINE JAMIESON. 
 
 Born : Dover, Ark., July 19, 1839. 
 For the past few years the poems of Mrs. 
 Jamieson have appeared in the St. Louis Ad- 
 
 MRS. JOSEPHINE JAMIESON. 
 
 vocate and numerous other publications. 
 She was married in 1856 to W. E. Jamieson, 
 with whom she now resides at Dye, Texas. 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 The snow, the snow, the pure white snow. 
 Coming down so soft and low. 
 Whirling and drifting througli the storm, 
 Down on the earth to keep it warm. 
 It comes, it comes through the chilly blast, 
 Falling on woods and fields so fast; 
 So quickly liiding them from sight 
 Beneath its spotless robe of white. 
 It goes, it goes to the home of the poor. 
 It finds its way througli the rich man's door; 
 Making the hearts of children glad. 
 Pinching the hungrj' and thinly clad. 
 It flies, it flics, yes everywhere. 
 Making diamonds liere, crystals there; 
 Bringing with it the chirping birds, 
 Tlie bleating lambs and lowing herd 
 O sec, O see the crystals shine, 
 Reflectionsof thii,t. love divine 
 That gave the world a sacred light — 
 Making the gloomiest day grow bright. • • 
 
 ■* 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 401 
 
 -m 
 
 MRS. LOUISE G.STAUNTON. 
 
 Born: Allen Co., Ind. 
 Fob the past decade the poems of this lady 
 have been published far and wide, and have 
 
 MRS. LOUISE G. STAUNTON. 
 
 been well received. Mrs. Staunton lias re- 
 sided in Fort Wayne since 1858, was married 
 tliere four years later, and left a widow in 
 in 1890. Slje has two cliildren living-. 
 
 THE SEA SHELL. 
 O beautiful shell from the murmuring sea. 
 Why sing of the charms of the ocean to me? 
 Whose strange, restless waters seem ever in 
 
 quest 
 Of earth's brightest jewels to hide in its breast. 
 O pink-tinted shell from the dark, stormy sea, 
 Canst tell me if deep,gloomy caverns there be. 
 Where mermaidens sport in the water's green 
 
 light 
 Away from tlie moon and the sunbeams so 
 
 bright? 
 Canst tell me of jewels so costly and rare. 
 That gleam in the bands of their radiant 
 
 hair — 
 Those bright water-nymphs, who dwell under 
 
 the wave. 
 Whose castles of coral the deep waters lave? 
 i Do they love, do they hate, as other folks do. 
 In that strange nether world, quite hidden 
 
 from view 
 By numberless fathoms of salt ocean spray, 
 That guard and protect them forever and aye? 
 
 And did the most lovely of all that fair band, 
 Stoop low 'mid the grasses and emerald sand, 
 To breathe in the ear of my wonderful shell 
 Those musical notes it forever must tell? 
 
 Forever? ah, yes, when this warm, beating 
 
 heart 
 To dust has returned, having finished its part. 
 Keeping time to the rhythm of sorrow and 
 
 tears. 
 Whose echoes are lost in the vanishing years. 
 
 But through the thick blackness there cometh 
 
 a ray 
 That heralds the dawn of a happier day. 
 When the soul, free from fetters, shall pass to 
 
 its rest 
 lu the mansions of light, the home of the blest. 
 Then sing, pretty shell, of the days yet to be. 
 And the days that are gone, and of the deep sea 
 The home of the mermaiden, gracious and fair. 
 And the mansions of light o'er the river of 
 
 care. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 Fair youth, within whose manly breast 
 
 The fires of genius smolder low. 
 Seek well to feed the flame aright. 
 
 With steady hand, both sure and slow. 
 Both sure and slow, remember well 
 
 The magic these few words contain. 
 Till, in the fullness of God's time. 
 
 It leaps and mounts a living flame. 
 A shaft of fire to lead the way 
 
 Far up the rugged path to fame, 
 Till on the summit's dizzy height 
 
 With dexter hand you write your name. 
 But when bright honor's diadem 
 
 Descends upon thy manly brow 
 Do not forget tlie low of earth. 
 
 Compelled beneath the yoke to bow. 
 Strike ever for the poor, the weak. 
 
 For this thy God hath made thee strong; 
 Hurl down the tyrant, lift the slave. 
 
 Oppressed by cruel, bitter wrong. 
 The more bright honor stoops to save. 
 
 The more it rises in its might. 
 But why remind a noble soul 
 
 Who conscious is of wrong and right? 
 Accept this floral wi-eath from one 
 
 Who knows thee not, but fain would 
 know. 
 And wear the blossoms on thy breast 
 
 Tlirough summer's heat and winter's 
 snow. 
 And may their odors ever live 
 
 A tender memory in thy heart 
 Of youthful hopes, tlien pass beyond 
 
 When on life's stage you've played your 
 part. 
 
 -® 
 
m- 
 
 -* 
 
 402 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 J.WARREN GARDINER. 
 
 Born: North Kingston, R. I., March 3, 1836. 
 Mr. Gardiner studied medicine for two 
 years, and later became a scliool teacher. 
 After his marriage he was admitted to the 
 bar. His liealth compelled him to move to 
 Florida. Mr. Gardiner has lived at different 
 
 J. WARREN GARDINER. 
 
 times in many of tlie states of tlie union, and 
 has held many important public jtositions of 
 trust. He has publislied several newspapers, 
 and is at present editor and proprietor of the 
 Dixie Optic, at Jefferson, N. C. He has a large 
 amount of uupublislied matter both in poetry 
 and prose, which he hopes soon to publisli. 
 
 THE PATCH. 
 
 When I see, beside tlio way. 
 
 The little ureliiii tlierc at play, 
 Witii a patch on eitlier knee. 
 
 What is it tliat impresses me? 
 Memory of a motlier dear. 
 
 Laid long since upon her bier. 
 Who, when T was young and small. 
 
 Darned and mended ft)r us all. 
 Patiently, with thread and thimble, 
 
 Eyes yet clear and fingers nimble, 
 Wliilc we nestled close in bed, 
 
 Tlirougii tlie jiatcii I lie needle sped. 
 Hence tlie patcli so comely, neat. 
 
 On little trousers ktiee or seat. 
 Speaks to me of comfort near. 
 
 Of a home and mother dear. 
 
 m 
 
 New clothes fit and trim may be 
 
 Worn by urchins wliom we see; 
 Rags may flutter on the street, 
 
 Shoeless boys or shod may meet; 
 Stili to us no sign they give. 
 
 Save that poor or rich they live, 
 Boj's who wear the neat patch prove 
 
 A mother's care, a mother's love. 
 
 BRAIN VS. BRAWN. 
 Brain and Brawn were biothers, 
 
 Beginning life together, 
 Eacii reared to honest labor. 
 
 Inured to wind and weather. 
 The former by economy 
 
 And industry unceasing. 
 Found day by day his influence 
 
 And hoarded wealth increasing. 
 
 He spent no time at taverns 
 
 In drinking or carousing. 
 Was temperate in all his ways. 
 
 All honesty espousing. 
 Employers learned his worth to prize. 
 
 And valued him according. 
 True merit wins its way to wealth. 
 
 And is its own rewarding. 
 He slowly I'ose to eminence, 
 
 Bj- home and friends surrounded. 
 In business of his own engaged. 
 
 And so his wealth abounded. 
 The latter to debauchery 
 
 His nights and Sundays giving. 
 Consumed his hard-earned wage? 
 
 In folly and fast living. 
 So slowly at his daily task. 
 
 The weary hours he numbered. 
 And grumbled at his stubborn lot. 
 
 And thus success encumbei-ed. 
 Employers learned his worth to guage, 
 
 For energy was lacking; 
 Disorder with depressing hand 
 
 His frame was slowly sacking. 
 His home was misery and sloth. 
 
 By kindred friends surrounded. 
 He spent his time in bitter plaint. 
 
 And poverty abounded. 
 Advancing age now finds the two. 
 
 But mark wliat contrast bitter; 
 One rests upon a bed of down. 
 
 The other on a litter. 
 One occupies a high-stoop house. 
 
 Has stocks and bonds in store; 
 The other grovels in a hut 
 
 With rent-man at tlie door. 
 One has a healthy family. 
 
 Grown up and married well; 
 The other's sons are vile and low. 
 
 Fit for a prison cell. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 403 
 
 -m 
 
 MRS. S. HAZLETT-BEVIS. 
 
 Born: Zanesville, Ohio, July 17, 1846. 
 Removing to Ciiieiiiuati in 1884 from Mar- 
 quette, Miehig-an, Mrs. Hazlett-Bevis has be- 
 come well known as a journalist, and is now 
 on tlie local staff of the Evening Post. Slielias 
 the undoubted claim to author, poet and jour- 
 nalist; has recently issued a vohiiueof poems; 
 
 .MUS. S. IIAZLKTT-BEVI.S. 
 
 and is also editing- Noted Women of Cincinnati, 
 which will be pubWslied in 1891 Mrs. Hazlett- 
 Bevis organized the Woman's Press Club of 
 Cincinnati, and was its first president. After 
 many years of widowhood slie was married in 
 1888 to Henry H. Bevis, now proprietor of The 
 Cincinnati Elite News, of which Mrs. Bevis is 
 he associate editor. The poems of this lady 
 have appeared in the leading publications of 
 America, and have been liighly spolsen of. 
 
 A LITTLE CHILD. 
 Only a tiny hand-clasp. 
 
 Only an accent mild: 
 Only a pattering footstep. 
 
 But that of a little child. 
 Only blue eyes uplifted. 
 
 Only a pleading filed; 
 Only a heart in yearning. 
 
 And that of a little child. 
 Only a trust in keeping. 
 
 Only to Ije beguiled; 
 
 Only glistening teardrops. 
 The blood of a little child. 
 
 Only a heart-grown callous. 
 Only a soul defiled: 
 
 Only a saddened memory — 
 A neglected little child. 
 
 SOMETIMES. 
 Sometimes, when all about is still. 
 
 And calmly wafts the evening air. 
 The pent-up feelings, and the will, 
 Both prostrate lie in deep despair. 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Sometimes in spite of reins well held, 
 Whose white hand-power is self-control. 
 
 With lips compressed, and bosom swelled 
 With heartache hunger of the soul. 
 Sometimes. 
 
 We cannot pray, we only moan. 
 
 And lie in misery so abject — 
 With hands clasped tensely, cold as stone, 
 
 And tears dried hotly— none suspect. 
 Sometimes. 
 
 We long for death, a sudden hush 
 
 To fall upon us as we sit: 
 Oblivion without noise or crush. 
 
 And thus the end, while sliadows flit. 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Perhaps the deare.st hopes of earth. 
 Our idols shattered, merest clay. 
 
 Long years of toil, that knew no girth, 
 By lightest breeze are swept away. 
 Sometimes. 
 
 We wonder if He knew or cared? 
 
 It seems so to our breaking heart. 
 Mocking the life that He hath spared. 
 
 Thinking naught of that greater part. 
 Sometimes. 
 
 SMILE AND BE GLAD. 
 Smile, tliough the heart be breaking; 
 
 Smile, though the clouds droop low; 
 Smile, in the morn awaking; 
 
 Smile, when to rest you go. 
 
 Think of the day with gladness. 
 Though toilful the hours, and long; 
 
 Banish all care and sadness. 
 Lighten your labors with song. 
 
 Open the doors of your sanctum. 
 That " Holy of Holies "—your heart; 
 
 Let in the sunshine that will come. 
 And be of you ever a part. 
 
 Speak kindly words to the erring; 
 
 Harsh ones embitter the soul; 
 Each to the other deferring. 
 
 Holding o'er self full control. 
 
«■ 
 
 404 
 
 S 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Be content, be kind, be loving: 
 Remember the shortness of life; 
 
 Its not worth wliile to be proving — 
 Constantly arguing with strife. 
 
 Every life hath its bitter. 
 As well as its sweets to drain ; 
 
 It is not "all pomp and glitter," 
 That's freest from sorrow and pain. 
 
 The " Golden Rule " is the best one. 
 To follow the whole journey through; 
 
 " Do unto others, as you alone. 
 Would have others do unto you." 
 
 ONE OF THESE DAYS. 
 One of these days when all the years so silent 
 Have passed into eternity at last. 
 And you and I stand face to face thus meet- 
 ing. 
 Shall we remember all the bitter past? 
 
 Shall we remember all the woe and heartache, 
 That met us on life's morn and sunlit patliV 
 Shall we in awe stand baclf,the pain renewing. 
 As glance, to glance, the greater misery hath? 
 
 Will stifled moans,pale lips the torture hiding. 
 Be wrung from hearts whose cup is more 
 
 than full? 
 Will tears trace deeper,in the furrows graven? 
 Or shall an apatliy our spirits lull? 
 
 Shall aching brain be horrified with vision. 
 Panoramic view of scenes we would forget? 
 Shall warm hands clinch, and make therein 
 
 incision. 
 And blood drip from a life full of regret? 
 
 Must all the thorns be tread upon as olden. 
 Our weary feet no rest as yet to feel? 
 Must burdens borne,bow lower in submission, 
 Before His touch our broken spirits lieal? 
 
 If so, dear God, from out thy Icving kindness. 
 Let one soul drift into a blissful naught — 
 My own — and if a wild mistaken blindness. 
 Forgive, and understand the silence bought. 
 
 MRS. JOHN MCVICAR. 
 
 The poems of this lady have been published 
 in Godey's Lady's Book and otlier magazines 
 of equal prominence. She is a resident of De- 
 troit, where lier liusband is the manager of 
 the Michigan State Printing and Binding. 
 
 SB- 
 
 DOUBT. 
 With weary feet we tread the barren waste, 
 
 O'er deep morass, up rocky, toilsome steep; 
 If blue breaks through the clouds, we scarce 
 can see. 
 To dim our eyes that only wake to weep. 
 
 Or, if we catch a glint of smiling sky. 
 
 For us a pleasant path seems opening out; 
 We question: Is this blue? Where does that 
 lead? 
 
 And lose perchance life's purest joy through 
 doubt. 
 A hand is stretched to us upon the way — 
 
 Coward, we pause ere yet we give our own, 
 Though yearning for its Iielpful clasp; 
 
 Doubt robs us, and again we are alone. 
 Blind cowards we, life's fairest blossoms. 
 
 Doubt withered, thickly strew our way ; 
 And loyal, loving hearts turn from us. 
 
 The wliile it whispers: might they not be- 
 tray? 
 Doubt most insures the loss it dreads. 
 
 While perfect trust, if freely given. 
 Might so weld bonds we fear so frail 
 
 Not all of time should see them riven. 
 
 MRS. ELIZA H. RUBLE. 
 
 The poems of this lady have appeared exten- 
 sively in the local press. She is now a resident 
 of Albert Lea, Minnesota. 
 
 WASHING DISHES. 
 
 Good exercise is well prescribed 
 
 To give ladies strength and health. 
 
 Ball, horseback-ride, or anything 
 
 That 's consistent with their wealth. 
 
 There are roller-skates and tennis 
 
 To satisf J' tlieir wislies. 
 
 But recommend a lady fair 
 
 Who cares to wash the dishes — 
 
 Then do be spry and wipe tliem dry. 
 
 Don't frown or pout, or kick about 
 
 Such little things as dishes. 
 
 That 's exercise of a good kind — 
 
 It serves a purpose double; 
 
 Adds strength to muscle and to will. 
 
 Gives " ma " of course less trouble. 
 
 It will brace your nerves in future 
 
 If all don't godclicioiTs, 
 
 When with a -core of other things 
 
 You've got to wash the dishes. 
 
 Then wasli and dry and place them high 
 
 Eacii by themselves upon tlie shelves 
 
 Those liarmless-looking dishes. 
 
 Performance on pianofoi-te 
 
 Is construed by all quite fine. 
 
 And rubbing on an old wasli-board 
 
 Must be exercise divine. 
 
 Better tlian croquet or sliding. 
 
 Or angling for tlie tlsiies. 
 
 Is the i)iesi>Mt never-ending 
 
 Old game of washing dislies. 
 
 Then wash and rinse with many squints, 
 
 Whate'er your fate, oh, do not hate 
 
 Tliose much neglected dishes. 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 405 
 
 « 
 
 JAMES M. L^COUNT. 
 
 Born : Lyons, N. Y., Sept. 24, 1835. 
 The subject of this sketch is a descendant of 
 the Hugenots that settled in Duchess Co., N. 
 Y. At an earlj- age liis father removed to 
 Michigan, then to Ohio, and finally settled on 
 a farm in Wisconsin. When twenty years of 
 age James learned the tinsmiths* trade, and 
 
 JAMES M. L'COUNT. 
 
 later carried on a hardware business in Hart- 
 ford, where he now resides. In 18T6 Mr. Le 
 Count bought the Hartford Press, which he 
 still publishes. Since entering the publishing 
 business the poems of Mr. LeCount have con- 
 stantly appeared in the local press, and have 
 received favorable mention. In 1890 he hopes 
 to publish Tlie Hermit of Holy Hill, a poem of 
 five cantos in the style of Scott's Lady of the 
 Lake. 
 
 THERE IS JOY IN OUR HOUSE. 
 There is joy in our house to-night— for I hear 
 The voices of children and wife; [dear 
 They are telling each other how father, so 
 
 Will wear the red ribbon for life. 
 Yes, hark! they are telling, while each heart 
 is swelling. 
 With a joy that it ne'er knew before — 
 How he's taken the vow, and the red ribbon 
 now 
 He will wear on his breast evermore. 
 There is joy in our house to-night, for I know 
 They believe I will honor the cause; 
 
 That manhood enough is left me to show 
 
 To the world that I'm not wliat I was. 
 Yes, hark! they're believing, that I am not 
 deceiving 
 Those dear ones who loved me in shame. 
 They've faith in the ribbon, for I wear it un- 
 hidden, 
 They have faith in the pledge to reclaim. 
 'There is joy in our house to-night, I am sure, 
 
 For I hear their sweet chorus in song. 
 And I know they are happj-, in feeling secure 
 
 That my pledge will be lasting and long. 
 Yes, hark ! thej' are singing, each happy voice 
 ringing 
 Like the chorus from angels on high; [say. 
 And I list to the lay, and the words seem to 
 
 Keep the ribbon and pledge till you die. 
 There is joy in our house to-night, may it ever 
 
 Be thus, hark! I hear them implore — 
 O! God! in thy mercy protect him, and never 
 
 Again may he drink as before^ 
 Yes, hark; they are praying — O! list what 
 they're saying: 
 God grant this our earnest request. 
 May his faith be unshaken, in the pledge he 
 has taken 
 And the ribbon he wears on his breast. 
 
 TO A BLUEBIRD. 
 Bluebn-d, messenger of spring. 
 
 Pausing in thy flight to-day. 
 Near my home I hear thee sing, 
 Making all the woodlands ring 
 
 With thy joyous, happy lay. 
 Couldst thou tell me of the clime. 
 
 Of that far-off southern land, 
 Where you pass the winter's time — 
 Is the landscape fair as mine? 
 
 Hills and forests there as grand? 
 When you wing your flight to where 
 
 The orange ripens all the year. 
 Midst the heated tropic air — 
 Do they greet thy coming there 
 
 With the joy that we do here? 
 Oft I've pondered and would know 
 
 Who directs thy wondrous flight — 
 Tells thee when to come and go 
 From the land of heat or snow. 
 
 Whose the hand that guides thee right? 
 Perchance this foresight is revealed 
 
 By Him who hath created all; 
 Who does the least from danger shield ; 
 Who paints the lilies of the field. 
 
 Him who notes each sparrow's fall. 
 Bluebird, stay thy northern flight. 
 
 Soar not farther on thy way; 
 Thou art welcome to my sight. 
 And your songs are my delight — 
 
 Azure bird, I bid thee stay. 
 
 ^ 
 
©- 
 
 ® 
 
 406 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAI- POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 CATHERINE G. HATCHETT. 
 
 Born: England, Jan. 1, 1868. 
 This lady has received congrutulatioiis from 
 the leading- poets of America, on lln- iiroiiii.se 
 
 I ATHIOKINK (JKACE II A !'( H KTT. 
 
 and beauty of lier verses. She is a resident of 
 Schuyler, Neb., where she is very popular. 
 
 m- 
 
 MENTAL MUSIC. 
 
 Mental Music is tlie grandest 
 
 Tliat tlie human heart can know, 
 For it lightens every hurden 
 
 And it lessens every woe. 
 In tlie world there's no musician 
 
 Wlio can with the muse compete. 
 For her symphonies are perfect, 
 
 And her chords divinely sweet. 
 Oft she'll take the Harp of Fancy, 
 
 And upon its tender wires 
 Willingly will play for hours 
 
 With a zeal tliat seldom tires. 
 Never lieeding, tho' the moments 
 
 Onward speeding: ne'er come back. 
 Tiny mites, by otliers followed. 
 
 Ever in the self same track. 
 And lier unseen pearly fingers 
 
 Hack and forMi will gently sweep, 
 Wliile tlie golden strings responsive 
 
 Sweetest liarniony will keep. 
 Nevt-r clashing with a discord. 
 
 But with perfect tune and time. 
 
 Bender music far more thrilling 
 
 Than was heard in any clime. 
 Minstrel music, beloved companion, 
 
 [Into thee I'll freely give, 
 Fancj^'s silver harp entirely — 
 
 If thou'lt play it whilst I live. 
 For thy tunes are so beguiling 
 
 They dispel all thought of care, 
 And their influence so charming 
 
 That it makes all things seem fair. 
 Therefore long as life remaineth. 
 
 And as flies eacli fleeting year. 
 With thy soothing power to solace 
 
 Minstrel music, oh be thou near. 
 
 ABANDONED. 
 Poor painted creature, whom the virtuous 
 
 shun, 
 'Twill not be long ere thy sad life is done; 
 And better so, aye it 'twere better far. 
 To yield at once than live on as you are. 
 For no one loves thee, thou hast not a friend. 
 Naught to prevent thee welcoming the end; 
 And life methinks, must seem to such as thee, 
 E'en at its best, a hideous mockery. 
 Tli.v very smiles thou art compelled to wear. 
 To hide thy hatred and to mask despair; 
 And it must tire, thine hopeless, hollow eyes, 
 To gaze so long on all they must despise. 
 The world to thee is but a shaky stage. 
 An actress thou, thy life a blotted page. 
 Men pass thee by upon the thoroughfare. 
 Nor deign to heed thee in the daylight glare. 
 But, when at last the heavy pall of night 
 Spreads o'er the earth and hides them from 
 
 the sight 
 
 And 'twill not do for outcasts such as I 
 To own repentance and to sob and sigh. 
 Mankind would laugh and womankind would 
 
 sneer. 
 If they could now my foolish ravings hear; 
 And so I'm lost, to infamj- am doomed, 
 Ne'er to escape until for aye entombed. 
 
 Poor, helpless woman, with your fatal charms, 
 Once thou wert cradled in a mother's arms. 
 Who breathed a prayer that God would safely 
 
 guide 
 Her baby's footsteps to the Other Side. 
 'I'lien thou wert pure, thy little head did'st 
 
 rest 
 In sweetest slumber on a loving breast. 
 But now, how changed, those happy hours 
 
 have fled. 
 And tliou hast lived to wish that tlioii wert 
 
 dead. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 407 
 
 -© 
 
 MRS. LIZZIE A. SHIMMOXS. 
 
 Bokn: Brookfield, Vt., 1853. 
 Under the non de plume of Blanche Gray 
 Mrs. Sliimnions has written extensively for 
 
 the local press. In 1889 she was married to 
 John H. Shimmons, a merchant doing- business 
 at Lawrence, Kansas, where she now resides. 
 
 m 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE. 
 It was long ago in violet time. 
 That an angel brouglit from the heavenly 
 
 clime 
 A message so pure, and rare and sweet. 
 That we felt for a time our joy complete. 
 For what shadow could ever come to us now, 
 With this shining coronet upon our brow. 
 This safeguai-d of hope borne from above 
 To hallow our lives, this blessing called love. 
 We lived in its sunlight, we basked in its 
 
 smile, 
 'Tis easy when loving fond hearts to beguile. 
 We dream not of deceit or malice or sin 
 While the heart filled with love is beating 
 
 within. 
 
 Sweet dreams of our youth are you flitting 
 
 away. 
 Have life's burdens and cares made the heart 
 
 grow cold? 
 If so, sweet angel, bring a message I pray, 
 And fresh pages of love to our hearts unfold. 
 
 THE FORGETFULNESS OF SLEEP. 
 Oh! blessed sleep could 1 but feel. 
 The soothing powers o'er my senses steal, 
 Methinks 'twould give my spirit rest. 
 To wander away from the cares that oppress. 
 And forget for a time life's sorrows and pain, 
 And live the bright past once over again. 
 To shed your halo on my troubled heart. 
 And sweet incense of sleep to my eyelids im- 
 part. 
 
 And lull me to sleep on your restful wing. 
 And awaken me not witli memories thatbring 
 Sad recollections to my weary brain 
 As I awake to the past again. 
 
 But rather let me gently glide. 
 Where peace and rest for me abide. 
 Where cares of earth can never come,— 
 In realms of bliss I'd have my home. 
 
 So welcome pure and gentle sleep. 
 Your arms entwined around me keep. 
 And when your hold on me is riven, 
 ■ May I awake at last in Heaven. 
 
 ZITELLA COCKE. 
 
 Born: Perky Co., Ala. 
 This lady is an accomplished pianist and vo- 
 calist, and by profession is a teacher of music. 
 She has published several very fine musical 
 compositions. Literature has always occu- 
 pied a prominent place in her life. In 1878 
 her translations from German novels were 
 published, and the press at once commended 
 the purity of her style and the beauty of her 
 English. Her poems have appeared in the 
 Continent and various magazines of promi- 
 nence. The Baltimore American speaks in the 
 highest praise of Zitella Cocke's literary 
 ability. 
 
 HER NAME. 
 
 I pondered long — you've done the same 
 No doubt — on what should be the name 
 Of that fair one whom fate and I 
 Should choose for true love's constancy. 
 Mythology and legend, classic lore 
 I searched — and yet, I looked for something 
 more ! 
 
 Should she be Helen? goddess? queen? 
 
 The very name pictures the scene 
 
 Of discord ; I'll not put my Troy 
 
 At such a chance for such a toy. 
 
 That bard was blind, indeed, spite his renown. 
 
 Who thought a woman worth so fine a town ! 
 
 Lucretia was a model dame: 
 
 Besides, I rather like the name; / 
 
 But then, I'd fear a tragedy. 
 
 And heroines are not for me. 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 408 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Cornelia's fair,— but then slie had a way 
 Of repartee, and having- the last say! 
 
 Vii-g-inia! Ah, a lovely wife! 
 
 But that I'd always see the knife 
 
 At her white throat. Iphigenla, — 
 
 A martyr that I much admire? 
 
 Aspasia's charms might suit great Pericles, 
 
 But she would never do for times like these! 
 
 Rebecca might please Ivanhoe 
 (It seems as if she didn't, though). 
 The beautiful and proud Rowena 
 I might have loved if I had seen her: 
 I'm glad I didn't. As for Rosamond, 
 She's just the woman I would most have 
 shunned! 
 
 fair, unparagoned Elaine ! 
 
 The very thought of her brings pain: 
 And as for royal Guinevere, 
 She 's far too fine for daily wear; 
 And husbands of the nineteenth century 
 Griselda's patience must not look to see ! 
 
 Aurora rises much too soon; 
 
 1 like to see the sun at noon, 
 Preferring fashionable hours, 
 
 I do not care to wake the flowers. 
 Phyllis and Plioebe love the milking pail; 
 I love a beauty rather pale than hale. 
 
 Berthas that fill a poet's mind. 
 
 And Mauds to gardens I resigned. 
 
 In vain my wanton fancy roved — 
 
 I never found the name I loved 
 
 The girl I met— I love, yes, I adore her! 
 
 I never asked her name — they call her Nora ! 
 
 SB- 
 
 GODS OF HELLAS. 
 O ye gods of sunny Hellas, are ye gone for- 
 
 evermore 
 From the crystal caves of Ocean and the sing- 
 ing, wave-kissed shore! 
 Are ye hiding in the mountains, do ye lurk 
 
 withhi the streams? 
 Can ye come no more to mortals in their long- 
 ings and their dreams? 
 Have ye quit serene Olympus,— is it o'er, 
 
 .vour golden reign? 
 And the grand Ida-an Mother with her fair im- 
 mortal train. 
 Shall they never come again? 
 
 O ye gods of sunny Hellas, do the clouds en- 
 fold you now 
 
 From our mortal ken, as when ye leaped from 
 high Olympus's brow 
 
 To the green Thessalian forests and the founts 
 of Cast-aly,— 
 
 Or to fierce Scamander's niging tid(>, to flglit 
 for tir Atridii'? 
 
 Ai'e Dodona's oaks forsaken, and the lieaven- 
 inspired Dove- 
 
 Shall she never utter more within the dark 
 and mystic grove — 
 The dread oracles of Jove? 
 
 Does the pure, untarnished Artemis, with sil- 
 ver-sandaled feet. 
 
 Lead her goddess-nymphs no longer to the 
 chase, — a huntress fleet? 
 
 Nor the winged messenger of gods make 
 bright the common air? 
 
 Nor the blue-eyed virgin Pallas heed the 
 maiden's 'plaining prayer? 
 
 Does the Goddess of the Graces hold her prize 
 of golden fruit! 
 
 Do the waters of bright Helicon awake Apol- 
 lo's lute? 
 Are the Muses all grown mute ! 
 
 Nay, the gods of sunny Hellas give us answer 
 
 when we call; 
 We shall hear them, if our struggling souls, 
 
 we loose from worldly thrall,— 
 Bring the eyes lo see the substance in the 
 
 shadow ; for 'tis so. 
 Plastic Nature yields her secrets to the hearts 
 
 that love her ;— lo ! 
 Echo lives on yonder hills — fair Dryads s peak 
 
 and zephyrs fan 
 Out of the brook-born reed-pipes, music sweet 
 
 as when tlie great god Pan 
 After trembling Syrinx ran ! 
 
 POMEGRANATES. 
 Pomegranates sweet and pomegranates sour 
 
 Hang in the red October sun : 
 Nobody knew, when they were in flower 
 
 And their life had just begun. 
 Which was the sweet and which was the sour, 
 
 Till they ripened one by one. 
 
 The blooms were hats of cardinal hue 
 
 And trumpets of yellow flame; 
 And as the fruits to perfection grew, 
 Tlieir red-coats were just the same. 
 Then the darts of the sun cleft the rinds in 
 
 two. 
 And their deep-red hearts burst out to view. 
 But till tiiey wevo tasted, nol)()dy know 
 Wliere the swt'ct and the sour cnnie. 
 For pomegranate sour is a bitter cheat. 
 But a luscious thing is pomegranate sweet. 
 
 In youth-time's bright and rosy bower 
 
 A bevy of niiiidens jilay: 
 Tlii'ir fresh young life is just in flower. 
 But wliich is the sweet and which is the sour, 
 
 Pray, who will dai'o to say? 
 
 But there will come a day 
 When life's sharp darts 
 Will cleave their iiearts. 
 And taste we must in adversity's hour 
 Wliich nature is sweet and which is the sour. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEltlCA. 
 
 409 
 
 -•5 
 
 HORACE B. DURANT. 
 
 Born: Washington Co., Pa., Dec. 37, 1828. 
 
 The subject of this sketch w;is educated at 
 Jefferson College, and afterward studied med- 
 icine, which he practiced until the advent of 
 the war in 1861, when he enlisted. He served 
 fiuir years in tlie fi\"il war — tirst as a [irivate 
 
 HOHACl; B. DLltANT. 
 
 and afterward was promoted as a surgeon in 
 his own regiment. At the close of the war 
 Mr. Durant engaged in journalistic and liter- 
 ary i)ursuits. He is an earnest prohibitionist. 
 On all current topics Mr. Durant is widely 
 and favorably known as a vigorous and poi- 
 ished prose and poetic writer. He is a res- 
 ident of his native state at Philadelphia. 
 
 9 
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 
 Tiie night came down in sullen g-loom, 
 
 Tlie winds grew shrill and loud. 
 And swept like wail of liuman pain. 
 
 Through spar and sail and shroud. 
 
 The angry clouds, like trampling- steeds. 
 
 Swept o'er the wrathful sky. 
 And crowned with crest of fiery foam. 
 
 The waves rolled mountain high. 
 
 On board the regal .. Ocean Queen," 
 
 Full fifteen hundred men 
 Were rocking- on the stormy deep. 
 
 Whose thouglits went homeward then. 
 
 •Then many an anxious, throbbing heart. 
 
 Went out in ardent prayer. 
 That Heaven would save tlieir absent ones 
 
 That hour imperiled there ! 
 
 Yes as unnumbered prayers went up. 
 
 But little did they know 
 The tempest wing that flapped above. 
 
 The waves that yawned below; 
 
 Or, how careening- decks were paced 
 
 With calm yet hopeless tread. 
 That hollow sounded 'neath the feet. 
 
 Like coffins for their dead! 
 
 'Tis vivid in our mem'ry still, 
 
 How all that fearful night. 
 We stood aloft, and tried to pierce 
 
 The gloom with straining sight. 
 
 While ever and anon, tlie swift 
 And blinding- lightning's flash. 
 
 Came di-agging o'er tlie shudd'ring depths. 
 The thunder's awful crash ! 
 
 While mingled with the hissing spray, 
 
 Down came the slanting rain. 
 That swept across the trembling decks. 
 
 And smote the cheek with pain. 
 
 Ah, it was painful listening there. 
 
 To hear the timbers creak — 
 Creak all the long, long night, as though 
 
 Thej' suffering, strove to speak! 
 
 'Twas sad to hear the struggling wheel 
 
 Turn with a plunging groan. 
 Within the trougli of boiling waves, 
 
 Amid the tempest's moan ! 
 
 It made the heart giow still with awe. 
 
 To hear the billows smite 
 Like giant Ijlows against the bow. 
 
 And thundered past in might. 
 
 And one could not help but feel, the while. 
 
 That He alone could save. 
 Who reigns supreme upon the land. 
 
 And calms the stormy wave. 
 
 Long years may pass, and other scenes 
 
 From mem'ry fade awaj-. 
 Yet comrades, ye can ne'er forget 
 
 That night of storm and spray ! 
 
 And oft in summer twilight still, 
 
 Ye'll sit within the door. 
 And to an eager, listening band. 
 
 Relate your perils o'er; 
 
 Or, when the drifted snows lie deep, 
 
 On upland, glade and lea. 
 Rehearse beside the blazing fire. 
 
 That night upon the sea. 
 
 -)5 
 
©- 
 
 -Sj 
 
 410 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElllCA. 
 
 THE FROZEN SHIP. 
 O mariner brave, on the crested wave 
 
 That rolls 'neath the tropic skies, 
 Whj' seek ye the perils of frozen zone, 
 
 That human research defies? 
 In tempest or calm, ye may voyage safe 
 
 To many a sunny strand; 
 But ye may cruise in vain to that icy main. 
 
 That girds the polar land. 
 Look out on that sea, if such it may be. 
 
 Whose surges seem turned to stone; 
 Lo, a bark lies there, in the north-light glare. 
 
 And her decks are still and lone ! 
 No audible sound breaks the silence 
 
 'I'ound 
 
 But the groan. of the ice-floe's shock. 
 Or the shivering fall of some glacier wall 
 
 From fhe brow of the crystal rock! 
 The auroral gleam sheds its wizard beam 
 
 From the deck to cabin and hold; 
 The motionless watch leans against the rail- 
 But he feels not the bitter cold ! 
 The mate with his tinder-box kneels to light 
 
 His last chip of wood below; 
 But the feeble flame, if it ever came. 
 
 Warmed him not with its transient glow. 
 Looking up with pen half raised, as il then 
 
 He listened some painful cry. 
 The captain sits there with a sorrowful gaze, 
 
 That is fixed in his motionless eye! 
 On the open page of his log-book read 
 
 The words he has written last — 
 " All frozen but me !" He is ice, as you see. 
 With the pen in his fingers fast ! 
 
 They seem life-like so, in the arctic glow, 
 
 We scarcely can think it death; 
 As they dream away unharmed by decay- 
 Just touched by the frost-king's breath! 
 They sit or recline; they stand or they kneel; 
 
 All perfect in feature and form; 
 But their dirge is the wail of the freezing 
 gale. 
 The roar of eternal storm ! 
 All the ages through, with that ghostly crew. 
 
 The wind-gods their revels shall keep; 
 And mutter and moan in each dull cold ear. 
 
 Yet never .shall waken their sleep! 
 Their marble-like forms shall never require 
 
 Any funeral rite-s to be paid; 
 Neither coffin is meet, nor a winding sheet, 
 
 Nor a grave-digger's solemn spade! 
 O, mortal, seek not that desolate spot, 
 
 Where chaos forever reigns; 
 Where the icy spires freeze in sunless fires 
 
 And tlie ocean is bound in chains. 
 On the stormiest billows rather glide; 
 
 Go wander each other clime; 
 But the mystic pole shall solemnly roll, 
 Unapproached to the end of time. 
 « 
 
 JAMES STUART DON X AX. 
 
 Born: Scotland, Feb. 28, 1835. 
 
 For many years the poems of Mr. Donnan 
 have appeared in the periodical press. He 
 was married in 1884. and now resides in Long 
 Island, where he is very popular. 
 
 'TWAS ANOTHER DREAM. 
 
 'Twas another dream mj' darling, 
 And my eyes were filled with tears. 
 As I woke from restless slumbers. 
 Full of heart unburdened fears. 
 
 'Twas the terror born of waiting, 
 'Twas the anguish of the soul, 
 'Twas the essence of misgiving, 
 'Twas of bitterness the goal. 
 
 A million fancied dangers 
 Crowded in a moment's time, 
 The world seemed full of demons. 
 There was nothing left but crime. 
 
 Such, darling, was the struggle. 
 Of my wearied frenzied brain, 
 Such, dearest, was the sorrow 
 Of a love by absence slain. 
 
 'Twas another dream, mj' darling, 
 A dream and nothing moi-e. 
 But it made you dearer, darling 
 Than you ever were before. 
 
 TELL ME DARLING. 
 
 Tell me darling, tell me pray. 
 
 Why there's not anight or day. 
 
 In the Calendar of time. 
 
 Is not filled with thoughts sublime. 
 
 Thoughts of tliee, my sweet, my own. 
 
 Queen of love's eternal throne? 
 
 Tell me darling if you can. 
 Why there's not a scheme or plan. 
 Passing through my weary brain. 
 Is not filled witli joy and pain, 
 Joy to know tliat you are mine. 
 Grief to think that at some time 
 
 When upon the verge of life. 
 Weary with the cares and strife 
 Which surround our path below, 
 Full of sorrow, full of woe. 
 One must be the first to say 
 Darling, I am called away. 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, TOETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 )S 
 
 411 
 
 JOHN WILLIAM BOXELL. 
 
 Born: Muskingum Co., Ohio, Feb. 6, 1824. 
 In 1848 tins gentleman was married to Miss 
 Mary Shaw. His verses have appeared in 
 various newspapers in Ohio, Pennsylvania, 
 New York and Minnesota, and he has written 
 
 JOHN WILLIAM BOXELL. 
 
 both prose and verse quite extensively for the 
 Northwest Magazine. Mr. Boxell served in 
 the union army; and his father was in the war 
 of 1813. Mr. Boxell came to Minnesota Terri- 
 tory in 1854, and is now a resident of St. Paul. 
 This gentleman has seven sons and two 
 daughter living.and eigliteengrandchildren. 
 
 m- 
 
 THE ELMS OF ELMO. 
 Mary, put your worls away. 
 And let us for a while be gaj'. 
 And watch the yellow perches play 
 
 Beneath the elms of Elmo. 
 The summer now is in its prime. 
 And, just to pass away the time, 
 I'll make a simple little rhyme 
 
 About tlie elms of Elmo. 
 The brown thrush sings on every tree. 
 The cat-bird trills his gushing glee. 
 And not less happy, love, are we 
 
 By the triplet elms of Elmo. 
 The grossbeak with his rosy breast. 
 The oriole 'n orange dressed. 
 With music welcome every guest 
 
 That seeks the elms of Elmo. 
 
 Wild roses bloom along the shore 
 
 With pinks and harebells covered o'er;— 
 
 Their fragrance on the breeze they pour 
 
 That stirs the elms of Elmo. 
 The boatman sets his snowy sail 
 To catcli the gentle evening gale. 
 While lovers tell the ancient tale 
 
 Around the elms of Elmo. 
 That tender tale so often told 
 When sheep are gathering to the fold;— 
 Though ancient, it will ne'er be old 
 
 Beneath the elms of Elmo. 
 As with our boat we smoothly glide. 
 We'll watch the water-lilies ride 
 L'pon the gently-heaving tide 
 
 That laves the elms of Elmo. 
 We'll watch the roving dragon-fly 
 Dart to and fro across the skj% 
 As free from care as you and and I, 
 
 Or the happy elms of elmo. 
 Should coming years, to vou and me. 
 Bring thoughtfulcare, asitmay be, 
 Vft still, in fancy, we snail see 
 
 The three green elms of Elmo. 
 And in our life's declining daj% 
 We'll not forget, though far away. 
 That youthful lovers still are gay 
 
 Beneaili the elms of Elmo. 
 Come, Marj% leave your work to-day. 
 And let us watch the jjerches play. 
 And while the pleasant hours away 
 
 By the bonnie elms of Elmo. 
 
 A WINTER LAMENT. 
 Our ladies sit out in the parks every day 
 And sigh for the gliding toboggan and sleigh. 
 Each evening the dust is swept up from the 
 
 street 
 That nothing may soil the most delicate feet. 
 'Tis said — very odd ! yet so does the law go — 
 The feet are much bigger that flatten Chicago. 
 The riciiest of furs are poked under the bed. 
 Hung up in the wardrobe, or thrown in the 
 
 shed. 
 Mink, beaver and otter have all gone to grass, 
 Unworn and quite useless, indeed, and Alas- 
 Ka seal cloaks are no longer the go 
 In a winter that brings neither cold, ice nor 
 
 snow. 
 From Itasca, not Glazier.clear down to the sea. 
 The Father of Waters flows open and free ; 
 Our weather is perfect, our roads very fine. 
 Our skies are the brightest, and still we 
 
 repine. 
 Oh, give us our old-fashioned winter, we pray. 
 Not miscegenistic December and May; 
 Or even a breath from the blizzardy East 
 To enliven this mildness and calmness, at 
 
 least. 
 
 -m 
 
*- 
 
 fB 
 
 412 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ®- 
 
 WHITE BEAR LAKE. 
 If you would know the fairest spot 
 
 In all this pictured northern land, 
 Where every care may be forgot, 
 
 With peace and rest at your command. 
 Go ask the happy birds that tune 
 Their joyful lays in leafy June 
 Where White Bear Lake In beauty lies 
 Beneath the Minnesota skies. 
 And crystal waters lave the shore 
 With quartz and ag-ates pebbled o'er. 
 
 On either side, where'er you stray. 
 Kind nature's hand has decked the way. 
 Upon the west a wooded plain. 
 Where native oak trees still remain. 
 With avenues and lawns and glades 
 Amid primeval forest shades. 
 And many a vista opening wide, 
 With sylvan scenes on either side; 
 A lovers' walk along the shore. 
 With bowery branches arbored o'er. 
 Where many a tender word is said 
 Beneath the green leaves overhead. 
 May Heaven guard that naught but good 
 Shall e'er be spoken in this wood ! 
 
 Elsewhere around are gentle swells. 
 
 And wooded hills and flowery dells. 
 
 Where to the singing birds repair 
 
 And vocalize the fragrant air. 
 
 Upon the high peninsula, [pines. 
 
 Fringed round the shore with feathery 
 The softest summer breezes play 
 
 Through lofty trees and tangled vines; 
 A true Arcadian spot is this. 
 Where but to be is almost bliss. 
 
 How shall words paint tlie lovely isle 
 
 That seems an island of the blest? 
 Sweet as the little infant's smile 
 That sleeps upon its mother's breast. 
 When angels whisper in its ear 
 The loving words we cannot hear. 
 These grand old elms that tower so high. 
 For many a year have pierced the sky ; 
 For many a year these linden trees 
 Have given their perfume to the breeze; 
 Nah-do-beed, the sap-carrier here 
 Made maple sugar many a year. 
 And many a dark-haired Indian maid 
 Beneath these sugar trees has played. 
 The Manitou that guards from harm 
 
 This Spirit Island in the lake. 
 Has given it a magic charm 
 
 No evil power can ever break. 
 Not strange, the enterprising bear, 
 
 Tliat once forsook tlie Arctic sliore 
 And traveled all the country o'er. 
 Upon this island made Ids lair. 
 And gave this lake his uohU; name. 
 And won a never-tlyiiig fume 
 
 When first I stood by White Bear Lake 
 
 The wild deer came his thirst to slake; 
 
 The Pelican, with scarce a wisli. 
 
 Could fill his pouch with finest fish; 
 
 The eagle and the whooping crane 
 
 Found here a genial home and reign; 
 
 And here tlie owl and loud-voiced loon 
 
 Called nightly to the listening moon; 
 
 Here, then, the wild goose hatched her young. 
 
 And here the wild swan dying sung — 
 
 If swans thus sing, as poets' lays 
 
 Tell us they did in ancient days. 
 
 The wild swan, fearing now to light. 
 
 Far to the northward wings his flight. 
 
 To find, if haply still he can. 
 
 Some spot uuvexed by meddling man; 
 
 But all his beauty, all his grace 
 
 Are found in many a form and face 
 
 That comes from all the country o'er 
 
 To summer on this charming shore. 
 
 Around the isle of beauty steering, 
 
 Behold a hundred sail-boats veering, 
 
 With all their snowy canvas spread. 
 
 As graceful as the gulls o'erhead. 
 
 O hopeful youths, O happy daughters, 
 
 Enjoy j'oung life upon the waters! 
 
 Killarnej', Katrine. Windermere, 
 
 Are surely more than rivaled here. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER. 
 When unrelenting sorrow wraps her shroud 
 Around the tender feelings of the heart. 
 And to the troubled mind a restless crowd 
 Of agonizing thoughts their woe impart. 
 Where can the tortured spirit find a balm 
 To heal the broken heart, the sea of grief to 
 
 calm? 
 When darkness overspreads the face of day. 
 And fearful phantoms pass before the eyes 
 And strike the doubting soul with deep dismay 
 While boding sounds are heard along the skies. 
 Where can we find a shield of armor bright? 
 Where can we tui'u to find one I'ay of living 
 
 light? 
 Wiien thro' the cold and heartless world we 
 Our weary footsteps in life's pilgrimage, [wend 
 When faith is broken by our nearest friend. 
 And t(>ars bedim tlie leaf of memory's i)agt'. 
 Where can the crusli'd att'ections And a stay? 
 Where And a faithful one that never will be- 
 tray? 
 Wlien roaming o'er the desert waste, our 
 
 tracks 
 Lead thro' the scenes of deadly hate and strife. 
 Or struggling 'mid the furious waves and 
 
 wrecks 
 When tempest-tost upon the .sea of life — 
 He who has not forgot his mother's prayer, 
 Tlie iiaveii slie pointed out, will cast his 
 aiidior there. 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 413 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. JOPIN G. VAN NESS. 
 
 Born: Fulton County, N.Y, Dec. 6, ia53. 
 After graduating at Union College the Rev. 
 John G. Van Ness entered upon his labors as 
 a clergyman and is now minister of the Metho- 
 dist Episcopal Church at Maquoketa, la. His 
 
 REV. JOHN G. VAN NESS. 
 
 poems have appeared in the secular papers of 
 Iowa, and in religious jiublications generallj*. 
 Rev. Van Ness has been prominent in temper- 
 ance work of his state ; and has also met with 
 great success as a lecturer. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE WINGED BABY. 
 Out of the realm of gladness one bright De- 
 cember morn. 
 With angels to watch its progress and guard 
 the spirit form, 
 A baby soul went winging its pathway to the 
 earth. 
 To bless the home that waited, to give it 
 earthly birth. 
 Down, down it swept, far downward, past 
 planet, star and mist ; 
 Past where the clouds draw water, and 
 winds hide where they list ; 
 Past mountains always snow-crowned and 
 valleys famed in song. 
 Like shafts of glory falling the convoy 
 sped along. 
 
 The stars sang in their orbits, a question as 
 they flashed 
 
 The spheres in heavenly music the same odd 
 
 query asked. 
 And voicef ul were all the spaces, while angels 
 
 laughed or smiled 
 To each interrogation,Why this is love's own 
 
 child. 
 
 The travelers reach a doorway, and find a 
 chamber fair. 
 Where wifely heart beats promise to make a 
 mother rare; 
 Tlien hastening down a staircase love casting 
 out all fear. 
 The angels leave the baby with papa and 
 mama near. 
 
 The eyes so laughing loving caught from the 
 haze of blue. 
 Bring tears on grandpa's wringles, (I'm 
 sure that tliis is true;) 
 A straying beam of sunshine makes lips 
 pink round and sweet. 
 While grandma's snowy tresses frost dimp- 
 les in each cheek 
 
 MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR. 
 We played together. Will and I, 
 
 One summer long ago. 
 His body full of life and joy — 
 
 Mine full of pain and woe: 
 His flashing eyes, his tempting lips, 
 
 I think I see them yet: 
 His chubby arms around my neck 
 
 How lovingly they met. 
 
 We wandered 'neath the orchard boughs, 
 
 With unripe fruit now laden; 
 Where lazily the swing hung down. 
 
 Untouched by boy or maiden. 
 With salt in hand we watched the birds. 
 
 Our flowers we often traded; 
 We shut the bees in milkweed pods. 
 
 And then were serenaded. 
 
 He asked for pears, and grapes and plums. 
 
 This curly-headed Will; 
 When they are ripe, love held the land. 
 
 You sure may have your All. 
 We lift our hearts for fruits unripe. 
 
 On branches growing liigh; 
 God hears the prayer. His heart is touched. 
 
 Yes, dear one, by and by.— 
 
 We climbed the kitchen's half-worn stairs. 
 
 And found three kitties new. 
 With shut up eyes and dainty paws 
 
 And plaintive little mew. 
 He stroked thcni all, tliis three year old — 
 
 His voice like fairy's pipe: 
 Say uncle Don, tan I have one. 
 
 When 'ittle tats are ripe. 
 
 « 
 
— ® 
 
 GEORGE C.RHODERICK. JR. 
 
 BORN : MIDDLETOWN, MD., FEB. 19, 1861. 
 
 AFTER ^ecei^-i^g a limited education at the 
 puSe aud private schools of Mifletown 
 George entered the printing estabhshment of 
 
 GEORGE C. RHODERICK, JR. 
 
 his father, where he still remains, doing gen- 
 eral newspaper work. His poems have ap- 
 peared from time to time since 1884. 
 
 FALSE. 
 The silken tie that once did bind 
 
 This heart to thine, fair one. 
 Lies torn and severed at thy feet, 
 
 Its work forever done. 
 The hopes that once thou gave to me. 
 
 How quickly have they flown; 
 The joys that once 1 knew with thee. 
 
 Are like the wind's sad moan. 
 Tlie years have come, the years have gone, 
 
 And falser hast thou grown. 
 Till now at last 1 find my hopes 
 
 Left silently alone. 
 Ah ! thou art fair to look upon. 
 But oh! how false thy heart; 
 Ere this I knew thee as thou seemed. 
 
 Now know thee as thou art. 
 
 So now to thee I say farewell, 
 
 Witli wishes for thy peace; 
 
 But from this moment ever on, 
 
 I My love for thee shall cease. 
 
 © ■ 
 
 DRIFTING WITH THE TIDE 
 With retrospective thought I sit 
 
 Beside Time's flowing river; 
 Beside the ebl)ing, surging tide 
 
 Tliat floweth on forever. i 
 
 And as I gaze upon this stream, 
 
 I see the ceaseless glide 
 Of countless crafts of human freight 
 
 All drifting witli the tide. 
 I see the waves beat to and fro, 
 
 I hear their sullen roar. 
 As ever and anon they dash 
 
 With force from shore to shore. 
 I see the ever constant stream 
 
 Bear on its bosom wide, 
 The rapid flow of precious souls. 
 
 All drifting with the tide. 
 Ah : mem'ry crowds my vLsion dim 
 
 With those who've passed before -[safe 
 Witli those who've long since anchored 
 
 Upon the other shore. 
 I count the friends most dear to me 
 
 Who once were by my side; 
 But now, alas, they are no more — 
 
 They've drifted with the tide. 
 Ah! soon my frail bark, too, will launcli 
 
 Upon Time's boundless sea. 
 And drift upon its bosom wide 
 
 Into eternity. 
 And on will flow the mighty deep. 
 
 And on the years will glide, 
 While countless more will swiftly sweep 
 Down with the rushing tide. 
 
 THE FLOOD. 
 Onward speeds the mighty rivei-s. 
 
 In their mad and wild career; 
 Down through cities, towns and hamlets. 
 
 Causing misery far and near. 
 On through fertile plains and valleys. 
 
 On the raging billows ride; 
 Carrying with them deep destruction 
 
 And distress on every side. 
 Higher, higher, grows the flood-tide. 
 
 Deeper, deeper, is the gloom; 
 Homeless thousands, starving hundreds. 
 
 Is the city's awful doom. 
 Busy streets turned into rivers - 
 
 Quiet homes made desolate- 
 Awful ruin, dire destruction. 
 Is the city's sad, sad fate. 
 
 oil! hear the saddened cry for help- 
 
 The wail of sore distress; 
 Oh! hear the awful cry of woe 
 
 That comes from out the west. 
 Oh! sky of dark and sullen clouds. 
 
 Give way to sunshine's r.ays; 
 Oh! dashing waves that spread the land. 
 
 Give way to happier days. 
 
*■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 415 
 
 CHARLES A. DeWITT. 
 
 Bokn: Boscobel, Wis., Sept. 35, 1859. 
 In his youth Charles was apprenticed to the 
 printing' business, and has ever since followed 
 that occupation. He has contributed many 
 short sketches and stories to leading- papers 
 and litrnirv bim iii- In 1--- Mr. DcWitt 
 
 m- 
 
 CHARLES A. DE WITT. 
 
 established in Wisconsin the Cassville Index; 
 the following year he sold that publication 
 and purchased the Kepublican-News, publish- 
 ed at Lanark, 111., of which he is proprietor. 
 
 "THE VEIL LIFTS." 
 A marble statue, symmetrical and grand. 
 Rises like Phcenix from the sun-kissed land; 
 And 'neath the shadow of the old elm trees, 
 That spread their foliage to the morning 
 
 breeze. 
 The people gather and their homage pay 
 To the creator of a lifeless clay. 
 The sculptor stands the center of all eyes. 
 Unconscious fully of the surging throng; 
 The hour is coming when a glad surprise 
 Shall wake the land with praises loud and long. 
 And from each quiv'ring lip the cry be hurled : 
 "'Tis Liberty enlightening the world." 
 Fair is the statue, but its drapery hides 
 The face from view, and the greatest con- 
 
 cour.se bides 
 All too impatiently the signal gun. 
 When, in the glory of the golden sun. 
 
 'Neath heaven's dome and azure-tinted field 
 The drapery falls— the statue stands revealed. 
 Hushed for a moment are the words of men;~ 
 Fast beats the heart, immortal souls are filled 
 With wonder at its majesty and then 
 The air is rent with praise of him who willed 
 That man should be the instrument of God 
 To fashion beauty from a shapeless clod. 
 Inferior man, abashed by works of art 
 That magnify and yet decrease his power. 
 Within the inmost recess of his heart 
 Feels his deep need of culture for the hour 
 When reason's blazing torch shall light the 
 
 way 
 To nobler things — where intellect holds sway. 
 The student like the rough and unhewn stone. 
 Possesses qualities which need the hand 
 Of truest sculptor worlds have ever known — 
 Deep hidden in the mind, as yet unscanned; 
 This sculptor, education, once availed 
 The beauties of the soul are thus unveiled. 
 Mind, heart and soul are Nature's trinity 
 Which mold and rule eternal destiny. 
 Reason holds on her course, yet undismayed 
 By homage to deep superstition paid; 
 Slie proudly climbs o'er every hill and dale 
 And from the Golden Future "Lifts the "^eil." 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 He often seeks, 'neath cooling shade, 
 
 The murmuring woodland stream; 
 Where calm, clear pools lie deep and still 
 
 And dancing ripples gleam. 
 Where shady nook 'neath waving bough 
 
 Invites the angler's skill. 
 And where the speckled beauties lie 
 
 The monarchs of the rill. 
 With beating heart he casts his line 
 
 From trembling lancewood tip; 
 The gauzy flies, like nature's own, 
 
 O'er dancing water's skip; 
 Now fluttering o'er the ripples broad, 
 
 Then floating o'er the pool. 
 All gleaming in the golden sun 
 
 Or dimmed in shadows cool. 
 Then from beneath o'erhanging bank 
 
 A fla.sh of living light 
 Darts upward toward the dancing flies — 
 
 Then safety seeks in flight. 
 The silken line cuts thro' the air. 
 
 The supple rod bends low,— 
 While mirrored in the limpid stream 
 
 The dazzling sunbeams glow. 
 Then rises from the troubled stream 
 
 To meet the angler's glance, 
 (Like jewels rare from ocean cave. 
 
 Whose rays the soul entrance,) 
 With gleaming sides of golden hue 
 
 The monarch of the rill;— 
 A flash in air!— on land he lies 
 
 A trophy of man's skill. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 416 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 NETTIE H. PELHAM. 
 
 Born: Galesburg, Mich., Dec. 20, 1860. 
 Teaching school for two years, Nettie subse- 
 quently entered Michigan university at the 
 age of twenty. Since 1884 she has written 
 poems for the Detroit roniTncrcinl Aflvcrtiser, 
 
 .Nh;r'iii; ii. im.lha.m. 
 Journal, and the Chicago Union Signal under 
 the nom de plume of Edith Carle. Miss Pel- 
 ham has written several plays for children 
 which have received publication. She is now 
 a resident of Plymouth, in her native state. 
 
 *- 
 
 EEN AS THE SNOW. 
 Over the earth so bare and brown. 
 Silvery flakes are falling down. 
 Robing it rich as iin ermine gown 
 
 Fashioned for fairest, queen. 
 Silvery flakes tliat, here and there. 
 Glisten and glint, thro' the sunlit jiir 
 BrilliiiMtr as gems a belle might wear 
 
 Decked for her wedding day. 
 Glittering flakes, ah, who could tell 
 Since the bare old eartli, they clothe .so 
 well. 
 That, underneath where they softly fell. 
 
 Desolate fields now lie. 
 E'en as the snow, with mantle bright, 
 Covers tlie dreary land from sight 
 And robes it witli garment i)ure and whiti' 
 
 As garment e'er can be; 
 
 So may the Father, who ruleth all. 
 Over my faults, both great iind small. 
 Soft let the flakes of His mercy fall 
 Till He hides them from His sight. 
 
 THE NEW PAUL REVERE. 
 
 A cloud of dust in Johnstown's street, 
 
 The sound of a horse's flying feet. 
 
 And down the road, at a fearful speed. 
 
 Like a lightning flash, comes a gallant steed. 
 
 There's scarce a glimpse of the rider's face. 
 
 As the horse skims on at his maddened jiace. 
 
 But loud on the air the warning thrills, 
 
 " Run for your lives, to the hills! to the hills I" 
 
 The startled people gather 'round. 
 
 As the horse leaps on with mighty bound. 
 
 '• Who is the man? " " Whence has he come?" 
 
 Are the eager questions asked by some, 
 
 W^hile some are dumb with a sickening fear. 
 
 As the warning words ring loud and clear, 
 
 And echo back, on the stirring breeze. 
 
 As swift thro' the street the rider flees. 
 
 Still, fast and faster, upon his course. 
 
 His voice grows still more wild and hoarse. 
 
 As, over and over, he shouts aloud 
 
 His warning cry to the startled crowd. 
 
 To cliildren at play, to maids and wives, 
 
 "To the hills I to the hills 1 Run for your lives I" 
 
 And only the rider knows the need 
 
 Of the cruel race or the reckless sjieed. 
 
 But the awful riddle is solved at last. 
 
 And the torrent comes, O God! so fast — 
 
 Chasing the rider along his course. 
 
 On, on it comes with a fearful force; 
 
 Down the alleys and swift along, 
 
 O'erturning, alike, the weak and strong. 
 
 Engulfing them all in its billows dread. 
 
 Forms of the living, forms of the dead. 
 
 Ponderous buildings that, meet and crash. 
 
 As the surging billows around them dash; 
 
 On speeds the rider, on sweeps the wave. 
 
 No hand is raised, no power can save. 
 
 And buried at last, 'neath the torrent's height. 
 
 The horse and rider an> swept from sight. 
 
 The few who heeded the warinng well. 
 
 And fled to the hills, shall live to tell 
 
 The story over, in after years. 
 
 With thankful hearts and silent tears. 
 
 And a ]irayer for l)lessings on the head 
 
 Of that hero among the nameless <lead. 
 
 And ye who sing of th(< days of old. 
 
 Of its faithful knights .so brave and bold, 
 
 O, was there ever, in ancient lime, 
 
 A knight more worthy of poet's rhyme 
 
 Than the valiant rider wlio swiftly sjjcd 
 
 To warn the town of its danger dread? 
 
 O, Hero, brave, with an unknown name. 
 
 None, none can tell us whence you came; 
 
 But we write your name on history's jiage, 
 
 "The Paul Revere of the present age." 
 
 ■* 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 417 
 
 -® 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 Born: Litchfield, Conn., June 14, 1812. 
 When about twelve years of age Harriet went 
 to Hartford, where her sister Catherine had 
 opened a school. In 1833 she went to Cincin- 
 nati, and four years later was married to Pro- 
 fessor Calvin E. Stowe, a man of learning: and 
 distinction. 
 
 For several years before her marriage she 
 had contributed occasionally to the periodical 
 
 HARRIET BEECHEU STOWE. 
 
 literature of the day, and gave promise of be- 
 coming noted among men and women of let- 
 ters. At the meeting of the Semicolon Club in 
 Cincinnati, she first became conscious of the 
 power she could wield with her pen; and short- 
 ly after her marriage published Mayflower. 
 In 1853 Mrs. Stowe took up her residence at 
 Andover, and soon after went abroad to recu- 
 perate her exhausted strength. Her visit was 
 one continuous ovation- and a year later, she 
 gave to the public her Sunny Memories of For- 
 eign Lands. Subsequently she wrote Dred: a 
 Tale of the Dismal Swamp, The Minister's Woo- 
 ing, Agnes of SoiTento, and several novels of 
 quite domestic interest. This gifted woman 
 has produced poetry, some of which has been 
 pubUshed. It is chiefly religious and pathetic 
 in character. 
 
 SIMON THE CYKENIAN. 
 
 But lo! a crowd:— he stops,— with curious eye 
 
 A fainting form all pressed to earth he sees; 
 
 The hard, rough burden of the bitter cross 
 
 Hath bowed the drooping head and feeble 
 
 knees. 
 
 Ho! lay the cross upon yon stranger there. 
 For he hath breadth of chest and strength of 
 limb! 
 
 Straight it is done; and heavy-laden thus. 
 With Jesus' cross, he turns and follows him. 
 
 Unmurmuring, patient, cheerful, pitiful, 
 Prompt with the holy sufferer to endure, 
 
 Forsaking all to follow the dear Lord, 
 Thus did he make his glorious calling sure. 
 
 THE OTHER WORLD. 
 It lies around us like a cloud, 
 
 A world we do not see ; 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 
 May bring us there to be. 
 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek: 
 
 Amid our worldly cares. 
 Its gentle voice doth whisper love. 
 
 And mingle with our prayers. 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and beat. 
 
 Sweet helping hands are stirred. 
 And palpitates the veil between 
 
 With breathing almost heard. 
 The silence, awful, sweet, and calm. 
 
 They have no power to break; 
 For mortal words are not for them 
 
 To utter or to partake. 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet, they glide. 
 
 So near to press they seem, 
 Thy lull us gently to our rest. 
 
 They melt into our dream. 
 And in the hush of rest they bring 
 
 'Tis easy now to see 
 How lovely and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be;— 
 To close the eye, and close the ear. 
 
 Wrapped in a trance of bliss. 
 And, gently drawn in loving arms, 
 
 To swoon to that — from this,— 
 Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep. 
 
 Scarce asking where we are. 
 To feel au evil sink away, 
 
 Aa sorrow and ail care. 
 Sweet souls around us! watch us still '. 
 
 Press nearer to our side; 
 Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 
 
 Witii gentle helpings glide! 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 
 A dried and vanished stream; 
 Your joy be the leality. 
 
 Our suffering life the dream. 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 418 
 
 ■^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 Born: Portsmouth, N. H.. Nov. 11, 1836. 
 The early youth of this poet was spent in 
 Louisiana. At the death of his father he entered 
 the eountiug-room of his uncle in New York, 
 where he remained three years. During this 
 time he beg-an to contribute prose and verse 
 to various journals. His Ballad of Babie Bell 
 won universal favor, and other successes fol- 
 lowed. E%-cr since he has been engaged in 
 literary work, and his poems and prose writ- 
 ings are read throughout Europe and America. 
 
 PRESCIENCE. 
 
 The new moon hung in the sky, the sun was 
 low in the west. 
 
 And my betrothed and I in the churchyard 
 paused to rest— 
 
 Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old 
 dream over; 
 
 The light winds wandered by, and robins chirp- 
 ed from the nest. 
 
 And lo! in the meadow sweet was the grave of 
 
 a little child. 
 With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy 
 
 running wild — 
 Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and 
 
 over: 
 Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little 
 
 mound up-piled. 
 
 Stricken with nameless fears she shrank and 
 clung to me. 
 
 And her eyes were filled with tears for a sor- 
 row I did not see: 
 
 Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her 
 tears were flowing — 
 
 Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that 
 was to be ! 
 
 m 
 
 ON LYNN TERRACE. 
 All day to watch the blue wave curl and break, 
 
 All night to hear it plunging on the shore,— 
 In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take, 
 
 I cannot ask for more. 
 
 Behind me lie the idle life and vain. 
 The task unfinished and the weary hours; 
 
 That long wave bears me softly back to Spain 
 And the Alhambra's towers! 
 
 All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here. 
 High on the windy terrace, day by day; 
 
 Ami mine the children's laughter, sweet and 
 clear. 
 Ringing across the bay. 
 
 For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me; 
 For me the petulant sea-gull takes Its tlight; 
 
 And mine the tender moonrise on the sea, 
 And hollow coves of night! 
 
 IDENTITY. 
 Somewhere,— in desolate, wind-swept space,- 
 
 In Twilight-land, in No-man's-land,— 
 Two hurrjiug shapes met face to face. 
 
 And bade each other stand. 
 
 "And who are you? " cried one, agape. 
 Shuddering in the glooming light. 
 
 " I do not know," said the second Shape, 
 " I only died last night! " 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 When to soft sleep we give ourselves away. 
 And in a dream as in a fairy bark 
 Drift on and ou through the enchanted dark 
 
 To rosy daybreak — little thought we pay 
 
 To that sweet bitter world we know by day. 
 We are clean quit of it, as is a lark 
 So high in heaven no human eye may mark 
 
 The sharp switt pinion cleaving through the 
 gray. 
 
 Till we awake, ill fate can do no ill. 
 The resting heart shall not take up again 
 The heavy load that yet must make it bleed: 
 
 For this brief space, the loud world's voice is 
 still, 
 No faintest echo of it brings us pain. 
 How will it be when we shall sleep indeed? 
 
 UNSUNG 
 
 As sweet as the breath that goes 
 From the lips of the white rose. 
 As weird as the elfin lights 
 That glimmer of frosty nights. 
 As wild as the winds that tear 
 The curled red leaf in the air. 
 Is the song 1 have never sung. 
 
 In slumber, a hundred times 
 
 I've said she enchanted rhymes. 
 
 But ere I open my eyes 
 
 This ghost of a poem Hies; 
 
 Of the iutertlucnt strains 
 
 Not even a note remains: 
 
 1 know by uiy pulses' beat 
 
 It was something wild and sweet. 
 
 And my heart is strangely stirred 
 
 By an unremembered word. 
 
 I strive, but I strive in vain. 
 To recall the lost refrain. 
 On some miraculous day 
 Perhaps it will come and stay; 
 In some unimagined Spring 
 1 may find uiy voice, and sing 
 The song 1 have never sung. 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 419 
 
 -« 
 
 RICHARD P. KEPLINGER. 
 
 Born: Waverly, III., April 22, 1856. 
 This writer is well known as The Poet of the 
 Plains. After receiving a thorougli educa- 
 tion, he began teaching- school in 18TX. In 1885 
 he removed to Kansas, where lie took a special 
 course in the Kansas Central Normal College, 
 
 RICHARD PRESTON KEPLINGER. 
 
 and he is again working in the field of educa- 
 tion. His poems have appeared constantly in 
 the local press for the past few years. Mr. 
 Keplinger is now residing with his family in 
 Larnea, Kansas. 
 
 EULOGY ON WOMAN. 
 From Genesis, chapter one, 
 I draw this true conclusion: 
 The Author of creation 
 Created by progression. 
 After creating the earth. 
 He gave day and niglit their birth ; 
 And following after these. 
 He divided land and seas; 
 And afterward, at a word 
 He made the grass, flowers and herb; 
 Then the sun to rule the day. 
 In his daily course and way. 
 Next he made the moon so bright. 
 And the stars to rule the night. 
 Of creatures created He 
 First the fish within the sea; 
 
 And next the fowl of the air 
 
 And bii'd of paradise fair. 
 
 Then, the beast to till our grain, 
 
 The cattle on hill and plain; 
 
 Next man in his own likeness. 
 
 But lacking in politeness. 
 
 Last fairest and purest, too. 
 
 Woman, God created you. 
 
 Yes, woman, you've become the capstone 
 
 And crown of God's Allwise creation. 
 
 For, after creating all the rest. 
 
 He then made woman, though last, the best. 
 
 Woman is man's fair benefactor — 
 
 Although he's oft her malefactor. 
 
 For by your loving, angelic ways 
 
 His drooping spirits you cheer and raise. 
 
 Woman's presence makes man more polite, 
 
 Her loving smiles chase away his night. 
 
 In fact, like an angel from above. 
 
 She is man's fair messenger of love. 
 
 She's the magnet of influence, too. 
 With her loving- lieart so kind and true. 
 And she's the compass and guiding star 
 That beckons man toward the " Gates Ajar." 
 'Tis woman's counsel and loving rule [school 
 That molds great minds in the home and 
 
 Your worth consists not in these alone. 
 Woman's most angelic sway 's at home— 
 The citadel of earth's paradise — 
 Where alas! you too oft sacrifice 
 Your talents and life foi- those you love,— 
 Your most constant devotion to prove. 
 Woman's jealous nature doth but prove 
 Her fitness to be loved and to love. 
 'Tis a universal admission 
 She excels man in intuition; 
 And more power for good in woman lies 
 Than in the press, pen, or statesman wise. 
 
 Of all earth's gifts, sure there's no other 
 Dearer than sister, wife and mother. 
 Fair personage of human neatness, 
 Purest type of angelic sweetness. 
 Type of beauty and chaste demeanor. 
 And mother of the world's Redeemer. 
 
 GEMS. 
 Let him who cannot wield the poet's pen. 
 
 Remember there is a grace far more sweet,— 
 Though alas more rare in women and men,— 
 
 'Tis that priceless gift of being discreet. 
 When you number the drops in ocean blue. 
 
 Or e'en the stars of heaven above. 
 Then, but not till then, I'll define for j-ou. 
 That purest emotion that men call love. 
 Of all the agents that beckon the soul above 
 The most potent are music, poetry and love. 
 Of all the dear names to men in life. 
 The dearest are mother, lover, wife. 
 
 « 
 
e- 
 
 420 
 
 LOCAX, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ® 
 
 P. CUD MORE. 
 
 Born: Iheland, 1831. 
 As lawyer and author this gentleman has gain- 
 ed quite a reputation and now practices his 
 profession at Faribault, Minn. He served in 
 the union array through the war, and in 1868 
 was elected county attornej' for Le Sueur, 
 Minn. In 1871 lie publislied a prose work en- 
 
 f. CUDMORE. 
 
 titled The Irish Republic, and in 1875 Civil 
 Government of the United States. In 1880 Mr. 
 Cudmore published two editions of a large 
 pamphlet of poems and songs, and in 1885 
 published a volume entitled Songs and Satires, 
 a fine work of over two hundred pages. Mr. 
 Cudmore is now engaged in literary work and 
 practicing law. 
 
 SI- 
 
 FAME. 
 
 To gain the world's praise bad men do well, 
 And fame incites others to excel — 
 For immortal fame, the world's flattery. 
 Men brave the waves and storm a battery. 
 To the love of fame happiness must yield, 
 Millions perish on the battle-fleld! 
 What toil, wliat misery will not man brave, 
 For a bust, a tomb, an e|>itaph, a name! 
 He will brave the i)lagiie and tlie liattle gory. 
 To live in song and immortal story ! [flame. 
 In some men's hearts there is a burning 
 Which prompts great deeds to gain immortal 
 
 fame! 
 Millions venture on fame's stormy way. 
 Numbers falter, others go astray. 
 
 Patriots, who the despot's chain do sever. 
 Will live in fame ever and for everl 
 The liberator's tomb of brass or stone. 
 Is more precious than the monarch's throne. 
 And in fame's temple to have a niclie. 
 Men write and kill — such is their fond wish. 
 And he who climbs to the cliffs of fame. 
 Never dies, for lie lives in a name! 
 Millions perish in battle and in foray. 
 That some hero may ever live in story. 
 Th' poet needs no monument, shrine or fane 
 Of brass or stone to immortalize his name! 
 A thirst for fame has been the rage. 
 With the ambitious in every clime and age. 
 Fame is their great concern and creed, 
 And to gain it they would ever bleed 1 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 When a woman wants j-our love. 
 She will try to please you : 
 When a woman has your love. 
 She will try to tease you. 
 She will please you, 
 She will tease you. 
 When a woman wants yt)ur love 
 She will trj' to please you. 
 
 AN EPIGRAM. 
 
 The western farmers will find when late. 
 That big farms are a curse to the state ; 
 The farmers will yet lose much property. 
 By weeds in the roads, that's my prophecy. 
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 Pleasanter the time is fleeting. 
 When dearest friends are meeting; 
 Alas! the sadnesssof the mind. 
 When loving friends we leave behind; 
 For to mingle with the stranger. 
 Braving fortune, toil, and danger; 
 But whatever may be our lot. 
 My dearest friend, forget me not. 
 
 SORROW. 
 Sorrow is a vain regret. 
 For something we can never get. 
 Be it happiness or beauty. 
 Love, friendship, pleasure or money; 
 Honor, power, or great fame; 
 Or the splendor of a name. 
 Let us never, never borrow. 
 Pain for what has no to-morrow. 
 Yesterday sliould not make us sad; 
 To-morrow we should leave to God. 
 What we miss oft gives us a pain, 
 What seems a loss may be gain 
 Let contentment be our aim. 
 Then no sorrow will remain. 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 421 
 
 CLARENCE A. SHALER. 
 
 Bokn: Mackford, Wis., May 29, 1860. 
 After receiving- a good education he returned 
 to his fatlier's farm. On the death of liis 
 father in 1883, the care of the farm, some si.v 
 Imiidred acres, devolved upon the subject of 
 this sketch. Since that time Mi-. Phaler lias 
 
 CLAiSENCE A. SllAI>Eli. 
 
 invented several labor-saving- macliines, two 
 of which have been patented. He has become 
 quite skillful with brusli and pencil, and dur- 
 lug the long winter evenings he devotes him- 
 self to the muses. For the past fifteen years 
 his poems have received publication. 
 
 ® 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE WAVES. 
 I lay dreaming, my soul filled with music, 
 Lilie a shell that is cast in the depths of the 
 sea; [bers 
 
 And over the chords of my feeling sweet num- 
 Were trembling in light and subdued har- 
 mony. 
 
 Oh, was it tlie waves that were lonely thus 
 
 sigiiiiig. 
 If so, could I dwell in the depths of the sea. 
 Where my soul to their music forever could 
 
 listen, [rest unto me. 
 
 And their beatings would bring their sweet 
 They were strains only such as the soul can 
 
 remember, [ing ear. 
 
 Those chords that were played to my slumber- 
 
 For no hands that are mortal could wake with 
 
 each murmur 
 A thrill of glad joy, and a lieart-rending tear. 
 They were tones that awake the soul to new 
 
 beauties, [cold ear; 
 
 They were tones played too fine for a mortal's 
 1 slept on as a man, yet my dreams were of 
 
 iii'Sels, [near. 
 
 And I felt tliat their heavenly presence was 
 Oh, will they come back, those numbers not 
 
 mortal. 
 Or will they be ever again breathed to me. 
 Those strains that I heard like soft music 
 
 from heaven. 
 As I lay in deep slumber beside of the sea. 
 
 THE BROKEN HARP. 
 
 Ah, silent is the harp to-night. 
 
 Its strings are all unstrung; 
 
 Oh let us weep for her that died 
 
 In that she died so young. 
 
 For evermore its golden tIn-oat 
 
 Is dumb to mortal ears. 
 
 For oil ! we heard each breaking string. 
 
 Ring though tne moisture of our tears. 
 
 The harmony of f ormei* days 
 
 Around them .still doth cling. 
 
 But never more will treml)le o'er 
 
 Each light and airy string. 
 
 Ah, silent is the harp to-night, 
 
 'T has lost the master's will; 
 
 And shall those sweet tones be forgot — 
 
 Those lips that now are still. 
 
 Her spirit was a lovely sound 
 
 That dwelt around a string. 
 
 But when that sweet sound died away. 
 
 Her soul had taken wing 
 
 And wafted her to skies beyond. 
 
 Where she again shall reign. 
 
 And there has strung her harp anew 
 
 Unto a sweeter strain. 
 
 Ah, shall we chant for her a song. 
 
 An anthem o'er the dead. 
 
 When her bright soul has flown before, 
 
 Upon the strains she led. 
 
 Ah, nevermore, but let us weej) 
 
 Over the broken lyre. 
 
 And listen for those heavenly strains 
 
 Lit by celestial fire. 
 
 COME TO ME ANNA! 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Yes, Anna come, and lay your white 
 
 Arm 'round my neck, as oft of yore. 
 
 My gloomy fancies will take flight. 
 
 And the whole world look brighter than it 
 
 has before; 
 'Tis joy to feel that there is one, 
 Adown beside life's pathway waits. 
 Will weep when my short race is run 
 And softl.v close life's glimmering gates. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 -)S 
 
 422 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 JEREMIAH LONG. 
 
 Born : Ireland, Sept. 29, 1838. 
 
 The poptiis nf .TtTPmiHli Loiia- liiive aiipt'ared 
 
 q 1 1 1 n ' I ■ M I I ; ~ 1 
 
 JEREMIAH LONG. 
 
 married in 1870, and now resides on a farm 
 near Madison, Nebraska. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE TELEPHONE. 
 
 O, listen to the teleplione, liello; 
 
 Go turn the crank to make it known 
 
 You hear the bell, then telephone, hello; 
 
 Now place the trumpet to your ear, 
 
 A mes.sag-e comes distinct and clear. 
 
 As if some person standing- near 
 
 Your elbow said," my friend I'm liere, hello." 
 
 'Tis thus inventive genius flings 
 Along- tlie wire tlie song he sings, 
 A tlash, a glance, no faster go 
 Than does the telephone's hello. 
 
 Perliaps it may be by next June 
 The earth will telephone the moon 
 To ask the man we see up tliere 
 What kind of folks his people are: 
 Let doubting cease, kind nature lies 
 Revealed by art before our eyes. 
 And time and distance have to yield 
 Control to science of their field. 
 For time and distance are outdone 
 By that inventor, Edison. 
 
 THE BARBER POPS THE QUESTION. 
 
 It was in the season of the year 
 
 When leaves are changing- yellow. 
 When skies are blue and evenings clear. 
 
 And fruit looks ripe and mellow ; 
 The sleekest barber in the town 
 
 Put up his brush and razor. 
 And took his girl with liaii- so brown 
 
 Out courting and to praise her. 
 
 A crabbed cynic would feel good 
 
 To see the pair together. 
 While, side by side, they walked or stood. 
 
 It seemed they cared not whether: 
 Thus on they roved where none could hear. 
 
 Upon the grassy prairie: 
 He was a gay young gamboleer, 
 
 And she, no sprite or fairy. 
 
 Love led them where they still did roam 
 
 Among some vines and bushes. 
 Which during summer was the home 
 
 Of nightingales and thrushes; 
 The nests remaining- on the Ijoughs 
 
 The maiden loved to mention. 
 Her wondering "O's," and "niys" and 
 .•how"s,"' 
 
 Woke up the boy's attention. 
 
 He told her why the nests were made 
 
 So prettily and cosy 
 In that secluded sylvan shade. 
 
 All fragrant with the rosy; 
 His love for her he tried to tell 
 
 Was more than for a sister. 
 She, laughing, answered, •> very well;" 
 
 And then he kissed and kissed her. 
 
 Through all the changing scenes of life 
 
 Those pleasant days are brightest. 
 When lov^er courts his future wife 
 
 With words and looks politest; 
 Returning- home another way 
 
 Fond Cupid urged suggestion; 
 Beneath the pale moon's silvery ray 
 
 The barber popped the question. 
 
 THE INCUBATOR. 
 
 That incubator beats tiie dickens 
 For hatching little downy chickens; 
 To get two hundred in a batcli 
 Looks like the pioper way to hatch, 
 And .seems to beat tlie old way hollow— 
 And is, perhaps, the best to follow: 
 
 Besides it gives the hens a rest 
 From three weeks' sitting t)n a nest. 
 And saves that time to use their legs. 
 To sing, and rustle and lay eggs; 
 But luiture mourns her trade departed, 
 And clucking hens feel broken-hearted. 
 
 -5' 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL. POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 423 
 
 -® 
 
 ALLEN DORMAN. 
 
 Born-. Field's Creek, Mo., Sep. 9, 18.57. 
 This rising young- poet has written both prose 
 and verse for the local press since 1875, and 
 has a collection of over six hundred poems 
 ■svliich he liopes to publish in book-form at an 
 ciilv (l.itr. AlU-n has lived all his life nn a 
 
 ALIjEN UDK.MAN. 
 
 farm near Clinton, Missouri, where he still re- 
 sides. The poems of Mr. Dorman have ap- 
 peared in some of the leading- publications of 
 America, from which they have been exten- 
 sively copied by the local press. We predict 
 for this young Htterateur a bright future. 
 
 GREAT MEN. 
 
 Great men are bright and shining lights, 
 
 They help the world to shine. 
 And luminate the firmament 
 
 Of turmoil and of time; 
 And when the clouds of darkness spread 
 
 O'er every plain and hill. 
 And when the foe oppress them most 
 
 They shine the brighter still. 
 Great men, we know them by their deeds, 
 
 And see their actions bright; 
 They rule and sway the hearts of men. 
 
 For they are gems of light. 
 So let us all determ'd to be, 
 
 As all great persons should. 
 And honor merit in gi-eat men, 
 
 Tlie worthy and tlie good. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 The bright gems and the wortliy. 
 
 The jewels of the earth, 
 Are with tlie human sacred 
 
 Of real gist and worth; 
 The diamonds of the human, 
 
 In n-.erit pure and fine. 
 The highest and the rarest 
 
 Of mortal most divine. 
 
 And thus it was with Henry, 
 
 Divine that he shall live, 
 A gem for earth and heaven. 
 
 The purest earth could give; 
 A light of hope and glory, 
 
 A lonely star to shine 
 In this great world of darkness. 
 
 For ages and for time. 
 
 GIVE ME LOVE. 
 Give me love — pure sacred love — 
 
 With all its hopes and pleasure. 
 Sweet maiden's love and heaven's love 
 
 Are man's best gift and treasure. 
 
 Oh, when I die, pray let me die 
 The death of lovers sighing; 
 
 The death of love, pure happy love, 
 A thousand years a-dying. 
 
 LIFT THE FALLEN. 
 Go help your fallen brothers. 
 
 And help them like a man; 
 Go cheer them with your presence. 
 
 Go lend a helping hand. 
 
 In helping fallen brothers. 
 
 The Lord will surely see 
 And give the heart due credit 
 
 Out in eternity 
 
 HOMER. 
 Homer, Homer, epic Homer, 
 
 Distant far away. 
 Like a lonely star of glory. 
 
 Stationed there to stay ; 
 Shining lonely in its distance. 
 
 With a lucid hue. 
 Tinted with a diamond lustre. 
 
 Ever beaming new. 
 Yes, a name of ancient glory, 
 
 Real far away. 
 Bearing us much light and story 
 
 Of his ancient day; 
 Thus the great men of the present 
 
 Will in future be. 
 Distant like the ancient Homer 
 
 Is with you and me. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 424 
 
 fi< 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EVENING SHADES. 
 
 Beauty charms and beauty praises; 
 
 The evening- shades how still they grow. 
 
 Beauty hides the art of sin. 
 
 And hasten in their length, 
 
 With the shroud of its discretion 
 
 Until the g-lorious sun is set 
 
 Fastens what it gets within. 
 
 In all his mig-ht and strength. 
 
 Beauty serves a noble purpose; 
 
 The evening shades, how oft they come. 
 
 God is beauty and divine; 
 
 At close of sunny days, 
 
 And we all should claim it ever. 
 
 And tho' their scenes are sometimes sad, 
 
 Let our deeds with beauty shine. 
 
 May have their mirth and praise. 
 
 Beauty sweet is fascinating; 
 
 'Tls sweet to watch the evening shades 
 
 Fancied colors light and gaj' 
 
 The little shadows move; 
 
 Charms the heart till it is blinded. 
 
 The little lessons that they teach. 
 
 And he's rich who feels that way. 
 
 Yet mighty problems prove. 
 And as the shades of evening come, 
 
 
 MOTHER IS DEAD. 
 
 Will come the shades of time, 
 
 
 And hearts will vanish in the dark. 
 
 Oh, Lord, my God, my Savior, 
 
 That have no lights to shine. 
 
 My heart is filled witli pain : 
 
 
 My mother, O, my mother, 
 I ne'er shall see again; 
 
 AT EARLY MORN. 
 
 
 In death she sweetly slumbers. 
 
 How bright the morn is dawning. 
 
 I ne'er shall see her more — 
 
 And opening into day. 
 
 Her face, her form, and features, — 
 
 And melting thoughts of sadness. 
 
 Or pleasant smiles she wore. 
 
 And driving them away. 
 
 
 It is indeed delightful, 
 
 With her, bright hopes have perished. 
 
 To see the rising sun 
 
 Bright hopes within my breast. 
 
 Shed forth his rays of gladness 
 
 Yet one that I must cherish. 
 
 Around for every one. 
 
 Is that she's with the blest. 
 
 
 We hope to meet thee, mother, 
 
 We feel it is a blessing, 
 
 On heaven's far-off shore; 
 
 The sun alone can give. 
 
 Y''es meet and greet thee mother. 
 
 That we so much enjoy. 
 
 Where we shall part no more. 
 
 So frequent while we live; 
 
 
 And as our sun that rises 
 
 
 And opens into morn. 
 
 HENRY CLAY. 
 
 The sun of life eternal 
 
 The great men and the useful men, 
 
 Will likewise truly dawn. 
 
 The worthy and the true. 
 We love to praise and imitate 
 
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 In much they say and do. 
 
 Of all great men who ever lived 
 
 l''es, great names, and the cherished names 
 
 In this great world of ours, 
 
 That glow in history bright, 
 
 There's none that's swayed more human 
 
 They shine like lone and stationed stars, 
 
 hearts. 
 
 Or burning suns of light. 
 
 In conquest with earth's powers. 
 
 They help the world, they bless the woi'ld, 
 
 He awed the world with monarch force. 
 
 In all their might and main; 
 
 More dreadful than a flood 
 
 Their lives and deeds are shining lights, 
 
 Was cannon fright along his trail 
 
 Of what we should attain. 
 
 That flowed with human blood. 
 
 Oh to the hearts that rule the world. 
 
 Oh shall who fought to check his march, 
 
 By Avortliy deeds and ways. 
 
 Still hope for victory; 
 
 We owe a debt of gratitude. 
 
 Or shall their wounds go unrevenged 
 
 Of honor and of praise. 
 
 Out in eternity. 
 
 
 Yet he was great, we call him great. 
 
 GLOKIOUS. 
 
 As his great actions show; 
 
 He often tried to do the right 
 
 All glorious, glorious. 
 
 To overcome life's foe. 
 
 Happy and divine. 
 
 
 She helped me pop the question- 
 Said she would be mine. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 Beauty, l)eauty, charming beauty 
 
 Now if you'll be :uy lover. 
 
 Making every heart so glad. 
 
 My sweet pretty maid. 
 
 Is a screen that hides the ugly. 
 
 .Tust give me your hand gently. 
 
 Tho' it may be good or bad. 
 i 
 
 And call it a trade. 
 
 a 
 
 SB- 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 425 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. VESTA A. R. CROCKETT. 
 
 Bokn: Canton, Me., Feb. 23, 1836. 
 This lady received her education in Liver- 
 more and Canton. Under the nom de plume 
 of Inez she wrote quite extensively for the 
 Boston Cultivator, Ladies' Enterprise, and 
 other prominent eastern publications. In her 
 early life she took g'reat delight in writing- 
 
 MRS. VKSTA A. U. ( KOCKKTT. 
 
 humorous and dramatic poems. She still 
 resides in her native state at Portland, where 
 her husband, J. Henry Crockett, is eng-ag-ed 
 in business. Mrs. Crockett is fully represent- 
 ed in The Poets and Poetry of Maine, in which 
 state she is very popular— not only for her 
 high literary standing but also for her many 
 amiable and social qualities. 
 
 3B 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 Oh loose the chains that bind me prone to 
 
 earth 
 In one continuous tliralldom, blindly sweet. 
 And hold me in their fond and close embrace; 
 That o'er my soul their ceaseless vigils keep. 
 Oh lift me out from fllmy folds of flesh. 
 Which close around me wrapping, day by day, 
 Which I dream not, in my obscured retreat ' 
 Shut out from beckoning light of inner day. 
 But guide my instincts, dimmed, obscure and 
 
 blunt. 
 Into the radiance of inner light 
 
 Just so I see my gropings in the flesh. 
 Within the corridor of star-dimmed night. 
 Let me not walk the desert wastes of time. 
 And gather bubbles, shining to my eyes. 
 When on the other hand are broad plateaus 
 Which must be traversed ere I gain the prize. 
 Release me from the lesser two-fold grasp. 
 And let me struggle with its bland content; 
 Oh, let me loose from earthly trappings, all. 
 And seek the garniture from Heaven sent. 
 From out the gilded rubbish fondly worn, 
 IJi'held by blinded sense to be the true; 
 Lrt me emerge and take one primal look 
 \V here Inspiration spreads her softening dew. 
 Li't me just catch one glimpse of inner life 
 Which circles 'round and 'round me rich and 
 clear — [through— 
 
 A life which permeates me through and 
 Which holds in me all that which is most 
 dear — [source, 
 
 A life which links my l^eing with infinite 
 Whose truth absorbs the human in the divine. 
 Which subtly leaas me in its mystic course 
 Within the illuiuined center of my chime. 
 
 'Tis answered, and from out my soul a hymn 
 Of praise spontaneous, wings its upward flight. 
 In aspiration's depths I found within 
 My own real self, revealed by inner light. 
 Nor tide, nor flood, nor sweeping storm, nor 
 
 wind. 
 Nor all the flush allurements, which abound. 
 Can me again unto that darkness bind; 
 A stronger light has compassed me around. 
 
 A deeper phase of life has on me dawned — 
 I find myself within its Author, God; 
 A purer fire has all my spirit warmed; 
 I find within myself its Author, God — 
 A richer landscape mirrors on my soul. 
 With colorings deep, in tints,oh, unsurpassed. 
 Each innate charm that opens on the roll 
 Reveals a deeper, riper glory than the last. 
 
 A rapturous grandeur, impartation keen. 
 Seems breathing in my spirit's every vein. 
 Sweet intuitions softly float between. 
 Then answer back the soft and hushed re- 
 frain ; 
 Each gladsome tendril seems to waft to me 
 A voice of chiming and impassioned song, 
 Wliile each pulsation joins the minstrelsy 
 In leaps aloft, on pinions soft and strong. 
 A lialo glorious with the blended light 
 That comes from higher commune, soul with 
 
 souls. 
 Reveals a smile, so strangely sweet, so bright 
 It melts within her opal, shimmering folds. 
 Oh! deep-felt harmony, thy living strains 
 But set my heart athrill with liroadening love. 
 While Inspiration witli her soft refrains 
 Enlinks me with my liigher life above. 
 
 -a 
 
I® 
 
 426 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 SIMEON TUCKER CLARK. 
 
 Born: Canton, Mass., Oct. 10, 1836. 
 When but fourteen j^ears of age Simeon 
 Tucker Clark determined that be would make 
 his life a success, and he certainly has suc- 
 ceeded in a marked degrree. He has obtained 
 the Master's degree in arts, become a doctor 
 in medicine, and holds many positions of pro- 
 
 SIMEON TUCKER CLARK. 
 
 minence. His writings have appeared in the 
 magazines of Appleton, Scribner, Godey, 
 Peterson, and other publications, from 
 which they have been extensively copied by 
 the periodical press from Maine to California. 
 As a lecturer. Dr. Clark has always attracted 
 enthusiastic audiences. Besides his success- 
 ful practice as a physician, Dr. Clark is an 
 indefatigable student, and is a member of 
 many of the most important scientific bodies 
 In the United States. His place of residence 
 is Rockport, in the state of New York. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE DEAD VIOLINIST. 
 In grief, I sing for tiiose alone 
 
 Whose heart-strings are so sadly strung, 
 They only tremble when a moan 
 
 From Music's soul is wrung. 
 TlKiy dare to sit with me to-night, 
 
 Wiiere, like a statue; cold and still 
 The; master lies — the man wliosi' might 
 
 Brouglit smiles or tears at will 1 
 Ask neitlier wife nor child to speak; 
 
 Nor man nor maid a woi'd to lend. 
 
 In yonder well worn case we seek 
 
 The dead man's fondest friend ! 
 His violin. He touched and heard 
 
 The soul-throbs of that instrument. 
 And every pressure, every word. 
 
 With his caress was blent. 
 His viol. Raise with reverent fear 
 
 And press it to your tear-stained cheek 
 As was his wont, and you shall hear 
 
 What words the dead would speak ! 
 Hear them and heed, but not repeat. 
 
 There are so few that understand 
 The Sons of Genius, till tlieir feet 
 
 Have touched death's silent land! 
 To speak were easting pearls away ; 
 
 Who needs to be forgiven, forgives! 
 Wliere night is lost in endless day 
 
 Our great musician lives! 
 We who have loved will not forget 
 
 The rosy-thorny path he trod ! 
 Beyond upbraiding or regret 
 
 We leave him safe with God! 
 
 AFTER THE HARVEST. 
 
 The wonders of liarvcst are manifold 
 As mystical words fi-om the sphinx of old. 
 When over the meadows the sheaves are rolled. 
 The barley like silver, the wheat like gold; 
 But the darkest riddle of life is told. 
 When love like the grain, for a price is sold! 
 Janett and I with the reapers wrought 
 As a, lowly lad and a lassie ought. 
 When little is said, but much is thought; 
 What did I garner but sorrow? Naught ! 
 As over tlic meadows the sheaves we rolled; 
 And barley was silver and wheat was gold ! 
 She was a woman wondrous fair, 
 A score of summers had sunned her liair; 
 My lips were beardless, my brown cheeks bare; 
 For sixteen seasons liad brought no care 
 If barley was silver, or wheat was gold — 
 Or love, like the grain, for a pi-ice was .sold! 
 This was the way my love was won — 
 She turned to me when our task was done. 
 As ripe grain turns to the glowing sini 
 Before the hai'vesting is begun ! 
 A riddle alilce to the young and old 
 Wlien barley seems silver and wheat luircgdld. 
 We liissed I Before, luit a mother's kiss 
 Had hleiKled with mine; but this. Oh! tlii- 
 Discovered and filled my soul's abyss 
 With life's best vinl'age a, lover's bliss! 
 But the story of harvest will never be told: 
 And the wonders of loving are manifold ! 
 N(>xtday I wrought in tlie fields alone. 
 The heart, in my bosom a blood-red stone, 
 For 1 lu'ard tl«e winds to the stul)ble moan; 
 ..Tlie lord of tliese lands lias wedded liis own!" 
 Wlien lo\-e like the grain foi- a jiriee is sold. 
 No liarley seems silvci', no wheat like gold! 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OP AMEUICA. 
 
 427 
 
 -® 
 
 C. DREW. 
 
 Born: Alexandria, Va., Jan. (>, 18~0. 
 In 1833 Mr. Drew entered Gale's & Seaton's 
 office in Washington as an assistant to one of 
 the proof-readers, where, by way of pastime 
 he soon picked up a knowledge of type set- 
 ting. In 1845 he became associated with 
 James M. Davis In the publication of The 
 
 c, i>in:w. 
 
 American, al Wa^hiiiLitMii. I'lii-fr \cai-> hili'r 
 he removed to Florida and publislied a news- 
 paper in Jack.sonville, where he finally open- 
 ed a book store, which is still conducted on a 
 good scale b5' his sons — Horace Drew & Bro. 
 Mr. Drew served four years as state comptroll- 
 er of Florida, and he lias also held other pub- 
 lic positions of trust. The poems of Mr. Drew 
 have appeared from time te time in the period- 
 ical press since his youth. 
 
 THE POET'S GRAVE. 
 I marked a lonely grave among 
 
 The mansions of the dead. 
 Where slept an humble child of song. 
 
 His notes forever fled. 
 Save when their echoes gently stole 
 
 Back to the haunts where he 
 Poured forth the music of his soul 
 
 In numbers wild and free. 
 
 I knew it was the poet's grave, 
 
 Altliough no sculptured stone. 
 Nor urn, nor towering column, gave 
 
 His memory its own; 
 Some loved one who had known his worth. 
 
 Unable to do more. 
 Had smootlied the rugged mound of earth 
 
 And turf 'd it greenly o'er. 
 
 The sauntering crowd passed heedless by 
 
 That lowly place of rest. 
 To view the marble piled on high 
 
 Above the rich man's breast; 
 But they forget the wreath of love 
 
 That lives when gold and stone 
 Have perished from the earth above 
 
 And left tlie dust alone. 
 
 They knew not that the form laid nigh 
 
 By lowly, loving hands. 
 In memory's mystic alchemy 
 
 Would turn to golden sands; 
 For had they felt one throb that stirred 
 
 The loving hearts that knew 
 The poet's grave, their ears had heard 
 
 His lingering music too. 
 
 The crowd will linger by the scene 
 
 Where marble shafts uprise, 
 But some will seek the hillock green 
 
 And precious in their eyes; 
 For well they know who sleeps below. 
 
 Whose pillow they could crave — 
 Tlie one below the shaft of snow. 
 
 Or 'neath the poet's grave. 
 
 THE FADED FACE. 
 
 There are faded faces we sometimes see 
 Haloed in eloquent mystery. 
 Even though every trace marked there 
 Be the sign of sorrow, the seal of care, 
 Often, it seems, a beautiful grace 
 Covers the lines of the faded face. 
 
 After the bloom of the fragile rose. 
 
 The petals fall as the summer goes. 
 
 And the rose tree sinks to its winter sleep. 
 
 In the valleys the germs of springtime keep; 
 
 But there's never a season, there's never a 
 
 place. 
 We read not the tale of a faded face. 
 
 If sight were ne'er glad with a rouge-leaf more. 
 The mind could liave spring — time o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 And joy fill our souls as the seasons came : 
 The breast should fill with shame, with shame. 
 If we could not, in loving, before us spread 
 The heart's repast of the leaves still red. 
 
 And every true heart should have a place 
 To keep the bloom of a faded face. 
 For love and fancy to paint sublime 
 With the brighter tints of an olden time — 
 Even its pallor will cliange and glow 
 For the heart that .sees it turning so. 
 
 -® 
 
5t- 
 
 428 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 >s 
 
 JAMES FRANCIS GELLETLY. 
 
 Born in Scotland, 1848. 
 In his youth James was apprenticed to the 
 silvpi'sniiths' trade, at wiiich he worked for 
 six .^■^■al■s, when ho eame to America. He lias 
 
 JAMES FRANCIS GELLETLY. 
 
 always taken a great interest in literature, 
 and lias a volume of poems that he hopes soon 
 to place upon the market. 
 
 ©- 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 I am embarked on life's tempestuous sea, 
 
 I hear the roar 
 Of billows as they beat destructions shore 
 
 Awaiting me 
 The cloudy darkness deepens into night, 
 
 And the bright sheen 
 Of starry prospects now no more is seen 
 
 To shed its light. 
 Fear, pa.ssion, doubt, the treacherous friend, 
 the foe 
 
 Strain hard my l)ark 
 That toils upon their surges in the dark. 
 
 Rocked to and fro. 
 Through deepening shades no longer will T 
 grope 
 
 My devi()\is way, 
 I cast beiicalh the l)ill()ws as they swa.v 
 
 Tiie ariclioi' Hope. 
 And while the warring elements t\vvvv fight 
 
 With clamorous sound. 
 
 Here will I rest deep-grappled in the ground. 
 
 Waiting for light. 
 Oh God ! On whose vast bosom I lay hold, 
 
 Hear ! thou my prayer. 
 And give me patient fortitude to bear 
 
 Life's waters cold. 
 And iu the fury of the muffled night. 
 
 While tempests roll, [soul 
 
 Strengthen the cordsthat bind my wavering 
 
 To thy great might. 
 
 THE ARTIFICIAL AND THE NATURAL. 
 .You take a yokel, lumbering in his walk. 
 
 And put him in your military school. 
 Braced to a ramrod, teach him how to stalk, 
 
 And dress him like a monkey, or a fool, 
 Boss him well down, and wheel him 'round 
 
 about. 
 And yfiu will turn a first-rate soldier out. 
 To make a priest you take the •• family 
 dunce," 
 
 What little sense he has you strain awaj'. 
 Cram him with cant theology at once, [maj-— 
 
 And mold, or dish him for what sect you 
 Just as the French cooks fix up f i-ogs or snails. 
 Or pig-iron's fused and rolled out into rails. 
 To make a lawyer— best to take a knave, 
 
 But sometimes you can work an honest man, 
 If for some " paying office " he should crave -^ 
 
 And strives to stretch his conscience all he 
 
 can, [ayo — 
 
 Keeping a sharp look out for " number one " 
 
 Most likely lie'U die rich — at least in money. 
 
 Doctors are formed of somewhat dififcrent 
 
 stuff: 
 
 The minimum of wit allowed by law 
 Will make out, if the stomach's strong enough 
 
 To see dead negro paupers car^•ed up raw; 
 Still they must have for "Stock in trade" 
 
 complete 
 Some little knowledge, and the rest conceit. 
 Artists are built by unremitting toil. 
 
 Combined with natural taste and aptitude; 
 But poets spring spontaneou.s from the soil, 
 
 Wild flowers adorning lierbiage the most 
 rude. 
 And like the love-begetting mistletoe. 
 Must ever flouriFh wild if they woidd grow. 
 
 RULE FOR INDIVIDUAL ACTION. 
 When compassed 'round by factious zealots 
 who 
 Would fain pi'oscribe and prescribe from 
 mankind, [bind, 
 ("ontcnin the tieacherous burdens they would 
 Who gave the thy volition, gave thee too 
 A mointor within— to that be true — 
 And let none shaeki(> tlu-e in limb or mind, 
 And let no fog of logic make thet" blind 
 Concerning what thou shall or shall not do. 
 |P 
 
»- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOKTS OF AMBUICA. 
 
 429 
 
 ADLINE SILLIMAN KIEFFER 
 
 Born: Miami, Mo., Aug. 1, 1840. 
 
 From an early age this writer has coutributed 
 hotli prose and verse to the press. He has 
 followed the profession of printer and 
 journalist, «nd is now intit proprietor and 
 
 alium; ^ili.iman kikifer. 
 
 editor of the Musical Million, published at 
 Dayton, Va., where he now resides. Mr. Kief- 
 fer has published a neat Tolume of poems en- 
 titled Vigil and Vision, which has had a verj' 
 extensive sale. 
 
 m- 
 
 DEPARTED DAYS. 
 O dear departed days! 
 
 days that come no more ! 
 
 O sea of joy, whose wave hath ebbed 
 From mortal shore ! 
 
 Thy tide shall flow no more ; 
 Thy wrecks lie on the strand; 
 And Memory walks with shoeless feet 
 Thy barren sand. 
 
 1 tread where thou hast been 
 O sea of days ! gone by— 
 
 An arid waste lies out beneath 
 An ashen skj-. 
 
 Here lies Hope's painted hull ; 
 Her broken masts are gone,— 
 Her rotten decks scarce hold the ghosts 
 That walk thereon. 
 
 Love's fairy craft lies tliere. 
 Round which tlie sad winds sing: 
 The tide went out, returned no more,— 
 Poor, stranded thing! 
 
 Wliore are the radiant forms 
 Whose gentle, lily hands 
 Once bound each otlier's golden curLs 
 With silken Imnds';:' 
 
 Aye, they have perished too, 
 Along life's ocean strand: 
 The fire of love strewed ashes hero 
 Upon the sand. 
 
 Light gho.sts go tripping by :— 
 No perfume in their iiair. 
 No song, no voice, no whispered breath 
 Disturbs the air. 
 
 O sea ! O bark ! O soul ! 
 O days that come no more ! 
 O Memory, why walk ye here 
 This dreary shore? 
 
 KISSING BY THE WELL. 
 In the land of eastern story 
 Strewn with wrecks of ancient glory. 
 
 Like a lawn with autumn leaves. 
 There are ruins that surprise us, — 
 Temple walls whose age defies us, — 
 Broken shrines that solemnize us, — 
 
 Yet the he art for glory grieves. 
 
 In that land of faded glories. 
 Where the dust is full of stories 
 
 That no tongue can ever tell! 
 There's a spot I love to think of. 
 Where in olden days, the pink of 
 Eastern beauties came to drink of 
 
 Our old father Jacob's well. 
 
 Ah, those pretty maids of Sychem ! 
 (Who with soul could help but like them!) 
 
 With their eyes of wondrous light? 
 Even yet the whispering fairies 
 Tell the loves of Ruths and Marys, 
 Gentle Magdalenes and Saralis, 
 
 Round this olden well at night. 
 
 Therein mystic, antique ages. 
 Prophets, bards and royal sages. 
 
 Told their loves when twilight fell;— 
 Breathed soft words in love's warm meas- 
 ure; — 
 Dreamed sweet dreams of fame and pleas- 
 ure,^ 
 Drew sweet draughts of living pleasure 
 From the heart's unfailing well. 
 
 By a well of living water 
 
 Jacob kissed old Laban's daughter — 
 
 Fair-faced Rachel, half-divine; 
 And though earth with age is hoary. 
 
 •^ 
 
^- 
 
 430 
 
 -* 
 
 LC>CAL AND XATIuXAL FOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Still she owes one-half her glory. 
 
 More than half her sacred story, 
 
 KaeheU to that kiss of thine '. 
 
 Though thy heart with dust hath blended. 
 Thy heart's love hath never ended ! 
 
 Israel's daughters live to day '. 
 BacheLs, with their sunny faces 
 Still make glad the olden places. 
 Leaving on Time's page new traces. 
 
 As the old years^die away. 
 
 Lips of love! ah me. the blessing. 
 ■What, but for their sweet caressing 
 
 Were this tear-stained world of ours? 
 Lips of Love have soothed the weary — 
 Lips of Love have blessed the dreary — 
 M;iking life's wild pathway cheery 
 
 With sweet smiles and sunny hours. 
 
 Gentle reader, boy or maiden. 
 If your heart with love is laden. 
 
 Kiss beside Life's wayside weLL 
 Keep your young hearts pure and stain- 
 less,— 
 So shall Love's sweet life prove painless, — 
 And life's dream be not the gainless. 
 
 Joyless thing that ix)ets tell. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 Hideous dreams : terrible dreams '. 
 Visit my nights of despair: — 
 Wearisome birds are they. 
 Clad in their sable and gray. 
 Driven by storms on the spray 
 O'er the shoreless Ocean of Time, 
 Perching themselves on my bed. 
 Pecking their bills in my heart: 
 Flapping their wings on my head — 
 Lifting themselves with a start. 
 Only to light again. 
 To feast themselves on my brain; 
 O horrible birds : terrible birds '. 
 Devilish dream-birds of prey : 
 
 *- 
 
 DREAMS. 
 This fair land of ours I've traversed 
 
 Without inconvenience or cost; 
 I've come, and I've gone, and none missed 
 me. 
 The time — I have not counted lost. 
 
 EVALINE WRIGHT NELSON. 
 
 BoR>-: Xew Lisbox, O., April 13, 185t. 
 This lady is a member of the Ohio Woman's 
 Press Association, and is a regular corres- 
 pondent to the Wellsville Daily Union. Both 
 her prose and verse have appeared in some of 
 the leading magazines. Miss Xelson is still a 
 resident of her native town. 
 
 I've oft watched the poor blind birdies 
 
 Gainst Liberty's Light dash and die. 
 And long at the Golden Gate tarried 
 
 With many a laugh and a sigh. 
 
 In my dreams. 
 I've heard N^iagara's thundering roar. 
 
 And felt the damp spray in my face: 
 And I have gathered in Florida, 
 
 Moss, finer than exquisite lace. 
 I've crossed the tempestuous ocean 
 
 Quite often without any fear. 
 And wonderful thoughts have come to me 
 
 With only the sea and sky near. 
 
 In my dreams. 
 I've visited Shakespeare at Avon, 
 
 And Tennyson. Browning and Burns; 
 I've fished in the Lakes of Killarney; 
 
 In Scotland I've oft gathered ferns. 
 I've been the guest of Victoria, 
 
 I've looked at the weird •• Midnight Sun:" 
 I've traveled in every direction. 
 
 And O, but I've had fun, fun, fun. 
 
 In my dreams. 
 
 I've taken Bibles to heathendom. 
 
 And cheering words to workers there. 
 And freedom sweet to the shackled ones 
 
 Who blot Siberia, the fair; 
 I've rescued the weak from power's grip. 
 
 And happiness brought to the sad; 
 Why, I cannot tell all that I've done. 
 
 How glad I have been, glad, glad, glad, 
 In my dreams. 
 
 Been courted? Of course: and married too? 
 
 Yes. many a time, who has not? 
 With noblest and truest of lovers 
 
 I have lived in mansion and cot. 
 All lovers are knightly, maid noble. 
 
 And happiness easy to find: 
 But I'm not to tell all the secrets 
 
 Of this realm, you must mind, mind, mind, 
 Of our dreams. 
 
 There's naught that is fine in the landscape. 
 
 In poetry, music or art. 
 But touches me more as a memory 
 
 Than something quite new to my heart; 
 I've seen it. I've heard it. I've known it 
 
 Some time in the past, and it seems 
 A part of the infinite empire 
 
 I own and control in my dreams. 
 
 In my dreams. 
 
 Cloud-pictures, a rainbow, a sunset; 
 
 Ah: these have a mission, believe: 
 He misses a glory worth having 
 
 Who will not their beauty perceive. 
 They've helped me to weave brightest fancies. 
 
 For them I am richer to-day: 
 Can beautiful dreams hurt one who feels 
 
 Reality's Ijetter than they? 
 
 Dear old dreani> 
 
 -«• 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AXD XATIOXAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 ^SARA J. SITTLER. 
 
 This lady is a resident of Jefferson. Iowa. Hbe 
 has written , ::* xTvu-hv :y v,^-iy credible 
 
 -131 
 
 -^ 
 
 SARA J. SITTLER. 
 
 poems for the press, wliioh liave been high] 
 commented upon by her friends and admirer: 
 
 A MOCRXIXG DG^-E. 
 Ah mournful, mournful bird. 
 The music that I've heard 
 Has driven me almost mad. 
 Thy .. IxxMXHxi "• uttered po far apart 
 Lies deep within my heart, 
 Tls oh so sad : so sad: 
 Wilt thou cease thy strain so dreary? 
 For it makes me feel so weary 
 When thy mournful voice I hear. 
 And my heart sinks low. 
 As I through the wild wood go 
 To the bnxtk that runneth clear. 
 If O. bird: thy strain youd change. 
 To some song that's sweet and strange. 
 It would please me more. 
 But thy .. bocKX>-oo '• beyond the tree 
 StUl keeps echoing back to me — 
 Cursed bird: repeat it oer 
 
 COXTEXTMEXT. 
 Contentment, thou art erervthing- 
 Without thee this world would be ' 
 Xoihmg but woe. 
 Pure are the lives that keep thee. 
 As onward through life they gr.. 
 
 You bless the poor home. Contentment - 
 
 The poor mans hand you grasp 
 
 With the kindest regard. 
 
 The rich mans soul without thee will perish. 
 
 For thou art a reward . 
 
 Pure are the lives that possess thee. 
 
 From the un.selfishness of the world 
 
 Tliey are free. 
 
 They take their reward according to rule 
 
 And all agree. 
 
 A PRACTICAL JOKE. 
 She sat by the dim firelight ; 
 And the moon cast her beams on the walL 
 He came of cf»urse as he promised. 
 To give her an evening calL 
 She gently said, "Good-evening;' 
 Her voice was sweet and clear; 
 But to him it was not natural 
 As it fell upon the ear. 
 
 And she, herself was not the same; 
 
 She treated him so cold. 
 
 He longed to speak the words of love. 
 
 But feared that hed get sold. 
 
 His thoughts were off in dreamland 
 
 As they sat so far apart ; 
 
 And the silence of his once talkative love. 
 
 Cast darkness over his heart. 
 
 At last he arose to kiss her 
 
 As parting time drew nigh; 
 
 But I hardly think he finished kissing. 
 
 For sometbing met his eye. 
 
 What was it? It was the servant girl 
 
 Dressed in her mistress" gown : 
 
 While she. the mistress was in the sleigh 
 
 With a gay young chap from town. 
 
 TIS OXLY A PICTURE. 
 *Tis only a picture — that is all: 
 Yet naught can from my heart erase. 
 Tlie form that's penciled with such grace. 
 The picture of my fathers face — 
 My angel father? 
 "Tis only a picture — that is all : 
 Yet it helps to keep his memory clear; 
 And often helps my heart to cheer. 
 When clouds float low — and life seems 
 
 drear, 
 O angel father? 
 'Tis only a picture— that is all:— 
 
 Yet it brings to me another day. 
 
 When near his knee I loved to play; 
 
 Wlien I grew older loved to say, 
 
 '• Dearest father: " 
 
 "Tis only a picture — that is all : 
 
 But as long as the stars shine from above. 
 
 To light my pathway as I rove. 
 
 Tliere will remain a daughters love, 
 
 O angel father. 
 
 © 
 
^- 
 
 432 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 MARIE WALSH-CAHILL. 
 
 born: New York City, about 1850. 
 AS the author of Hazel Kirke, The World, and 
 Saints and Sinners (novelized from plays), and 
 the original novel of His Wife or his Widow, 
 this lady has gained quite a reputation in the 
 world of literature. Commencing her literary 
 career when very young by writing for a Bos- 
 ton Weelily, she has since dramatized a num- 
 
 
 And so! And so 
 Our lassos thus we throw ! 
 Car-r-r-r-r-rambo ! 
 Our leather rings we throw 1 
 O'er pampas wild, through tall mesquite. 
 
 The plembos rush, like storms along, 
 The herds fly fast, for life is sweet; 
 Away we go with jest and songs 
 Relying on our trusty thongs. 
 The plembo always gains his prey ; 
 His arm is strong, his lasso swifl ; 
 He rides his mustang all the day. 
 
 Then taketh sleep, the great king's gift; 
 We are the monarchs of the plain — 
 His lasso never coils in vain. 
 And so! And so 
 Our lassos thus we throw ! 
 Car-r-r-r-r-rambo ! 
 Our lassos thus we throw ! 
 
 MKS. MAiai; W Al,Ml-( Aiin.i,. 
 
 ber of popular iiovels and written s(>veial or- 
 iginal dramas, which have been produced in 
 the leading cities of America. In 18HT the sub- 
 ject of this sketch liecame the wife of Edward 
 Walsh, a gentleman engaged in mercantile 
 pursuits in New York City. She was left a 
 widow in 188:5, and resided in Brooklyn until 
 1890. when she married M.J. Caliill, the jiopu- 
 lar Chicago publisluT. 
 
 O'ER PAMPAS WILD. 
 O'er pampas wild, through tiill mesquite. 
 
 Our mustangs swift like lightning Hash — 
 Our mustangs fly like north winds fleet, 
 
 The buffalo before us dasli. 
 
 While through the plains we onward flash, 
 For curled ui)on our i)onunels high 
 
 A trusty lasso bear we all; 
 The frightened herds before us fly,— 
 
 Our lasso's chains ai'c strong, though small; 
 It is the serpent of tlie plain. 
 I The victims rear and i)lunge in vain. 
 
 © ^ ■ 
 
 A LOVER OF MINE. 
 A lover of mine comes ev'ry night, 
 
 But never once by day. 
 And yet he loves the candle light; 
 He always sings this way: 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 He clasps my hand all in the dark. 
 
 He whispers low to me, 
 His kisses always leave a mark. 
 Though him I seldom seel 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 And you are like this lover o' mine. 
 
 Mosquito, vile and mean ! [wuie 
 
 For you've tried in vain to drink love's 
 From all the lips you've seen! 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 You buff, you fly, you try to sting,— 
 
 Mosquito! Nothing more! 
 You hum and sing, you mean old tlnng.- 
 You're such an awful love! 
 Hum! hum! lium! 
 Hum! lium! hum! 
 Though stiff and old. you try to sip. 
 
 (Leave that to younger men!) 
 Rich, red blood from each rosy lip, 
 Oh! don't try it again! 
 Hum! hum! hum! 
 Hum ! hum ! hum! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I once had a sister- 
 The sunlight oft kissed lier — 
 For a flower mistook lu'r 
 And never forsook lier; 
 As onyx lier skin fair. 
 As nises her lips rare. 
 As fair skies her eyes blue. • 
 
•©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 433 
 
 -® 
 
 MARY J.KING. 
 
 Born: South Scituate, R. I., March 10, 1852. 
 Commencing to write poonis at an early ajrc, 
 they have since .■ijiiM'arcil firini liiin' ti i r iici- in 
 
 MARY J. KING. 
 
 the local press. Miss King follows the occu- 
 pation of a weaver, at Crompton, R. I. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Dear, gentle, loving mother, 
 
 Ofttimes we think of thee. 
 In the midst of life's stern duties 
 
 Thy form we seem to see; 
 And when the shades of evening 
 
 Are deepening in the sky. 
 In some bright star we fancy 
 
 We see thy gentle eye. 
 We seem to hear thy loving voice 
 
 In the twilight still and calm. 
 Murmuring, .. God protect my children 
 
 And keep them from all harm;" 
 Oh: for thy deep, true fervent love. 
 
 How oft our liearts doth yearn. 
 For thou hast past away from earth. 
 
 And never .sliall return. 
 Dear mother, by thy gvntle side 
 
 How oft we have knelt in prayer. 
 And you bade us look to heaven, 
 
 And told us God was there; 
 And then thy hand so lovingly. 
 
 Would press each little head, 
 
 And give to eacli one fond embrace. 
 
 When evening prayers were said. 
 What was it in the morning 
 
 Awoke us from dreams of bliss, 
 As it sweetly brushed each little cheek? 
 
 It was our mother's kiss. 
 As fond memories recall the past. 
 
 With tears our eyes oft fill. 
 When we think of thee, dear mother, 
 
 Now in death forever still. 
 Oh ! What sadness filled our dwelling. 
 
 When we knelt around thy bed. 
 When thine eyelids closed forever. 
 
 And thy gentle soul had fled; 
 'Twas our blessed Savior called thee 
 
 From this world of sin and care. 
 And heaven to us seems nearer. 
 
 Because our mother's there. 
 Thou didst suffer long and patiently. 
 
 But thy sufferings now are o'er. 
 And we hope in heaven to meet thee. 
 
 Thou art onlj' gone before; 
 Thy gentle form lies sleeping 
 
 In St. Mary's hallowed ground. 
 And we hope among God's saints 
 
 Thy name has been enrolled. 
 We will ask our Savior's mother 
 
 To pray to her dear Son, 
 That He may reunite us 
 
 When our task on earth is done; 
 We trust for us she is pleading 
 
 Before our Savior's throne; 
 Oh ! how sweet will be our union there 
 
 Where parting is unknown. 
 
 JOHN A. VINEY. 
 
 Born: Bodkins, Ohio, May 28, 1853. 
 After receiving his education at tlie Biddle 
 university of North Carolina, John A. Viney 
 entered the ministry, and is now located at 
 El Paso, Texas. Since 1881 he has written 
 ((uite a few poems that have been published. 
 
 SAVED AT LAST. 
 When waked by the alarm of death 
 
 That sin had long her portion been; 
 Then she did fly to Jesus' breast 
 
 And humbly begged an entrance in. 
 Is Jesus the vile sinner's friend, 
 
 When hope of life 's forever gone? 
 Would he in mercy thus transcend 
 
 And prove his pow'r to utmost l)ound? 
 Yes children, hung there on his cross, 
 
 A thief close by his Savior's side; 
 When hope of life to him was lost. 
 
 Was saved by faith in Christ, then died. 
 Take hope then you whose mothers gone, 
 
 Who sought her God in dying breath; 
 She safely was convoyed beyond — 
 
 To the sweet saints' immortal rest. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 434 
 
 ■® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 CLARA H.MOUNTCASTLE. 
 
 Born: Canada, Nov. 36, 1837. 
 At the age of twenty-six Miss Mountcastle 
 entered a private syhool as teacher, which 
 position she lield for two years. She then 
 studied painting- iu water colors and in 18V0 
 took five jirizi'^. Sitifi' tliat tinif she has 
 tauji'ht (lf;i w iiiu 111 iii;iii> |iinniiiiriit ^(■|]()(lis. 
 
 CLAKA H. MOUNTCA.STLE. 
 
 In 1883 she published the Mission of Love and 
 Other Poems, and l;iter published a novel. As 
 a mark of appreciation of her literary worli. 
 Miss Mountcastle was in 1889 unanimously 
 elected as lionorary member of the Trinity 
 Historical Society of Dallas, Texas. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MY SISTERS AND I. 
 The years roll on, youth flies apace; 
 And ageo'ertakes us in the race; 
 While poverty runs " neck and neck," 
 And little doth the oppressor reck. 
 That oft he sets his iron lioel 
 Upon the corn we soi'est feel. 
 He goads us onward o'er the ground. 
 And lacerates each half-healed M'ound. 
 More slowly moves the tide of life. 
 As thus we meet the iinequal strife; 
 A weight .seems clinging to our feet; 
 The tired hearts forget to beat — 
 The spirits faint — the strength is gone; 
 Yet weary limbs are toiling on 
 Along the paths that lead to thee; 
 Thou vast, unknown, eternity. 
 
 ART THOU THINKING OF ME. 
 
 Art thou thinking of me, my belovedV 
 
 Though distance doth sever us wide, 
 Tlie fancy still haunts me, my darling. 
 
 That thou ai't again by my side. 
 I feel an intangible presence. 
 
 About me wherever I move — 
 A something that whispers, my darling. 
 
 Of thee and thy passionate love. 
 My spirit communes with thy spirit; 
 
 My thoughts cannot wander from thee; 
 Thy aerial presence enchains them, 
 
 And haunts me wherever I be. 
 There is naught in this world that can give 
 me 
 
 A tithe of the joy that doth fill 
 Mj' being, when whispers thj" spii-it 
 
 To mine that thou lovest me still. 
 
 MRS. VITULA M.CLARK. 
 
 Born: Minier, III., Jan. 30, 1867. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 Bloomington papers. She was married in 1889 
 to Mr. J. H. Clark of Fern Hill, where she now 
 resides. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 The stars gleam forth their soft and silvery 
 light. 
 
 The sad winds moan and sigh ; 
 And fleecj' clouds of grayish white 
 
 Sail slowly o'er the sky. 
 Hushed are the many sounds of day; 
 
 Tranquil is the busy street. 
 Mournfully the dark waves play 
 
 O'er the mighty deep. 
 Clasfied in slumber's sweet embrace, 
 
 Happy in the land of dreams; 
 Sori'ows from our hearts are chased. 
 
 Till morning brightly beams. 
 The wild beasts rest within their hidden lair; 
 
 The cattle on the hillside peaceful dream, 
 Forgetful of the day however fair, [stream. 
 
 Lulled to blissful slumber by the rippling 
 And little children free from every care. 
 
 Now sweetly sleep upon their snowy beds: 
 Hushed are the lips— that lisped their even- 
 ing prayer, [heads. 
 
 To Him who watches o'er their youthful 
 O! night, how heavenly sweet art thou: 
 
 O'er rich and poor, thy dewy breath doth 
 fall. 
 Upon the homeless wanderer's brow; 
 
 O'er high and low, o'er great and small. 
 Night, lovely night: thy holy balm dotii steal 
 
 Into many a breaking heart, 
 Alas! that cannot heal; 
 
 God's blessing to impart. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 435 
 
 -« 
 
 GRANT LEE SHUMWAY. 
 
 Born: New Windsor, III., March 7, 1865. 
 Eemoving to Nebraska at the age of twenty, 
 Mr. Sliumway has made that state his head- 
 quarters ever since. He has published a 
 
 poem in booli-fi)rni, entitled The St)d C;il)in, 
 
 (il{ \N-I I 1 1, ^11 L MWAY. 
 
 which is a very able and Interesting produc- 
 tion. Mr. Shumway now has the manage- 
 ment of the Ashford Advocate, a position 
 that affords him better opportunities for lit- 
 erary work than he has heretofore enjoyed. 
 
 SUNSET ON THE PLATTE. 
 Upon the bridge, above the flowing river. 
 There we admired the fast declining day, 
 Like those dark waters, moving on forever. 
 Each heart was borne, in ecstacy, away. 
 The sun sank low behind the horizon; 
 It lighted up the fleecy western sky : [gone ; 
 An emblem of great persons, when they're 
 They leave a brilliant lustre, when they die. 
 The sky back to the stream, reflecting, cast 
 Resplendent light, of purjtle and of gold; 
 And all the rainliow colors, changing fast 
 From lurid red, 'til fading gray, turns cold. 
 But here and there the shimmering surface 
 
 mars 
 Its glossy face, by interceding bars; 
 And where the elements each other wars. 
 The spray-fleck'd sand shoue like bright 
 Glittering stars. 
 
 5— —_^_ 
 
 A pine root clinging to some shoal, here. 
 Reached forth its various prongs, and .sepa- 
 rate. 
 Resembling the antlers of a deer, 
 Whose form lies 'neath tlie stream. 
 
 Inanimate. 
 One lovely islet, deck'd with foliage green, 
 Breaks the bright scene, reaching from 
 
 Shore to shore. 
 Tranciuil, she reigns, an Oriental queen; 
 In majesty and silence, wields her power. 
 Far, to the southwest, reared a silent tower, 
 A temple, in which human ne'er has trod. 
 Erected by the Omnipotent power; 
 To man is given, a symbol of his God. 
 An intervening gap, and then another 
 Great edifice, its head to Heaven doth rear, 
 In silent mem'ry of an ancient brother. 
 Who used it in defense of country, dear. 
 Time-traces on its crest are visible; 
 The wall is slowly crumbling to decay; 
 And like an earlier relic, doth it tell 
 Its history in its own inspiring way. 
 But, from the crag of noble grandeur, leap- 
 ing-. 
 Our vision falls upon the level plain. 
 Swift, over it, the evening- shadows creeping 
 Leaves a dull, dreary waste upon the main. 
 Beneath the plain, a wall of dingy brown 
 Obscured the last faint rays of waning light 
 The lark's last note sounds through the 
 
 Twilight gloom. 
 As monitory of the coming nigiit. 
 Along the surface of of the golden river, 
 A sleepy swallow skims the water's brim ; 
 So close it makes the glossy surface shiver 
 The light, translucent, flashing thro' the dim. 
 We gaze upon the fine artistic work 
 By nature drawn, and painted on the sky 
 On island and on shore that's growing dark 
 And on the turbid water, murmuring by. 
 It fades, the picture was too rare a kind 
 To linger long and gladden mortal sight. 
 Like every earthly pleasure, leaves behind 
 Dark shadows, creeping on to darker night. 
 
 THE SOD CABIN. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 >.Will," she began, "you know that you 
 Once told me of your fair-haired lass. 
 What would she think poor girl? Alas ! 
 If you in absence prove untrue. 
 Ah ! This must never come to pass — 
 Go back to her — Come not to me — 
 Unless she kindly sets you free 
 Of her free will. 
 
 I cannot speak 
 The love I have for you, but ere 
 
 -© 
 
«■ 
 
 436 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SB- 
 
 I'd have you her engag-emeat break, 
 Let base dishonor your name share, 
 I'd suffer pain no tongue could tell, 
 My heart witli anguish overflow. 
 My life-blood break its prison cell 
 And make a crimson flood for you. 
 Go back to your fair Isabelle, 
 Forget the wild girl in the dell." 
 One sad reproachful look she gave 
 Him as she slowly turned to leave. 
 A stinging pain shot to his heart 
 And pierced it like a quivering dart. 
 His countenance was fluslied with shame 
 To join dishonor with his name. 
 "Please, Lilly, do not leave me so. 
 Your virtues I more highly prize 
 On hearing what you've said. 
 
 But know, 
 "WiU Curtis will not tell you lies. 
 So when I tell you I am free, 
 Bound by no promises or ties, 
 Perhaps you'll kindly think of me. 
 Here read this note." With trembling hand 
 He cast a letter on the sand 
 Before her heavy downcast eyes. 
 She picks it up — her eyes she dries — 
 And reads the missive's contents through: 
 
 Viola, State of — -^ 
 
 March 27th, '75. 
 Will Curtis : 
 
 Sir,— I freely give 
 You back the longed-for liberty: 
 Am glad to know that I am free. 
 Our promises were premature 
 And brouglit about by other hands. 
 Neitlicr are satisfied I'm sui-e 
 Wliile our engagement stands. 
 Like you, my heart for freedom yearaed 
 Until you did that freedom send. 
 With this your kindness I've returned. 
 Remember me 
 
 Your sincere friend 
 Belle Morton. 
 
 "Will, another star 
 Sliall guide my future, brigliter far 
 Than any I have ever known 
 Save one, and that from lieaven shone. 
 Tliis letter has revealed to me 
 Your noble heart, and that it's free. 
 So if on m(^ unworthy me. 
 You would its tenderness bestow, 
 I'll gladly give my heart to thee, — 
 You'll gently care for it I know." 
 Again he clasped lier to his breast 
 And j(jyous rapturous kisses pressed 
 To her sweet lips upturned to his 
 As if to seal eternal bliss. 
 MHiile standing thus in close embrace, 
 Her face upturned to meet his face. 
 Some jiower seemed to bear away 
 Her mind in wliicli blight visions play, 
 
 A stately mansion on a hill 
 In which were dwelling her and Will . 
 Rich paintings on the frescoed wall. 
 Lace drapery and curtains fall. 
 The rustling silk, the marble floors. 
 While servants came at her command. 
 Their footsteps heard on every hand 
 Resounding through the corridors. 
 The mist float from before lier eyes, 
 'Twas but a dream of paradise. 
 Their future sealed their homeward way 
 They step with hearts so light and gay. 
 
 MRS. ANSELINA E. DWYER. 
 
 Born: England, Oct. 7, 1846. 
 A FEW of the poems of this lady have appear- 
 ed in the Transcript of Lynn, Mass., in which 
 city she now resides. 
 
 MY WINDOW GARDEN. 
 A tiny garden I possess. 
 Hid in a window's deep recess; 
 Grateful beneath the sun's caress 
 Expands its leafy loveliness. 
 And when the sun lights up the green. 
 And quivering shadows play between, 
 The blossoms on my ivy screen 
 Like dewdrops glisten in its sheen. 
 My stately calla pearly crowned,— 
 No queenlier flower e'er was found — 
 And lesser beauties grouped around 
 Rare fragrance, sweet, shed o'er the mound. 
 A symbol in the passion vine 
 I see, transfixed the Man Divine, 
 The whips, the hails, the cords that twine 
 Around his limbs, the halo's shine. 
 And hei-e in emerald velvet dressed 
 Geraniums lift their scarlet crest; 
 Pinks, fuschias, lilies 'niong the rest, 
 And soulful pansies — loved the best. 
 No florists' skill T boast, or know 
 The names which science doth bestow; 
 But knowledge greater far they show; 
 God's loving care to all below. 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 'Tis not confined to bards alone. 
 
 The poetry of the .soul; 
 It is a great and glorious theme 
 
 Which few men can control. 
 It is a pure and virtuous life, 
 
 High-iuiiulcd. true, sincere, 
 Wliich makes the soul so beautiful. 
 
 And life so happy here. 
 Sweet are the songs that poets sing 
 
 When the muses them control ; 
 But leally nothing can compare 
 
 With the poetry of the soul. 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 437 
 
 -* 
 
 SAMUEL W. GOLDBERG. 
 
 Born in Russia, May 1, 1858. 
 The poems of Mr. Goldberg- have appeared in 
 many of the leading- American publications. 
 In person he is a little above the average 
 height and weig-ht, and is of good stature, 
 
 SAMUEL W. GOLDBERG. 
 
 ■With brown hair and eyes. Mr. Goldberg- is a 
 book-keeper by profession, and now resides 
 at Dallas, Texas. The poems of this writer 
 have generally appeared under the nom de 
 plume of Schirhaschirim. 
 
 TWO SHOULDERS AT THE WHEEL. 
 
 Should you meet a troubled brother, 
 
 Tlien a kindred spirit feel; 
 Heavy burdens might be lifted 
 
 With two shoulders at the wheel. 
 Let him know you take an interest, 
 
 'Twill not take him long to see 
 Whether jou're a true well-wisher 
 
 Or a shamming Pharisee. 
 And the time might not be distant 
 
 When you'll lack both strength and zeal — 
 When perhaps yon would be grateful 
 
 For one e.\tra at your wheel. 
 Do not turn your l)ack upon him. 
 
 Do not coolly walk away. 
 Just because you tliink you're made of 
 
 Some superior sort of clay. 
 When we come to think about it — 
 © . . 
 
 As sometimes we mortals must — 
 There is nothing very striking 
 
 In the finest kind of dust! 
 More than that, we cannot claim it; 
 
 'Tis but lent to us on trust, 
 And, pray, what is there to boast of 
 
 In ashes, claj-, or dust? 
 
 NIGHT AND MORN. 
 Nig-ht, and a clouded moon. 
 
 With a dark and stormy sky; 
 While the eyes that are watching- 
 
 Are -wet -with tears. 
 And the bo.som is weary 
 
 With unknown fears. 
 And heaving with deep, sad sighs. 
 Morn, and a smiling- sky, 
 
 A dawning fair and sweet; 
 While the tears that are falling 
 
 Are chased away. 
 And glances as bright 
 
 As this gladsome day. 
 In unison fondly meet. 
 
 Such are our lives, dear, 
 
 A night and a day; 
 And love ever chases 
 
 The clouds away. 
 
 ENVY. 
 
 In life's fair paradise there lurks a snake. 
 
 Envy its name. The nobler, more sublime 
 An act, the easier it doth envy wake; 
 
 And envy, wakened once, wakes for all time. 
 Green-eyed and pale.it poisons every pleasure, 
 
 It hates good-doing and humanity's creed. 
 And wages war with its heart's dearest treas- 
 ure. 
 
 Good will, which bids him help his neigh- 
 bor's need. 
 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 Tliere was a peasant found a frozen snake, 
 
 And, with a sweet simplicity sublime. 
 He placed it by the fire, that it might wake 
 To thoughts of comfort, for 'twas winter- 
 time. 
 The snake began to writhe and curl ■\vith 
 pleasure. 
 And, in accordance with its snakish creed. 
 It turned around (the fascinating treasure!) 
 And stung- its too-confiding- "Friend in 
 need! " 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 In our ehildiiood's springtime. 
 
 Basking- in the glade, 
 How we listened to the chime 
 
 Wiiich the sweet bells made! 
 Cliildhood, happy childhood! 
 
 Days that swiftly g-o ! 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 438 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 « 
 
 HENRY M. DOWNING. 
 
 BoKN : Boston, MasSi, Sept. 7, 1853. 
 At the age of fourteen Henry went to seu and 
 made three voyages to India, and next joined 
 a steamsliip running- from 'Frisco to Panama. 
 For a time he was hi the Indian service. For 
 severul jears Mr. Downing- was the marine 
 
 in.Nin M 'Mi i/roN DOWNING, 
 editor of the ISoston Daily Post, and is no-vv 
 engaged in special woi-k on tlie Boston Globe. 
 He has -written principally stories, and both 
 his prose and verse have appeared in the 
 leading- ])ublications of America. Mr. Down- 
 ing- was married in 1873 to Miss Sarah Thayer. 
 
 «- 
 
 A BABY'S SHOE. 
 Tlie wind was cold, the nig-lit was dark, 
 
 Tlie ice made tlhcli and fast, 
 A bark drew near tlie rugged rocks 
 
 Before the wintry blast. 
 The craft unpeopled, saving one. 
 
 And he at the helm lashed. 
 His Ixuird was iced, and his fratiic was chilled. 
 
 By tlie S[)ray that o'er him dashed. 
 The noble siiip i)nrsued her course. 
 
 Approaching fast her doom. 
 But still tliat single soul remained 
 
 Finshrouded in the gloom. 
 He recked not of the soli( ude, 
 
 Nor felt the dashing si)ray. 
 For while his hand was on the wlieel. 
 
 His heart was far away. 
 
 He saw a little cottage home, 
 
 A picture pure and fair. 
 An infant's cot, a sailor's wife, 
 
 Upon her knees in prayer. 
 A smile broke o'er his freezing- face. 
 
 His hand his bosom sought. 
 And tenderly, with wiser care, 
 
 Some treasure forth he brought. 
 He pressed it fondly to his lips. 
 
 His lips so pale and cold. 
 And tears gushed from his eyes, which froze, 
 
 As down his cheeks they rolled. 
 A mighty wave! A sudden shock! 
 
 She strikes— and all is o'er; 
 The noble vessel lies a wreck. 
 
 Upon the rocky shore. 
 
 The sun climbed up the eastern arch. 
 
 And shone with baleful glare. 
 And tranquilly looked down upon 
 
 The desolation there. 
 Among the w-eed the bodies lay 
 
 A cold and icy bed. 
 And on each frozen face was stamped 
 
 Death's horror and its dread — 
 Save one —a smile was on his lips, 
 
 Damp with death's clamnij- dew. 
 And in his rigid hiind -was clasped, 
 
 A little baby's shoe. 
 
 H.DWIGHT BENJAMIN. 
 
 Born: Hampshire Co., Mass., Dec. 18, 1824. 
 The poems of Mr. Benjamin have appeared 
 in the Rochester Advent Harbinger, Ports- 
 mouth Republican and other papers. Mr. 
 Benjamin occasionally preaches, but is by oc- 
 cupation a farmer. H(? resides at Lucasville.O. 
 
 THE RIGHT WAY. 
 Be true to all, and ever true; 
 Pay what you owe when it is due. 
 Sing " Psalms and Hymns," and songs, a few, 
 
 To cheer you o'er the river. 
 CHO.-Oh! sing and pray and happy be, 
 
 Frtmi death we all shall soon be free, 
 Tlien free from sin forever be. 
 And free from death forever. 
 As you would have all do to yon. 
 So do to them, for (Jod is true; 
 Your ways be fail-, your wo)-ds be few, 
 " God loves the cheerful giver." 
 Thus on your way both sing and pray; 
 Do good, not bad, from day to day, 
 And sin, no never, never "nay," 
 Tlien sin, no never, never, 
 riien when you die most happy be,— 
 If pain afflict y(nril soon be free; 
 Tluii free from sin, forever free,— 
 'I'licii fi-ce from deatli foi-ever. 
 
 > 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIOKAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 439 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. R. N. HEBBARD. 
 
 Born: Deerfield, N.Y., Sept. 19. 1836. 
 After receiving' lier education, tliis lady 
 taugbt scliool in Deerfleld, Marcy, Wliitestown 
 and Utica, and also at St. Josepli, Mo. The 
 poems of Mrs. Hebbard laave received publi- 
 cation in the Boston Waverly Magazine and 
 
 MRS H. N. HEBBARD. 
 
 many prominent western periodicals. She 
 has devoted considerable time to prose, and 
 has delivered lectures upon literary and econ- 
 omic subjects at the Atchison institute at 
 Topeka, and other points in Kansas and Ne- 
 braska. Mrs. Hebbard has a daughter. 
 
 THE OPEN SE.\. 
 Aloft, on an icy pinnacle, g-rand, 
 
 'Mid the tints of a pi)lar sky. 
 An anxious, weary and footworn band 
 
 In the distance a sea descry. 
 Through ills, disaster and wild unrest, 
 
 They have yielded to no dismay. 
 While their comrades fatigued in the fruitless 
 quest 
 
 Retraced their wearisome way. 
 O'er glisf ning glaciers with perilous haste, 
 
 'Mid the gloom of a polar night. 
 They have journeyed afar on an icy waste 
 
 To gain but this far-ofif sight. 
 And now jis they gaze from the distant view. 
 
 Transfixed, as it were, they stand. 
 
 For myriad obstacles strangely new 
 
 Reach forward on every hand. 
 Alas! what a sad fruition they sigh. 
 
 For effort so earnest and true ; 
 Its ice-bound brink we shall never draw nigh 
 
 Or sail on its boundless blue. 
 A throng of adventurers, timid and bold. 
 
 Yet with purpose alike are we. 
 Amid life's barriers and icebergs cold. 
 
 In search ot the open sea. 
 Though glaciers of doubt tower over us steep 
 
 And ills like a current may roll. 
 From fragment to fragment for footing we 
 leap, 
 
 In hopes we are nearing the goal. 
 Now clambering summits, assured from some 
 height. 
 
 We shall gaze on that silvery sheen ; 
 Alas! each disclose through Time's iJolar 
 light 
 
 The barriers that still intervene. 
 Strange concourse! our beacon, one mystical 
 star 
 
 Even Hope, how delusive its light. 
 Its rays give a parallax greater by far 
 
 Than each orb in the blue vault of night. 
 Her vistas still widen with each advance. 
 
 Yet when for the goal do we sigh. 
 And from some high cliff of Ambition per- 
 chance 
 
 Its far distant azure descry. 
 
 We find it is flecked with some fragments still 
 
 That float ever on with its tide, 
 Def yiug each resolute human will 
 
 That over its water would glide. 
 Oh ! why so strive in a race, all so vain? 
 
 It is folly for you and for me. 
 For never while here on this earthly plane 
 
 Shall we sail on this Open Sea. 
 
 TO-DAY'S DUTIES. 
 
 EXTR.\CT. 
 
 Though othei-s would move with the many. 
 
 Fear not to be found with the few; 
 Nor coui't the approval of any. 
 
 Save the thoughtful, the earnest and true. 
 Have a well-defined cause for opinions, 
 
 Nor let gold cast its glittering veil; 
 Truth's balance, trust not to its minions. 
 
 Judge yourself of the poise on its scale. 
 Though new obstacles round j-ou may cluster. 
 
 Let your standard ne'er trail in the dust; 
 Give the cause you espouse a new lustre. 
 
 By your patient adherence, and trust. 
 Duty's call transfer ne'er to your neighbor. 
 
 Nor adjudge that your cause may be lost; 
 In the grreat moral vineyard of labor, 
 
 A unit may count as a host. 
 
 ■88 
 
©- 
 
 440 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 MRS. BERTA W. BOWEN. 
 
 Born: Victoria, Tex., Sept. 28, 1854. 
 In 187-4 this lady was married to Walter C. 
 Boweu, at that time editor of a weekly pa- 
 per publislied at Oakville, Texas, in 1883 Mr. 
 Bowen and ids wife establislied tlie CotuUa 
 Li-{li;i-r, wliii'ii they still own and contn^l. 
 
 MRS. KKRTA W. BdWKN. 
 
 Since 1879 Mrs. Bowen has written Ijotli prose 
 and verse for different papers and magazines, 
 which liave always been favorably received. 
 Mrs. Bowen has a family of four boys, and 
 consequently has led a busy life. Tliis lady is 
 of medium height, with dark-brown hair and 
 dark amber gray eyes, and is possessed of a 
 spirit full of pride and determination. 
 
 » 
 
 LOST AT SEA. 
 Life's day hath lost its golden glow, 
 
 Adown life's west the sun is low. 
 And soon into theg-reat unknown. 
 
 My spirit barque must drift alone. 
 It is not ag-e — age is not all. 
 
 Griefs blighting snow as heavy fall, 
 And touehc^d by sorrow's icy breath. 
 
 Life's llow'ret withers oft in death. 
 I stand upon the wotidrous strand. 
 
 Laved by the tide of vanished years, 
 Willi aching: heart and outslrelclu'd hands. 
 
 With crying strong and hitler tears. 
 I i)lead unto the voiceless main. 
 
 To bring- my treasures back agrain, 
 
 With white sails spread, I sent my fleet. 
 
 To bring' me happiness complete. 
 All, all were lost upon the main. 
 
 And prayer and tear alike are vain '. 
 And some went down 'neath fairest sky. 
 
 And many fathoms deep they lie. 
 Some knew a darker, fleicer death. 
 
 Tossed on the waves by tempests' breath. 
 Until the masts and sails all worn. 
 
 They on the cruel i-eefs were driven. 
 
 And one — the fairest of the fleet. 
 
 Laden with youth and hope and love, 
 I sent —the sky was fair above. 
 
 And bright the sparkling waters 'neath. 
 O, coward heart, be brave, I cried. 
 
 No ill can this strong- ship betide, 
 But scarcely had it sailed away 
 
 Before a cloud o'ercast the day. 
 
 I saw the ang-ry tempest rise. 
 
 And lightnings flash along- the skies. 
 Then soon the muttering- thunder rolled. 
 
 That dang-er to my ship foretold. 
 And soon the billows, wild and dark, 
 
 Assailed my fair love-freighted bark. 
 But scorning Neptune's proffered grave, 
 
 It triumphed long- o'er wind and wave. 
 At last upon a rock 'twas cast — 
 
 O, heart! thy greatest loss is past! 
 No other canst thou ever know 
 
 With lialfits bitterness and woe. 
 Oh! sea, I cry, oh, cruel sea! 
 
 Return my treasures unto me! 
 The hissing- waters mock my moan. 
 
 As on the strand the wrecks are strewn. 
 So standing- by life's troubled main, 
 
 I watch and wait but all in vain, 
 No white sail flutters o'er the sea, 
 
 To herald a coming .shij) to me. 
 Peace, peace! be still, O heart of mine! 
 
 Sorrow and loss were ever thine. 
 Soon will life's trouljled dream be o'er. 
 
 And thou shalt.seek another sliore, 
 Where wreck and loss are known no more. 
 
 LIFE'S SADDEST LOSS. 
 O, heart of mine! why do you grieve, 
 Thesliores of loss and lime to leave; 
 As our barque glides slowly out to sea, 
 The great dark sea of eternity? 
 Why backward turn with longing- and tears? 
 What have they brought you - lhos(> vanish 
 
 ed years':* 
 I remember well, how in sweet childluMiil, 
 When I thought the world all puie and good, 
 To you I said: How sweet is life! 
 Ah ! little we reeked of its cruel strife! 
 But we've learned since then, have not w 
 
 heart -^ [to par 
 We were young when tii-st called with a hoi I 
 iS 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 441 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. LOU GREER BUTLER. 
 
 Born: Santa Kosa, Cal., Feb. 4, 1855. 
 This lady is the wife of J. C. Butler, sheriff 
 at Little Kocli, Ark. She takes great delight 
 ill crayon, pastel and landscape drawing-, 
 and lias a photograpliic establishment in con- 
 nection with lierstudio.She is an artist well 
 known tlirouLilicmt the west, and has received 
 
 r 
 
 88- 
 
 MHS. LOU OKKKK BUTLER. 
 
 several premiums on jiictures painted on can- 
 vass. As a poet, Mrs. Butler has gained an 
 enviable reputation in the field of literature. 
 Her poems have appeared in the leading peri- 
 odicals of America, from which they have 
 been extensively copied by the local press. In 
 person this lady is a Iilonde with auburn hair, 
 and of a very amiable and social disposition. 
 
 DELUSION. 
 We madly follow pleasure. 
 
 The phantom of a day; 
 We dance to folly's measure 
 
 While with remorse we pay. 
 We flatter those above us. 
 
 Their frailties imitate. 
 Neglecting friends who love us 
 
 To fawn on those we hate. 
 Each has his beau ideal 
 
 And each deplores his lot ; 
 We overlook the real 
 
 In search of what is not. 
 
 We hear the voice of reason 
 
 Resoh'e and hesitate; 
 Defer then for a season 
 
 And heed it when too late. 
 While happiness pursuing 
 
 0"er land and sea we roam; 
 The goddess thus we're wooing 
 
 Is waiting us at home. 
 Still counting on the morrow. 
 
 We reach the end at last; 
 Then worlds would give to borrow 
 
 One moment from the past. 
 
 TWO GRAVES. 
 
 '• Come forth," and forth he came from out 
 
 the gloom. 
 
 The wandering man who had been dead four 
 
 days, [tomb 
 
 "Loose him and let him gol" and from the 
 
 Back into Bethany he went his ways. 
 Yet once again the sable shadow fell 
 
 Upon the home where Jesus oft had stayed, 
 And Lazarus did die ; but who shall tell 
 Where in this world of graves his dust was 
 laid? 
 Mingled with grass and llowers, and all fair 
 things. 
 Somewhere it sleeps beneath the star-lit 
 skies, [sings, 
 
 Deaf to the rippling stream, the lark that 
 
 Waiting until the dead in Christ shall rise. 
 " If thou hast borne Him hence," she sadly 
 said. 
 Standing beside the tomb at break of day, 
 " Say where the body of the Lord is laid, 
 
 That I may go and carry it away." 
 Then from the lips divine one word there 
 came. 
 The loving lips of Him, the crucified. 
 The sweet, soft music of her humble name, 
 
 "Mary!"and she" Rabboni:"faintly sighed. 
 No sepulcher the Master's form e'er kept; 
 
 By Him captivity was captive led; 
 Become the first-fruits He of them that slept ; 
 
 The Savior ever liveth that was dead. 
 And we, because the Savior lives, shall live 
 No matter where our moldering forms may 
 sleep; 
 All graves upon the rolling globe shall give 
 Tiieir silent retinue that death doth keep. 
 The coroneted dust from vaulted naves. 
 And dust of saints from country church- 
 yards, where 
 The simple folks do rest, whose lowly graves 
 Are grass-clad, with a daisy here and there. 
 "Thanks be to God, who giveth victory [rise! 
 Through Jesus Christ our Lord, in whom we 
 Their loud triumphant song of praise shall be, 
 When Jesus conieth in the opening skies. 
 
 ■« 
 
^- 
 
 -© 
 
 442 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF A3IEU1CA. 
 
 JOHN B. TORRANS. 
 
 Born: jEFrEKSON, Tex., March 11, 1863. 
 
 Evincing a taste for poetry at a very early 
 age, the poems of Mr. Torrans have from his 
 youth appeared from time to time la the 
 periodical press. He now follows the oceupa- 
 
 r ^-^"^ 
 
 JOHN BEAUREGARD TOHRANS. 
 
 tion of a merchant, but devotes much of his 
 spare time to literary worli. Mr. Torrans is 
 very fond of literature, and at one time had a 
 library of some six hundred choice books. 
 
 THIS SIDE. 
 Across the deeps of my despair 
 
 I call to thee but tliou art dumb; 
 And cati it be thou dost not hear? 
 
 O, for one word by whicli to come 
 To tliee, as though by beacon lij;ht 
 
 The boat, delayed, comes lionie at. night. 
 
 My lieart cries out against such fate; 
 
 1 know thou liast not callous fri'owii. 
 I feel you somewlnn'o watcli and wait; 
 
 Ayi;, watcli and wait for mo alone. 
 O, vasty deeps of my despair, 
 
 Tliat int(!rvene from licre to there. 
 
 ©- 
 
 IN PEACE. 
 Two little slendei' liands. 
 Snowy and stark, 
 
 Clasping: my baby girl 
 
 Close in the dark; 
 Ah, me, how motherlj'. 
 
 On that fond breast. 
 Where, in all time to come 
 
 Baby shall rest. 
 
 Was it not merciful? 
 
 Aye, even so; 
 Life, in her tenderness, 
 
 Let them both go; 
 Go ill the arms of death. 
 
 Smiling- and pure. 
 Hence, from the unsure. 
 
 Unto the sure. 
 
 AFTERWARD. 
 
 ' O, slender g-rave in g-rasses set, 
 
 No marble gleaming- overhead 
 Now I remember, they forget, 
 And after all was done and said. 
 
 Aye, they forget, and it is well. 
 
 And meet it is that 1 remember 
 One April's grief, an inmiortelle. 
 
 To have througli all my life's December. 
 
 Dear God, so be it and forever, 
 I would not have it otherwise; 
 
 Nor she, for wliich a soul is never 
 More glad than her's, in Paradise. 
 
 A HANDFUL OF BITTER-SWEET. 
 
 Restless as a restless tide, 
 Nowliere here do I abide. 
 
 In this world of ours. 
 Always meeting-, greeting, passing, 
 And the heart its grief amassing. 
 
 Losing all those fragrant tlowers 
 That I gathered on the way. 
 When my heart was pure as they. 
 
 Here to hate where I should love, 
 Now relinquish where 1 strove. 
 
 What does it avail. 
 All youth's dreams are less than dust, 
 Brightest swords can only rust, 
 
 Some where soon fate furl thy sail. 
 Loose the sandles from my feet. 
 Dead hands hold no bitter-sweet. 
 
 THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 
 O gamesome lad and gamesome lass, 
 
 Wlio gather cowslips lair; 
 Say, know ye not, that in the grass 
 
 A snake may hide him there. 
 O gamesome lad and gamesome lass, 
 
 I warn ye, well and fair; 
 Let not my warning lightly pass. 
 
 Beware, beware, beware! 
 
 — * 
 
® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 443' 
 
 -)© 
 
 MAY CLIFFORD. 
 
 Born: Napa City, Cal., Sep. 2, 1866. 
 Since 1884 Miss Clififord has written poems for 
 tlie Califi)riiia papers. She received a colleg- 
 
 „*a«r-v^ 
 
 MA^' CI.IFFORD. 
 
 iate education, and is now eujraged in teacli- 
 ing, painting- and drawing-. She resides with 
 her father, a clergyman, at Santa Rosa. 
 
 UNEXPRESSED. 
 
 Put by the pencil! throw down the brush! 
 
 Words are too weak to-day. 
 And nothing my palette liolds, compares 
 
 With tlie tints on the hills, that play. 
 The lark is singing a vesper song, 
 
 As slie soars up into tlie light. 
 While down in the hollow the wild flowers 
 close. 
 
 Awaiting the commg night. 
 You hear the brook as it gaily flows; 
 
 See shadow of drifting cloud. 
 As over the mountain it softly draws 
 
 The dead day's fllmy shroud. 
 And oh! it is glorious music 
 
 The pine harp grandly sings. 
 As the wind sweeps fairy fingers 
 
 Across its thousand strings. 
 But drop the pencil and fold the hands. 
 
 Let words give jilace to thought; 
 iJsten! all nature's voices cry. 
 
 Behold what God hath wrought. 
 
 THE LIFE WEB. 
 The lattice is open, the roses nod 
 
 Over the casement gray; 
 The web is there with the silken floss ; 
 A fair hand tosses the shuttle across, 
 
 And a bird sings over the way. 
 The sun mounts high, and the roses fade; 
 
 Unheeded falls the song; 
 The pattern is still for the weaver spread. 
 But the work ismai-red by the tangled thread; 
 
 Life's noon is dull and long. 
 
 The thread is broken, the shuttle is still. 
 
 The worker has gone away; 
 The lattice is closed for the hours of rest. 
 And the crimson dies in the darkening- west; 
 
 So ends a wearisome day. 
 Ah, the web is there with its broken threads - 
 
 Its tangled skein, and all; 
 But the bird has flown and the snow lies 
 
 deep; 
 The worker is sleeping her last long sleep 
 
 Under the pure white pall. 
 
 VOICELESS. 
 If I could sweep these mists of life away. 
 Then stand where God omnipotent would 
 speak, 
 And grasp his thought and feel the pulse of 
 power — 
 But when I strive earth binds me, helpless, 
 weak. 
 
 If I could paint tne picture of a soul — 
 
 A tliought creation, wondrous, infinite — 
 The beauty of God's image shadow forth. 
 
 The coming glories that our spirits wait : 
 If nerves of fingers could but strike the 
 chords 
 
 That nature whispers in the ear of thought; 
 The melody of ocean's chant, winds wail ; 
 
 Some echo from the crystal sea be cauglit. 
 My soul is dumb ! I broke the golden pen ; 
 
 I hid my brush and colors from my sight ; 
 I swept the organ keys in one wild cry. 
 
 And bowed my head amid a darksome night. 
 
 LEGEND OF THE PINE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 When all the b;ittles in heaven were o'er, 
 
 And Lucifer cast into hell. 
 The victors gathered the crowns and harps 
 
 Of the angels that sinned and fell. 
 The broken fragments were ground to dust 
 
 And hid in the rocks of tlie earth ; 
 The strings of the harps, witliouta hand 
 
 To give to their music birth, 
 God gathered together and gave them all. 
 
 As leaves to the pine tree cold. 
 But the wroughten band that held them fast 
 
 Was hid with the crowns of gold. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 444 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OV AMEKICA. 
 
 -S 
 
 MRS. FANNIE L. FANCHER. 
 
 Born: Litchfield, O., June 21, 1849. 
 The poems of Mrs. Fauclier have appeared in 
 the New York Observer, Ladies' Home Jour- 
 nal, Godey's Lady's Magazine, and other pa- 
 pers (if equal pioiniiuMK'f. She was married 
 
 MRS. FAN'ME I-INDSl.EY FANCnEIi. 
 
 in 1870 to John K. Fancher, and now resides in 
 Dodg-e Center, Minn. Mrs. Fancher follows 
 the profession of a music teacher, and devotes 
 quite a little time to literary pursuits. She 
 has also composed several pieces of music. 
 
 ©- 
 
 ENDEAVOR. 
 
 Our life is but a meager thing- 
 
 If into it there never creeps 
 A longing- that we yet msiy wing 
 
 A flight to nobler, grander steeps. 
 Tlie blood, which courseth in our veins, 
 
 And feels not soaring fever. 
 Flows slowly, at the best, and wanes 
 
 From lack of earnest, true endeavor. 
 If on the plains, where now we grope, 
 
 A satisfied content is ours. 
 Ne'er will we climb tiie upward slope 
 
 Where spirit growtli enlarge our powers. 
 Aye, living's, but a failure dire, 
 
 Hatli we no aim, or purpose great; 
 Achieving naught; naught to aspire. 
 
 Earth's groveling beasts, we emuliito! 
 Oh, speed the lieart that beateth strong 
 
 With liopes of liighost good to gain; 
 That climbs the tliorny paths along 
 
 The rugged steeps it would attain! 
 Aye! speed it upward to its goal, 
 
 Witli helpful word and earnest prayer; 
 Full well we ken, there bides a soul. 
 
 Deserving of a crown to wear. 
 
 ARTIST AND PEASANT. 
 " I wish, Mr. Painter, a picter — 
 
 A model o' beauty to me — 
 Au' if ye can paint it like life, sir, 
 
 This stout bag of gold is ycr fee. 
 The task will be naught, sure, for ye, sir; 
 
 A little brown hand full o' flowers; 
 Wild roses, an' ferns, an' field blossoms, 
 
 Thet grew in thet meader o' ours. 
 On course, we'd prefer the whole picter, 
 
 WMth eyes all aglow, an* her hair 
 Full o' sunbeams, thet lingered caressin', 
 
 'S if loth tu escape from their lair. 
 No artist could paint that, I'm sure, sir. 
 
 The face o' that baby o' ours; 
 So jojous she held up that hand, sir, 
 
 Sayin', • Papa, I've dot 'oo some f'owers!' 
 We thought, p'raps the hand an' tlie flowers - 
 
 So purtj- they looked thet June day — 
 A master miglit make, 'like as life,' sir. 
 
 If so, I'm right willin' tu pay." 
 •» I think, my good man, I can do it. 
 
 The little one bring for your quest, 
 One sitting, perhaps, will suflice me, 
 
 I'll do what I can — do my best. 
 And when slie's before me, I'll try then. 
 
 Those eyes, and locks kissed by the sun; 
 Perchance, tlie sweet babe in her beauty, 
 
 You'll find on the canvas when done." 
 "What! bring her 'round here? Why, I can't 
 sir! 
 
 She lies with flowers clasped to her breast — 
 Clasped loose, in that little dead hand, sir. 
 
 The way we have laid her to rest; 
 We thought p'raps ye might easy do it. 
 
 If told, or made plain to yer eye; [sir, 
 
 Well-a day! there are things we would have, 
 
 That money, though mighty, can't buy." 
 
 MRS. MAGGIE F. MCRRIDE. 
 
 Born: Canada, Dec. 31, 18(53. 
 The poems of Mrs. Mc Bride have been gener- 
 ally upon religious topics, and they have ap- 
 peared in the Messiah's Herald of Boston, In- 
 dependent Cliristian and the local press. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Oh ! let us gird our ai-mor on. 
 
 And keep our weapons bright; 
 And our lamps all trimmed and burning, 
 
 For aiiace comes on the night. 
 Our Bridegroom .soon is connng 
 
 For to call his Hride-Church home. 
 And to those who wait his coming, 
 
 He will give a glory crown. 
 
® 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL, AND XATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 445 
 
 MRS. KATE T.WOODS. 
 
 Born: Peekskill, N. Y. 
 This writer has published some sixteen 
 
 Vdluiilf^ nf |ifiw,', ;nid innni'Viill^ Iinciii>^. Slir 
 
 MKS. KATE TANNATT WOODS. 
 
 is the wife of Col. Georg-e H. Woods, of 
 Salem, Mass., where she now resides. 
 
 DAN'S W]FE. 
 Up in earlj' morning- light. 
 Sweeping-, dusting, " setting right," 
 Oiling all the household springs. 
 Sewing buttons, tying strings. 
 Telling Bridget what to do. 
 Mending rips in Johnny's shoe, 
 Running up and down the stair. 
 Tying baby in his chair. 
 Cutting meat and spreading bread. 
 Dishing out so much per head. 
 Eating as she can, by chance. 
 Giving husband kindly glance, 
 Toiling, working, busy life, 
 " Smart woman, 
 Dan's wife." 
 Dan comes home at fall of night. 
 Home so cheerful, neat and bright. 
 Children meet him at the door. 
 Pull him in and look him o'er. 
 Wife asks "how the work has gone?" 
 "Busy times with us at home I" 
 Supper done —Dan reads at ease, 
 I Happy Dan, but one to please. 
 5(- 
 
 Children must be put to bed — 
 All their little prayers are said; 
 Little shoes are placed in rows, 
 Bed clothes tucked o'er little toes, 
 Busy, noisy, wearing life. 
 
 Tired woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 Dan reads on, and falls asleep. 
 See the woman softly creep. 
 Baby rests at last, poor dear. 
 Not a word her heart to cheer; 
 Mending basket full to top — 
 Stockings, shirts and littie frock — 
 Tired eyes and weary brain. 
 Side with darting, ugly pain — 
 "Never mind, 'twill pass away;" 
 She must work, but never play. 
 Closed piano, unused books. 
 Done the walks to cosy nooks. 
 Brightness faded out of life, 
 
 Saddened woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 Up stairs, tossing to and fro. 
 Fever holds the woman low. 
 Children wander, free to play. 
 When and where they will to-day. 
 Bridget loiters — dinner's cold, 
 Dan looks anxious, cross and old; 
 Household screws are out of place. 
 Lacking one dear, patient face; 
 Steady hand — so weak, but true — 
 Hands that knew just what to do. 
 Never knowing rest or play. 
 Folded now — and laid away ; 
 Work of six, in one short life. 
 
 Shattered woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 
 MRS. ANNIE P. OLIX. 
 
 Born: De Ruyter, N.Y., March 31, 1833. 
 After receiving her education this lady 
 taught school for a while, and subsequently 
 was married to H. S. Olin. Her poems have 
 received publication in the local press. 
 
 WELCOME CHILDREN. 
 
 Welcome children, happy children. 
 
 Come from busy toil or play. 
 Here to cheer us by your presence. 
 
 All for you this picnic day. 
 Don't you think the birds are happy 
 
 Singing fi-om the boughs so high; 
 Not as blithe as you, our children. 
 
 Nor so artless — watch them fly ! 
 Then, how fly your thoughts, the echoes 
 
 Coming from your store of mind. 
 And these prompting grow to motives 
 
 'Till vour character we find. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 446 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 MORTIMER CRANE BROWN. 
 
 Born: Rome, N.Y., Sept. 11, 1857. 
 While followiug- alternately the occupation 
 of farming- and teaching, Mr. Brown occasion- 
 allj' finds time to court the muse, and bis pro- 
 
 ] ■ \ . ' 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^K ' afl 
 
 ll 
 
 
 
 MORTIMER CRANE BROWN. 
 
 ductions have been published in the Yanliee 
 Blade, Good Houselieeping-, and the local 
 papers generally. Mr. Brown is now living 
 In South Dakota, at Beresford. 
 
 AUTUMN DREAMS. 
 
 When the maples turn to crimson 
 
 'Neath the fingers of tlie frost. 
 When the gardens and the meadows 
 
 All their summer bloom have lost; 
 When from ofif the lowland marshes 
 
 Blue etliereal vapors rise. 
 And a dreamy haze is floating, 
 
 Tlu-o' tlie mellow, sunlit skies.- 
 Theii I know the year is dying. 
 
 Soon the summer will bi^ dead; 
 I can trace it in tlie flying 
 
 Of the black crows overhead. 
 I can hear it in the rustle 
 
 Of the dead leaves, as I pass. 
 And the .south wind's plaintive sighing 
 
 Thro' the dry and withered grass. 
 Ah, 'tis then I love to wander. 
 
 Wander idly and alone; 
 Listening to the solemn nuisic 
 
 *- 
 
 Of sweet nature's undertone; 
 Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter, 
 
 Dreams my tongue cannot express, 
 Dreams that match the autumn's sadness 
 
 In their longing tenderness. 
 
 Thoughts of friends my heart hath cherished 
 
 In the summer days gone bj*; 
 Hopes that all too soon have perished. 
 
 E'en as summer blossoms die. 
 Luckless plans and vain ambitions. 
 
 Stranded, long ere summer's prime. 
 Buried, as will be the flowers, 
 
 'Neath the winter-snows of time. 
 
 Yet, altho' my thoughts are sadder 
 
 Than in summer's wealth of bloom, 
 'Tis a sadness that makes better. 
 
 And is not akin to gloom. 
 Ah, the human heart seems purer, 
 
 Much of earth's defilement lost, 
 When the maple turns to crimson 
 
 'Neath the fingers of the frast. 
 
 AFTER. 
 
 After the burning heat of day. 
 After the stifling, dusty way. 
 After the weary hours of strife 
 That dim the eye and try the heart, 
 Cometh the restful, cooling breeze, 
 Cometh the dewy touch of trees. 
 Where balmy fragrance soothes the brow. 
 And bids each throbbing pain depart. 
 
 After the round of household cares. 
 The daily cross each mother bears. 
 After the thickly crowded hours 
 That leave no time to re.st or pray, 
 Cometh the evening, calm and sweet, 
 Cometh the tread of home-bound feet, 
 And clinging clasp of loving arms. 
 Beguiling every cai-e away. 
 
 After the battle-field of life, 
 After the hours with danger rife. 
 After the weary, uphill toil 
 That marks each day of life below 
 Cometh a certain recompense, 
 Cometh the soul's iiiheiitance. 
 The goodly land where crystal streams 
 Through verdant meadows gently flow. 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 EXTH.\CT. 
 
 Evening shadows, sweetly falling. 
 
 Lull the little one to sleep. 
 And the night l)ird's gentle calling 
 
 Echoes through the silence deep. 
 Sleep, my baby, do not fear. 
 
 Mother is beside thee, 
 Holy angels hover near. 
 
 Harm cannot betide thee. 
 
 — s 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 447 
 
 -* 
 
 ELLA HIGGINSON. 
 
 Bokn: Council Grove, Kan., 1862. 
 Under the iiorn de plume of The Countess, 
 EUa has written quite extensively for Harp- 
 er's Weekly, Frank Leslie's Magazine, Once a 
 
 Wcrk. Yiiuth's ('(inipanion, Pfti'rson's Mapa- 
 
 >"-'£..i^<««Wf^ik^^, 
 
 Eia.A HlCCl.NSI )N. 
 
 zine and numerous publications of equal 
 prominence. Miss Hig-g'inson resided in Ore- 
 gan City and Portland until 1888, when she re- 
 moved to Sehome on Puget Sound, where she 
 Is at present located, engaged as a druggist. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 As one may breatlie without a sigh. 
 Yet cannot sigh without a breath: 
 
 So love may life to passion be, 
 While passion unto love is — death. 
 
 SUNSET ON PUGET SOUND. 
 
 Broad wave on wave of scarlet fleck'd with 
 
 gold. 
 
 Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky. 
 
 Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; 
 
 From their birth-place witliin the sea are 
 
 rolled 
 Sweet perfumes by the sea breeze strong and 
 cold. 
 Here, white sails gleam and soft cloud- 
 shadows lie. 
 And isles are kissed by winds that wanton 
 by, 
 Or rocked by gales in unchecked passion bold. 
 Locked in by swelling, flr-clad hills it lies — 
 One stretch of purpling, heavy gold; serene. 
 It laughs and dimples under sunset skies. 
 Toward wliich liie chaste Olympics, snow-girt, 
 lean. 
 And, bathing in that flood of glory, make 
 Fit setting for that burnished ocean lake. 
 
 HOW I LOVE THEE. 
 How do I love tliee, sweet? I love thee so, 
 I tremble when thy low, soft voice I hear; 
 I scarce dare lift my eyes when thou art 
 near. 
 Lest something of my passion thou shouldst 
 
 know ; 
 My voice is tremulous, my words are slow, 
 When 1 can speak at all. I love thee, dear. 
 With all my heart and soul ; thy glance so 
 clear, [flow 
 
 And true, can make the blood more calmly 
 Along my swelling veins. I long to press 
 My lips upon thy brow — against thy hair. 
 Yea, in the cleft that beats within thy 
 throat — [yes. 
 
 Yet would not touch them till thy lips breathe 
 I love thee, yet would save thee from love's 
 
 care, 
 And gladly all my life to thee devote. 
 © . 
 
 ALWAYS SO]\fB ONE BELOW. 
 On the lowest round of the laddei", 
 
 I firmly planted my feet. 
 And looked up at the dim, vast distance 
 
 Tliat made my future so sweet. 
 I climbed till my vision grew weary, 
 
 T climbed till my brain was on Are; 
 I planted each footstep with wisdom — 
 
 Yet 1 never seemed to get higher. 
 For this round was glazed with indifference. 
 
 And that (me was gilded with scorn. 
 And when I grasped flrmly another, 
 
 I found, under velvet, a thorn. 
 Till my brain grew weary of planning 
 
 And my heart-strength began to fail. 
 And the flush of the morning's excitement 
 
 Ere evening commenced to pale. 
 But just when my hands were unloosing 
 
 Their hold on the last gained round. 
 When my hopes, coming back from the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 Were sinking again to the ground,— 
 One who has climbed near to the summit 
 
 Reached backward a helping hand; 
 But strengthened, encouraged and fresli- 
 ened, 
 I took, once again, my stand. 
 And I wish — O, I wish — that the climbers 
 
 Would never forget, as they go. 
 That, though weary may seem their climb- 
 ing. 
 
 There Is always some one below. 
 
 -«& 
 
®- 
 
 448 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARTHA A.STEWART. 
 
 Born: Princeton, Wis., Aug. 6, 1860. 
 This lady occasionallj' reads and speaks in 
 public, and has been admired for her dramatic 
 talents in social entertainments. She takes 
 great interest in temperance work, and be- 
 
 MRS. MARTHA A. STEWART. 
 
 longs to the cliurch. Mrs. Stewart has written 
 poems since a child which have received ex- 
 tensive publication. This lady is still a resi- 
 dent of her native state, at Tomahawk, where 
 she is held in high esteem. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 There are teardrops on my cheeks, darling. 
 
 Falling, falling; 
 There's a low voice in my heart, darling. 
 
 Calling, calling 
 Thy loved name to me so dear, 
 Which,! once with joy could hear, 
 How it brings tlie blinding tear. 
 
 Darling, darling. 
 There's a promise in my heart, darling, 
 
 Sleeping, sleeping, 
 But an angel standeth watch, darling. 
 
 Keeping, keeping 
 Guard above the promise true, 
 That I pledged sweet love to you 
 'Neath the gaslight and the dew. 
 
 Darling, darling. 
 There's a bright hope in my heart, darling. 
 
 Burning, burning. 
 
 And it soothes my spirit oft, darling. 
 Yearning, yearning, 
 
 'Tis a hope that I shall see 
 
 Brighter days again with thee! 
 
 Then my heart at rest will be 
 With thee, darling. 
 
 ©- 
 
 EVENTIDE. 
 
 Evening settled pure and gentle 
 
 'Mid the tinted hills of red, 
 
 While the rifts of golden sunset 
 
 Lent their arrows ere they fled — 
 
 Leaving room for purple night-fall 
 
 As she pined her veil with stars, 
 
 And her crown, the pale, sweet crescent, 
 
 Rides to meet the warrior Mars. 
 
 'Tis the hour when love enchanted 
 
 Binds the heart with rapturous kiss. 
 
 And the maiden with her lover 
 
 Steals away to meet such bliss. 
 
 But if sorrow-shedding teardrops 
 
 Heedeth not the lovers' waj% 
 
 They must reap the pearls she scatters — 
 
 Even bright-winged hope will stray. 
 
 'Tis the hour when sad thoughts wander 
 
 Back to childhood's happj- home — 
 
 Where we knelt to pray with mother 
 
 Ere our feet had learned to roam. 
 
 Now her face seems like an angel's, — 
 
 Mystic, yet so fair to see. 
 
 Let me wipe a%yay tliese teardrops 
 
 Ere they fall too fast for me. 
 
 'Tis the hour when music, laden 
 
 With sweet strains from angel bands. 
 
 Enters in the soul and wafts us 
 
 Upward, while blest guardian hands 
 
 Lead us from the path of sorrow — 
 
 Point us to a brighter day. 
 
 Where the soul unfettered, riseth. 
 
 Lost in sweetest ecstacy. 
 
 Oh ! tlien why not make the sunset 
 
 Of our lives sublimely pure? 
 
 Steal away when evening settles 
 
 In with death, which comes to live-- 
 
 Steal away to rest with Jesus,— 
 
 Pass from labor into love 
 
 While the rifts of golden sunset 
 
 Settles with the spirit dove. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I'll sing of him who is away — 
 My gallant lover,— still some say 
 
 He is not true to me. 
 And that is why my heart is sad: 
 But I will seek to make it glad 
 
 And wave sad destiny; 
 I'll find some hope, some treasure yet 
 Within the walls of memory set, 
 
 And sing its charms to-night: 
 
 And strive to make thought bright. 
 
 -5 
 
»- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 449 
 
 -m 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 
 
 Born: Hingham, Mass., July 3, 1835. 
 Stoddard had written verses from his early 
 years, and in 1849 printed privately a collection 
 in a small volume called Footprints, the edition 
 of which he afterward destroyed. In 1853 a 
 volume of poems appeared entitled Knicker- 
 bocker. From 1853 to 1870 he held a position in 
 the custom-house, serving various other capa- 
 cities later on. From 1860 to 1870 he was litera- 
 ry reviewer of the New York World ; also on 
 the Mail; and the Mail and Express since 1880. 
 His works are numerous. Song's of Summer, 
 especially, abounding in luxuriant imagina- 
 tion. Mr. Stoddard's wife, Elizabeth Barstow, 
 is also a poet of national reputation. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 
 
 There are gains for ail our losses, 
 
 There are balms for all our pain; 
 But when youth, the dream, departs, 
 It takes something from our hearts. 
 And it never comes again. 
 
 We are stronger, and are better. 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign: 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 Followed youth, with flying feet, 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished. 
 And we sigh for it in vain: 
 
 We behold it everywhere. 
 
 On the earth, and in the air, 
 But it never comes again. 
 
 S 
 
 THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING. 
 I met a little maid one day. 
 
 All in the bright May weather; 
 She danced, and brushed the dew away 
 
 As lightly as a feather. 
 She had a ballad in her hand 
 
 That she had just been reading. 
 But was too young to understand 
 That ditty of a distant land, 
 "The flower of love-lies-bleeding." 
 
 She tripi)ed across the meadow-grass. 
 
 To where a brook was flowing, 
 Across the brook like wind did pass, 
 
 Wherever flowers were growing. 
 Like some bewildered child she flew. 
 
 Whom fairies were misleading; 
 "Whose butterfly," I said, "are you. 
 And what sweet thing do you pursue'?" 
 
 "The flowers of love-lies-bleeding. 
 
 I've found the wild rose in the hedge. 
 And found the tiger-lily, 
 
 The blue flag by the water's edge, 
 
 The dancing daffodilly, 
 King-cups and pausies, every flower 
 
 Except the one I'm needing; 
 Perhaps it grows in some dark bower, 
 And opens at a later hour. 
 
 This flower of love-lies-bleeding." 
 
 "I wouldn't look for it," I said, 
 
 " For you can do without it; 
 There's no such flower." She shook her head, 
 
 " But I have read about it! " 
 I talked to her of bee and bird. 
 
 But she was all unheeding; 
 Her tender heart was strangely stirred. 
 She harped on that unhappy word, 
 "The flower of love-lies-bleeding! " 
 
 " My child," I sighed, and dropped a tear, 
 
 "I would no longer mind it; 
 You'll find it some day, never fear, 
 
 For all of us must find it. 
 I found it many a year ago. 
 
 With one of gentle breeding; 
 You and the little lad you know, 
 I see why you are weeping so — 
 
 Your flower of love-lies-bleeding! " 
 
 SONGS UNSUNG. 
 Let no poet, great or small. 
 
 Say that he will sing a song: 
 For song cometh, if at all. 
 
 Not because we woo it long. 
 Not because it suits its will. 
 Tired at last of being still. 
 
 Every song that has been sung 
 Was before it took a voice. 
 
 Waiting since the world was young. 
 For the poet of his choice. 
 
 O, if any waiting be. 
 
 May they come to-day to me! 
 
 I am ready to repeat 
 
 Whatsoever they impart; 
 Sorrows sent by them are sweet 
 
 ' They know how to heal the heart; 
 Ay, and in the lightest strain 
 Something serious doth remain. 
 
 What are my white hairs, forsooth. 
 And the wrinkles on my brow? 
 
 I have still the soul of youth. 
 Try me, merry Muses, now! 
 
 I can still with numbers fleet 
 
 Fill the world with dancing feet. 
 
 No, I am no longer young. 
 Old am I this many a year; 
 
 But my songs will yet be sung. 
 Though I shall not live to hear. 
 
 O my son that is to be, 
 
 Sing my songs, and think of mel 
 
 © 
 
S^" 
 
 450 
 
 J.OCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OFA3IEUI0A. 
 
 -^ 
 
 ELIZABETH KAUTZ. 
 
 Since iier cliildliood Miss Kautz lias sliown 
 unusual musical and poetical talent. Her 
 poems liave occasioiiaily appeared \u the lo- 
 cal pi'c^s At one time slie 'studied with the 
 
 ELIZABETH KAUTZ. 
 
 intention of becoming- a professional musi- 
 cian, but was unable to endure the severe 
 practice necessarj'. Elizabeth is the daugh- 
 ter of Mrs. Julia Kautz, who is represented 
 elsewhere in this worlv. 
 
 LOST. 
 What was the lovely, dainty thing 
 That perished with the How"ry spring? 
 That something passed, I know full well. 
 But what it was I cannot tell. 
 For when the blossoms decked the trees 
 My heart was glad, niy soul at ease. 
 And now from earth and sky, I miss 
 SoiiH'thing, but know not what it is. 
 Some fair thing perished — this full well 
 I know —but what, 1 cannot- tell. 
 
 ®- 
 
 LONELINESS. 
 
 <), my darling, come! 
 Hirds have ceas'd their shrill, sweet call- 
 ins', 
 Dew upon the flow'rs is falling, 
 O, my dai'ling, come! 
 
 Come liome ! 
 O, my darling, come! 
 From the sky the stars are peeping 
 
 On a world where all is sleeping; 
 Oh, my darling, come. 
 
 Come home! 
 Thou wilt never come — 
 O'er thy grave the moon is beaming, 
 'Kound thy rest its light is streaming 
 Thou wilt never more 
 
 Come home ! 
 Thou wilt never come; 
 Ev'ning comes,— but thou, ah never, 
 Thou art gone from me forever; 
 Thou wilt never more 
 Come home! 
 
 REMEMBER ME. 
 Dear Savior, through life's pathway as I 
 stray. 
 
 Forgetful oft of thee. 
 Watch o'er me all along the weary way ; 
 
 Oh Lord, remember me ! 
 About the rugged path which l must tread 
 
 Apart from any friend. 
 The winds rage fiercely, and the clouds o'er- 
 head 
 
 With deepest darkness blend. 
 There in the gloom before me gleams a star. 
 
 With clear and tender light; 
 I know it is Thy City, that afar 
 
 Breaks dimly on my sight. 
 O guide me ! guard me safely from the fear 
 
 That 'round my path may be; 
 Thy presence will the gloom and sorrow cheer. 
 
 Dear Lord, remember me ! 
 
 EMMA L. SOUTHWORTH. 
 
 The poems of this lady have appeared quite 
 extensively in the periodical press. She is a 
 resident of Flint, Michigan. 
 
 EVENING SONNET. 
 How cold and clear the stars this wintry night 
 Gleam forth. Each star shines with a light 
 
 as pure 
 As that on Vcfta's altar doth endure. 
 Ye rays serene, my soul uplift, aud Light, 
 From worlds remote, ilhuiu^ for me aright 
 Night's lessons. List ye what they teach: Se- 
 
 cure 
 Tlie portals of tiiy heart from sin ; assure 
 Thy soul with steadfast virtue. Calm and 
 
 blight 
 And constant let thy spirit ever be. 
 Serene and jieaccful move upon thy way. 
 So Shalt thy daily life in beauty shine. 
 Thus taught, I raise in trust, my heart tc 
 
 thee, 
 Etei'iial One, and earnestly I pray i 
 
 That Thou wilt strength bestow, and grac< ' 
 
 di\ine. 
 i 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 451 
 
 MRS. MELISSA E.BANTA. 
 
 BoKX : Cincinnati, C, March 27, 18:34. 
 Tn 1856 this lady was married to Judg-e D. 
 Uanta, theu a colleg-e student at Blooming-ton, 
 Indiana, with whom she now resides at Frank- 
 
 MHS. iMELlS.SA E. BANTA. 
 
 Ini, Ind., together with her sons and daughter. 
 Mrs. Banta has written poems from her 
 youth which have mainly received publication 
 in the literary papers of Indianapolis. 
 
 ALONE. 
 Down from the hospital's lonesome tower. 
 
 In wind or calm, sunshine or rain. 
 Come autumn, or spring, or winter time. 
 
 Fell ever the sound of this sad refrain: 
 " Not a friend in the world, alone, alone!" 
 Year in, year out, wailed this desolate moan. 
 There was woe as vast as the mighty waste 
 
 Of the broad Atlantic's sullen deep. 
 When the north wind's wrath sets tempests 
 loose 
 
 Bearing wreck and death in its furious 
 sweep. 
 In this desolate cry from the tower alone — 
 
 "Not a friend in the world, alone, alone!" 
 The story was never told to me 
 
 What brought to the hospital's tower lone, 
 This frozen soul from a ruined life. 
 
 Making forever its desolate moan, 
 •• Not a friend in the world, alone, alone!" 
 
 But I knew that despair had won Its own. 
 
 And fancy pictured a woman fair. 
 
 With every gift of wonuuihood rare — 
 For the voice, like a tlute, was clear and low. 
 
 That wailed from the tower its deathless 
 woe — 
 Forsaken despair in every tone — 
 
 •' Not a friend in the world, alone, alone!" 
 What human wrong and loss had broke 
 
 The poor mad-woman's heart in the tower. 
 Grated all apart from her kind,— 
 
 Shut up with despair to her dying hour? 
 I only know, when all love his flown 
 
 From a woman's life, that her life is done. 
 
 PARTING WORDS. 
 When lovers part at eventide 
 
 To meet again to-morrow. 
 With laughing lips and backward glance, 
 
 Undimmed by thought of sorrow 
 Ah, then, as glows the sickle moon, 
 
 And soft distills the dew. 
 What other word so fitting sweet 
 
 As: "Love, adieu, adieu?" 
 When true friends part whose lives in one, 
 
 Like rippling streamlets blended. 
 As clinging hands and tearful eyes 
 
 Bespeak that all is ended 
 Ah, then beneath life's summernoon. 
 
 Or autumn's stormier sky. 
 What word so fond on friendship's lips. 
 
 As: "Friend, good-by, good-by?" 
 When o'er some life knit to our own 
 
 Death's darkness settles stillj% 
 As fades the love-light from the eyes. 
 
 And falls the clasped hand chilly; 
 With raining tears and aching loss 
 
 That tears may not dispel. 
 The tortured heart throbs to the lips, 
 
 " Farewell, beloved, fiirewell." 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 A woman sat by the cabin fire 
 
 With a hand on either knee. 
 Her hair as gray as the snowy sky 
 
 On a winter's day would be; 
 And the fitful firelight leaped and fell 
 
 O'er the quaint old woman's face,— 
 Her sad brown eyes, so deep with thought. 
 
 Gazing into the fire-place. 
 "Ah, me! it is five and thirty years 
 
 Since we kissed and said good-by, [pink 
 Where the laurel blossoms were clustered 
 
 Underneath the sweet June sky. 
 Yet I seem to see the speckled trout 
 
 'Mong the rocks of the mountain stream — 
 Where the honeysuckle, white and sweet, 
 
 O'ershadowed its shining gleam. 
 And I look in the tops of the fragrant pines, 
 
 As they whisper sweet and low, 
 W'ith your arm around me as we kissed 
 
 And parted so long ago. 
 
 -I® 
 
® 
 
 452 
 
 S 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM F.WATSON. 
 
 BOKN : Canada, May 11, 1862. 
 
 Commencing to teach in the State of Maine at 
 the age of seventeen, he later completed the 
 classical course at Houlton academy. Mr. 
 Watson next entered the Colhy university at 
 Waterville and graduated thei-efrom in 1887. 
 He is now professor of chemistry in Furman 
 
 WILLIAM FKANKLIN WATSON. 
 
 university at Greenville, S. C. Prof. Watson 
 lias written poems from his youth, and has 
 published a neat work entitled The Children 
 of the Sun and Miscellaneous Poems. The 
 professor was married In 1889 to Miss Clara 
 Norwood. 
 
 *- 
 
 VERY LONG. 
 " So very long-," said the little boy, 
 
 •' To sit in the schoolhouse old and gray. 
 
 When I like so much to be at play : 
 It's oh so hard!" said the little boy. 
 But he turned his eyes to the dog-eared book, 
 
 Forg-ot his master, stern and cold. 
 
 Unconscious how the nionients rolled. 
 He finished the task lie undertook. 
 
 And when 'twas over his merry song 
 
 Declared it wasn't so very long. 
 "So very long," he said one day, 
 
 •' To wait till I become a man." 
 
 Hut lie scarcely saw how the moments ran. 
 Till he found him far on manhood's way; 
 
 And there came a time when his eyes grew 
 dim. 
 The wavering pulse and failing breath 
 Threatening dull decay and death. 
 
 Life's joys and sorrows were naught to him . 
 And the faltering %^oice that erst was strong 
 Said, "Life itself is not very long." 
 
 Beyond a river that darksome rolled, 
 In a land where shining fountains play, 
 A soul was welcomed home one day 
 
 By angels touching their harps of gold. 
 
 In the presence of Him who died to save. 
 Earth's tears and struggles are no more 
 To him who walks the blessed shore. 
 
 By the river of life with crystal wave. 
 For it matters not to the ransomed throng 
 Whether Life's day be short or long. 
 
 BEE EYE'S ADDRESS TO HIS SISTER. 
 I dreamed of home, my sister. 
 
 When evening shadows fall. 
 Where the peaceful time of summer 
 
 Throws its mantle over all. 
 I dreamed of home just as it was 
 
 Ere I had thought to go 
 And leave the scenes we cherished 
 
 In the days of long ago. 
 I often hear the birdies 
 
 That sing amid the grove; 
 They remind me of he birdies 
 
 In the trees we used to \ove; 
 Tho' sweet they sing the old-time song. 
 
 And flutter to and fro. 
 No birdies sing as sweetly 
 
 As the birds of long ago. 
 As oft I sit and ponder 
 
 None sees but One above. 
 And I yearn again to wander 
 
 'Mid the scenes we used to love, 
 To lay Life's duties all aside 
 
 And for a moment know 
 The pure and happy pleasure 
 
 Tliat was ours long ago. 
 With bright associations 
 
 Far from our early home. 
 In the wide, wide world there's pleasure 
 
 Wheresoever I may roam. 
 But brighter, dearer, happier 
 
 The joys we used to know, 
 O bonnie Annie Laurie, 
 
 lu the home of long ago. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Dark4he world to-night and wildly 
 
 Torrents down tiie falling lain ; 
 For I'm desolate and lonely, 
 
 Mists are gathering in my eye. 
 And I yearn for Maggie only, 
 
 Maggie of the days gone by. 
 
i^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 453 
 
 -® 
 
 LINUS TOWNSEND. 
 
 Born: near Apollo, Pa., Dec. 25, 1819. 
 
 For the past fifty years the poems of this 
 writer have appeared extensively in the per- 
 iodical press of America. In 1883 lie publish- 
 ed a volume of Miscellaneous Poems of over 
 three hundred pages, wliicli li.is been widely 
 
 * 
 
 I-IM S TOWNSEND. 
 
 Circulated through Pennsylvania and other 
 states. Mr. Townsend has lived the alloted age 
 of man —three-score years and ten. He is six 
 feet in height, weig-hs one hundred and eighty 
 pounds, and is in possession of an unusual 
 amount of g-ood health and vitality. He lives 
 with his wife in the place of his nativity. 
 
 TO THE THRUSH OR MOCKING BIRD. 
 
 Among the birds that wake the morn. 
 
 With tuneful glad and sweet surprise. 
 We claim, the timid Thrush, that one 
 
 With golden plume, and sparkling eyes. 
 Far, fur excels in matchless song. 
 
 All others in the grovy choir. 
 Perliai)s the Lark's blithe artless tongue 
 
 May raise aloof his cadence higher. 
 But lacks that sweetness of address 
 
 That marks our favorite in gold. 
 We fail in language to express 
 
 The beauties that his songs unfold. 
 No busy tongue could count the links 
 
 That form his sweet rhythmical chain. 
 Nor the enchanted mind that fondly drinks 
 
 The raptures of his artless strain ! 
 
 High on some nude and lifeless limb. 
 
 His Maker's praise lie adorates. 
 Whilst far beneath the swallows skim. 
 
 Low 'mid the weeds the sparrow prates. 
 Down amongst the nameless bowers 
 
 A happy noteless concert sing. 
 Whilst high upon his lofty tower. 
 
 He makes thearchy welkin ring. 
 He mocks, with marked, unfeigned disdain. 
 
 The notes that reach his listening ear. 
 And adds them to his endless chain, 
 
 That rings out on the morning clear. 
 He breathes the nectar of the morn, 
 
 Distilling from the sky above. 
 To soothe his faultless, artless tongue. 
 
 In chiming forth his notes of love. 
 From his lofty, dizzy tower 
 
 Reluctantly he now descends 
 To find some wild secluded bower. 
 
 Whose safe retreat a shelter lends, 
 Where fearlesslj' within its shade, 
 
 Tliroughout the day his notes may swell. 
 Whose cbeeiy echoes from the glade 
 
 Are heard within the lonely dell. 
 Dear bird, thine's a clear and cloudless sky. 
 
 No sorrow in thy gifted song, 
 Thine's a bright and tearless eye, 
 
 And thine a gay and happy throng; 
 No sleepless nights break thy repose. 
 
 All with thee is calm serene. 
 Unbroken by drear winter's snows — 
 
 Embowered with perpetual green. 
 Thy transit to a southern clime. 
 
 Gives to thee unceasing spring. 
 Lends to thy voice a ceaseless chime. 
 
 And adds new notes for thee to sing. 
 Magnolias rich, fragrant perfume 
 
 Nor soft congenial southern skies 
 Can keep thee from thy northern home. 
 
 Enchanting spring's renewed surprise! 
 Dear bird! in me thy cheery song. 
 
 Produces a nameless, saddening thrill. 
 But as it calmly drifts along 
 
 Must own we dearly love it still. 
 Thy ever sweet and busy tongue 
 
 Recall again sweet memories. 
 When we a list'ner, gay and young. 
 
 Unto thy song among the trees. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Stern winter's come! None to restrain 
 
 Him in his brief cold, dreary reign; 
 None to stay the ruthless hand 
 
 That sways the scepter o'er the land. 
 Lately a land in beauty clad. 
 
 Made by the smiles of Spring-time glad. 
 And by the wiles of summer too. 
 
 To dress up in a gaudy hue. 
 Emerald tints did then prevail, 
 
 Alikeo'er mountain hill and dale; 
 
 -® 
 
* 
 
 454 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 « 
 
 The gentle rill in ciiiUiunce sweet 
 Did then the rippling- brooklet meet. 
 
 Tipt with flowers on everj' side 
 
 Would through the grassy meadows glide, 
 Acres of corn — Emeralds green. 
 
 Did add unto this glorious scene. 
 From pastures green in twiliglit gray 
 
 The lowing- herds would wend their way. 
 
 Then golden fields of waving grain. 
 Would stretch out o'er tlie fertile plain; 
 
 'Twas then a generous rural queen 
 Kuled o'er this beauteous gorgeous scene; 
 
 'Twas then around her vernal throne 
 That flowers sweet, were thickly strewn. 
 
 With carpets green the vales were spread 
 
 O'er which this dainty qi-een might tread; 
 There siren song would fill tlie air 
 
 To greet tliis soverig-n empress fail-; 
 And rare perfume on zephyr's wing- 
 Would scent the pathway of sweet spring. 
 But now alas! Tlie flowers are dead, 
 
 Tlie songsters from the bowers have fled. 
 And for the fields of wavj' grain 
 
 The wistful eye may seek in vain ; 
 The rustling- corn has passed away 
 
 Before this cruel monarch swaj^ 
 'Neath icy thralls the streamlets flow. 
 
 Or wend tiieir way througli frost and snow. 
 The blusliing flowers on their strands 
 
 Lie torpid now 'neath chilly bands. 
 The lowing- herds in humble sheds 
 
 Are now by generous yeomen fed. 
 The storm-king, he has changed the scene 
 
 To snow-white from a living- green. 
 He comes in a despairing mood 
 
 To rule awhile this solitude. 
 From joy elate to dark despair 
 
 He has reduced the landscape fair. 
 
 A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD. 
 I dreamed the ceaseless tide of time 
 
 KoU'd back itsci-estless wave once more. 
 And I appeared in youthful prime 
 
 Again upon my native shore; 
 Where the elm and sugar tree 
 
 Their favored branches o'erspread, 
 Wliere liigli witliin in wanton glee 
 
 The birds seem singing o'eriiead. 
 Its sparkling current roll'd along. 
 
 While far above its dimpling- tide 
 The birds rehearsed their sweetest song-, 
 
 Amid the branches spreading wide. 
 Tliose tow' ring monarchs seem to span 
 
 My fond, devoted native stream. 
 In raptured fancy mutely scanned 
 
 The happy and transporting theme. 
 I seemed to gather up the sliells 
 
 That there lay stranded — scattered o'er, 
 And watched again tlie dimpling swells 
 
 Tliat break upon its sandy shore. 
 And formed them in an artless wreath 
 
 These tributes of my native deep. 
 Once more I seemed to hear and breathe 
 
 The wild winds through the forest sweep. 
 
 Once more to hear the weird breeze 
 
 Through the green arcade sigh and moan, 
 And see the lofty forest trees 
 
 Unchanged around mj' happy home: 
 Enchanted hands seemed busy there 
 
 Around my home — parental door, 
 As the rosy vine I loved so dear, 
 
 With fragrant bloom was covered o'er. 
 I awoke amid this glorious scene, 
 
 Tlie enchantment seemed to pass away, 
 The enraptured fields of living- green. 
 
 The roses too, that bloomed so gay. 
 The emerald arch— the wild arcade 
 
 That spanned my cherished native stream. 
 All appeared to vanish and to fade 
 
 Out with my childhood's happy dream. 
 
 AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 Oh, thou divine pray kindly send 
 Thy choicest blessing on my friend. 
 Teach her the path that love has trod 
 The way that leads to Thee our God, 
 Where fragrant flower perennial bloom. 
 And shed for aye their sweet perfume. 
 
 MRS. MARGARET L.LEA. 
 
 Born : Pike Co , Miss., Jan. 28, 1867. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared quite 
 extensively in the local press and tlie South- 
 ern Baptist Record. She was married in 1887 
 to James E. Lea, and resides in her native 
 state at Magnolia. 
 
 SLANDER AND PRAISE. 
 
 Tiie faintest breath of slander 
 
 M;iy blacken an honest name. 
 As a poisonous vapor arising- 
 
 Brings death, disease and pain. 
 Wliile a word of praise outspoken 
 
 May brighten somebody's fame. 
 As a pleasant breeze from tlie northland 
 
 Brings sunshine and scatters tlie rain. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I sat in the glowing sunshine 
 
 Of a perfect summer day. 
 And listened to the sweet song: 
 
 Of a brooklet glad and gay. 
 The air was full of whispers 
 
 That pleasant day in June, 
 But my lieart to Nature's music 
 
 Was sadlv out of tune. 
 
 «l 
 
88- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 4.5.5 
 
 -)5 
 
 EDWIN FRANCIS PARRY. 
 
 Born: Salt Lake City, Utah, June 11, I860- 
 As a composer of music, Mr. Parry has at- 
 tained quite a reputation. He received a 
 fine business education at Morgan's college; 
 at an early age was ajiprenticed to the print- 
 ing husiness, at wliich occupation he is still 
 
 EDWIN FKANCIS 'PARRY. 
 
 employed, being manager of the J. H. Parry 
 & Co. printing and publishing establishment 
 at Salt Lake City. This journalist is the 
 editor of Parry's Monthly Magazine, which is 
 acknowledged to be the leading magazine of 
 the territory. 
 
 5 
 
 LIFE ON THE FARM. 
 A farmer's life is the one for me. 
 
 And a home among the waving fields; 
 Where the sons of toil are ever free, 
 
 And wliere the earth abundance yields. 
 I love the pure refreshing air. 
 
 And to view the fields of golden grain ; 
 I love a habitiition wiiere 
 Contentment, peace and joy doth reign. 
 Where the gay birds sing 
 In the early spring. 
 As they flit among the budding trees; 
 Where the wild flowers bloom. 
 And their sweet perfume 
 Is wafted on the gentle breeze. 
 Where the toads and frogs 
 That revel in the bogs. 
 
 Croak requiems to each dying day; 
 
 Where the watch-dogs bark 
 
 When the nigiit is dark. 
 And the mules in the stables bray. 
 
 Where the fat ducks quack 
 
 Round the yard and straw-stack. 
 And the rooster crows on the top of the barn; 
 
 Where the fat hogs grunt 
 
 At tlie pig-sty front. 
 While awaiting their breakfast of corn. 
 
 THE BEAUTIES OF HOME. 
 
 Let us cherish a love for the beauties of home. 
 
 There is nothing more charming on earth; 
 Tho' in distant, fair climes seeking pleasure 
 we roam. 
 We will find not their equals in worth. 
 There's a peace and a joy that our dear 
 home^ afford 
 Which the wand'rer abroad will not find, 
 Tho' he meet with kind friends who will 
 gladly accord 
 Unto him many favors so kind. 
 All the happy, bright days of our childhood 
 were spent 
 In our innocent glee round its hearth. 
 And the memories sweet of those moments 
 have lent 
 To its richness in beauty and worth. 
 There we've played 'neath the shade of the 
 trees that o'erhung 
 The low cottage that sheltered our heads; 
 And have romped through the orchard to 
 hide there among 
 The green bushes in soft, gra.ssy beds. 
 But most precious it is for the dear, loved 
 ones there. 
 Whose affections entwine round our heart. 
 And which bind us together wherever we are 
 
 In a friendship that time cannot part. 
 Let us then be content with the beauties of 
 home. 
 Since nauglit else upon earth is more fair. 
 Though in lands far or near, seeking pleasure 
 we roam. 
 We will find not more joy than is there. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Each gentle ray of morning light 
 
 That beams upon one's face. 
 And outward marks of loveliness 
 
 Grim care maj' soon erase; 
 But tliere is a lasting beaut3-. 
 
 One that never should depart: 
 Yes, the sweetest charm of nature,— 
 
 'Tis a cheerful, loving heart. 
 The flcry glance from sparkling eyes 
 
 With age grows dim and cold. 
 And footsteps once so light and free 
 
 Will totter when one's old. 
 
 m 
 
*- 
 
 456 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 * 
 
 JUDGE J. A. KERR. 
 
 This gentleman took the scientific course in 
 the National normal school of Lebanon, Ohio, 
 after which he entered and went through the 
 
 law (leii:ii'< 'iiiMit (if the Michi^'an Universitj'. 
 
 II IM.I, .). \. Kl.Uli. 
 
 In 1878 Mr. Kerr opened a law oflBce in Tippe- 
 canoe City, Ohio, where he has ever since 
 pursued a lucrative practice. In 1889 he was 
 elected a judge of the common pleas court of 
 the county. The poems of Judge Kerr have 
 appeared in the Chicago Current and the 
 leading periodicals of America. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 ©- 
 
 BIRTH. 
 
 A wliite-winged messenger from the spirit 
 land 
 
 Descended the abyss to tlie shores of time. 
 And waived into l)eing witli a mystic wand, 
 
 A child of dust with a soul divine. 
 
 lilFE. 
 
 Angels guarded the fair young flower 
 In this world of trials, of triumphs and of 
 tears ; 
 Tlie Savior blessed in pleasure's dream and 
 sorrow's li(nir 
 Tlirougli the rallying mists of twenty years. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 A face and a form and a I'ootstei) vanished. 
 Nor is longer known on this billowy shore. 
 
 Hark! The wings of a spirit ! An angel shines 
 in heaven. 
 Heir, with Clu-ist, of the bright forever- 
 more. 
 
 A DECEMBER DAY. 
 Low-drifting clouds o'erspread the skj-; 
 
 The day is dull, the landscape drear; 
 On earth's fair bosom snowflakes lie. 
 
 While trees, their snow-clad branches rear. 
 From lowering clouds the winter rain. 
 
 Cheerless, descends no longer, now; 
 To patter loud on roof and pane. 
 
 But falls the dancing flakes of snow. 
 The birds give fortli no notes of cheer. 
 
 For tliey liave flown. The woods are still ; 
 The fields are shorn, and brown, and sear; 
 
 Ice-bound are river, brook and rill. 
 All nature seems grown graj' with rime. 
 
 And long for rest — to die, to sleep ; 
 Like man,woos sweet rest, courts decline. 
 
 And feels the death-chill o'er her creep. 
 Her race seems short, and almost run: 
 
 Her knell is tolled by pattering hail. 
 In clouds of crape is clad the sun ; 
 
 The wind gives forth a moaning wail. 
 The earth seems wrapped in lier last sleep- 
 All nature robed in shrouds of snow. 
 Tlie lowering clouds in pit.v weep. 
 
 That she, like man, is thus laid low. 
 
 MRS. ANNA D. ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Plymouth, N. H. 
 This lady has written a volume of jjrose and 
 one of verse. She still resides in lier native 
 state at Bristol. 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 An old farm-house with meadows wide. 
 And sweet with clover on eacli side; 
 A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
 The door witli woodbine wreatlied about. 
 And wishes his one thought all day:— 
 "O, if I could but fly away 
 From this dull spot the wttrld to see, 
 How happy, liappy, happy. 
 How happy I sliould be. 
 
 Amid tlie city's constant din, 
 A man, who 'round the world has been. 
 Who 'mid ttie tumult and the throng. 
 Is tliinking, tliinliing all day long,— 
 "O, could 1 only tri-ad once more 
 The tteld-palh to the farm-liouse door. 
 The t)ld green mi-adows could I see. 
 How happy, happy, liappy, 
 How h;ippy I should be! 
 
^■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 4o7 
 
 -® 
 
 WILLIAM J. WARRENER. 
 
 Born: England, Aug. 23, 1845. 
 Although ;i carpenter and builder by trade, 
 besides Imving a perfect kuowledg-e of geome- 
 try, perspective and free-liand drawing as 
 applied to architecture, Mr. Warrenerbas fol- 
 lowed the occupation of farming' since bis 
 arrival in America in 1869. He was ordained 
 
 "1 
 
 "WILLIAM JOHN WARRENER. 
 
 an elderin thechristian church in 1879, and oc- 
 easionallj' delivers sermons. Mr. Warrener 
 has also become prominent as a speaker and 
 writer on matters ag-ricultural, social, politi- 
 cal and religious. He received the nomina- 
 tion for state senator on the proliibition ticket 
 at Zanesville, Ohio, in 1889. Mr. Warrener has 
 alarg-e library, containing- works on history, 
 philosophy, science, poetry, law, medicine, 
 political economy and theology. He is now a 
 resident of Amesville, Ohio. 
 
 * 
 
 THE LORDS PRAYER AND REFLEC- 
 TIONS THEREON. 
 Our Father, who in heaven art, 
 
 Hallowed shall be thy name; 
 Tiiy kingdom come, thy will be done 
 
 In heaven and earth the same. 
 Give us this day our daily bread ; 
 
 Our trespasses forgive. 
 As we of tliose who 'gainst us sin ; 
 
 Thus may we daily live. 
 
 Into temptation lead us not, 
 
 And evil save us from ; 
 Thine, kingdom, power, and glory be. 
 
 For ever yet to come. 
 
 Ob ! what a soul-inspiring tliought. 
 
 That lie who reigns above. 
 Doth with a father's feeling guard 
 
 And guide and keep and love. 
 
 "Our Father," bow suggestive is 
 
 The name by Jesus given ; 
 It shows that I, a child of earth, 
 
 Am, too, a child of heaven. 
 
 tender, lovely, pregnant name. 
 It is so dear to me; 
 
 It shall be honored rev'renced, loved 
 To all eternity. 
 
 Thine ever is the right to rule, 
 
 I, Lord, thy subject am; 
 And ready always thee to serve, 
 
 As follower of the lamb. 
 
 As in the courts of light alMve, 
 
 Angels and saints obey; 
 So in the time to come may all 
 
 Thy bidding do alway. 
 
 'Tis thou, O Lord, alone can give; 
 
 From thee comes all supplies; 
 I, daily, on thy bounty live. 
 
 To thee I raise my eyes. 
 
 1 am a great transgressor. Lord, 
 Oft have I sinned 'gainst thee; 
 
 I pray thee to forgive my sins 
 And mercy show to me. 
 
 I pardon free and full do give, 
 
 True mercy I would show; 
 1 must, if pardon I would have. 
 
 When e'er in prayer I go. 
 
 And so with each recurring day, 
 
 lo love to all mankind; 
 To know the father loveth me 
 
 Inspires my heart and mind. 
 
 The soul cannot be led to sin. 
 
 Unless inclined that way; 
 Lord purify and make me proof 
 
 Against the tempter's sway. 
 
 From evil thoughts, desires, and acts, 
 
 I would, O Lord, be free; 
 Thy power can cleanse and keep me clean. 
 
 Exert that power on me. 
 
 Thou art the great, the pure, the good. 
 
 The glorious and the true ; 
 A nd to thee now do I ascribe 
 
 The praise and honor due. 
 
 From all eternity thou art. 
 
 And to the same wilt be; 
 My praises and my prayers, then. 
 
 Shall e'er be unto thee. Amen. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 458 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 PARKER B.DAVIS. 
 
 Born: Winn, Me., Jan. 11, 1859. 
 AFTER graduating at Lee Normal academy, 
 young Davis traveled through Florida, Texas 
 and New Mexico. Since returning to Mauie 
 he has been alternately farmer, lumberman 
 and school teacher. Since 1886 Mr. Davis has 
 
 PARKER B. DAVIS. 
 
 contributed poems to the Yankee Blade, Port- 
 land Transcript and various other periodicals. 
 In 1888 this writer Lssued a volume of poems 
 under the title of Tangled Rhymes, which was 
 well received, and has had an extensive sale. 
 
 WALLACE AT CAMBLTS-KENNETH. 
 
 You'll pardon Wallace for his crimes 
 
 And peace to Scotland bring. 
 If we aside our arms will throw 
 And own proud Edward king? 
 
 Think ye for this we've gathered here? 
 
 Look o'er that bright array, 
 And answer, if ye tliiiik these chiefs 
 
 Are come for peace to-day? 
 
 No ! never more to England's lord 
 
 Shall bend the Scottish knee; 
 We come not here to treat witli you. 
 
 But to set fair Scotland free. 
 
 We take no peace that comes witli chains, 
 Though Scottish hearts may bleed 
 ® 
 
 On every rood from Pentland's wave 
 
 To Berwick on the Tweed. 
 We've felt the peace that Edward gives: 
 
 Our homes in ashes lie. 
 While hordes of English ruffians camp 
 
 Beneath our Scottish sky. 
 
 And every trampled blade of grass 
 
 Oppression's storytells; 
 While Scottish nobles rot to-day 
 
 In England's dungeon cells. 
 
 No peace with Wallace can ye have 
 
 Until his grave he fills, 
 If yet one English soldier stays 
 
 On this side Cheviot Hills. 
 
 The land our fathers ruled of yore 
 
 Shall once again be free. 
 Or every stream 'neath Scotland's sun 
 
 Go crimson to the sea. 
 
 ONLY A MOMENT. 
 
 Only one little moment; 
 
 All our work to be done — 
 Sheaves of a life-time gathered. 
 
 Victories lost or won. 
 
 No time to be standing idle : 
 
 No time to be gazing back 
 To the flowers we leave ungathered- 
 
 We cannot retrace the track. 
 
 No time for vain repining 
 
 O'er battles we have lost; 
 Nor after every conquest 
 
 To sit and count the cost. 
 
 No time for idle dreaming 
 
 Of victories to be won. 
 Of pleasures that may greet us 
 
 When the moment's work is done. 
 
 No time for hate and malice; 
 
 No time for idle strife — 
 We've only ju.st a moment 
 
 In which to live a life 
 
 Only one little moment; 
 
 All our work to be done — 
 Sheaves of a life-time gathered. 
 
 Victories lost or won. 
 
 OVER-REACHING. 
 
 How often we sink too deep 
 
 For the fishes we fain would catch; 
 And many a wall we climb 
 
 For the want of a lifted latch. 
 Through wearisome years we search 
 
 For invisible rainbow gold. 
 Till lost are the priceless gems 
 
 That were safely within our hold. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 4.59 
 
 -® 
 
 DAVID DANA SPEAR. 
 
 Born : North Yarmouth, Me., May 26, 1839. 
 Although actively eng-aged in tlie profession 
 of a pliysieian and surg-eon, Dr. Spear has 
 found time to court the muse. In liis youtli 
 he taught school for awhile, next studied the- 
 ology and was a minister for three years. Com- 
 mencing the study of medicine in 1864 he^soon 
 
 DAVID DANA SPEAR. 
 
 received his diploma, and first practiced his 
 profession at Kennebunk, and now is located 
 at Freeport,in liis native state. His first poems 
 were written while a student, and were pub- 
 lished under a nom de i)lume: he has con- 
 tributed quite extensively to christian pub- 
 lications. In 1886 the degree of A. M. was con- 
 ferred upon Dr.Spear by tlie Colby university. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Millions dancing-! snowflake crystals 
 
 Whirling, twirling- in mid air. 
 Make a robe of ermine beauty — 
 
 Deck the landscape everywhere. 
 There is ringing of the sleigh bells. 
 
 Now tlie jiraneingstepof steeds; 
 Peal on peal of merry laughter 
 
 As the fleetest onward speeds. 
 Children rosy-cheeked and gleeful 
 
 Coasting down the village hill. 
 There are others just as joyful 
 
 Skating near the mossy mill. 
 Thus old winter with his pleasures 
 
 Compensates for chilly cold, 
 
 And he makes the weaker stronger — 
 
 Keeping hearts from growing old. 
 True, no season is so cloudy 
 
 That it brings us nauglit to prize. 
 If we only see the sunshine 
 
 Which around the shadow lies. 
 If we only can remember, 
 
 As it passes into view, 
 Every cloud is always smaller 
 
 Than the broad expansive blue. 
 
 VACATION. 
 
 With vacation time returning 
 Comes a longing, comes a yearning — 
 Comes a thirsting, comes a burning. 
 Comes an earnest ardent wishing 
 To the lakes to go a fishing. 
 E'en a.sleep I am a dreaming. 
 Catching speckled trout I'm seeming. 
 And I wake with tears all streaming— 
 From the hook I thought I'd lost him 
 As I sudden upward tossed him. 
 Now I have the spotted shiner; 
 There is ne'er a spot that's finer; 
 There can ne'er be fun sublimer 
 Than to catch and eat the beauties 
 While we rest from toils and duties. 
 
 SAMUEL MAGILL. 
 
 Born: Baltimore, Md., March 25, 1805. 
 Mr. Magill has resided in Iowa City since 
 1847, with the exception of nine years on a 
 farm. He served one term in the city coun- 
 cil, and was a member of the school board 
 during that period. Gifted with poetic talent, 
 Mr. Magill has written verses for many years 
 past. He has a cheerful disposition, and 
 possesses a great fund of humor, and is quick 
 at repartee. 
 
 SERENE SATISFACTION. 
 Mj^ "gal" and I did both agree 
 We would get married — yes, siree. 
 Then to the priest both of us went; 
 He tied the knot, with our consent. 
 Fifty-seven years have gone past. 
 And yet the knot is still tied fast; 
 We've never felt the need, of course. 
 During that time for a divorce. 
 Here -we will fill our humble places 
 Till time will end our earthly races; 
 And, when the time shall come to go. 
 We'll both be ready then, we know. 
 We now have lived near four-score years, 
 And overcome 'most all life's cares; 
 Yet we will wait, our time to fill. 
 Both Samuel and Priscilla Magill. 
 
 * 
 
©■ 
 
 460 
 
 « 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHARLES HENRY FREER. 
 
 Born: Washington Co., Wis., Jan. 14, 1849. 
 This gentleman follows the occupation of 
 painting- and decorating, and is now a resident 
 
 of Blue Earth, Minnesota. Most of tlie writ- 
 
 CHARLES HENRY FREER. 
 
 ings of Mr. Freer are of an elocutionary style, 
 composed purposely for recitations and char- 
 acter speaking. His poems have received ex- 
 tensive publication in the periodical press. 
 
 ^- 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 How richly dyed the wine of morn. 
 At rest on autumn's ruddj' lips. 
 When gently sways the tasseled corn, 
 As gold beneath the green is born, 
 Wliile distant sounds the drinking horn 
 
 Through all tlie valley slips. 
 Come, poets, feast each fancy muse. 
 That loud tlieir mellow lutes may sing, 
 Tlu'ough days that bring contending hues ; 
 True seasons of most holy dews. 
 In heraldings of happy news, 
 
 O, let them gaily ring. 
 Sing welcome to the wiugs of change. 
 Those crimsoned wings tliat autunui 
 
 waves, 
 Far down tlie fading heath we range. 
 To garner from tlie faint and strange. 
 To i)hH'k, arrange and re-arrange 
 
 The gilt on summer graves. 
 
 O, autumn! sweet with moon and stars; 
 With purpled skies and crimsoned wood, 
 Witli coral leaf on harbor bars. 
 That sound the sea of Time's guitars. 
 While harvest rolls her golden cars 
 In one grand sisterhood. 
 
 GEORGE E. NAFTZGER. 
 
 Born: Lima, Ohio, April 30, 1859. 
 In 1879 Mr. Naftzger was editor of a literary 
 paper known as Our Boys and Girls, and later 
 published the Sunday Morning Gossip atEd- 
 gerton. Since that time he has been identi- 
 fied with the Ohio newspapers, and is at pres- 
 ent associate-editor of the Spencerville Jour- 
 nal. Mr. Naftzger is not so widely known as 
 a poet, but has gained an enviable reputation 
 as a humorous writer of prose, having contri- 
 buted many brilliant articles to tlie Detroit 
 Free Press, Atlanta Constitution, New Or- 
 leans Picayune, and other papers of note. He 
 is also well known as a lecturer. 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN'S WAY. 
 Boys, when you pop the question 
 
 And the girl tells you nay. 
 Don't despair, for you'll get there — 
 
 It was only a woman's way. 
 Her sweet blushes tell a different tale, 
 
 There is hope for you to-day. 
 So be not cast down by a girlish frown — 
 
 It was only a woman's way. 
 She must not be too easily won. 
 
 She begs for more delay. 
 In your hour of bliss remember this — 
 
 It was only a woman's way. 
 And when once you are married. 
 
 She'll "dive" into your montlily pay, 
 For slie'll want a bonnet with flowers on it— 
 
 But it is only a woman's way. 
 So it will be your whole life through, 
 
 Until your hair turns gray — 
 It may be absurd— slie'lI have the last word- 
 But tliafs only a woman's way. 
 
 ONLY A BABY. 
 
 ..Only a baby small," hark, how it cries; 
 Only a chubliy face, two tearful eyes; 
 Only two little teetli tit for a mouse; 
 Only ten sticky lingers all through tlie house 
 .. Only a golden head," with one little curl; 
 .. Only a tt'iider Hower," only a girl ; 
 Only two little ears, ten little toes: 
 She may wed a millionaire — nobody knows. 
 Only a baby small, never at rest. 
 Crawling o'er the tioor, rigged in its best, 
 .. Only a baby small," gone like a breath, 
 Growing to womanhood, loving till death. 
 
SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 4G1 
 
 ® 
 
 FERNANDO C.SEARL. 
 
 Born: Scioto Co., Ohio, July 18, 1825. 
 The poems of Mr. Searl have appeared quite 
 extensively in the periodical press. He is a 
 member of the tirm of Harper. Searl & Miluer, 
 
 FERNANDO C. SEARI,. 
 
 attorneys-at-law at Portsmoutli, Ohio, where 
 he is well linown and respected. Personally 
 Mr. Searl is of very fine stature, with light 
 hair and blue eyes. 
 
 ® 
 
 THE LAND WHERE MY TREASUKES 
 ARE HID. 
 
 The birds are away for their homes in the 
 
 south. 
 The river flows on to the sea, at its mouth 
 
 The Summer-sea islands, amid. 
 The mountains are sere and the heavens are 
 
 gray. 
 The flowers have faded that grew by the way 
 To the land wliere my treasures are hid. 
 
 The spring-time shall come as the spring-- 
 
 times of old, 
 And the sheplierd shall gather his lambs to 
 the fold. 
 But mine come not home at my bid: 
 They are over the river, are lost to my sight. 
 But I visit them st'U in my dreams of the 
 night. 
 In the land where my treasures are hid. 
 
 When my spirit is calm and my soul is at rest 
 Au angel comes down from the land of the 
 blest, 
 And I follow away at her bid 
 To an island of beauty, beyond the dark sen. 
 Where my treasures are hid and are awaiting 
 lor me. 
 In the land where my treasures are hid. 
 My MoJlie, my Duga, my Vasco, my Bell; 
 Not the arrows of death nor the kingdom of 
 hell. 
 Shall me from my darlings forbid 
 When my spirit is free, and my soul takes its 
 
 flight 
 Through the valley of Death and the shadows 
 of night, 
 Q'o the land where my treasures are hid. 
 The}' were children of mine, they were hu- 
 man by birth. 
 And trod the low valleys and pathways of 
 earth. 
 Bore the stains of all follies we did; 
 But they travel no more in the valleys below. 
 They are fairer than angels and whiter than 
 snow, 
 In the land where my treasures are hid. 
 O pardon my weakness, I strove with it long; 
 Then my soul found relief in the gush of my 
 song. 
 And my heart of its burden was rid ; 
 For I saw on the dark troubled bosom of 
 
 night. 
 The tokens of day, and a glimmer of light 
 From the land where my treasures are liid. 
 
 AMONG THE HILLS. 
 Lo! I have wandered in life's beaten patli, 
 Where men are ever rushing to and fro; 
 Have borne the fierceness of the noon-day's 
 
 heat, — 
 My limbs are weary and my sun is low. 
 Shall I in Lethe's fountain bathe my head. 
 And bid life's rugged landscape fade away; 
 As outlines of the mountain crags 
 Dissolve and soften in the twilight gray? 
 Or hold communion with the grand old hills; 
 And on the bosom of the earth once more. 
 In shady covert rest my weary limbs — 
 The fervor of my languid faith restore? 
 Long have 1 wandered from the haunts of 
 
 youth,— 
 The dark green arbors of the forests wild ; 
 But unto thee, O! mother nature now, 
 I turn my footsteps as a home-sick child. 
 Where nature carves her caverns in the rock. 
 Or rears her stony battlements on high. 
 Rest in lier amphitiieater of hills. 
 All roofless save the azure of the sky. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 462 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOKTS OF A:ME1MCA. 
 
 And liere and tliere an argosy of clouds 
 Flecking the uzuro of the upper deep. 
 And low hung' frettingof the forest trees 
 Tlirough which the glimmers of the sun- 
 beams creep. 
 In rock and hill behold the record of the past. 
 In growing tree and in corroding stone 
 The hand of nature, at her silent work 
 Molding creation as tlie years roll on. 
 What are the ebulitions of man's eager strife. 
 When once the fever-dream of life is past? 
 The diapason of sweet nature's song 
 Shall blend all things in harmony at last. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 It is said that a bird that is lonely and sad 
 Sings sweeter than one that is lively and gay : 
 Is the wail of its lieart by its music subdued 
 Or the omen of anguish enchanted away? 
 Can the song of a poet whose heart is as lead 
 Flow smoothlj' along, as a calm tide might 
 
 flow 
 O'er the wreclc of a ship, and tlie liopes that 
 
 went down. 
 And are strewn on the floor of the ocean be- 
 low? 
 
 THE FAR WEST. 
 
 Land of the west what mist involves 
 The glories of thy by-gone days, 
 No scroll of fame thy record bears, 
 No poet sings thy tragic lays. 
 No Colloseum of the past, 
 No fallen tower of ruined fane. 
 No graven symbols on thy rocks. 
 No Balbec ruins on thj' plains. 
 
 A NEW year's ADDRESS. 
 
 O fountain of eternal life. 
 
 Thee would I know and sweetly sing. 
 
 How death is but eternal life. 
 
 And winter's dirge the song of spring. 
 
 FROM A REUNION WELCOME. 
 
 Does man liis nobler courage prove 
 In heat of battle courting deatli. 
 And l)reathing of the cannon's breath. 
 While as a messenger of love. 
 His lieart would sink, his check would pale, 
 To stand where Florence Nightingale 
 Stood calm as angel from above. 
 
 «- 
 
 SIMON HENRY BRIGHT. 
 
 Rorn: Lenoir Co., N. C, Dec. ;i", 18G-t. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Rright have appeared in 
 
 the New York Cricket on the Hearth and tlie 
 
 local press generally, 
 native place- 
 
 He still resides in his 
 
 MONEY-FOOLS. 
 
 Men will seek and men Avill labor — 
 Spend their lives in toil and pain. 
 
 Never stop to look above them. 
 So intent on earthly gain. 
 
 Men will seek and men will labor, 
 
 Growing older day by day, 
 Soon their youth and strength have 
 them — 
 
 Soon their locks are mixed with gray. 
 
 Men will seek and men will labor. 
 Till they feel the chill of death. 
 
 Then they find that gold and silver 
 Will not stay the fleeting breath. 
 
 Then they think of all the evil 
 
 Mingled with their lives of gain — 
 Of the sorrow caused to others — 
 
 Of the hearts they've filled with pain. 
 In my mind I have a picture 
 
 Of a dying man whe lies 
 Toitured by the horrid visions 
 
 Which rise up before his eyes. 
 Now he sees the tattered beggars 
 
 Empty-handed leave his door; 
 Widowed wives and orphan children. 
 
 Wretched, hungry, weak and jioor. 
 Oh! the joy he might liave caused them. 
 
 Oh! the good he might have wrought; 
 Oh! how costly was his treasure. 
 
 Oh! how cheap his life was bought. 
 Then he looks with dying glances 
 
 On his kindred standing 'round- 
 Vultures waiting for the carca.ss. 
 
 Eager for the feast they've found. 
 Vultures, yes, they'll prey upon him; 
 
 They, his kin, who little care 
 Whether heaven or hell receives him, 
 
 Sohe leaves his treasures here. 
 And he dies, and none are sorry. 
 
 Law suits follow not a few. 
 And his money goes to others — 
 
 Lawyers, men he never knew. 
 And the old man is forgotten. 
 
 And his grave is decked with weeds; 
 Nothing lives iiis love has cherished; 
 
 All his past was selfish deeds. 
 This they know has been the ending 
 
 Ever since the world was made. 
 Of the men who've lived for riches,— 
 
 Yet their course they h;ive not stayed. 
 Still men seek iind still they labor. 
 
 Never v>ause to look ahead, 
 Tt> that lile that, lies beyond them. 
 
 Soon, alas, too late, they're dead. 
 
 left 
 
 -fl) 
 
©- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 463 
 
 MRS. ELIZA LAMB MARTYN. 
 
 Bokn: Charlton, Mass., July 8, 1845. 
 This lady has written for the Boston Globe 
 and other prominent journals She was mar- 
 ried in 1868 to Monroe M. Martyn, with whom 
 
 MK8. ELIZA LAMB MAKTVN. 
 
 she resides at Fitehburg. In person Mrs. Mar- 
 tyn is of good stature with light-brown hair 
 and blue eyes. She is engaged almost entirely 
 in literary worlj. 
 
 15- 
 
 THE WORLDS UNKNOWN. 
 Our land abounds in monuments of art. 
 Memorial halls, fine statues — bronze and 
 stone; 
 To heroes, sages, let the world impart 
 
 Its praise I sing to those to fame unknown. 
 The unknown heroes that have lived and died, 
 . In silence suffering, scorning all complaint. 
 Who buried hopes, their ideals and their pride. 
 And burdens bore, though weary, worn and 
 faint. 
 The recluse soul, to all the world unknown. 
 
 Save to one faithful heart, powerless to save. 
 Whose cloister cell the world misnamed a 
 home. 
 Their path of life marked round an open 
 grave. 
 I sing to poets whose sad lips are dumb. 
 
 Whose ears are heavy with the din of toil. 
 Who to their full estate could never come; 
 Slaves to hard circumstance and life's tur- 
 moil. 
 
 I sing to artists whose souls caught the beam 
 Of heaven's own light, the light of perfect 
 day. 
 Whose soul's recesses with rare pictures 
 gleam. 
 That bands grown hard with toil failed to 
 portray. 
 I sing to all the good, the noble, true. 
 Who walked with bleeding feet through all 
 life's years; 
 I sing because I catch a heavenly view 
 Of their grand souls in more congenial 
 spheres. 
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 
 
 O, beautiful world tliat greets our glad eyes ! 
 O, beautiful landscape and sapphire-hued 
 
 skies! 
 O, flowery-fringed brooklets and sweet sylvan 
 
 bowers I 
 A world filled with music, with sunshine and 
 
 flowers ! 
 Is heavenly beauty more perfect than this? 
 Does any far planet afford greater bliss? 
 With gladness and goodness the whole world 
 
 is rife! 
 If hope leads us on through the journey of 
 
 life. 
 O, dark, dreary world that pains our sad eyes! 
 O.mist-hidden landscape and dull leaden skies ! 
 The brooks are complaining and long for re- 
 pose? 
 The serpent's shine poisons the breath of the 
 
 rose! 
 There is no perfection ; all beauty is scarred. 
 By coarseness and grossness all nature is 
 
 marred. 
 And life is a burden that drags through the 
 
 years. 
 When we're led through its intricate maze by 
 
 our fears. 
 
 GIVE ME THY HAND. 
 Give me thj' hand 
 When storms are fiercely blowing, 
 When masts are shattered by the angry 
 blast. 
 When nothing tells the way thy ship is going. 
 When blackest darkness o'er the sea is cast. 
 Give me thy hand. 
 Give me thy hand 
 When every breeze is sleeping. 
 
 When demon-like a dead calm holds the sea. 
 When patience pales, her tedious vigil keep- 
 ing. 
 When sea and sky have naught of hope for 
 thee. 
 Give me thy hand. 
 Give me thy l)and 
 When everv sail is swelling 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 464 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 With freshening wind, when laughing is the 
 sky, 
 And perfumed breath from distant flowers is 
 telling- 
 Of isles enchanted that before thee lie. 
 Give me thy hand. 
 Give me thy hand 
 In storm ; in calm, forever, 
 
 I have thy heart fast hidden in my breast. 
 For God long since has joined our souls to- 
 gether. 
 He beckons only on to heaven and rest. 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 TRUSTING. 
 Here on this neck of land 
 I stand. 
 
 The ocean breaks with sullen roar, 
 Its white-capped waves dash on the shore. 
 And parting, sink to rise no more. 
 A stormy, restless sea 
 Taunts me! 
 
 On either hand skies, waters meet, 
 Without one sail my eyes to greet, 
 While rising tides wash o'er my feet. 
 I walked with backward tread. 
 He led 
 
 Me through the stretch of fertile land. 
 Through barren wastes of rock and sand. 
 And here I wait: wait his command. 
 Waiting, his love I fully trust. 
 I must ! 
 
 I know his hand will set me free, 
 And though the way I cannot see 
 I know his love is guiding me. 
 
 JAMES BALLARD. 
 
 Born: England, June 5, 1837. 
 This poetical lecturer has written, about fif- 
 teen thousand lines in rhymes, part of which 
 has been published in pamphlet form. He 
 emigrated to Canada in 1856 and settled in 
 America three years later. Mr. Ballard is lo- 
 cated at Red Oak, Iowa, engaged in gardening 
 in summer; but in winter he generally goes 
 on a lecturing tour. 
 
 ^ 
 
 WOMEN'S RIGHTS. 
 In Women's Rights, good poets delight; 
 
 They cannot do otlierwise ; 
 Many are so kind, and so refined. 
 
 How can they riglits despise. 
 Women's Rights is good, and it always should 
 
 By heroes bo defended; 
 For weaker vessels, wise men wrestle — 
 
 Wrestle till wrongs are mended.' 
 Wrongs in laws, is one great cause; 
 
 Some tliink tliey are inferior: 
 
 But in many things, their judgment rings 
 In tones out far superior. 
 
 If their judgment then, is equal to men. 
 
 And riglits men wish to enhance. 
 Do not dispise, if you love your wives. 
 
 But give them an equal chance. 
 An equal chance will pleasure enhance. 
 
 And in pleasure good folks delight ; 
 Then work together, to enliance pleasure. 
 
 And uphold women's rights. 
 
 TILLING THE SOIL. 
 When I am dead, and out of sight, 
 The wise will read with great delight; 
 
 Some useful rhymes I've written: 
 And even foes will change their plan. 
 And say the author was a shrewd man ; 
 
 And feel conscience smitten. 
 
 After years of toil and grievance, 
 I've found out from long experience; 
 
 Since tillage I have watched: 
 That one acre well tilled. 
 And with a crop well filled, 
 
 Is better than ten botched. 
 
 I never gave it such deep thought. 
 Until poor crops the lesson taught; 
 
 That till less land I'd better: 
 And till it well and at the right time; 
 And let it have frost and sunsliine ; 
 
 And keep off it rainy weather! 
 
 If tillers heed what I do say. 
 
 They will find in time that it will pay 
 
 To plow laud in tlie fall. 
 Instead of waiting until spring. 
 And plow in the rain to get crops in; 
 
 Or else not plow at all ! 
 
 By plowing in tlie fall, the frost will shake. 
 And again early in the spring, it will clods 
 break. 
 
 And the land will get warm as well: 
 Whoever this poem should happen to read, 
 Will do real well if they take heed; 
 
 And also their neighbors tell! 
 
 THE LARK. 
 
 When I was quite a little boy. 
 My father's pet and motlier's joy, 
 I've laid down in the bright sangfoy ; 
 
 And listened to the lark in the morning 
 As he flew out of tlie sangfoy. 
 And sang liis notes without alloy; 
 It filled my heart with sweetest joy; 
 
 As I listened to the lark in tlie morning. 
 I've watched the lark with great delight, 
 Soar higher, and higher, till out of sight; 
 But never saw him soar at night, 
 
 But often in the morning. 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAT. AND XATIOXAL TOETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 405 
 
 -^ 
 
 FLORENCE N. BOWEN. 
 
 Born: Pitcher, N.Y., Sept. 14, 1867. 
 When twelve years of age Miss Bowen had a 
 severe run of scarlet fever, and lias never 
 
 I 
 
 since fully regained her health. She is con- 
 sidered by competent critics a fine writer. 
 Miss Bowen resides in Litchfield, Minn 
 
 UNCLAD THOUGHTS. 
 A sentence, word or accent. 
 Without tlie thought beliind. 
 Is but a blank, a nothingness 
 To consciousness— to mind. 
 It is the swelling current 
 Beneath the spoken word. 
 By wliich the heart to joy, or grief, 
 To love, or hate, is stirred. 
 But man's soul, in its deafness. 
 Will recognize no thought. 
 Which to tlie outer, grosser sense, 
 is not distinctly brought. 
 Man chooses words as garments; 
 in his soul's babv-hood 
 To hide the sliape- conceal the form 
 Of all thought, ill or good. 
 He apes his sinning parents 
 And seeks to clothe his mind 
 
 iom?''"'"",'" ^'""'■'- ^"^'^ "'^ true self 
 N)me searclnng eye may find. 
 
 Wlien minds are strong through purity. 
 The naked tliought will reach 
 A sister mind, in all its force. 
 Without misguiding speech. 
 
 God speaks thus to His children; 
 
 He needs no foiling dress 
 
 In which to clothe the Truths He sends. 
 
 The listening soul to bless. 
 
 'Twas thus the soul of Moses, 
 Jehovah's message heard. 
 And we, to-day, with inner ear. 
 May listen to his word, 
 
 ZEDDEKIAH H. COPP. 
 
 Born: Fisher's Hill, Va., Sept. 14, 1864. 
 The poems of Mr. Copp have appeared in the 
 local press of his native state, where he still 
 resides at Kernstown. Mr. Copp follows the 
 profession of teaching. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 See the approach of morning— 
 
 The heralder of day — 
 When the sunlight's piercing rays 
 
 The darkness drives away. 
 
 See the wondrous beauty 
 
 Of this early morn — 
 That which causeth nature 
 
 Her gayest robes to 'dorn. 
 
 See all delicate colors 
 
 Are painted in the sky — 
 All art could nothing find 
 
 So pleasing to the eye. 
 
 See the stars are failing 
 
 The incessant light to show. 
 All nature is being awakened 
 
 By this early morning glow. 
 
 See the sun reflecting 
 Upon the mountain farawaj-. 
 
 Has caused the sweet-voiced songster 
 To chant his morning lay; 
 
 See the dewdrops sparkling 
 
 As if it wore a jewel 
 In the morning light reflecting 
 
 Its diamond lustre cool; 
 See the sun is rising 
 
 The glorious orb of day 
 Which cause these splendid beauties 
 
 All to fade away; 
 
 To those wlio rise 
 To look at this wondorful view 
 
 Must acknowledge in God's hand- 
 work. 
 There is always something new. | 
 
 -51 
 
©: 
 
 466 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 VIOLA VIRGINIA PRICE. 
 
 Born: Barnesville, Ohio, Dec. 12, 1855. 
 Graduating from Mt. Union coUego in 1878, 
 Miss Viola later received tlie degree of M. Pli., 
 and in the summer of 1887 slie took a course 
 in the study of poetry and literature at 
 Martha's Vineyard. Following the profession 
 of teachins:- Miss Price has had charg-e of the 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 Wl 
 
 m 
 
 ,^M 
 
 ir 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 VIOLA VIRGINIA PRICE. 
 
 department of English in the Normal School 
 of Kansas, at Emporia, since 1881. Tliis lady 
 is a member of the Western Autliors' and Ar- 
 tists' club, the Social Science club, and acting 
 president of the State Academy of Language 
 and Literature. She has also written several 
 popular lectures which have been favorably 
 received. 
 
 ©- 
 
 JENNY LIND. 
 
 As birds of lieavenly plumage soft and rich 
 Tell by bright hues they came from fairer 
 climes. 
 
 So Jenny Lind with artistic skill would pitch 
 Her melody to seraphim's sweet chimes. 
 
 As pink shells murmur of the far-off sea. 
 Her voice trilled sweetest native Sweden's 
 airs. 
 Yet such inspiring matins bi'eathed slie 
 That love for her a world entranced still 
 bears. 
 
 Sweet as old songs of which we never tire — 
 Sweet as fresh hymn from morn-awakened 
 lark; 
 Sweet as low strains that purled from Tas- 
 so's lyre. 
 Her symphonies made Phoebus e'en to hark. 
 
 The songs of this rare bird were sweeter far 
 Than melodies of heavenly harpers are. 
 
 WHEN LEAVES GEOW GOLD. 
 When leaves grow gold and north winds blow, 
 October's brush makes landscapes glow; 
 Decks monarch oak in cloak blood-red. 
 Her graceful elms chrome-yellow spread. 
 Through ivies green makes ruby flow. 
 
 And gentian blue, so loth to go. 
 Greets golden-rod, while to and fro 
 Soft fringes wave. Bowed sunflower's head 
 When leaves grow gold. 
 
 In wealth of nuts, glad squirrel chirps low. 
 Midst sigh of leaves caws luckless crow. 
 And sad our hearts wlien comes the dread 
 Cold snow as swift departs the tread 
 Of autumn fair — all loved her so. 
 When leaves grow gold. 
 
 A VIOLET. 
 
 Your cheeks are so pink 
 
 The peach bloom must have kissed 
 them. 
 Cupid lurks on the brink — 
 Your cheeks are so pink 
 With blushes that shrink. 
 
 Who wouldn't have bit tliem? 
 Your cheeks are so pink 
 
 The peach bloom must have kissed 
 them. 
 
 SPRING FLOWERS. 
 O ! sweet and charitable friend 
 
 Your gift of fragrant bloom 
 Has brought the spring-time and the woods 
 
 To cheer my lonesome room. 
 
 It rests my weary aching eyes, 
 And soothes my heart and brain ; 
 
 To see the tender green of the leaves, 
 And the blossoms wet with rain. 
 
 For I love and prize you one and all. 
 From the least low bloom of siiriiig; 
 
 To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine 
 The raiment of a king. 
 
 And when my soul considers these. 
 The sweet, the grand, the gaj'. 
 
 I marvel how we shall be clothed 
 With fairer robes than they. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 467 
 
 ® 
 
 LIZZIE SMITH LEAVELL. 
 
 Born: Christian Co., Ky. 
 In 1876 Lizzie removed with her father to San 
 Marcos, Texas, wliere she has since resided. 
 Since 1885 the poems of this lady have appear- 
 
 ' : i 
 
 LIZZIE SMITH LEAVELL. 
 
 ed from time to time generally under the nom 
 de plume of Bessie Smith. In person she is 
 tall and slender with a fair complexion, deep 
 blue eyes and brown hair. 
 
 ADOWN THE RIVER. 
 Well I remember an evening fair. 
 
 We glided adown the river; 
 The world aglow with the summer's bloom. 
 
 And the wavelets alla-quiver. 
 The sunbeams glanced in splendor down. 
 
 Gold bars on the waters leaving. 
 And with their magic fingers bright. 
 
 Gold threads in your brown hair weaving 
 The liquid depths of your soulful eyes. 
 
 The blue from the skies was stealing; 
 And the changeful glow upon your cheek. 
 
 Was the sea-shell's tints revealing. 
 A song-bird perched in the willows green. 
 
 Told sweetly of fragrant bowers ; 
 And the low refrain was echoed back 
 
 By the bees amid the flowers. 
 And the busy zephyrs heavy lade 
 
 With the fragrance from the clover. 
 Lingered along in tlieir onward way 
 
 To whisper their joys over. 
 
 And the shadows played at liide-and-seek. 
 
 Among the waving rushes. 
 That with their rustling softlj' broke 
 
 Upon the blissful bushes. 
 The baby wavelets splashing by 
 
 Told me a sweet, glad story. 
 And in my heart the mystic pow'r 
 
 Of love's entrancing glorj'. 
 The world seemed wrapt In fairy light. 
 
 And the stream a magic river. 
 Upon whose breast the changeful gleam 
 
 Of ripples all a-quiver. 
 Upon the water-lilies' hearts 
 
 The brightest gems were beaming. 
 And in the ripples' foamy spray 
 
 Bright rainbow tints were gleaming. 
 But as we glided lightly down, 
 
 I saw jou start and shiver. 
 And thought 'twas from the wind's strong 
 breath 
 
 Grown cold with mists from the river. 
 As you. turned away my heart grew cold. 
 
 And pain its joy was stilling; 
 A glance, a sigh, our cheeks were white, 
 
 Our hearts were sadly thrilling. 
 With weary, aching eyes I saw 
 
 The tears on your pale cheeks quiver, 
 A hand's strong clasp, a lip's light touch. 
 
 We parted — and parted forever. 
 
 GRIFFITH 0. JONES. 
 
 Born: Wales, 1836. 
 Emigrating in his youth with his father to 
 Wisconsin, the subject of this sketch entered 
 the drug business in 1863. In 1883 he estab- 
 lished the Eagle at Augusta, which he still 
 publishes. He has written numerous poems 
 of merit that have received extensive publi- 
 cation in the periodical press. 
 
 COME CLOSER. 
 Come closer, clasp tighter, kiss sweeter, dear, 
 
 For O, love has its winter, its death ! 
 Though God-like, thou 'rt only a sweet flower. 
 
 That'll wither in autumn's cold breath. 
 There's no kiss so warm but 'twill freeze, 
 dear. 
 
 No treasure I always can keep; 
 No arms but will fail to clasp, dear; 
 
 No eyes but will finally sleep! 
 
 Come closer, clasp tighter, kiss sweeter, dear- 
 Let us crowd all eternity in a breath ! 
 Come closer, clasp tighter, kiss sweeter, dear. 
 
 We'll soar beyond, conquer, forget death 1 
 Yes, come closer, closer, clasp tighter, tighter, 
 dear. 
 Kiss sweeter, sweeter, sweeter, dear. 
 Let us crowd all eternity in a breath ! 
 ® 
 
®- 
 
 468 
 
 51 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARTHA L.EMERSON. 
 
 BOKN : Chelmsfokd, Mass., Nov. 1, 1832. 
 The poems of Mrs. Emerson liave appeared 
 
 in tin- liujtun .JuuriKil, - ," ,ii izittc Cnui l;i- 
 
 .Mlx^. MARTHA Ij. >,M1 I.-oN. 
 
 town AdvoL-ale and otlier publications. She 
 was married in 18.5.5. and still resides in her 
 native stute at Box ford. 
 
 LISTEN! 
 Let the tumult and swell of earth's cares go 
 by 
 With its rusliinjf high; 
 And in the pause 'twi.xt the ebb and flow 
 Wiiile the winds are low. 
 Listen ! 
 Cease for a moment the toil and strife 
 
 That burden thy life; [close. 
 
 Let the tired hands fall and the tired eyes 
 And while they repose. 
 Listen 1 
 Just over our heads is music sweet. 
 
 Full and complete: 
 From tlie earth to tlu- stars it sweeps and rolls 
 The music of souls. 
 Listen! 
 Rested and strengtiiened our feet spurn the 
 soil 
 As we turn to our toil ; [vine. 
 
 For the strains from the upper world ever di- 
 Seo for your hearts and mine, 
 Listen ! 
 
 «- 
 
 ADVICE. 
 An M. D. existed who thought for one day 
 He would rest from his labors and hasten 
 
 away 
 With his gun, to discover in forest and field. 
 The game which he hoped that their coverts 
 
 might yield. 
 He wandered all day hut his gun was not 
 
 heard; 
 There appeared neither squirrel, nor rabbit, 
 
 nor bird. 
 Disheartened and weary he returned to his 
 
 wife. 
 Declaring he ne'er had such luck in his life; 
 
 • • I've killed nothing to-day, and such terrible 
 
 waste 
 Of time and of strength, is not much to my 
 taste." 
 
 • ■ Killed nothing," said she, "Well, the reason 
 
 is clear. 
 You should have adhered to your calling, my 
 dear." 
 
 MRS. JANE E. HILDRETH. 
 
 Mrs. Hildreth has written several stories, 
 and occasionallj' writes verse. She is a resi- 
 dent of Kirksville, Missouri, where she is well 
 known and admired for her accomplishments. 
 
 AN ABSENT FRIEND. 
 There came to my liome in the long ago, 
 
 A youth with a manly face; 
 The rich jewels of friendship and worth 
 
 All aglow on his young manly face. 
 Kindred ties bound the lad to my lieart, 
 
 For he came as a child to a mother. 
 And my door stood ajar for his wandering 
 feet. 
 
 As it oft had for many another. 
 Years sped away and he comes back again. 
 
 And there steals o'er my soul a sense of 
 For the lines on his once sunny face [sorrow. 
 
 Tell their story of sadness and sorrow. 
 Tis the old, old story of wither and blight. 
 
 Of clouds that came soon in life's dawning, 
 Shutting down o'er the soul like a pall. 
 
 That hides away the bright morning. 
 Will you come back agaui in the twiligiit of 
 years. 
 
 When the sun's sinking low in the west. 
 And tell of the roses 'twere plucked 'mid the 
 tlH)rns, 
 
 Or speak of thy soul's unrest. 
 Friend, a door stands ajar for thy wandering 
 feet, 
 
 A path leading to it that many have trod. 
 To a home in the mansion not made with 
 hands. 
 
 In the beautiful gardens of God. 
 
 * 
 
©■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 469 
 
 -® 
 
 LILLIE BINKLEY. 
 
 born: Atchison Co., Kan., Dec. 9, 1869. 
 THE poems of this young- lady have received 
 publication in the Texas Siftino-s. Woman s 
 
 LII.I.IK lUNKI.EV. 
 
 Tribune, and imuieruus other pubhcatit>ns. 
 She is at present engaged in school teaching-. 
 
 ..WOMAN, THY VOWS ARE TRACED IN 
 SAND." 
 So it -was said in days of yore. 
 And quoted by some six or more. 
 That woman's vows are traced in sand: 
 And Byron said 'twould ever stand. 
 Though some are fickle, false and fair. 
 And some wear curls who have straight 
 
 hair. 
 The truest liearts mankind can claim 
 More often wear a woman's name. 
 To her who hath a vow to mend 
 A helping hand we would extend. 
 If she hath failed to act her part 
 You'll likely find a broken heart. 
 A woman's wrong is oft endured 
 While other wrongs less wrong, are cured. 
 True woman's vow will stand till time 
 No more shall beat its silvery chime. 
 But she whose vow is falsely made 
 Deserves the tribute Byron paid. 
 Oh: woman, may this tribute stand, 
 Thv vows are writ in heaven s sand. 
 1® 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 Softly as an angel's foot-fall. 
 
 Memory treads her golden shore. 
 Brightly in the sparkling waters 
 She reflects the scenes of yore. 
 Dear familiar faces greet us, 
 
 As the stream glides slowly by 
 Winter's clouds, and summer's sunshine. 
 
 All reflected from the sky. 
 Softly, gently, let her fan us. 
 
 But for her our youth would die. 
 Let her wield her wondrous scepter 
 
 As the changeful years go by. 
 Fading pictures, fleeting phantoms. 
 Fancies, loves and dreams are one. 
 She hath claimed them, let her keep them. 
 
 In her closed and silent room. 
 Gently answer to her echo 
 
 When she calls unto her heart; 
 Fancy takes the future's keeping. 
 
 But the past is memory's part. 
 Fading memories, fleeting memories. 
 Memories sad, and memories sweet, 
 All upon the silent threshold 
 
 Bowing, passing, hourly meet. 
 Bitter memories unforgotten, 
 
 Happy memories cherished yet. 
 Yours it is that crowns our sorrow, 
 
 Youi-s it is that brings regret. 
 Coldest waves of time blow softly. 
 
 Lightly rise and lightly fall. 
 Steal no" memory, mar no blessing. 
 To the world our past is all. 
 
 STILL PICTTRED IN MY MIND. 
 I pause behind the ceaseless din 
 
 That mingles in the town. 
 My thoughts go back to country fields. 
 
 Whilst streets I wander down; 
 The restless crowd goes to and fro. 
 They all may have, for aught I know, 
 A green field pictured in the mind 
 
 Of days and lands afar behind. 
 Oft when the cares of life are still. 
 
 Or peacefully go by. 
 I seem transported to the farm. 
 
 Beneath the country sky ; 
 Beneath the sunset tint I stand, [hand. 
 My sweetheart's pulse throbs in my 
 With youthful glee again we stray 
 
 Across the fragrant new-mown hay. 
 My old white hat and trousers blue, 
 
 My bare feet hard and tan, 
 Tl,e eggs we stole for Easter day. 
 
 Our tow shirts, made by hand- 
 Are scenes that still are bright and clear 
 
 \s when mv boyhood painted there. 
 And when I'm tired of life's great game 
 I turn and view my youth again. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 470 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MARTHA EILEEN HOLAHAN. 
 
 Born: Turner, 111,., July 1, 18G3. 
 Since 1885 this poet lias written for the Chica- 
 go Herald, St. Paul Globe, Boston Tiansfiipt, 
 New York Sun, Peterson's MagMzinc, Mun- 
 
 roe's Mati'aziKc, and her i>()cins lia\'e been 
 much admired. In 1888 she published a long- 
 poem in a neat volume entitled Nondescript 
 or Tlie Passionate Recluse. She is now a ivs- 
 ident of Waba.sha, Minnesota. 
 
 UNDERNEATH THE MISTLETOE. 
 From Christmas dance and pleasant plans. 
 
 You stole away, perchance to rest; 
 You were a daujfhter of the manse, 
 
 And I — a homeless, liapless guest. 
 AlfaiK those storied halls you sped — 
 
 Forjiivc m(^ that I walched you go! — 
 But could 1 help it, when you slied 
 
 More radiance than the tapers' glowi? 
 From Hght-spun jest, and careless niirtli. 
 
 You lied — Oh, love, why did you He(>? 
 Could you have dreamt liow void of worl li 
 
 Your absence Jiiade that chee)' to me'? 
 The rooms were gay with Christ inas-tlme; 
 
 And ladies' laughter, trained and low, 
 Rang soft as distant silver cliinic 
 
 Of l)ells, acro.ss the crystal snow. 
 A waltz sobbed sensuous, soft. Indeed, 
 
 Within till! mazes of that dance 
 
 ©- 
 
 One might have well resigned liis creed. 
 
 Disarmed by Beauty's magic lance; 
 Yet o'er the fairest there you shone, — 
 
 Ah, did 1 not, love, tell you so, \ 
 
 While we two, briefly, we alone. 
 
 Enraptured, 'neath the mistletoe? 
 Within the yule-log's light j'ou stood,- - 
 
 Naj', was I then so much to blame?— 
 Your eyes down-cast in pensive mood. 
 
 Seemed wooing e'en that breast of flame. 
 I loved you sol— you were .so fair! 
 
 But far above me dear, I know; 
 Yet I forgot,— yet, then and there, 
 
 I kissed you 'neath tlie mistletoe. 
 In dreams I oft repeat tliat night 
 
 While pausing 'neath some verdant bough; 
 The distant strain,— that leaping light,— 
 
 My maddened pulse,— long sobered now I 
 And oft I've wondered love, since then,— 
 
 While yule-log seasons come and go,— 
 1 f you recall that Christmas, when 
 
 I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe. 
 One thrilling second 'neath that kiss. 
 
 Your warm lips pulsed. Could you forget? 
 Tliat moment of mad, tempting bliss. 
 
 Seems worth a whole life of regret. 
 Your sweet face quiveied on my breast 
 
 So long, before I let you go, 
 For I in Paradise was blest 
 
 Full well, beneath that mistletoe. 
 Ah. well! The strangest are but weak. 
 
 When pushing 'gainst Fate's iron chain: 
 The passions which we dare not speak. 
 
 Are those that burn within the brain. 
 And whether better to forget 
 
 That Christmas-page of long ago, 
 I would not if I could, regret 
 
 One moment 'neath its mistletoe. 
 So otten, when I pass you by,— 
 
 A serf where you :ire throned a queen,— 
 I wonder if you ever sigh. 
 
 Or wee]), perchance, when all unseen. 
 And if we two should stand again. 
 
 Alone, as in that yule-log glow. 
 Would you be tender, love, as when 
 
 I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe? 
 
 M.\M.MON. 
 
 'Twi.vt golden spires by Mammon carved — 
 
 Insignia of her sordid creed,— 
 The millions jolt and languish, starved — 
 
 Bah! Is it hymns the hungry need? 
 Ye gods! Methinks the angel lyres 
 
 Crash rudely forth — their music fled. 
 W' lien wealth erects such costly sjiires 
 
 O'er creatures mad for want of bread? 
 Down aisles of gilt and splendor, rolls 
 
 Monopoly,— ill spoils arrayed; 
 All careless of the passioned souls 
 
 Lost in tiie strife such gain has made! 
 
 * 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 471 
 
 -® 
 
 RUDOLPH WORCH. 
 
 Born: Germany, June 10, 1846. 
 Rudolph Worch is one of the best known 
 German journalists of the country, and is a 
 thorough master of the English as well as the 
 German language. At the beginning of our 
 civil war he came to the United States, where 
 bis fatlii-i', Major Cliristiau Woroh, Mas thi'ii 
 
 RUDOLPH W()H( H. 
 
 serving thecountry of his adoption. Although 
 hardly 16 years old, young Rudolph, shortly 
 after his arrival in this country, joined bis 
 father's regiment and had the double misfor- 
 tune of catching tlie typhoid fever and being 
 caught by Stonewall Jackson's cavalry. After 
 his return from captivity he was appointed to 
 a clerkship in the military department of the 
 Washington post office, where he served until 
 the end of the war, and was then attached to 
 the editorial staff of the German correspond- 
 ent at Baltimore. In '69 he married Mathilde 
 Lehmann, the daughter of Chas. F. Lehmann, 
 a Baltimore painter of note. After losing 
 all his savings in the publication of a German 
 daily at Baltimore he accepted an editorial 
 position under Fred Hassaurek of the Cincin- 
 nati Volksblatt. In '71 he was called to Fort 
 Wayne, Ind., to take charge of the Volks- 
 freund, which paper he afterward bought 
 and took to Jackson. Michigan, where he is 
 publishing it at this writing, the paper being 
 in Its 18th year. The bulk of Worch's poetry 
 as well as prose is written in German, but he 
 
 has brought forth quite a number of English 
 pieces, mostly unassuming little lyrics con- 
 densing a depth of thought into a few simple 
 lines. He has also translated some master- 
 pieces of German poetry into excellent Eng- 
 lish verse, always foUowingthe original close- 
 ly enough to preserve its peculiar beauty 
 without ever appearing stiff or strained. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 It is ordain'd by Him above. 
 
 That we from those whom most we love 
 
 Be parted. 
 Though nothing in all nature's course 
 The heart fills with such deep remorse. 
 
 As parting. 
 A friend gave you a rosebud rare. 
 You water it with tender care. 
 
 Yet know ye. 
 To-morrow it may bloom so bright, 
 And wither ere another night, 
 
 That know ye. 
 If God has granted you a love, 
 Sweet as a rose, pure as a dove, 
 
 Yet fear ye. 
 In little time she will be gone, 
 And you remaining all alone. 
 
 Be weeping. 
 But you must understand me right, 
 Nor ever lose this from your sight. 
 
 Remember! 
 While parting- sorrow gives sad pain, 
 Tliere's alwaj-s hope to meet again 
 
 For ever ! 
 
 DEFIANCE. 
 
 The wor.se fickle fortune does toss you about, 
 The loftier your bearing, your courage more 
 
 proud ! 
 The mightier the foes, the truer your aim. 
 The fiercer the conflict, the greater your 
 
 fame! 
 The louder life's turmoil, the quieter your 
 
 rest. 
 The more they denounce you, the more you'll 
 
 be blest. 
 Tlie longer the distance, the earlier to start, 
 The colder the weather the warmer the heart. 
 The greater the struggle, the greater the bliss. 
 The coyer the maiden, the sweeter the kiss! 
 
 THE DARK AND THE FAIR. 
 
 A TRANSLATION. 
 
 Thou art ju3t like a flower. 
 So bright, so pure, so sweet, 
 I look upon thee, and sorrow 
 My heart makes strangely beat. 
 I feel that I in blessing. 
 Should touch thy hair so light. 
 Praying that God may preserve thee. 
 So sweet, so pure, so bright. 
 
 •ffi 
 
©- 
 
 472 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. MAY J. DILLEY. 
 
 Born: St. Maky's, III., May 15, 1863. 
 Since 1883 this lady has written both prose 
 and verse. Slie was married iu 1886 to S. V. 
 Dilley, with wiiom slie resides in Mora, New 
 
 MRS. MAY J. DILLEY. 
 
 Mexico. Mrs. Dilley is of a very charitable 
 disposition and is matron of a mission school, 
 and consequently has become very popular 
 amongst lier many acquaintances. 
 
 ©- 
 
 TO A VIOLET. 
 Look up dear little violet, 
 
 Wliy art thou sad and lone? 
 Wliy droop tliy lovely head so low? 
 
 Why have thy smiles all flown? 
 Hiive wanton winds been wliispering- 
 
 Tales t-liat have made thee sad, 
 Tliat thou look'st so like a love-lorn girl 
 
 Who can never more be g'lad? 
 
 Look up dear, gentle violet. 
 
 Lift tliy soft and velvet cheek, 
 Thy saucy love, thv sunbeam 
 
 Would kiss thy lips so ni(>ek: 
 He wonld chnsc away tli(> teardrop 
 
 'I'rciiihlitig iti thy soft dark eye; 
 Why shrink away from love so warm 
 
 Amid thy mates to droop and die? 
 
 Look u]) thou graceful violet, 
 He never more downcast. 
 
 Thy love makes thy life bright and warm. 
 
 Thy storms are over, past. 
 Ah ! What is this? his fervent breath 
 
 Blights beauty from thy brow — 
 Poor, tender, withered violet, 
 
 Thy sorrows are o'er now. 
 
 IN AUTUMN. 
 
 There is a glorious golden glow 
 
 In the far-off western deep. 
 And from the seas of light, below 
 
 The sun has dropped to sleep. 
 Swaying clouds like hammocks near. 
 
 O'er the darkening forests stir. 
 Little clouds scud bj' in fear 
 
 When night lights her Jupiter. 
 The rosy mists now flee away. 
 
 Followed by the purpling shade — 
 Cold gray twilight comes to stay. 
 
 And wraps the earth as in a plaid. 
 Wild winds wing from winter's couch. 
 
 Chilling with their icy breath 
 Every shivering leaf they touch — 
 
 Wilt and witlier it to death. 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 As an artist paints a picture. 
 
 Or sculptor chisels a stone 
 Into the loveliest imagery 
 
 To imagination known ; 
 So stroke by stroke our characters 
 
 By our own works are made — 
 With the Master Artist to train us 
 
 Our cliaractcrs never can fade. 
 
 MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. 
 Earth is so fair and God so good. 
 Oh! that I his goodness understood; 
 Would that my soul could see and know 
 Of all He dt)th on me bestow. 
 I look into tlic solemn nigiit 
 And there behold the pale moon's light, 
 Her queenly majesty on high 
 Sails t lirough the deep and arched sky. 
 While far around and over all 
 A silvery m;nitle she lets fall, 
 While she and all her heavenly train 
 Smile down on fields of .sleeping grain, 
 Ujion the hill whose brow is crowned 
 With a city uttering ne'cn- a sound. 
 And sweet, serene and solemn stand 
 Shafts pointing to a bet ter land. 
 Those whom we love and mourn for still 
 Sleep 'neath the moonlight on the hill. 
 And through the weeping willows wail 
 Wilful winds with mourn fnl tale. 
 While all the bright-eyed flowers nod 
 "Mong t he whispering waving .sod. 
 
 9 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 473 
 
 © 
 
 CHARLES CARGILE. 
 
 Born: Jasper Co., Ga., Dec. 28, 1823. 
 This geutleman received his education at the 
 Mercer university of his native state. For 
 the past quarter of a century Mr. Cargile has 
 contributed quite a number of meritor- 
 ious poems to the leading- papers of America, 
 
 
 CHARLES CARGILE. 
 
 from wliich tliey have been extensively copied 
 by the local press. In person he is of good 
 stature, being: full six feet in height and tips 
 the beam atone hundred and .seventy-two 
 pounds. Mr. Cargile has generally followed 
 the occcupation of farming and also furniture 
 dealer, in which latter business he is at pres- 
 ent engaged at Oiiolona, Arliansas, where he 
 is very popular. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 The grandest structure reared by the Al- 
 mighty's hand 
 
 Is the tenement in which dwells the soul of 
 man; 
 
 For ages men have sought to know it, but it 
 still 
 
 Baffles the efforts of the wisest and most 
 skilled; 
 
 The more they learn the more they find there 
 is to learn,— 
 
 Each knowledge gained reveals new troubles 
 in its turn. 
 
 The faculties and senses of the human kind 
 Surpass the comprehension of the human 
 
 mind,— 
 Like their lleshly abode they too must pass 
 
 away. 
 But unlike it, do not return to dust nor clay; 
 Ages upon ages yet around will roll 
 And leave half its wondrous mysteries un- 
 told. 
 
 But, above all the greatest study is the soul. 
 
 Whose mysteries by pen nor tongue can ne'er 
 be told. 
 
 Men may cut and probe, and cut and probe 
 again. 
 
 But to locate the soul in man is an effort vain ; 
 
 And wlien released from its prison here below. 
 
 Takes its flight and knocks for entrance at an- 
 other door. 
 
 Then think, oh man, the fate that awaits thy 
 soul. 
 
 Worth more to thee than this world with all 
 its gold,— 
 
 For, like your frail form, they too will pass 
 away 
 
 And leave your soul alone to test the judg- 
 ment day — 
 
 And receive its sentence with the saints in 
 Heaven to dwell. 
 
 Or make its abode in an agonizing hell. 
 
 THE BOLD GIRL AND THE MAN IN THE 
 
 MOON. 
 I loved him dearly, but answered nay, 
 Fearing that I might something .say, 
 'Twould cause him my eagerness mistrust. 
 And turn his love into disgust ; 
 But, should he ever come again, 
 I'll give him an answer straight and plain. 
 He came again but 'twas so late, 
 Impatience led me to the gate; 
 We seated 'neath the old oak tree. 
 He on a stump, I on his knee. 
 Fondly he said. My darling dear. 
 What brought you out to meet me here; 
 Knowest thou not 'tis out of place? 
 Oft acts like tliis lead to disgrace. 
 Now George, you know I meant no harm, 
 So 'round his neck I laid my arm. 
 Fondly I said. George, my dear. 
 Listen and something good you'll hear; 
 I will no longer answer nay — 
 Now you yourself may name the day, 
 Look at the man in the moon, hush ! be still, 
 Peeping at us from over the hill. 
 Now really, Jane, I am afraid. 
 He'll tell what we have done and said. 
 You timid boy, what do you mean, 
 If he should tell what he has seen, 
 Or anything that we have said, 
 I'll take a stick and break his head. 
 
 -5! 
 
s- 
 
 -® 
 
 474 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 OLD-STYLE FIRE TONGS. 
 Would that some genius of inventive mind, 
 Could enough of leisure from his business find 
 To somewhat mitigate poor woman's wrongs 
 By an improvement on the old-style flre tongs. 
 For they have drunk the bitter cup to its 
 
 dregs, 
 In tlie use of loose- jawed tongs with dangling 
 
 legs. 
 Ye fathers, brothers, sons and other kinsmen 
 
 near, 
 'Tis with you I plead for those we hold most 
 
 dear; 
 Cannot one be found the task to undertake? 
 If for naught else, then for pity sake, 
 That the blood within our veins may no more 
 
 curd 
 At hearing them say some little ugly word. 
 The wreath of fame will surely deck the brow 
 Of him who shall first make and fill the vow; 
 Historians will do honor to his name. 
 And hoist it on the very pinnacle of fame. 
 And ladies of every land and clime 
 Will chant his name in sweetest rhyme. 
 
 BURGLAES. 
 
 This morning as the clock struck four 
 A gentle rapping at my floor 
 Caused me to spring upon my feet 
 And quickly through the keyhole peep; 
 Three burglars stood on the porch floor. 
 Not far behind them stood three more. 
 Still as tombstones they did stand — 
 Each with a navy six in hand; 
 Puzzled to know what best to do, 
 I from my bed two pistols drew. 
 Then lowly whispered to my wife, 
 .'Wake up and try to save your life," 
 Then tiptoed back to the door 
 Just as I had done before. 
 Impatient now at my delay, 
 I heard one very softly say: 
 He's fast asleep I'll force the door; 
 Another softly said, oh, no. 
 Perhaps he may not be asleep, - 
 Ho through the keyliole too did peep.— 
 I blazed away tluough the keyhole: 
 A shriek, a groan, the tale was told. 
 For strange to you as it may seem. 
 It all turned out to be a dream. 
 
 ee 
 
 LOUD PRAYING. 
 As I passed a country church one day 
 Some one within so loud did pray. 
 It seemed he thouglit that God was deaf. 
 And bawled till he was out of breath. 
 If God knows each wish before expressed, 
 Each thought within each liunian breast, 
 'Tis strange a man of common sense 
 
 Would dare to ofi'er such offense. 
 
 Christ was a good and righteous man — 
 
 Imitate him then near as you can; 
 
 Kneel down beneath some lonely tree. 
 
 And pray in silence as did he; 
 
 Or to your closet in secret go. 
 
 Where none but God your wants needst know, 
 
 And there to him in silence pray,— 
 
 From such he will not turn away. 
 
 For God who heareth all we say 
 
 111 lowest whispers when we pray, 
 
 Would know one's faith was very weak, 
 
 Who praying to him so loud would speak. 
 
 NO REST THIS SIDE OF THE GRAVE. 
 
 Oft my mind when left to roam, 
 
 Goes forth in search for me a home. 
 
 Where free from life's vexatious cares 
 
 I may spend the remnant of my years. 
 
 Sometimes in caverns twixt the liills. 
 
 Whose depths the mind with terror fills: 
 
 Sometimes on islands far away 
 
 Where forests hide the sun all day. 
 
 Sometimes on some oasis wild. 
 
 Where neither man, woman nor child. 
 
 Have ever bowed in prayer to God, 
 
 Or across its desert border trod. 
 
 It seeks, but such can ne'er be found 
 
 This side of where the sun goes down. 
 
 Then bowed with grief alas I cry : 
 
 Where, oh! tell me where can rest be found' 
 
 Echo sends back the sad reply: 
 
 No where save in the silent ground. 
 
 KATEKAUFFMAN. 
 
 Born in Ohio. 
 This lady is a graduate of the University of 
 Delaware in her native state. A vivacious 
 person of energetic and artistic temperament, 
 she has won a respectable measure of success 
 as teacher, artist and writer. 
 
 THE EVENING FlUE. 
 
 Better to me llian wine, as good as friend. 
 
 This blazing basket fixed mid pictured tile; 
 
 Its welcome warmth contentments through 
 
 me send while, 
 
 In veins and flesh, in mind and soul, meau- 
 Forgiven he who coldly gave me slight. 
 
 Forgotten restless longings, thoughts of 
 change. 
 With feet eiislippei'cd and my books to-night 
 
 No kinder fale there .seems in world's wide 
 ningc. 
 O, could 1 in my heart aglow convey 
 
 To exorcise all spells of baleful kind. 
 From thence a charity to all purvey, ^ 
 
 And calm my teasing self in faith so Miiul. 
 At lasl in life's as iti tlie day's decay 
 
 O, may this sacred fire burn pain away'. 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 475 
 
 ^ 
 
 ELMORE E. EWING. 
 
 Born- Ewington, Ohio, Feb. 16, 1840. 
 Entering college at twenty, Mr. Ewing two 
 years later enlisted as a private in tlie civil 
 war. He was soon afterwanl i)romote(i to 
 lieutenant, and was severely wounded in 1864. 
 Tn 1865 this ji-entlem:iii ent'ag-ed in business; 
 
 EL.M(MtE E. EWING. 
 
 and in the same year was married to Miss 
 Minerva Folsom. Tlie poems of Mr. Ewing- 
 have appeared in various newspapers and 
 magazines, and many of them have been de- 
 livered at re-unions and social g-atherings, al- 
 ways being enthusiastically received. Mr. 
 Ewing is still a resident ot his native city, 
 where he is a prominent wholesale merchant. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YEARS. 
 The stuff of which our lives are made, 
 
 Is time, so say the sages ; 
 A person-dge that greed and trade 
 Can not control, nor make afraid — 
 Receives no hue from light or shade. 
 
 But doles to men their ages. 
 So potent is his regjil sway. 
 
 Men deify liis title: 
 And make him lord of night and day. 
 As one by one tliey speed away. 
 And beauty bring, or else decay 
 
 To every thing that's vital. 
 Men put a scythe upon his back, 
 
 A sand-glass in his clutches; 
 
 His bones are bare and painted black. 
 
 And desolation in his track 
 
 The picture shows, and there's a lack 
 
 Of any pleasing touches. 
 Man's inhumanity to man, 
 
 They'd have old time to .share it; 
 But what recks he for mortal ban, 
 Man's race he measures with a span, 
 And terminates each selfish plan — 
 
 The schemes that men inherit. 
 Time gently deals with patient souls 
 
 Who strive in life's endeavor, 
 To render solace not in doles. 
 In sable gown, or fringed stoles. 
 But seek that love which still controls 
 
 And keeps them young forever. 
 Time gently deals, while yet his plow 
 
 Makes deeper still the furrows 
 That he has marked across the brow, 
 And we discern them even now. 
 And 'neath his burdens meekly bow, 
 
 Or be they griefs or sorrows. 
 We speak of time and lo, we mean 
 
 God's love and providence; 
 And though our senses intervene 
 Our souls and him who gave, between. 
 Our fondest hope is that we lean 
 
 On these as we go hence. 
 God's love is not a bruised reed. 
 
 It never breaks nor pierces; 
 It bears us up through sorest need. 
 It solace brings, though heart-strings bleed. 
 It heightens joy, is joy indeed,— 
 
 In desolation cheers us. 
 I'm conscious that I stand to-night 
 
 Within a circle's center. 
 Whose band is broken, and the light 
 From realms unknown to mortal sight 
 Comes streaming down, though Death's sad 
 blight 
 
 Forbids the light to enter. 
 When years have tied we see at last 
 
 The beauty of the blending; 
 Companionship forever past. 
 Could not the eye of faitli forecast 
 Within the future's domain vast 
 
 And bright and never ending. 
 We upward turn the weary eye 
 
 To where the stars are shining. 
 Like sentinels upon the sky. 
 That watch us while the years go by. 
 But we shall falter, you and I, 
 
 Whatever our inclining. 
 In our association here 
 
 We form a constellation ; 
 We do the work within our sphere. 
 In conscious weakness and in fear 
 And though it doth not yet appear, 
 
 God knows our destination. 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 476 
 
 W 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 No star is known to quit the sky, 
 
 And liere is no abiding-; 
 And as tlie years go flitting- by, 
 Like birds of passage swiftly fly. 
 We quit our stations, you and 1, 
 
 Our patlis awliile dividing. 
 Tlie re-assembling- not long hence, 
 
 Now dimly lies before us; 
 Nor recognized by sign or sense. 
 Nor whither gone, nor yet from whence. 
 Nor where shall end, nor where commence 
 
 The everlasting chorus ! 
 For once, 'tis said, the morning stars 
 
 Sang sweetly in the azure; 
 And if their songs were hushed by Mars, 
 Or Jupiter's resounding- cars. 
 Or ceased when mortals went to wars, 
 
 Let peace renew their measure. 
 When man has lived aright his day. 
 
 And served his generation. 
 What can he do but pass away. 
 And leave to other hands the sway 
 That once he bore in life's array 
 
 Of griefs and exaltation? 
 Life's work well done, life's crown well won, 
 
 The goal of our ambition ! 
 And when the sleep of death shall come 
 May we awake beneath the dome 
 That over-spans our heavenly home 
 
 When hope becomes fruition. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S SMILE. 
 
 I'm getting old; my head is gray. 
 And three-score years along the way, 
 I've kept my pilgrimage. To-day 
 
 1 pause. No, that can't be! 
 But I can glance along the years 
 Through which I've passed, and mary tears 
 Have flecked the way; still there appears 
 
 A smile to comfort me. 
 That smile I saw so long ago, 
 Tliat one would scarcely think its glow 
 Would sweetly warm my heart, but know 
 
 It was my mother's smile,— 
 The first that over beamed on me, 
 'Twas full of love as smile could be, 
 Born of a faitli that 1 might be 
 
 To her a loving child. 
 My dimpled hand lier own woiild seek, 
 And i)lacc it softly on herclieek. 
 Ere I a' word of love could speak. 
 
 Yet slie could comprehend. 
 That lier own love in me begot 
 Affection that should perish not. 
 That time should bring to it no blot. 
 
 Till time itself should end. 
 Such faith of her own love was born, 
 Alas! that ever should bo torn. 
 
 The fabric that a heart has worn. 
 
 So warm with hoped-for bliss! 
 What changes have the flying years 
 Brought in their train of hojies and fears. 
 And smiles that struggled oft through tears, 
 
 When all had gone amiss. 
 I cannot say how well was kept 
 The promi.se. Oft it may have slept, 
 And o'er its slumbers I have wept — 
 
 Perhaps I wept too late. 
 But mother's loving- heart ne'er gave 
 A sign of disai)pointment, save 
 When thinking that fc>r me the grave 
 
 Might open first its gate. 
 I fondly hope that there will be. 
 When I have crossed the crj st:il sea. 
 My mother's smile awaiting me 
 
 Hard by tlie Pearly Gate. 
 Her spirit voice and spirit hand 
 Will greet me in tlie better land. 
 And I at length with her shall stand 
 
 Where she has gone to wait. 
 
 TIMOTHY PERRY. 
 
 Born: New Ipswich, N. H., Nov. 7, 1829. 
 Aftek receiving his education, Mr. Perry 
 afterward taught mathematics. He studied 
 law in Brooklyn, N. Y., wliere he is still en- 
 gaged in the practice of his profession. Many 
 poems from the pen of Mr. Perry have ap- 
 peared in the periodical press, and he is fully 
 represented in Poets of New Hampshire. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN BROOK. 
 I sit by the side of the mountain brook 
 
 In the shade of a maple tree. 
 And I wonder well, w hat magic spell 
 
 Gives the place such a charm to nie. 
 The sun shines higii in the sununcM- sky. 
 
 The air is cleiii- and still. 
 As the mountain brook, by tlic quii't nook, 
 
 Comes laugliing down the hill. 
 My boy with a heart like tlie mountain 
 brook. 
 
 In tlie siinliglit's golden gleam. 
 Cheers loud as he floats iiis mimic boats. 
 
 With his bare feet in tlie stream. 
 
 And tlie laugh of llie boy, and the laugh of 
 the brook. 
 
 And the bark of a squirrel ncai-, 
 And the buzz of a bee in the iiKiplf tree 
 
 Are the only sounds 1 Ikmi-. 
 So I sit by the side of the nioiinlain brook. 
 
 In tlie shade of the ninple ti-i'e. 
 And 1 wonder well, wlial magic spell 
 
 Gives tlie place sucli acliarm to nie. 
 
 ®- 
 
*• 
 
 LOCAL, AKD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 REV. JAMES ALBERT LIBBY. 
 
 Born : Poland, Me., July 3, 1833. 
 COMMEXCiNCi txi court the muse when a j'outh, 
 the poems of the Rev. J. Albert Libby have 
 
 REV. JAMES ALBERT LIBBY. 
 
 since appeared extensively in the eastern 
 publications. He is an adventist clergyman 
 in his native town, and is very popular with 
 his flock. 
 
 m 
 
 PATHS. 
 We cannot take our paths away — 
 
 They linger when our feet are gone; 
 Bordered with green — yet trodden gray. 
 
 With here and there a smooth-worn stone. 
 I know the ways of little feet. 
 
 And those of others older grown — 
 And oft as o'er these paths I beat, 
 
 I muse with wordless thoughts alone. 
 I follow now a presence swift — 
 
 A tire is fluttering in the wind. 
 Or gently breezes softly lift 
 
 Her curls — and I am just behind; 
 I hear tiie frolic in the laugh. 
 
 And then the shouting words of glee 
 As running half and halting half. 
 
 The player cried — .. You can't catch me." 
 Sometimes T meet in memory's way 
 
 The stretching hand, the glance of eyes, 
 My lips seem parting, as to say 
 
 Some words of welcome and surprise; 
 
 Or in my ear there sweetly falls 
 
 The words of old-time tenderness — 
 My arms are thrilled to hear the call 
 
 And rise all ready to caress. 
 Ah ! how thej' mock me — these old ways ! 
 
 And yet I would not lose their thread — 
 These hallowed paths of other days 
 
 Lead from my heart out to my dead. 
 Sleep on ! I tread where you have trod — 
 
 Your goal may soon arrest my feet, 
 Till breaking from the tangled sod 
 
 In everlasting joy we meet. 
 
 ANOTHER DAY. 
 Old earth, we know, shall have another day; 
 Her trembling age— if good the voice of 
 Truth — 
 Shall, by the help of Heaven, pass away. 
 And she takes on again the strength of 
 youth ; 
 We hear her groans along the dying years. 
 As she hath shed, like autumn skies, her tears. 
 But, earth, take heart, thou shalt be young 
 again. 
 And doflf thy robes of mourning with a 
 smile ; 
 Glad to forget all weariness and pain. 
 And know they come not back the endless 
 while ; 
 The trees shall clap their hands for very joy. 
 That sin and death can never more destroy. 
 Where are thy graveyards? Emptied of their 
 prey; 
 Where are thy tears? Dried by a hand divine ; 
 Where are thy sorrows? They all went away 
 When graves were spoiled, and saints arose 
 to shine; 
 The hills re-echo now, as these, one throng. 
 Rehearse their victories the plains along. 
 Spring now, ye flowers, for winters never 
 come ; 
 Be not afraid, O sky, of stormy clouds; 
 Mothers, your babes are safely all at home, 
 And looms are weaving here no coffin 
 shrouds; 
 Yonder is lifted high a kingly throne. 
 And Christ is there with all the earth his own. 
 Where is the king that was? in black attire — 
 Where are the hosts that marshaled at his 
 word? 
 Perished forever in the lake of Are; 
 And naught but praise from any tongue is 
 heard. 
 O earth, take heart, thou shalt be new again ! 
 Thousands of voices cry for this — Amen. 
 
 The arching sky is an open book [der; 
 
 And the clouds are the leaves turned un- 
 The stars are the letters whereon we look 
 
 While the lines are traced with wonder. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 478 
 
 & 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEU1CA. 
 
 ADELAIDE D. ROLLSTON. 
 
 Born: Paducah, Ky., Feb. 23, 1854. 
 Since 1884 this lady has written verse with 
 great success. Many of her slietches and 
 stories have appeared in the Youth's Compan- 
 
 AI>i;i.Allll. I>. Kill. 
 
 ion, Once a Week, Harper's Bazar, and other 
 equally prominent eastern periodicals. She 
 is still a resident of her native town, where 
 she is well known and admired. 
 
 FOR THE OLD LOVE'S SAKE. 
 Tliy way, he said, "is smooth and green and 
 fair. 
 There are no thorns to wound and prick thy 
 feet — 
 Where summer reigns and star-like blossoms 
 sweet 
 Heiid to the winds' low call— thy path is 
 there! 
 And mine! Alas! no dewy morning-'s break 
 
 Aci'oss the valley where my way hath lain; 
 And yet thougli youth be dead and faith be 
 slain 
 T keep these tokens— for the old love's sake! 
 Reside the urn that holds no hidden flame 
 Of altar fires thai long- have paled away, 
 I yi'1 may i)ause, and in the ashes gray 
 
 Kead with dim eyes the old familiar name! 
 And, if some shad'wy memory should awake— 
 And once again my eyes with tears grow 
 wet — 
 
 If in my heart should spring some vague re- 
 gret, 
 Nay, do not chide me— for the old love's 
 sake! 
 As one who sees in old-remembered nooks. 
 With eyes that have grown sad with cease- 
 less tears. 
 The same glad beauty of the long-lost years. 
 And hear again the sound of summer- 
 brooks — 
 So, if from troubled dreams I could awake 
 To feel J;hy warm, soft kisses on my face, 
 1 think the sweetness of thy winsome grace 
 Would touch me — only for the old love's 
 sake! 
 
 »- 
 
 SOME DAY. 
 Beside the grave that hides my poor, dead 
 face. 
 Some day beloved, you will come and wait, 
 And, kneeling with the old, remembered 
 grace. 
 With lips to dust will say: "O life, grow 
 desolate! 
 O fond, true heart! O heart that loved me 
 so!" 
 But then I shall not know. 
 When through the stillness of the warm, sweet 
 air 
 Shall pulse the music of the spring's glad 
 call. 
 Your lips will call: "Odaysso fair, so fair! 
 Poor, faithful heart that you should lose 
 them all. 
 And I should learn at last to need you so! " 
 
 But ah ! I shall not know ! 
 O love! O loss! O fair, sweet yesterday! 
 
 To-day we walk in bitterness apart! 
 And yet though youth and hoi)es are gone 
 away 
 Wliat need of tears and vain regret, sweet- 
 heart'i' 
 Since all the love that thrills my pulses so 
 Some day, .some day you'll know! 
 
 A WOODLAND FLOWER. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Some day — who knows';' — with strange and 
 wondrous power 
 From out my dreams a, sudden tliought may 
 spring, • 
 
 Tlu)se gems, long hidden, like my way-side 
 flower, 
 A message to some lonely heart may bring; 
 And like my star-eyed blossom, hid from 
 mortals 
 In cool, green woods, and dim, untrodden 
 ways. 
 Some untried verse may open the mystic por- 
 tals, 
 And the world find it — "after many days." 
 
 — a 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMJfiUICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 479 
 
 JOSIAH MOODY FLETCHER. 
 
 Born: Halifax, Mass,. Jan. 14, 1838. 
 
 Graduating at Lowell high school in 1842, 
 the following- year Mr. Fletcher settled at 
 Nashua, where he has ever since resided, with 
 the exception of a year spent in Mexico and 
 California. In 1861 he married Miss Adaliue 
 Jane Eastman. For six years Mr. Fletcher was 
 engaged in the booli-selliug and publishing- 
 business, but since 1854 he has been iu bus- 
 iness as a manufacturer of furniture, and is 
 now in-esident of the Fletclier and Webster 
 
 JOSIAH MOODY FLETCHER. 
 
 Furniture Co., and proitrietor of tlie Nashua 
 Novelty Works. Since hisyoutli he has court- 
 ed the muse, and at eighteen published Gold- 
 en Gift, a work that contained a half-dozen of 
 his own pieces, and which reached a sale of 
 over one hundred thousand copies. In 1890 
 Mr. Fletcher publislied a magnificent volume 
 of nearly three hundred and fifty pages, en- 
 titled A Thousand Songs of Life, Love, Home 
 and Heaven. Mr. Fletcher is the editor of 
 several gift books; and occasionally writes 
 under the nom de plume of Park Moody. 
 
 m- 
 
 I ASK NOT FOR WEALTH. 
 I ask not wealtli, I ask uot fame. 
 Nor lofty place, nor sounding name, 
 For oh, there is a dearer lot. 
 Although the worldly know it not! 
 It is to love, to feel the sweet 
 
 Delight of hearts that warmly beat. 
 To dwell in trustful love and peace, 
 That fleeting time can but increase. 
 
 A PRAIRIE HOME. 
 
 Give me a home where evening's banners 
 
 Gayly wave o'er tlie twilight strand; 
 Life is sweet on the broad savannas, 
 
 Far away in the sunset land. 
 Give me a home -where freedom's pinion 
 
 Waveth her snow-white folds on high. 
 Far in the broad and brave dominion. 
 
 Closed around by the sunset sky. 
 Soft is the blue of star-gemmed azure. 
 
 Green are the fields where the bison roam; 
 All things add to the hunter's pleasure. 
 
 Far away in his Western home. 
 Oh! 't is sweet when the heart is weary. 
 
 Far from the busy world to fly; 
 Give me a home on the distant prairie, 
 
 Closed around by the sunset sky. 
 
 BARREN OF LOVE. 
 A barren world the lieart will find 
 When really 't is a barren mind 
 That makes it so; in that degree 
 That love is cold, love's world will be. 
 
 HATE. 
 The vestibule of hell is hate. 
 Where hungry devils lie in wait 
 For silly souls of low estate. 
 
 LET TIME ROLL ON. 
 Let time roll on, we need not moan; 
 It eases not the way to groan ; 
 Be up and cheerful, by and by 
 Old Time himself will have to die. 
 
 TOLERATION. 
 Things often in a sense are false 
 
 That in another sense are true. 
 And wrangling makes the heart ache oft, 
 
 To merest misconception due; 
 The wiser way for all mankind 
 
 Is toleration's smoother course; 
 A stubborn and unyielding mind 
 
 Is wounded by its own self force. 
 
 ADMITTANCE TO HEAVEN. 
 Wlien for heaven a soul is fitted 
 
 By an all-perfecting love. 
 Then to heaven 't will be admitted. 
 
 Whether here or up above. 
 
 BEAUTY'S DANGER. 
 
 With double care the devil's net 
 Is for a liandsome woman set. 
 With double consequences fraught. 
 For with the Eves are Adams cauglit. 
 
 -* 
 
m- 
 
 480 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 THE MORNING SONG. 
 A few inquiring- little chirps are heard 
 Before the morning- carol of a bird, 
 Seeking- assurance that the day's at hand 
 Before it bids its little throat expand; 
 And in the early morning well it may,— 
 "T is always darkest just at break of day. 
 So, oft, the spirit in distress and gloom 
 Holds back its song in presence of the tomb; 
 It lacks assurance that the morning light 
 Is following closely on the shades of night; 
 And well it may, o'erspread by death's dark 
 
 wing. 
 But oh ! the songs 't will in the morning sing. 
 
 THE DAISIES. 
 While wintry tempests coldly blow, 
 
 And o'er the meadows sweep. 
 Beneath the drifts of downy snow 
 
 Unharmed the daisies sleep. 
 In sunless solitude tliey dwell 
 
 Through all the wintry hours. 
 Till summer skies dissolve the spell 
 
 And welcome forth the flowers. 
 Oh I let me live, when tempests roll 
 
 And rage around my path, 
 In such humility of soul 
 
 As to escape their wrath : 
 And let me like the daisies lie. 
 
 When done with mortal strife. 
 Believing that a fairer .sky 
 
 Will wake my soul to life. 
 
 *- 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 Had I a harp by angels strung 
 
 To breathe the music of the skies; 
 Had I the skill and power divine 
 
 To wake its grandest ]i;i,rmonies, 
 I'd strike it not to sounding fame. 
 
 Ah, no! but let its breathings prove. 
 Though every chord sIkhiUI melt with flame, 
 
 The tenderness of woman's love. 
 They know it not who pay their court 
 
 At beauty's shrine with licartless praise; 
 They know it not who idly sport 
 
 With woman's smile in summer daj's; 
 But when the clouds of sorrow lower. 
 
 And man's frail bark is temiiest-driven 
 O'er lif(»'s dark sea, oh! then its power 
 
 Is like tlie very strength of heaven. 
 
 THE LUNATIC. 
 Just to test a lunatic the doctor asked him 
 
 " whether 
 The weather made the rain or the rain made 
 
 tlie weather;" 
 Sizing up the doctor, he answered him by 
 
 saying: 
 "Does the braying make the ass, or the ass 
 
 make the braying? " 
 
 WILL H.HOSKINSOX. 
 
 BoKN : Mud Kivek, Ky., Oct. 13, 1860. 
 The subject of this sketch follows the pro- 
 
 fc^sinii (if IcricliiiiL:', Hi- i-iirlirr iii'Milurtidns 
 
 WII.I, H. noSKlNSON. 
 
 were in tljc form of parodies. His jioems 
 have appeared in the local press generally. 
 
 DO WHAT IS BIGHT. 
 
 Through sunshine and shadow, through sor- 
 row and pleasure. 
 O'er rivers of bliss and o'er gulfs of despair; 
 May tills maxim of old be preserved as atreas- 
 
 u i-e 
 In the depth of thy nund as a light shining 
 
 tliere. [forsake thee. 
 
 Should foes overpower thee, or loved ones 
 Should troubles surround thee like clouds of 
 
 the night — 
 Stand firm through the storm — liarm shall 
 
 not overtake thee, Li"if?ht. 
 
 And remember this maxim: to do what is 
 Let scofifers rebuke and let enemies chide thee, 
 Let this be youi- sliield in the l)ittero.st strife: 
 Insi)ired !)>• the I'ight let the envious deride 
 
 tliee: . Llife. 
 
 Ever knowing no falsehood can stain ;i pure 
 Walk not from the path where these lines 
 
 would direct thee — 
 O'er thorns they will lead tlice to th'lds fair 
 
 and bright ; 
 Omnipotent i)ower shall surely protect thee 
 Down life's rugged road, if you do what is 
 
 right. 
 
 -8 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 481 
 
 -© 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 Born: Providence, R. I., Feb. 24, 1824. 
 The early education of Mr. Curtis was received 
 in a private sclaool at Jamaica Plain, Massa- 
 chusetts. When fifteen years of ag-e, he became 
 a clerk in a mercantile house in the city of New 
 York, and in 1843 became a member of the 
 Brook Farm Community. 
 
 From 1846 to 1850 Mr. Curtis spent in Italy 
 Berlin, Egypt, and Syria, and on his return to 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 America he published his first book, Nile-Notes 
 of a Howadji, and soon thereafter joined the 
 staff of the New York Tribune. Since that 
 time he has been a journalist continuously. 
 
 He was one of the original editors of Put- 
 nam's Monthly, which was commenced in 1853. 
 Curtis has been a constant contributor to Har- 
 per's Monthly Magazine since 1853; and to Har- 
 per's Weekly, of which he has been oditor-in- 
 chief since 1857. A number of articles also 
 Irom his pen appeared in Harper's Bazar dur- 
 ing 1867-73. 
 
 Some of hlfl magazine articles were also col- 
 lected and pubhsned in book-form under the 
 title.s of The Potiphar Papers and Prue and I 
 A novel -vas also written by him, for Harper's 
 weekly entitled Trumps, which also afterward 
 appeared in book-form. 
 
 This great American journalist has won an 
 enviable reputation, not only as a great writer, 
 out also aa a great lecturer and public speaker, 
 ana he has been a constant contributor to the 
 literature of the day ever since he chose writ- 
 ing as his profession. 
 
 Mr. Curtis has also attained a national re- 
 putation as a politician. The political senti- 
 ments of this gentleman have, as a rule, been 
 invariably in favor of the republican party. 
 
 EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 
 
 Sing again the song you sung 
 When we were together young— 
 When there were but you and I 
 Underneath the summer sky. 
 
 Sing the song, o'er and o'er. 
 Though I know that nevermore 
 Will it seem the song you sung 
 When we were together young. 
 
 SPRING SONG. 
 
 A bird sang sweet and strong 
 In the top of the highest tree! 
 
 He said " I pour out my heart in song 
 " For the summer that soon shall be.' 
 
 But deep in the shady wood. 
 
 Another bird sang ■• I pour 
 "My heart on the solemn solitude 
 
 " For the spring that return no more. 
 
 THEODORE WINTHROP. 
 
 KILLED AT GREAT BETHEL JUNE 10, 1861. 
 
 How often in the strange old days 
 Before the war's sharp summons blew. 
 
 We strolled through all these woodland ways 
 While loud the blue-bird sang and flew. 
 
 How gaily of a thousand things 
 
 We talked, and rusthng through the leaves 
 We sang the songs of other springs 
 
 And dreamed the dreams of summer eves. 
 
 To this bold height our footsteps came, 
 Our eyes beheld the distant sea:— 
 
 To-day, I sit and call his name. 
 And know he will not answer me. 
 
 friend beyond this voice of mine. 
 
 Beyond these eyes, this baffled hand. 
 Immortal in a youth divine 
 
 I see thy radiant figure stand. 
 
 We do not count each other lost 
 Divided though our ways may be: 
 
 Two ships of different breezes tost 
 Still sailing the mysterious sea. 
 
 No cloud of death can long obscure, 
 Nor touch with any doubt or fear. 
 
 The love that keeps the old faith pure. 
 Contented whether there or here. 
 
 -4 
 
©- 
 
 482 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ->^ 
 
 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 
 
 Born: Honolulu, H. 1., Aug. 25, 1851. 
 This great author received his educatiou in 
 New York and Germany. In 1870 he attended 
 Columbia law school one term, then adopted a 
 literary life, and again went abroad. In 1871 
 he married Eosc, second daughter of Nathaniel 
 Hawthorne. From 187.5 to 1877 he was assistant 
 editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and following 
 two years edited the Boston Courier. In 1875 
 appeared his first volume of poems, entitled 
 Rose and Roof tree. He has also written several 
 novels, edited various works, and dramatized 
 Tennyson's Elaine. 
 
 His wife. Rose, has also written numerous 
 short stories and poems, and is somewhat of an 
 artist. 
 
 THE PHCEBE-BIRD. 
 
 Yes, I was wrong about the Phcebe-bird. 
 Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard : 
 I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow 
 Came from one throat, or that each note could 
 
 borrow 
 Strength from the other, making one more 
 
 brave 
 And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. 
 But thus it is. Two songs have men and 
 
 maidens: 
 One is for the hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence. 
 Our voices vary with the changing seasons 
 Of life's long year, for deep and natural rcr.- 
 
 sons. 
 Therefore despair not! Think not you have 
 
 altered. 
 If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered. 
 We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain. 
 Delight, and death, and moods of bliss or bane, 
 With love, and hate, or good, and evil — all. 
 At separate times, in separate accents call; 
 Yet 'tis the same heart-throb within the breast 
 That gives an impulse to our worst and best. 
 I doubt not, when our earthly cries are ended. 
 The listener finds them in one music blended. 
 
 88- 
 
 THE SINGING WIRE. 
 Hark to that faint and fairy twang 
 
 That from the bosom of the breeze 
 Has caught its rise and fall ; there rang 
 
 /Eolian harmonies ! 
 
 I looked ; again the mournful chords, 
 In random rhythm lightly flung 
 
 From off the wire, came, shaped in words; 
 And thus, meseemed, they sung: 
 
 "I, messenger of many fates, 
 Strung to all strains of woe or weal. 
 
 Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates 
 With all men know or feel,— 
 
 " O, is it strange that 1 should wail? 
 
 Leave me my tearless, sad refrain. 
 When in the pine-top wakes the gale 
 
 That breathes of coming rain. 
 
 " There is a spirit in the post; 
 
 It, too, was once a murmuring tree; 
 Its sapless, lone and withered ghost 
 
 Echoes my melody. 
 
 " Come close, and lay your listening ear 
 Against the bare and branchless wood. 
 
 Say, croons it not, so low and clear. 
 As if it understood? 
 
 I listened to the branchless pole 
 That held aloft the singing wire; 
 
 I heard its muffled music roll. 
 And stirred with sweet desire. 
 
 " O wire more soft than seasoned lute, 
 Hast thou no sunlit word for me? 
 
 " O, though so long so coyly mute, 
 Sure she may speak through thee! " 
 
 I listened; but it was in vain, 
 
 At first, the wind's old, wayward will 
 
 Drew forth again the sad refrain: 
 That ceased, and all was still. 
 
 But suddenly some kindling shock 
 
 Struck flashing through the wire: a bird. 
 
 Poised on it, screamed, and flew; the flock 
 Rose with him, wheeled, and whirred. 
 
 Then to my soul there came this sense: 
 " Her heart has answered unto thine: 
 
 She comes, to-night. Up! hence, O hence! 
 Meet her: no more repine! " 
 
 Mayhap the fancy was far-fetched ; 
 
 And yet, mayhap, it hinted true. 
 Ere moonrise. Love, a hand was stretched 
 
 In mine, that gave me — you ! 
 
 And so more dear to me has grown 
 Than rarest tones swept from the lyre. 
 
 The minor-movement of that moan 
 In yonder singing wire. 
 
 Nor care I for the wi 11 of states, 
 
 Or aught besides, that smites that string, 
 Since then so close it knit our fates. 
 
 What time the bird took wing. 
 
 THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES. 
 
 The sunshine of thine eyes, 
 
 O still, celestial beam ! 
 Wliatever it touches it fills 
 
 With the life of its lambent gleam. 
 
 The sunshine of thine eyes, 
 
 let it fall on me ! 
 
 Though I be but a mote of the air, 
 
 1 could turn to gold for thee, 
 
 — ^8i 
 
)►]& 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 483 
 
 -« 
 
 MANLIUS T. FLIPPIX. 
 
 Born : Monroe Co., Ky., July 29, 184L 
 From the ageof sixteen to twenty-four young 
 Flippin Wits engaged in studying- and teach- 
 ing-. He was admitted to the bar In 1865, and 
 began the practice of his profession at Tomp- 
 iiinsville, the county seat of liis native coun- 
 ty, where he still resides. Mr. Flippin has 
 served several sessions as republican member 
 to the house of the Kentucky legislature. In 
 1.ST4 he was elected .judi:e of the comitv court 
 
 8 
 
 M. T. FLIPPIN. 
 
 for four years, and received the re-election in 
 1878; and again in 1886 was elected to the same 
 position. He has also held other impor- 
 tant positions of public trust, and is very 
 popular in his native state. He was married 
 in 1871 to Miss Susan Maxey. The poems of 
 Mr. FHppin have generally appeared under 
 the nom de plume of Eugene. Tliis gentle- 
 man has a very strong predilection for lit- 
 erature, but for twenty years the demands 
 and the labors of official and professional bus- 
 iness have left him little time to devote to 
 literary pursuits. He has a splendid library 
 and is a close student. Personally, Judge 
 Flippin is of fair complexion, auburn hair, 
 and eyes of hazel, and is six feet four inches 
 In height. 
 
 THE REAL. 
 Yes, Truth is more than Fiction strange! 
 The weird and dim Ideal 
 
 Gives out no shape or shade so bright. 
 
 So gorgeous as the Real. 
 No pencil touch can ever slietch 
 
 The halos of the even. 
 As shining streaks of golden light 
 
 Stretch up the western heaven. 
 The soul was ne'er on canvas thrown. 
 
 By painter's magic easel. 
 Nor Hebe's nor Hecate's blush e'er traced 
 
 By cunning sculptor's chisel. 
 The best nor worst of heart or soul 
 
 Ne'er on the canvas lingers: 
 The smile of joy, the throe of grief 
 
 Elude the wizard fingers. 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 The frozen heart, locked up in breast of snow. 
 Secure from word or glance, secure from 
 harm — 
 While through it only icy currents flow — 
 
 O, Letters, ye can touch and make it warm! 
 Magicians, thou dost wield a wand which 
 starts 
 Strong tempests in the heart's soft-swelling 
 sea; 
 Thou hast a talisman so sweet that hearts 
 Of stone must yield their treasures up to 
 thee. 
 The ice and snow on Hecla's lofty crest, 
 
 Defy the storms of night, the beams of day; 
 But by thy wizard, unseen fingers press'd. 
 The ice dissolves.tlie snow-banks melt away. 
 Thj' mute and voiceless words, when all 
 alone. 
 Still sigh and whisper, to the heart appeal- 
 ing; 
 Awake, asleep, they woo us, on and on. 
 And pluck and twine the wild-flower wreath 
 of feeling. 
 
 REMEMBER ME. 
 
 Remember me I remember me I 
 When morning's pure and brilliant light 
 Springs from thedark embrace of night; 
 When birds from out the bower sing. 
 And plume anew their silken wing. 
 
 My dearest friend, remember me! 
 
 Remember me I remember me! 
 Amid the splendid glow of noon. 
 When day displays her richest boon ; 
 When every heart with joj- is crowned. 
 And all is life and light around. 
 
 Oh! then wilt thou remember me! 
 
 Remember me ! remember me ! 
 In evening's calm and holy hours. 
 When zephyrs kiss the blushing flowers. 
 When clouds of gold hang o'er the west. 
 And nature lulls herself to rest. 
 
 Oh I dearest friend, remember me! 
 
 -© 
 
-^ 
 
 484 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 O realm of the southland! fair clime of the 
 
 Whose birds and wliose blossoms enrapture 
 
 the sight; . 
 
 Whose valleys of emerald and mountains of 
 
 Smiles sweetly in daytime and ^leam through 
 
 the night. 
 The sheen of thy meadows, the blue of thy 
 
 sky. 
 Shine on and forever with passionate glow. 
 And the morn, noon and evening unfold to 
 
 ttlG GVG 
 
 Thy wild wealth of flowers of crimson and 
 snow. 
 
 There the best gifts of spring-time forever re- 
 main. 
 
 And the fruit and the blossom their seasons 
 
 prolong; 
 There the sweet-scented breezes float over the 
 
 plain. 
 And bear on their bosoms the incense of song. 
 
 There the queen-like palmetto, the myrtle and 
 vine, . 
 
 And the wild waste of blossoms environ the 
 maze; 
 
 While the moss-covered cypress and whisper- 
 ing pine. 
 
 Throw over the valleys a soft summer haze. 
 
 'Tis there the weird moonbeams are wander- 
 ing through 
 
 The ruins of castles distinguished in story; 
 
 And there that the shimmer and sparks of the 
 dew. 
 
 And the shine of the astral unite in their 
 glory. 
 
 It IS there, it is there that the murmuring 
 palm 
 
 Bends over and kisses the clear crystal wave; 
 
 It is there that the flow'rets, in the night s 
 holy calm, 
 
 Dip down in the waters, their beauties to lave. 
 
 O, beautiful southland! the shrine of the 
 
 heart ! 
 Land of the banana, the lemon and lime! 
 No sky and no clouds, no sun can impart 
 Such a wild wealth of passion as glows in thy 
 
 clime. 
 And oh! with what fever the heart must 
 
 adore 
 The notes of thy soft harp, the song of thy 
 
 bird; 
 While the sea waves that break on thy gray, 
 
 rocky shore. 
 Make music the wildest the ear ever heard. 
 
 Thy picture, bright clime, shall glow in my 
 breast — 
 
 Thysun-riiys, in fancy around me shall beam; 
 And shrined in my heart still thy glories shall 
 
 rest 
 Forever and aye, like some beautiful dream. 
 Smile on. blessed land! thou art lovely and 
 
 lorn. 
 With thy deep-tangled wildwoods and shad- 
 owy hills ; 
 Still back on the tide of my memory is borne 
 The sound of thy cascades, the song of thy 
 
 rills. 
 O bright sunny south! though shattered and 
 
 torn. 
 And rent by the strife of the war-darkened 
 
 years; , 
 
 Though broken and bleeding, and mangled 
 
 and shorn. 
 Thy beauty and glory still smile through thy 
 
 tears. 
 And now that the war-cloud obscures thee no 
 
 more. 
 Remember thine honor, thy glory remains; 
 And the wealth and the worth that adorned 
 
 thee of yore. 
 Shall Phcenix-like, rise from the wreck of thy 
 plains. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 The heart that's dull and cold may love 
 
 And soon forget the flame; 
 But some, when lit by passion's beam. 
 
 Forever glow the same. 
 Some faiths are like a vestal Are 
 
 In fane forever burning, 
 A vital, subtile element 
 
 That knows no shade of turning. 
 Some loves are like that fabled heart 
 
 So long the vulture's prey. 
 Though fed on by consuming years. 
 They can not waste away. 
 
 THE HARP. 
 
 What wild and glorious "''"-^^^l^y^,^/,^';^. 
 What respite from the starless gloom of ^oe. 
 What antidote from every shape ''f' • 
 Belongs to thee. O harp of golden strings. , 
 Whysl.ould the willing tongue, or meaning 
 
 Or penS: feeling ever speak, when tl^ou^ 
 Canst breathe their very soul so s«cetl> 
 
 well? , , . ,,., ,,,.,, 
 
 Dear, faithful harp! When all thmgs ebt an 
 
 Thou stSJ"n.aineth true! Thou ar, a f.W 
 When glorious sunshine g.lds our >kj ol'.te^ ^ 
 A.^ wlien that sky is flecked with cloudsand 
 •Tis thino'thine to sweep our load of grief I 
 Into the Lethean wave! 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAl, POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 48? 
 
 -® 
 
 JAMES DEWITT C. HOIT,M.D. 
 
 Born: Laconia, N. H., Aug. 25, 1843. 
 The poems of Dr. Hoit have appeared in the 
 Voice of Masonry, Cliicago Inter-Ocean and 
 
 ihr jipi-ioflii'al pr("i-; <roni>r:illy. Ho cnifhritcd 
 
 JAMES U'WITT C. HOIT, M. D. 
 
 in medicine at Missouri medical college at St. 
 Louis, and now practices iiis profession of 
 physician and surgeon at Yates City, 111. Dr. 
 Hoit was married in 1867 to Miss Mary Taylor, 
 but he is now a widower. 
 
 m 
 
 BRAVE LITTLE GREECE. 
 
 Rrave little Greece! in learning's dawn, 
 A realm in story, known to fame; 
 That gloried in the lustre of — 
 Inspired Phidias' radiant name. 
 In hold designs and works of art. 
 He made the fame of Greece renowned; 
 Thro' every age of time's great scroll, 
 Honor to him and her redound. 
 ■Birth-place of scholars and statesmen. 
 Law-givers, philosophers, sage. 
 Their valor, wisdom and grandeur. 
 Made Atticas' heroic age. 
 Bright tho' the years that are coming. 
 The beacon they lighted shall grow. 
 Reaching gigantic proportions. 
 Like a vast river's onward flow. 
 'Twas here that Socrates gave us 
 The first in academy's ways: 
 
 Lycurgus, too, dealt in law's lore. 
 And Sappho sang sweetly her lajs. 
 Her warriors in freedom's first van, 
 Advancing with buckler and shield — 
 The fate of Chaeroneas' battle. 
 Caused freedom's first banner to yield. 
 The prize that Macedon's Philip, 
 From Demosthenes' phalan:x bore. 
 Sank, only to rise ages hence. 
 On Columbia's ocean-washed shore, 
 Guiding from tyranny's darkness. 
 To the light of a brighter day — 
 Aye, France, in B;irtlu)ldi's mission. 
 Bids God speed to liberty's way. 
 We're gathered here in festal mood. 
 Yes — 'tisour thanksgiving meeting; 
 No victor of Olympian game. 
 To be crowned wiiii laurel greeting: 
 No Isthmean Knight, of noble form. 
 Who with spruce awaits our crowning. 
 Yet Steele is here, our library's friend, 
 To whose thought belongs its founding. 
 None to claim the parsley garland 
 Of the Pythian and Nemian sport; 
 But up steps librarian Ransom, 
 With his last annual report. 
 Showing, in a financial way. 
 With pleasure — how the status looks; 
 How barren, too, this life .would be, 
 Without our festivals and books. 
 
 GARFIELD. 
 In gilded hall, in guarded tent. 
 
 Or in the battle's fray. 
 Not a statelier head has fallen. 
 Than that we mourn to-day. 
 And among the world's great mirtyrs, 
 
 Higli on the scroll of fame, 
 Yes, beside lamented Lincoln's 
 
 Stands Garfield's cherished name. 
 Where the lullabies of ocean 
 
 Break sadly on the shore, 
 Columbia sits weeping, as 
 
 She once has wept before. 
 There, stern diplomat and statesman. 
 
 With eyes bedimmed with tears. 
 Tell the Nation of its sorrow. 
 
 Its agony, its fears. 
 The beacon lights of freedom, now 
 
 Relit from Jersey's shore. 
 Proclaim, in accents lurid, that 
 
 Our hero is no more. 
 Ere the morrow's sun is risen 
 
 On darkness, death and gloom. 
 The muffled drum, and tolling bell 
 
 Resound a patriot's dtx)m. 
 Now the Nations stand uncovered 
 
 Around the chieftain's bier; 
 Now all parties, creeds and people 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 * 
 
 486 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 His memorj' will revere. 
 
 Friends, thanks for your kind attention 
 
 As we join in this last requiem. 
 
 At our humble Libi'ary say. 
 
 This tribute to the dead; 
 
 And as we go through Arch of Titus, 
 
 We have g-ained by this sad lesson. 
 
 Passing on by Appian Way. 
 
 Be it forever said. 
 
 
 
 
 THE FORUM. 
 
 MRS. L.K.H. WHITEHEAD. 
 
 We have read of Rome's great Forum, 
 
 Bokn: Niles, Mich., Nov. 14, 1853. 
 
 Of its arches deep and high, 
 
 The v>oems of Mrs. Whitehead have occasion- 
 
 How its columns and its friezes 
 
 'Neath the dust of ages lie; 
 
 Yes, how men of wondrous power. 
 
 ally appeared in the county pjipers. She was 
 
 
 , 
 
 In this ample circle swayed 
 
 
 .^m\ — 
 
 The great surging- Roman masses; 
 
 
 ^H£|yyK*jttb 
 
 How the tumult, too, was stayed. 
 
 
 J|H|kSj^H||^^^ 
 
 Aye, 'twas in this spacious structure 
 
 
 ^gupr^^Sfl^^HB 
 
 And hard by Severus' lig:ht. 
 
 
 w^B^^ N^^^K 
 
 That Ca;sar came and talked and planned 
 
 
 ~^W ^^^b> 
 
 E'er Rome's eagle took its flig-ht. 
 
 
 1 ^^h| 
 
 Swift-winged to Europe's fartherest shore. 
 
 
 ^^ f*^ W' 
 
 O'er hot Afric's arid sand. 
 
 
 Or on to Asia's desert plain 
 
 
 * * ^j^^vf 
 
 With Imperial Rome's command. 
 
 
 "^Mif ^^f '. 
 
 Here upon the sacred rostrum. 
 
 
 ■""*^ ^M* 
 
 Gems of thought were ever heard; 
 
 
 :^BBp 
 
 Here Rome's Orators and Statesmen 
 
 
 ^[ytHH|B, 
 
 On to valor Romans stirred; 
 
 1: _^ I^K^L^ 
 
 As the swinging of the portals 
 
 iL..^S. TS^raii^^ 
 
 And the sentry on liis round. 
 
 IniiMwIw 1 ^— >fc 
 
 With the chanting of the vestals 
 
 
 1#' *■- > A > 
 
 Through these massive walls resound. 
 
 
 '^Z. ^. *•' '^'' --^-''•' 
 
 Rising high in stately grandeur. 
 
 
 '*, ^ 1 * f * - 
 
 Monument of Rome's great pride. 
 
 
 Like a giant sternly gazing 
 
 
 Out upon old Tiber's tide. 
 
 
 As its strong and yellow current 
 
 
 Flows I'esistlcss, full and free. 
 
 
 
 
 Onward past the Roman fortress. 
 
 MUS. LILLIE K. H. WHITEHEAD. 
 
 Till it mingles with the sea. 
 
 married in 1870 to Charles Whiteheail, and 
 
 'Twas upon its stony pavement 
 
 I 
 
 jow resides at Festus, Mo. 
 
 Tyrant greed caused blood to flow. 
 
 
 As Virginia's life here ended 
 
 GERANIUM. 
 
 By a father's cruel blow; 
 
 As I sit here rocking my baby fair. 
 
 Here among the shrines and altars 
 
 A delicate fragrance fills the air. 
 
 Wrong(>d Virginius lifts the knife, 
 
 Of a leaf that is crushed in bab\ 's hand. 
 
 in plain view of hated Chmdius, 
 
 From the rose geraiiinm, on the stand. 
 
 Takes his only daughter's life. 
 
 Oh lliat the life of my bal)y fair 
 
 Just beside you marble statue 
 
 Siiall be filled with the fragrance of truth 
 
 Of Rome's Pomuey, called the great. 
 
 and prayer. 
 
 Ca^sar tottered, weak and bh^'ding, 
 
 And like geranium leaves, so sweet, 
 
 Wrapped within his cloak of state; 
 
 Scatter the fragrance, to all she may meet. 
 
 Cassins 'twas, witli Brutus aiding. 
 
 We iiavo a baby at our house— 
 
 Sent the dagger to his heart, 
 
 Tlie sweetest you ever saw, 
 
 With no plea save his ambition, — 
 
 Her eyes so blue, her lips so red. 
 
 Well tliey done a traitor part. 
 
 In fact our baby's without ;i Haw. 
 
 Here came Senators and Generals, 
 
 She has the tiniest hands and feet. 
 
 Witii the lyflwyei'S to the courts. 
 
 Red rosy cheek and .soft brown liair. 
 
 The victors in triuniplial car 
 
 Sucli a cunning a nose and diinplt d chin. 
 
 Atid the Prii'tors to the sports. 
 
 
 Indeed our baby's veiy fair. 
 
 * 
 
©■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 487 
 
 -^ 
 
 MRS. CORELLI C. W. SIMPSOX. 
 
 Bokn: East Taunton, Mass., Feb. 20, 1837. 
 Prior to her marriage this lady led an event- 
 ful life as teacher, artist and was the first to 
 open a kinderg-arten in Maine. Since her 
 marriage in 1865 to A. L. Simpson, a leading 
 
 MRS. CORELLI C. W. SIMPSON. 
 
 lawyer in Bangor, the pencil and brush of 
 Mrs. Simpson, together with lier pen, have 
 been kept busily employed. Her poems have 
 received extensive publication in the period- 
 ical press, and have been very favorably re- 
 ceived. 
 
 ENDEAVOE. 
 
 Like skyward sparks our souls aspire 
 
 To fall as drops the sand. 
 Morn finds 'mong clouds each heart's desire; 
 
 At eve we grope on land. 
 We've failed our highest to attain. 
 Shall we tlien cease to try again? 
 Alike to things both near and far 
 
 With gleeful, prattling shout, 
 To nurse's cap or distant star 
 
 The babe's wee hands stretcli out. 
 From striving shall tlie babe desist 
 Because the moon meets not his fist? 
 How grew the tree with deep-set root? 
 
 By reacliing toward the sun. 
 Thougli standing at the ladder's foot. 
 
 Its rounds are one by one. 
 By constant striving we sliall find 
 Our sheaves and tlie wherewitli to bind. 
 
 © 
 
 CONTENT. 
 While waiting for tlie lily 
 
 We lose the sweet May-flower; 
 While longing for the sunshine, 
 
 The beauties of the shower. 
 While dreading distant thunder 
 
 We miss the bird's sweet song; • 
 While fearing all life's evils 
 
 We blind our eyes with wrong. 
 We wait and long; we fear and dread — 
 Why may we not enjoy instead? 
 If heav'n we ask, to heav'n draw near — 
 Come with the children — Lo ! 'tis here. 
 
 SONNET TO MRS. FRANCES LAUGHTON 
 
 MACE. 
 Dear Friend,— in leafy, balmy days of June 
 Tliy rarest gems of verse were sung. Thy 
 
 liand 
 Pure thoughts unwrapped and into being 
 
 fanned 
 As screened from sun, or 'neath the silent 
 
 moon 
 With brook and branch of pine thy heart kept 
 
 tune. 
 Dost dream on California's gold-stored strand 
 Of rock-built mansions, one that,— towering 
 
 grand 
 From banks of waving grass, — tiiis quiet 
 
 noon, 
 O'erlooks and guards our fair Penobscot 
 
 stream? 
 'Mong ferns and sedges which the brooklet 
 
 wets 
 Birds, buds and blossoms breathe of thee to- 
 day. 
 With brush, tliough faintly, to refresh thy 
 
 dream 
 I've traced for thee both home and violets. 
 These simple tributes at tliy feet I lay. 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S WELCOME TO THE LIT- 
 TLE ONES. 
 Come, little ones, with all your wealtii 
 Of joy and mirth, of youtli and healtli ! 
 What would our New Year's gatiiering be 
 Without your harmless gaiety? 
 Haste, tiny feet, and join the dance. 
 Let eye greet eye, with loving glance. 
 Let each bright face, like some rare gem. 
 Shine in our New Year's Diadem. 
 Come, love-lit smiles of sweet content! 
 You're not dear, tliough freely spent. 
 Come, bappy hearts! ye ever shall 
 Be welcome at our festival. 
 Sing! sing! for peace reigns o'er our land. 
 May good will guide each lieart and liand. 
 Let bird-like voices reaeli tlie sky, 
 Christ's life of love to glorify '. 
 
 ■)® 
 
m 
 
 488 
 
 -* 
 
 LOG AT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EDITHA E. WIARD. 
 
 Born: Keithburg, III., June 9, 1853. 
 The poems of Miss Wiard have appeared in 
 
 th(- F.iriiifr's Ailvni'-itc, Xc\v Pcpublic and 
 
 EDITHA E. WIAKU. 
 
 the local press goaerall.v. She has also writ- 
 ten considerable prose and is a local corres- 
 pondent for several newspapers. 
 
 IN MEMORY. 
 Methinks, that, thus the voice of Christ I 
 Falling softly on tlie ear, [hear. 
 Giving streng-tli and holy cheer. 
 As the nig-ht of death draws near; 
 Nearer still to Lucy Hayes; 
 Wlu) acknowledged Him in all her ways. 
 With his word of truth to guide. 
 Ever ready sin to chide; 
 In the cot or mansion grand, 
 In the highest of our land. 
 Turning out the flend of wine; 
 Whose serpent coils so tiglitly twine, 
 'Round its victims day by day. 
 Leading them so far astray; 
 Down to depths of sin and shame. 
 Winch we dare not even name. 
 The voice of the world to her was naught. 
 She followed only what God taught, 
 " Looked not on the wine when it was red," 
 Nor lieeded what men thought or said. 
 Now with the faitliful she's crowned above, 
 In the heavenly home where all is love. 
 As she neared the judgment throne, 
 © 
 
 She heard not tlie drunkard's moan; 
 
 No throng of ruined lives. 
 
 Of sorrowing children, heart-broken wives, 
 
 Obstructed her pathway of light. 
 
 She saw not the fearful sight. 
 
 Which many I fear will see: 
 
 The wrecks they've caused to be. 
 
 Behold the shaking hand. 
 
 The tottertug feet which can not stand. 
 
 The bloodshot eye, beclouded brain. 
 
 Hastening on in the funeral train, 
 
 Down to the drunkard s doom. 
 
 Eternal death and gloom. 
 
 Do we want to hear them call, 
 
 'Twas you, 'twas you caused us to fall? 
 
 Hear a mother say you ruined my boy, [boy. 
 
 My life and joy, my well-beloved, my precious 
 
 Has ours been the tempter's hand? 
 
 Alas I there's many a one in our land. 
 
 But praise the Lord, it was not Lucy Hayes, 
 
 She acknowledged Him in all her ways. 
 
 As our tribute of love we give. 
 
 We praj- that in like manner we may live; 
 
 Though ours be but a lowly sphere. 
 
 Yet the voice of Christ we may hear; 
 
 As of old he said to one, 
 
 " What she could, she hath done." 
 
 SONG OF THE FLOWERS. 
 Flowers, bright and beautiful flowers, 
 
 When your perfume fills the air. 
 Being distilled by passing showers. 
 
 We rejoice our world's so fair. 
 That for our pleasure as well as our need, 
 
 The earth her verdure doth yield: 
 Love, infinite love herein we read. 
 
 The tiny flow'r the waving field. 
 Flowers, bright and beautiful flowers. 
 
 In the glen or on tlie hill. 
 As on your beauty we feast, our eyes 
 
 See your tints surpa.ssing art; 
 The violet gazing at the skies. 
 
 Finds the hue to paint her heart. 
 Flowers, bright and beautiful flowers. 
 
 Royal rose, the garden <jueen. 
 Carrying us back to childhood's hours — 
 
 Our home on the hillside green; 
 Where we've dreamed away the summer day, 
 
 By merry laughing brook. 
 In sjlvan shade heard the bright-winged jay, 
 
 And read from Nature's book. 
 Flowers, bright and beautiful flowers. 
 
 Emblems of •• Our Fatiier's" love; 
 They come in even the darkest hours, 
 
 With a me.ssage from above, — 
 A message sent his children here. 
 
 That as He did clothe tiie grass. 
 So He'll care for them, they need not fear. 
 
 Drink the cup. He holds the glass. 
 
 -« 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 489 
 
 -© 
 
 JAMES H. J.WATKINS. 
 
 Born: Wales, March 20, 1843. 
 In 1866 Mr. Watkins was ordained as a minis- 
 ter. He has tauglit elocution in some of the 
 leading academies and seminaries of America. 
 Mr. Watkins now teaches vocal music; is 
 
 m- 
 
 JiJIES H. J. W ITKINb. 
 
 clerk of the board of supervisors of Herkimer 
 county; and has been justice of the peace for 
 twenty years. Mr. Watkins was editor of the 
 Frankfort Register in 1887. The writings of 
 this journalist and farmer have appeared ex- 
 tensively in the periodical press. 
 
 GETTYSBURG. 
 
 What priceless glory, what unfeigned delight. 
 What depth of joy beyond expression quite 
 Is centered in a nation's memory! 
 The patriot's heart forever seems to be 
 A sacred shrine, an urn of purity. 
 
 It is not strange ye love this place the best, 
 For on this field was freedom's crucial test. 
 We meet to-day that statue to unveil. 
 And to review the .sad, though fruitful tale. 
 That monument suggests. Could Upton speak 
 As from that mass of marble he looks forth. 
 He'd say, >. No regiment in all the north 
 Was braver than the one I did command." 
 In twenty-flve engagements did they stand 
 Firm as tlie rock, nor did they ever quail 
 Undei- the fiercest charge of leaden hail. 
 
 Though oft hemmed in and worried by the foe, 
 They never lost their flag; the records show. 
 No matter whether victory or despair. 
 Their colors always floated in the air. 
 From Crampton's Pass to Fredericksburg and 
 
 then 
 From Salem church and Heights to " Devil's 
 
 Den." 
 They bore the blood-red cross in Heaven's 
 
 name 
 At Rappahannock station where the flame 
 Of war's red battle lit the very sky 
 Their thought was only one — to win or die. 
 Mine Run came next, the bloody Wilderness 
 With all its depth of shadow and distress. 
 At Spottsj'lvania Court House flashed their 
 
 steel, 
 While rebel hordes their force were made to 
 
 feel. 
 North Anna saw their sure and deadly aim, 
 And Totopotomoy behelcJ the same; 
 Cold Harbor came and Petersburg in gloom, 
 Sending full many a brave boy to his doom. 
 Then came Fort Stevens, then came Summit 
 
 Point, 
 Then Winchester where Heaven did anoint 
 The black horse and his rider. Upton brave 
 Was wounded on this field, but at once gave. 
 Like Herkimer of old, command to place 
 Him at the front; here, bleeding, did he face 
 The enemy, and did direct the fight. 
 Until the end, when Early took to flight 
 Remembrance e'er will hold his prowess dear. 
 And o'er his grave we'll shed the sacred tear. 
 At Fisher's Hill the plucky Sheridan 
 Early repulsed again; and every man 
 Who wore the red cross on that bloody field. 
 Fought with that ardor never known to 
 
 yield. 
 Then came New Market, then came Cedar 
 
 Creek, 
 In all the annals will you vainly seek 
 For braver work than that which here was 
 
 done 
 By "Upton's regulars;" here was begun 
 The blow that crumbled Richmond to the 
 
 ground. 
 And to the Sixth Corps let the praises sound. 
 At Hatcher's Run and Petersburg, 
 They forced the fight like brave and fearless 
 
 men. 
 At Sailor's Creek, which closed the bloody 
 
 fray. 
 They fought like tigers till they won the day. 
 And when at Appomattox, General Lee, 
 Tired and worn out, surrendered peacefully. 
 The few remaining clothed in battle scars. 
 Beheld the triumph of the stripes and stars; 
 Saw like a meteor falling from night's crown. 
 The star of southern chivalry go down. 
 But what a few ! Where are the noble brave 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 490 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 « 
 
 Who left their homes their cherished land to 
 
 save? 
 They sleep in glory in a shroud of fame; 
 And as each brave boy fell, straightway his 
 
 name 
 Was changed into a star, flashing- and briglit. 
 And standing in the gloom of sorrow's niglit. 
 We look aloft and ever keep in view 
 Those names emblazoned on the 'therealblue. 
 The many fell, the few are left to weep. 
 And up in memory's towers long vigils keep. 
 Look at the list of casualties. Look o'er 
 The list of dead and wounded. What a score! 
 Great heavens! Their's was not a dress 
 
 parade. 
 They did the work while others only played. 
 Of thirteen hundred men that were enrolled. 
 Men that were clean and pure as burnished 
 
 gold, 
 Less than three hundred saw the glorious day 
 When northern blu# defeated southern gray. 
 Rest, martyrs brave ! Your work was nobly 
 
 done. 
 The strife is o'er, the victory is won. 
 Ours be the task with each returning spring- 
 To render as holy offering, 
 The choicest blossoms that shall sweetly shed 
 Their perfumed sweetness o'er the nation's 
 
 dead. 
 This battlefield which has so famous grown. 
 But thirty years ago was hardly known, 
 Save to the few; and yonder busy town 
 Slumbered upon those hills without renown. 
 But in July of eighteen sixty-three 
 Then dawned an era in its history. 
 Upon this spot great empires turned their eye 
 And watched the conflict as the days went by. 
 Old England, jealous of our grand success; 
 Our enemy stood waiting to caress; 
 While flighty France was puckering up her 
 
 mouth 
 To shout a greeting to the solid south, [here ! 
 WTiat great momentous questions centered 
 
 The brave and ho.stile hosts of Mead and Lee 
 
 Are on the eve of battle. Eveiy road 
 
 That leads to Gettysburg groans with the 
 
 load [Hill, 
 
 Of serried hosts. From Chambersburg comes 
 While from Carlisle comes Ewell with a will, 
 Flushed with success on recent fields of strife. 
 The foe is kindled up anew with life. 
 On they advance full fifty thousand .strong. 
 Sure triumph is the burden of tlieir song. 
 The union soldiers stricken with a chill 
 By our reverse at fated Chancellorville, 
 Are still, as always, ready for the fray. 
 And che(;rfully the "forward march " obey. 
 From Emmetlsburg and Taneytown they 
 
 si)ced 
 At double quick; the new commander, Mead, 
 
 Has not arrived, but Reynolds, brave and 
 true, [through 
 
 Assumes command; onwiird he marches 
 The quaint old town, until he meets tlie foe. 
 The conflict rages, the initial blow 
 Is struck by Buford; but disaster came. 
 The noble Reynolds, born for deeds of fame. 
 Fell at the first encounter. The first day 
 Yields bitter fruit, construe it as we may. 
 'Tis July second. Mead is on the field. 
 Surely this mass of patriots ne'er will yield, 
 Hancock's and Slocum's, Sedgwick's sixth 
 
 corps brave. 
 Have all arrived, and surely thej- can save 
 The daj'. 'Tis true they strive until the niglit 
 Falls on the scenes, and yet the fight 
 Is undecided as when Reynolds fell. 
 Great God, what carniige? Who can fully tell 
 The tale of .sorrow here endured this day. 
 Haste on the day of hallowed peace we lu-ay. 
 'Tis July third. Slocum has won Gulp's Hill. 
 The sixth corps bravely force the fight, until 
 John.son is driven from the vantage ground, 
 When silence reigns o'er all the field around. 
 'Tis noon ; and not a signal gun is heard. 
 At length the quick air of heaven is stiried 
 As if by thunderbolts; fierce shot and shell 
 With fearful havoc on our army tell. 
 Our cannoneers at once return the fire. 
 And men by hundreds on the ground expire. 
 This fierce artillery fire was ne'er outdone; 
 Here noble Gushing fell upon his gun. 
 At length our firing ceases; silence reigns. 
 And suddenly across the open plains 
 Come Pickett's forces led by Armistead. 
 Now comes the tug of war. Are they misled? 
 Our firing ceases; do they deem us worn. 
 Our lines are all broken and our eoumjie 
 
 gone? 
 It is a sad mistake. With solid ball 
 We mow them down, but as the colunms full 
 Otliers re-forni in iilace, and onward still 
 They inarch until lliey reach the fatal liill. 
 Tlio l)l()()dy angle (;ind the name is right) 
 For here is found the thickest of the flgnt; 
 Here is the contest that must tell the tale. 
 If on this spot the union army fail 
 No future contest will by us be won. 
 The stars and bars will float over Washington. 
 But God is in tlie conflict. Backward flee 
 The battered lines of soutlu-i-n chivalry. 
 Backward they flee, hut leave their leader 
 
 dead. 
 The gallant though misguided Armistead. 
 Four hundriMl monuments like lines of light 
 Stand on this field to mark the bloody fight. 
 Here will the nation come through future 
 
 years 
 To show its ardor and to shed its tears. 
 'Tis well; this land redeemed by blood, is ours, 
 Against the hopes of hostile foreign powers. 
 
 B 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 491 
 
 MRS. ELLA D.BENTLEY. 
 
 BOKx: New Orleans, La., 1858. 
 In 1874, at the age of si.vteen, tliis lady was 
 married to Linden E. Bontley, editor and 
 proprietor of tlie Donaldsonville Cliief. She 
 is now associate-editor of that publication, 
 and is considered one of the most prominent 
 literary women of Louisiana. Jfrs. Bentley 
 
 MRS. ELLA D. BENTLEY. 
 
 was the first vice-president of tlie Louisiana 
 Press Association for a term of tiiree years, 
 and again received the re-election. Her poems 
 have appeared in the New Orleans Times, 
 Picayune, Republican and other prominent 
 publications. Mrs. Bentley is possessed of 
 rare good spirits, is of pleasing address, and 
 a leader in social circles. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 Again we stand with weary, faltering feet 
 
 Upon the threshold of another year. 
 Unclasp once more the ponderous scroll of 
 time. 
 With sad eyes read the record written here. 
 Across Its pages memory sends a gleam 
 
 Of sunshine, or a .shade of deep regret. 
 And recollection's mystic finger points 
 
 To that we cherish most or would forget. 
 Here friendship's hand has written tender 
 words. 
 And there a trusted heart has proved un- 
 true: 
 
 Each solemn leaf is touched with checkered 
 tints 
 Of pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow, too. 
 Yet, who would quatf the cup of Lethe to- 
 night. 
 For all the book is'stained with tears of woe. 
 Somewhere it holds the light of happier days. 
 Sweet brightness in the gloom of •• Long 
 Ago." 
 But see the promise in the distant east, 
 
 Encarmined with the glow of coming morn ; 
 The sobbing wind wails out the dead years 
 dirge. 
 Then laughs a greeting to the year new- 
 born. 
 And swells in echoes from the walls of time 
 
 Up to the splendor of the star-gemmed sky— 
 Tlie future's Mecca tempts life's pilgrim on; 
 So shut the book, and bid the past good-by. 
 
 FINIS. 
 Six feet of earth, and a hero lies 
 Under the sheen of the sun-kissed skies, 
 While a weeping nation stills its sighs 
 
 To whisper the meed of his glory ; 
 Six feet of earth, and a felon's clay 
 Thrust from the pitiless light of day. 
 An Ishmael outcast, with none to pray 
 
 Or grieve o'er his shameful story. 
 Six feet of earth, and an honored wife. 
 Whose pure hands weary of struggle aud 
 
 strife. 
 Caught at the hope of a higher life. 
 
 And are clasped 'neath the marble's 
 praises; 
 Six feet of earth, and a wanton bold. 
 Whose birth was a crime, whose honor was 
 sold 
 In the market of lust, for the glint of gold. 
 
 Is slumbering under the daisies. 
 Chiseled column and sculptured bust, 
 Towering high over cherished dust. 
 Or a grass-grown grave in the potter's-field. 
 With only the bending clouds to sliield: 
 Who knows the story of chances lost. 
 Of fond hearts broken and passion-tossed 
 Amid life's tumult, and who can tell 
 Which was deserving heaven or hell. 
 
 QUIEN SABE. 
 
 There is within our souls a hidden life 
 Which those we cherish fondest cannot share. 
 Where long remembered love and tenderwords 
 Are treasured deep. And none may enter 
 
 there. 
 The secrets which we hold so close to guess ; 
 Or when we blithely laugh, seem glad and 
 
 gay. 
 Can tell how near the bitter tears may press. 
 Or what deep griefs our sad hearts hide away 
 
 ■* 
 
©: 
 
 492 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ® 
 
 ANNE GARDNER HALE. 
 
 Born: Newburypokt, Mass., Aug. 2, 1823. 
 As a writer of both prose and verse this lady 
 has gained an enviable reputation. Her poems 
 have appeared in over twenty of the leading 
 
 ANNE (iAUI)NKK HA MO. 
 
 eastern periodicals, from wliieh they have 
 been extensively copied by the local i)ress. 
 She is the author of several works and is now 
 preparing a volume of poems for the press. 
 Miss Hale is genial and agi'eeablein manners, 
 and very entertaining in conversation. 
 
 ^- 
 
 CONQUERING AND TO CONQUER. 
 
 Now hath the conqueror. Spring, 
 
 Her banner of life unfurled; 
 Out fiom the sliadowof dealli's dark wing 
 
 Calling the sleeping world! 
 Over the sunny hills 
 
 Sending the silver streams. 
 Swelling the song of the joyous rills 
 
 'Neath the fair moon's jilacid beams. 
 The blast of her trumpeter, March, 
 
 Hang througli tlie kingdom's wide. 
 Shivering winter's triuniph-areh— 
 
 Hazing Ids throne of pride; 
 And lie, a dotard old. 
 
 Fled, as liis footsteps light 
 Wakened to verdure the sere, dry w 
 
 111 tlie fairies' dance at night. 
 Lady of grace serene. 
 
 Patiently April wrought. 
 
 )ld 
 
 Weaving a robe for the beauteous queen 
 
 From the promise of life she brought. 
 Her scepter a budding spray, 
 
 Her crown but a Howery wreath. 
 Yet the gentle maid hath a firmer sway 
 
 Than the stern, cold king of death. 
 The rocks to dust may fret. 
 
 The lulls and mountains fall, 
 On ;dl things earthly death's seal be set, 
 
 Yet breaks at length his thrall. 
 From the crypts of the vanished past. 
 
 From the ashes of grim decay. 
 This earth, exultant, brings forth at last 
 
 The bounding life of May I 
 The world is growing old — 
 
 Hoary in pain and crime; 
 Yet, still, the promised age of gold 
 
 Shall the years bring 'round in time; 
 Sure — as from winter's gloom 
 
 Rises the springtime glow; 
 Sweet as the blossoms that bud and bloom 
 
 From the buried bulb below. 
 
 SONG. 
 Come over the hills to the sea, love! 
 
 Come over the hills to the sea! [sky 
 
 Here the sun looks down from the arching 
 
 And the wild winds wander free. 
 •We will think no more of the sad. sad past, 
 
 All joy shall our future be. 
 And we'll muse at will on her kingdom vast 
 
 As we gaze on the open sea. 
 From the dismal wood and the stifling town. 
 
 Come, love, with your drooping heart, 
 And the mighty voice of the ocean, here. 
 
 Shall bid each grief depart. 
 We will watch the sun from his moniiug 
 couch 
 
 Ascend to his topmost tlirone. 
 And fondly mark at the twilight hour 
 
 Where his lingering rays have shone. 
 When the moon comes up from the glitter- 
 ing tide. 
 
 As if from her diamond caves, 
 We'll list to the song of her vassal throng, 
 
 The ever restless waves. 
 Where the flsher- boats rock on tlie yeasty 
 deep 
 
 Shall our thoughts in their roving go. 
 And the white sea-gull like our glad hearts 
 seem 
 
 As he glimmers to and fin. 
 Oh I the .sea to us shall a i>icture be 
 
 Of our unknown futuri', love,— 
 With its cea.seless song and its vassal tides. 
 
 And its blue sky lient above! 
 So come o'er the hills to the sea, love! 
 
 Come o'er the hills to the seal 
 Forget the past, our lot is cast 
 
 By the sfde of the glorious sea ! ^ 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIilCA. 
 
 493 
 
 -i® 
 
 JOHN S.SMITH. 
 
 Born: Jay Co., Ind., March 13, 1848. 
 
 This journalist is the editor and proprietor 
 of the Advance, pubhshed at Osceohi, Mo. 
 He was married in 1881 to Miss Annie B. Nal- 
 
 •JOHN S. SMITH. 
 
 ley. The poems of Mr. Smith have appeared 
 in the Chicag'o Ledger and the periodical 
 press generally. Mr. Smith has become well 
 and favorably known in the state of his adop- 
 tion, and numbers among his friends and ac- 
 quaintances many ardent admirers. 
 
 *- 
 
 WORK TO-DAY. 
 
 Life is but a moment — 
 It passeth soon away ; 
 There is no room for idlers, 
 There is no time for play. 
 
 Toil ever without ceasing. 
 With willing hands and strong; 
 And with undaunted courage 
 Wage battle 'gainst tlie wrong. 
 
 Labor for the Master, 
 The toiling soul will win 
 A crown of fadeless glory, 
 A home that's free from sin. 
 
 Then be up and doing. 
 The morning's rosy light 
 
 May soon be changed to shadows 
 Of deep ahd cheerless light. 
 
 " Onward," be your motto, 
 Oh, hasten to fulfill 
 In love, each kind requirement 
 Of Jesus' holy will. 
 
 Soon you'll liear him calling: 
 " Come, all ye blessed come, 
 And reign with me forever 
 lu an eternal home." 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 To-day, the soft resplendence, 
 
 Of morning's rosy light. 
 Has filled the world with gladness, 
 
 Each heart with pure delight. 
 
 Oh, consummate exhaustless. 
 The source of human joy! 
 
 Our earth an Eden seemeth. 
 With nothing to annoy. 
 
 To-morrow, deepest shadows 
 Have covered like a pall. 
 
 The silent king- of darkness 
 Is reigning over all. 
 
 To-day, fair fortune smileth; 
 
 The wealth of health is ours; 
 Our tireless feet are treading 
 
 In paths o'erstrewn with flowers; 
 
 Kind friends, with smiling faces. 
 Speak words of comfort sweet, 
 
 Until our hearts are thrilling. 
 With happiness replete. 
 
 To-morrow, friends have vanished. 
 And all is wrapped in gloom ; 
 
 Aweary faint, desponding. 
 We near the silent tomb. 
 
 To-day a father liveth, 
 
 A mother's voice I hear; 
 A brother and a sister 
 
 Fill home with love and cheer. 
 
 No thoughts of sorrow darken 
 The brow with ruffled care; 
 
 No clouds obscure the future — 
 All, all is briglit and fair. 
 
 To-morrow, all is silent; 
 
 Each fairy vision's fled; 
 Loved one, so well rememb'red, 
 
 Are sleeping with thedead. 
 
 PHILANTHROPY. 
 
 Honor first to him belongs 
 Whose heart with deep compassion glows; 
 Whose every word, whose every deed. 
 Intense humanity disclose. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 494 
 
 -«& 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 BURT FOWLES. 
 
 Born: Ahnapee, Wis., April 23, 1864. 
 The occupation of Burt Fowles is that of a 
 marble cutter, but lie is now tlie manager of a 
 
 *- 
 
 BURT FOWLES. 
 
 monthly mag-azine. The poems of Mr. Fowles 
 have appeared In a number of well-known 
 periodicals, and have received verj- flattering 
 praise. 
 
 THE DESERTED HOME. 
 
 Beside the wooded hill it stands 
 
 Forsaken and so awful still. 
 As tho' the tread of happy bands 
 
 Had never crossed its wcU-woru sill 
 No merry lauph or jesting- word — 
 
 Alas, no faithful watch-dogs bark. 
 No lowing of the kine is heard 
 
 As evening shades grow long and dark. 
 
 The path where many feet have ti'oad 
 
 Ls all o'ergrown witli tangled grass. 
 The orchard old whose trees are dead 
 
 And broken down, is of the past. 
 The roof is going, the door is gone. 
 
 And forward leans the rustic gate. 
 Almost too weak to stand alone, 
 
 And for the loved ones seems to wait. 
 No stranger now e'er enters there, 
 
 No gentle voice is heard in .song. 
 No footsteps echo on the stair. 
 
 Nor tread the grassy pathw;iy long. 
 
 No merry laughter now is beard 
 
 By children's voices light and gay. 
 Naught but the echo of the bird 
 
 That sings its song and soars away. 
 Ah 1 Gone are all it held once dear, 
 
 Yes, gone to live in other lauds, 
 And left to crumble with the years 
 
 This long de.serted farm-house stands. 
 Beneath the shadow of the hill 
 
 In sweet repose there calmly sleep 
 Au aged pair in silence still. 
 
 And vigil o'er tliat home they keep. 
 
 THE MASTER-HAND. 
 
 The list'ner stood in solemn awe 
 
 And listened to the master-hand 
 
 That idly roamed the keys, and saw 
 
 Down secret aisles a mystic strand,— 
 
 A chord harmonious rang and woke 
 
 To life the silent empty space 
 
 Its echo drifting back — then broke 
 
 A light, and glory tilled the place — 
 
 A pause — a measure soft and slow 
 
 As whisp'rings thro' the swaying pine 
 
 Its cadence sweet, and sad, und low. 
 
 From solemn depths to heights sublime. 
 
 Then like the great tempestuous sea 
 
 With heaving breast 'neath light'ning flash — 
 
 Then breaks a calm that lulls the free. 
 
 Bright waves to rest, they cease to splash 
 
 But rip'ling turn to pat'ring rain 
 
 Whose drop, drop, drop, drifts by — 
 
 A wail — a sob — a mournful strain 
 
 That ending echoes back a sigh. 
 
 A LOST DAY ! 
 A lost, lost day — what matters it 
 
 Among so many days? 
 With careless words and idle wit 
 
 We drive dull care away. 
 Can one small day be really lost 
 
 In this great world of ours'j? 
 Can it unnoticed float across 
 
 The stream of lime, with hours? 
 So many idle, empty days 
 
 That ever go and come. 
 What can it matter to our ways 
 
 'I'o lose a single one? 
 So many weary, dreary days, 
 
 We'i-i' glad to wasti' a few. 
 We tiy our best in diflerent ways 
 
 To lose just one or two. 
 That day is lost wherein no deed 
 
 Of kindness has been done. 
 Where patient hand has sown no seed. 
 
 No kuidly snule has won. 
 O lost, lost day ! forever still. 
 
 Embalmed with bitter tears, 
 Insolt'mn silence, wreaking chill. 
 
 Within the tomb of years. 
 
 9 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMJSKICA. 
 
 495 
 
 -51 
 
 ANNA MARIE NEIS. 
 
 Born: New York City, Sept. 28, 1867. 
 This young- lady is verj' fond of literaturo, 
 and has written both prose aud v'erse. She is 
 
 ANNA MARIE NEIS. 
 
 very ambitious, and is now studying- to be- 
 come an artist. Miss Neis now resides in 
 Newark, N. J. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Ho ! the village blacksmith. 
 
 All the live-long- day, 
 The ringing- of his anvil, 
 
 Wears many hours away. 
 
 How manfully he lifts his arm. 
 And strikes the heavy blow. 
 
 The hammer beating- perfect time. 
 As he swings it to and fro. 
 
 Listen to the anvil! 
 
 The sound is very dear. 
 As across the little park. 
 
 It rings out loud and clear. 
 
 'Tis the only chiming sound. 
 That keeps the villag-e stirringr. 
 
 For in the quiet little town. 
 There's nothing much occurring. 
 
 On a bright and sunny morning. 
 
 When the sky is blue. 
 And the grass is fresh and green, 
 
 And slightly wet with dew. 
 
 The farmer boy may be seen 
 
 Coming- from afar. 
 With horse to shoe, wagon to fix, 
 
 Aud to get a box cf tar. 
 
 Then a little chit-chat 
 
 In a loud and jolly tone, 
 Tlie farmer boj" hooks, up his horse. 
 
 And hurries on toward home. 
 
 No sooner is he out of sight. 
 
 Than others come and go, 
 Thus keeping the village blacksmith's 
 shop 
 
 In a. continual glow. 
 
 The smith is known for many a mile, 
 And greatly esteemed it appears. 
 
 For he has been the village smith 
 For five and twenty years. 
 
 But things will change as time goes ou 
 
 And cause us deep despair. 
 For in the little village shop. 
 
 The smith is no more there. 
 
 For sickness came as it will to all 
 Midst pleasui-e aud midst mirth, 
 
 Aud sad to say in three short days 
 He departed from this earth. 
 
 The shock is great to all around, 
 Even those who knew him not. 
 
 His death casts a shadow. 
 Which will not be soon forgot. 
 
 In the quiet little churchyard 
 
 The smith was laid low. 
 Where the green grass and the flowers. 
 
 Will soou begin to grow. 
 
 The birds will sing their songs 
 In the bright and genial days, 
 
 Near the lonely grave where 
 The village blacksmith lays. 
 
 VACATION. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 In loneliness there we ponder. 
 How long the time will be. 
 
 Ere we shall have the pleasure 
 Our native town to see. 
 
 We muse, but still we're happy- 
 Studying all the daj% 
 
 And as we study diligently 
 Our loneliness wears away. 
 
 We long for a glimpse of sunshine, 
 
 That spreads itself so free. 
 All over the grass and trees and flowers. 
 
 And over the whole country. 
 But still the sun shines 'round us, 
 
 The trees and flowers are all the same. 
 But still it is not the village 
 
 From whence we shortly came. 
 
 m 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 496 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHARLES L.CLEAVELA^'D. 
 
 Bokn: Canada, Feb. 25, 1855. 
 The poems of Mr. Cleaveland have appeared in 
 the Atlantic Monthly, Chicago Daily Inler- 
 Ocean, News, Current and other papers of 
 
 CHARLES LORENZO CLEAVELAND. 
 
 equal prominence, from wliich they have been 
 copied by the periodical press. He is now a 
 resident of MiUbury, Mass., where he is well 
 known. 
 
 A PINE WOOD'S SONNET. 
 This is the inner circle of the pines; 
 Yet here within the sweet and ancient shade 
 The calls are heard of labdr and of trade. 
 The saw mill's >vhistle, as the sun declines) 
 IJreaks through this solitude; and certain 
 signs 
 Mark where shrewd men have keen inspec- 
 tion made 
 Of these tall timbers, whose stjuare feet 
 arrayed 
 Made quick their blood, as the )Ut;li with nitl- 
 
 low wines. 
 And wliile that brook, like a full artery, 
 With silent force throbs through the wood- 
 land wild. 
 While likeabreathingbosom does appear 
 Tlie gentle waving of each rounded tree 
 Tliat stirs witliin tiie evening breezes mild. 
 It seems the heart of M id ligan beats here I 
 
 SHE SPEAKS. 
 How fair tlie moonbeams mild that shine 
 Within the apple boughs, and twine 
 With peaceful light the loving leaves! 
 Hark, love, the whip-poor-will that grieves, 
 Amid the bluff's secluded wood. 
 For some lost thing not understood. 
 Our little friend within tlie grass. 
 The cricket, as we slowly pass. 
 Gives us a cheerful roundelay 
 That chases every doubt away. 
 
 A WILD FLOWER. 
 Thou milk-white creature of May — 
 
 White petals, and golden hearted — 
 What dreams of a vanished day 
 
 Hast thou in memory started I 
 
 Thy sisters of long ago 
 
 Were sweet to their human brothers; 
 And thou recallest the glow 
 
 Of a spring above all others. 
 
 Ah, haply some careless wight 
 Shall look upon thee to-morrow. 
 
 From a Jlay day full of delight 
 That hideth no old-time sorrow ; 
 
 And thy kin of a future year 
 
 Shall meet him in sadder places; 
 Then thou to his heart shalt appear 
 With earth's most heavenly graces! 
 
 STONE. 
 Unlike all other shapes of earth that he 
 They seem, in their uniqueness, to one's 
 
 thought 
 To be with some ennobled passion fraught — 
 The rock's distinct and ancient chivalry! 
 
 PLOWING. 
 My furrow is a royal road; 
 
 A tender song I sing. 
 To think my love is standing where 
 
 Tlie glass is glittering. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Her sympathy is wide and sweet. 
 
 Joined unto knowledge deep and clear. 
 Th(nigii never be the world complete, 
 f Slie holds the simple creed, good cheer. 
 As much as is at life's command. 
 To be the best for heart and liand. 
 
 © 
 
 THE COYS. 
 We felt no need of art's adorning. 
 
 No thought of method's countless names. 
 Tiie wakeful currents of the morning 
 
 Were Hashing in our lusty frames. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 49^ 
 
 •© 
 
 BYRON T. KING. 
 
 Bokn: Portland, Me,, April 15, 1856. 
 Commencing life as a bundle boy in a dry 
 goods store, young' King- soon became one of 
 tlie brightest and most popular dry-goods 
 clerk in his native city, lu 1871 he went to 
 Boston, where he became one of the higliest 
 salaried men in the trade. But he would see the 
 woi'ld. andin 1875 he started on a inp around 
 the world; in four years he had traveled in 
 Africa, China, India, Japan and the continent 
 
 88- 
 
 liVKON T. RING. 
 
 Of Europe. In 1879 Mr. King returned to this 
 country and settled down to business as a 
 succes.sful dry-goods merchant in Springfield, 
 Mo. He retired from that business in 1889, as 
 the Scott Investment Company, one of the 
 largest corporations in the southwest, of 
 which he is vice-president and general man- 
 ager, requires the greater part of liis time. 
 Since 1868 various poems from tlie pen of Mr. 
 Kingliave appeared in the periodical i)ress, 
 and he lias also contributed letters of travel 
 in Spain and Portugal and other countries. 
 
 LIFE'S TKUE SIGNIFICANCE. 
 Deeper than all sense of seeing, 
 
 Lies the secret source of being. 
 And the soul, with truth agreeing. 
 
 Learns to live in tlioughts and deeds; 
 For the life is more than raiment. 
 
 And the earth is pledged for payment 
 Unto man for all his needs. 
 Nature is our common mother. 
 
 Every living man our brother; 
 Therefore let us serve each other, 
 
 Not to meet the law's behests, 
 But because thi-ough cheerful giving 
 
 We shall learn the art of living; 
 And to live and serve is best. 
 Life is more than what man fancies! 
 
 Not a game of idle chances; 
 But it steadily advances 
 
 Up the rugged lieights of time. 
 Till each complex web of trouble. 
 
 Every sad heart's brolsen bubble. 
 Hath a meaning- most sublime. 
 
 More religion, less profession ! 
 
 More firmness, less concession ; 
 More of freedom, less oppression, 
 
 In the church and in the state: 
 More of life and less of fashion. 
 
 More of love and less of passion — 
 That will make us good and great. 
 
 When true hearts, divitiely gifted. 
 
 From the chaff of error sifted, 
 On their crosses are uplifted. 
 
 Shall the world most clearly see 
 That earth's greatest time of trial 
 
 Calls for holy self-denial, 
 Calls on men to do and be. 
 But forever and forever. 
 
 Let it be the soul's endeavor 
 Love from hatred to discover; 
 
 And in wliatso'er we do. 
 Won by love's eternal beauty 
 
 To our highest sense of duty, 
 Evermore be firm and true. 
 
 MRS. LAURA A. RANDALL. 
 
 Born: Ingham Co., Mich., Mav 7, 1847. 
 This lady was married in 1865 to Dr. C. L. 
 Randall, and still resides in her native state 
 at Dansville. Her poems liave appeared quite 
 extensively in the local press. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 Another season is coming. 
 
 Swift passes the fleeting hours; 
 Coming with golden sunshine. 
 
 And its wealth of beautiful flowers. 
 As stars light the glorious heavens, 
 
 Flowers gem and beautify earth ; 
 We thank the bountiful Giver, 
 
 For their fragrance, beauty and worth. 
 O flowers, sweet flowers in your brightness. 
 
 Ye comfort and gladden our heart. 
 And help us along in our life work 
 
 To act nobler and better our pai-t. 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 -)5& 
 
 498 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 JOHN SAMUEL I>FORTUNE. 
 
 Born: Elk Creek, Neb., Aug. 22, 1S62. 
 Emigrating to California in 1875, Mr. LaFor- 
 tune now resides at Tulare. At tlie age of 
 twenty lie Ijecame the associate-editor of a 
 
 loc;il p.iiuT, and from that time lie has contri- 
 
 JOHN SAMUEL L'i'ORTUNE. 
 
 buted poems more or less to the public press. 
 In 1887 Mr. LaFortune became the editor and 
 proprietor of the Tulare Democratic Free 
 Press. For nearly three years this journalist 
 has been connected with stafifof telegraphic 
 correspondence of the leading papers of tlie 
 Pacific coast. 
 
 © 
 
 CALIFORNIA SPRING. 
 
 Our California liills are green, 'tis Spring, 
 Tlie Vales are rife witii Song and blossoming. 
 
 The flowers of many lands we here behold. 
 In dress of aml)er, purple, red and gold. 
 
 Tiie birds in chambers green and streams 
 
 along, 
 Tlie forests wake witli bursts of matin song. 
 
 Aurora gilds the stream, the field and plain. 
 And Ceres smiling walks the fields of grain. 
 
 At Eve when in the glorious golden west, 
 Tiic Sun has sunk behind tlie hills to rest; 
 
 O'er the mountAins like a blushing bride. 
 
 The moon looks o'er the valleys, fair and 
 
 wide ; 
 And paints the verdure here in darker hue. 
 And gilds the snowy mounts against the blue. 
 
 'Tis then the hour when loving eyes shine out. 
 And Cupid smiles, and rosebud-lips do pout. 
 
 Oh, California's hills and spangled bowers. 
 Her singing birds and cool refreshing show- 
 ers. 
 Her orange groves and lier swift blushing 
 
 streams. 
 Are fairer than the poet's idle dreams. 
 
 ELDORADO. 
 Peace smiles upon the verdant hills 
 
 And o'er the flowery dells. 
 And from ten thousand flashing rills 
 
 Fair Nature's pean swells. 
 
 Here side by side this Spring-tide day, 
 Earth's fairest flowers gleam; 
 
 The royal purple and the gray 
 Contrast their glowing sheen. 
 
 There's " cattle on a thousand hills," 
 
 The flocks roam by the lea; 
 Wliile fields of grain the wide plains fill 
 
 From mountains to the sea. 
 
 The feathered songster blithely sings 
 
 Among the fruited trees. 
 From bloom to flower on busy wings 
 
 Speed on the busy bees. 
 
 The river's sing their songs of praise. 
 
 The wooded banks prolong; 
 The echo of tlieir roundelays 
 
 Their simple, grateful song. 
 
 Afar the mountain's fleecy crown 
 
 And robe of dazzling white. 
 On fields of waving grain look down 
 
 With brilliant sparkling liglit. 
 
 There miners break the slubliorn earth 
 
 Beneath the mountain pine. 
 Or toil where sunliglit ne'er had birth 
 
 Within the gloomy mine. 
 
 A city stands beside the sea, 
 
 A fair and saintly queen — 
 Her Kingdom is tlie dark-blue sea, 
 
 Tlie hills and valleys green. 
 
 Tliere commerce threads its snowy wings 
 
 Outri'acliing far and wide, 
 The wealtli of foreign lands it brings 
 
 On eacli recurring tide. 
 
 O, land by many ixiets sung, 
 
 O, land by nature lilest. 
 How proud thy place, fair lands among. 
 
 Bright daughter of the west. 
 
 -® 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 499 
 
 -m 
 
 KATHARINE J. MOORE. 
 
 Born: Balto, Md. 
 One of the well-known local poets of southern 
 PeuusjivaniaisMiss Katble Moore. Although 
 born in Maryland she claims Pennsylvania as 
 her native state, her family locating? there 
 when Kathie was but a few months old. With 
 the exception of two years and a half spent in 
 
 KATHARINE JOSEPHINE MOORE. 
 
 traveling-, the whole of her life has been 
 passed quietly in the little valley city of 
 York. Pa. Miss Kathie graduated from the 
 high school of that place in 1876, and for 
 several years thereafter taught school. Later 
 Miss Moore took charge of The Kaleidoscope, 
 a child's magazine. She is now engaged as 
 editor of The Home Guard, and also is now 
 the editor of The Fountain, a flrst-class month- 
 ly magazine devoted to supplementary read- 
 ing in the schools. 
 
 m~ 
 
 THE TANGLE OF GRASSES. 
 A tangle of dripping grasses 
 
 With daisies abloom and sweet, 
 A shining of placid waters 
 
 Where land and the river meet. 
 Beyond, fair slopes of the grasses. 
 
 Fair clumps of the daisy sheen, 
 A sky stooping tenderly over, 
 
 A soft wind blowing between. 
 Beyond on the fair, wide river, 
 
 A glinting of sunlight afar. 
 
 A gleaming of wide, white lilies, 
 
 A sail shining out like a star. 
 A vision outlying in sunshine; 
 
 A land and a river serene — 
 Life blooming and death like a river, 
 
 A tangle of grasses between. 
 Life blooming and death like a river; 
 
 Forever it touches life's strand. 
 With naught but a tangle of grasses 
 
 Dividing the water and land. 
 
 I CAN'T HELP IT. 
 
 If, in between my page and me. 
 This languid, dreamy weather. 
 There comes a face I used to see 
 When we two were together; 
 If mem'ries of those sweet old days 
 Bloom out from time's embalming haze. 
 And thoughts more dear than I can tell 
 Awake and bind me with their spell,— 
 Well — I can't help it ! 
 
 And if between my page and me. 
 
 This fragrant, sunny weather. 
 
 There comes a time I used to know 
 
 When we two were together; 
 
 And if I think her tender eyes 
 
 More pure than are these clear June skies. 
 
 And if I think her sunny smile 
 
 Migiit all earth's weary cares beguile. 
 
 Well — I can't help it! 
 
 A picture grows upon my page. 
 
 We two are there together; 
 
 We drive through mists of drenching rain; 
 
 But who minds cloudy weather? 
 
 And if I call that time most fair. 
 
 And wish that we again were there. 
 
 And if I fancy that she, too. 
 
 Deems that the gladdest day she knew. 
 
 Well — I can't help it ! 
 
 Ah, well ! those days are past and gone — 
 
 Those days of perfect weather ; 
 
 Our paths lie so remote,— could they 
 
 Have once been near together ? 
 
 But if I long, just once, to go 
 
 To where the cool north breezes blow. 
 
 And if I long, just once, to see 
 
 That face grow bright with smiles for me. 
 
 Well — I can't help it! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 There's a patter and a tapping on the pane, 
 And the music of a steady falling rain, 
 As it f alleth, 
 
 Falleth, 
 
 Falletb, 
 On the earth so brown and bare, 
 Where in summer time the grasses grew 
 So green and high and fair. 
 
 ■© 
 
©■ 
 
 500 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN LETCHER PATTERSON. 
 
 Born: Lexington, Ky., June 10, 1863. 
 Graduating at Harvard iu 1883, Mr. Patter- 
 son later entered the profession of teaching-, 
 and is now principal of the high school at Ver- 
 
 JOHN LETCHEU PATTEKSON. 
 
 sallies. Prof. Patterson has contribnted quite 
 extensively some very fine poems to the lead- 
 ing magazines, and hopes soon to issue a vo- 
 lume of his productions. 
 
 TWO SIGHS. 
 One sigh for a song. 
 For a song that is sung; 
 It was sung me erst long 
 Was the song. 
 A nd one for a rose. 
 For :i, rose wiiilom white. 
 It is faded to-night 
 Is tile rose. 
 Love s:ing mo the song. 
 And lo^'e gave me the flower 
 In ii long vanished hour- 
 Rose and song. 
 And so will I sigh 
 Since 'Us all lov(^ has left; 
 
 When in lliought I'ln adrift. 
 Willlsifili. 
 
 «■ 
 
 UNDEIt THK ASPENS. 
 The minstrel wind's love-touch has made 
 The gleaming bosom of the lake 
 
 To palpitate in sweet alarm. 
 
 The aspen trees resent the kiss 
 
 The saucy reveller gave, trembling 
 
 Musicallj' to eye and ear. 
 
 While silver leaves beam like faint stars 
 
 And twinkle iu the tender blue. 
 
 A careless dreamer lies beneath 
 
 The milky way of leaves, and loves 
 
 To hear the tales the aspens tell 
 
 How such a lover said "I love," 
 
 And carved within their snowy peel 
 
 Two names he would were one. 
 
 OVER A PICTURE. 
 Sweet girl, 1 love thee for thy face 
 Where soul and beauty find a place 
 To dwell with purity. A mien 
 Of poesy's conceit hast thou — 
 In Grecian mind thou must have been 
 A Goddess meant for Parian snow. 
 God took the thoug ht and chiseled thee 
 From his divine and throbbing elaj'. 
 Above the pictured face I dream 
 And look until my eyes grow dim; 
 Her features blend into a blot. 
 My heart's cold altar of desire. 
 Her eye, a flame forget-me-not 
 Shall light forever with pure flre, 
 And l)y those heaven-tender eyes 
 Shall burn a holy sacrifice. 
 
 TO A MOCKING BIRD. 
 When the slender shidlop of the moon 
 Glides among the stars on the jiurple sea. 
 Propelled by sails unseen and winds unknown. 
 Dashing softly earthward a silver spray, 
 Wakefid thou art singing dreamily. 
 All unbeautiful is now unseen 
 Beneath the silver-plating of the spray. 
 The white-robed Earth swings incense to her 
 
 queen. 
 And silent are the choristers for thee 
 To sing the .solo of thy roundelay. 
 Poet-laureate of blossomed glade, 
 The interwoven notes of melody 
 Whicli loudly till thy milled throat or fade. 
 And faint in tiMuk'rness from tree to tree 
 Were made for such a night, the iiiglit for 
 
 thee. 
 Fragrant almost is thy minstrelsy ! [bliss— 
 I scarcely know wliich sense receives tlie 
 I hear it, smell it with the apple tree. 
 And even feel it with the breezes' kiss. 
 So all pervading is its tenderness. 
 And beautiful is each phantjisy 
 Awakened by thy song — a prayer were true 
 Than any christian even sent on high. 
 And peaceful calmness comes witli lliy adieu 
 As that pure ori.son transcends the blue 
 
 * 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOBTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -SB 
 
 501 
 
 REV. HOLMAN K. HASTINGS. 
 
 Born: Bhistol, N. H., Oct. 15, 1853. 
 In 1875 Mr. Hasting-s entered the Vermont 
 Conference and served pastorates at Guilford, 
 Bondville, Tunbridg-e and Hancock, V^ermont. 
 Mr. Hastings was superintendent of schools 
 for two ycai'^, and in 1883 was elected a repre- 
 
 ® 
 
 KEV. HOLMAN II. HASTINGS. 
 
 sentative to the Vei-mont legislature. In 1886 
 he received the degree of Ph. D. at the Illinois 
 Wesleyan University at Bloomington. The 
 same year the Rev. Hastings was transferred 
 from the Vermont conference to northwest 
 Iowa and appointed pastor at Odebolt, and 
 later at West Side, where he is at present 
 methodist episcopal minister. 
 
 POEM. 
 Three and fifty years ; years fraught with care, 
 
 and toil have passed, 
 Tliough not lost, yet reckoned evermore 
 
 among tlie vast 
 Realm of yeats, filling the cycle of eternal 
 
 ages; 
 Whose annals are wortliy of historians or 
 
 sages. 
 Half a century and more ago, when it was 
 
 said. 
 That a lovely blue-eyed maiden to the altar led 
 In a plain gown, nature's beauty mantled 
 
 with golden hair. 
 By a stately young man,— weren't they a love- 
 ly pair! 
 
 There lived a respectable tanner in Bristol 
 
 town, 
 A royal good man,— since honored with the 
 
 governor's gown ; 
 And well to do, he had, 'twas thought for 
 
 those early days. 
 Something uncommon to see, much less to 
 
 own a chaise. 
 One delig-htful morn in early spring, John 
 
 hastened to hire 
 The chaise, that tliey might ride all the day 
 
 long- and not tire. 
 To the parson in great pompt and ease they 
 
 sped away. 
 And they twain, until death should part, were 
 
 made on that day. 
 All day long through the streets of the town 
 
 in burning sun. 
 For what do you suppose they'd now care 
 
 since they are one? 
 Up and down hill, over dale rode they merry 
 
 and gay. 
 This, j'ou will remember was fifty-three years 
 
 to-day. 
 
 Think you not the bride with sparkling eyes, 
 
 affection's beauty. 
 And the g-room, kind and true, ever strong 
 
 and brave to duty. 
 Were as worthj- a couple as ever achieved 
 
 success? 
 More than miniature of hope and promise they 
 
 possess. 
 
 Firm and manly, true and virtuouslj' side 
 
 by side. 
 Braving the storms, sharing the toils and 
 
 stemming the tide; 
 John and Doi-othy to each other, happiness 
 
 and streng-th 
 Have been, riches, too, and blessing, the 
 
 whole journey's length. 
 
 This anniversary of your solemn nuptial 
 
 vows, 
 While over life's rolling- main, your bark, 
 
 storm-tossed, still plows, 
 Is a noble monument of God's most holy laws. 
 Reared and dedicated this day to the mar- 
 
 riag-e cause. 
 
 Dear parents, of children j-ou've had the num- 
 ber of eleven. 
 
 Of boys a large g-roup all in a row the sacred 
 seven ; 
 
 One boy, then three g-irls, God added, to your 
 lives now troubled ; 
 
 Wonder surprising-, behold! the eleven have 
 doubled. 
 
 Gustavus Adolphus, after the roj-al prince 
 was named, 
 
 Exampled the Swedish warrior marched, but 
 never maimed. 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 -fi& 
 
 502 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 With the boys in blue to the front, often 
 
 times forsaken ; 
 The war over, for better or worse, Nellie was 
 
 taken. 
 The first name was appropriate to the very 
 
 letter. 
 In search of another, and for the want of a 
 
 better, 
 Since for a girl a royal name is difficult to find, 
 Liza Ann given to Batchelder's arts much 
 
 study in mind. 
 Clarinda Jane Bartlett appears along in the 
 
 train. 
 Fraught with such a name, will ever work 
 
 with might and main ; 
 With a heart as broad as the name, Cupid 
 
 from above 
 For a Sanborn filled with sweet nectar, the 
 
 cup of love. [sire. 
 
 Records old and poets many, sage alike with 
 Gleaning for names, the spell was broken, 
 
 Laura Maria 
 Sounded forth, and before the last maiden 
 
 corner passed, 
 Tailoress she was, a Taylor truly is at last. 
 Exploring the realms of the dead, the living 
 
 inspire. 
 Sir John Franklin, Jr., explored no farther 
 
 than the choir. 
 Perchance, charmed with Helen, afairdaugh- 
 
 er of these lands. 
 Has music enough, since they joined hearts 
 
 and hands. 
 Giving many mechanics, the smith and the 
 
 wheel-right. 
 But none skilled in oratory, nor teachers of 
 
 the right. 
 To this sacradotal office was given George 
 
 Henry, 
 Who associated with him in this portion, Jen- 
 nie. 
 Charles Albert, a mighty prince over his house 
 
 doth reign ; 
 To Frankie, his idol joined, forever to ic- 
 
 main, 
 Not to a heathen God, all hallowed blood of- 
 fering. 
 But at liberty's altar, for freedom laboring. 
 From the royal line of gubernatorial fame, 
 Levi Woodbury, honest and true, deiived his 
 
 name. 
 Wandering far and wide over western prair- 
 ies vast. 
 Roamed till satisfied, concluded to take Tillio 
 
 at last. 
 The i)arents before the altar coiisecralc a 
 
 teacher. 
 And christened a circuit rider, Ilolman Kel- 
 ley, llie i)reaolier. 
 
 *- 
 
 Tlie writer, to exalted fame no high claims 
 
 can lay. 
 But to parents and Phie, ever grateful tribute 
 
 pay. 
 Myron Lincoln, from Abe's own bosom with 
 
 genius full. 
 The thunder and roar of engine and throttle 
 
 pull 
 His highest glory ; and Maggie his fond admir- 
 ation. 
 Now flying on his steed o'er plain, sweeping 
 
 in rotation. 
 The seventh son in row, failing in a name 
 
 more renowned, 
 Almon Curtis, for his Addie, much preference 
 
 abound. 
 The Doctor most aptly and potently applies 
 
 his skill. 
 The old homestead in Bristol town, ever dear, 
 
 to till. 
 Dear parents, of all your long and respectaVile 
 
 train. 
 Only four of your own in old New England 
 
 remain; 
 Six are scattered thoughout the great west for 
 
 a short time. 
 And one is abiding In Florida's sunny clime. 
 
 In this world of conflict and change sundeied 
 must we be. 
 
 But God grant that all may be gathered be- 
 yond the sea. 
 
 With devout thankfulness, not one is counted 
 to-day. 
 
 With the sacred dead, consigned in mother 
 earth to lay. 
 
 Sail on thou storm-rocked bark with thy sil- 
 vered locks like sails 
 Floating in the autumnal breeze, borne from 
 
 heaven's gales; 
 Tliy knit-ted bows, dew lunlecked ami all 
 
 wrinkled with age. 
 Gemmed witli many stars; thy soul's eternal 
 
 love engage. 
 May it never tempest-riven be, or caused to 
 
 strand 
 Till tliy lives in snowy whiteness gain tlie 
 
 glory laud. 
 Thou hast almost gained the hea\-enl>- jiorl : 
 
 Sail on! 
 Night a little longer, then 'twill he elerii.'d 
 
 morn. 
 Once more deal' ones we turn and lingtT in 
 
 the old home. 
 While our hearts and iiiiTids ;iiise to heaven's 
 
 dome, 
 Tliat ill tliis dear home your cliildien you iii;iy 
 
 often view. 
 Till this spot and eacli other on earth we bid 
 
 adieu. 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMElllCA. 
 
 5o:j 
 
 -m 
 
 MRS. FANNY SPEAR YOUNG. 
 
 Born: Kemper Co., Miss., Oct. 6, 1844. 
 The poems of tliis lady appeared quite ex- 
 tensively in the periodical press. She was mar- 
 ried in 1866 to Ciipt. W. F. Young-. She has 
 
 MRS. FANNY SPEAR YOUNG. 
 
 written hoth prose and verse from :in early 
 ag-e. Mrs. Young- resides with her family at 
 Longview, Texas, where she lias become very 
 popular. ■ 
 
 m 
 
 TO MY BABY'S PICTURE. 
 O, image! dearer far to me 
 
 Than costliest gem in earth or sea. 
 Than diamonds, brighter, and .nglow 
 
 With love, those eyes that glad me so. 
 Those lips of coral, bathed in love. 
 
 Breathe sweets that lift my heart above — 
 This mother's heart such transports sliare 
 
 That every care some bliss doth wear. 
 
 0, eyes! may never sorrow blight 
 
 The sweet young joy that makes your light. 
 May naught e'er dim those eyes with tears. 
 From wrong, O Fate ! guard well her years. 
 Alas! how bitter 'tis to feel 
 That woe to us is otlier's weal. 
 Oh! may'st thou ne'er have foes assail thee, 
 And th' ties thou deem'dst could never fail 
 thee 
 Prove broken faith. Our joy is fled. 
 
 When th' faith we trusted wags its head. 
 From out that mouth, my lovely child, 
 
 Speak words of wisdom, gentle, mild, 
 O, brow! wiih intellect abeam. 
 
 May thought and act and effort teem 
 With good, and thus commend the ways 
 
 Of Him whom Heaven and angels praise. 
 
 O, time! deal gently with my jewel. 
 
 And safely through temptation's cruel 
 And thorny pathway, lead my child; 
 
 Oh! lead her past each wicked wild. 
 I wonder now and strive to see 
 
 What in the future thou wilt be, 
 O innocence! it can't be true. 
 
 That crime thy heart will e'er imbue, 
 Forebodings vain. My prayer shall be. 
 
 My God ! 1 trust it all to thee. 
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 A father looks upon his boy with pride. 
 With prospect bright the future lures his joy 
 And admiration. His intellect he prunes. 
 And with his own strong arm he leads him up 
 The rugged hill to manhood — gives the world 
 His second self, a noble scion, and then. 
 In quiet content, he hails the sweeter calm 
 Of life's adieu. 
 
 Old ocean wafts 
 No lullaby so sweet as mother's words. 
 The winds no language whisper half so pure. 
 The brightest flower boasts no fadeless 
 
 bloom ; 
 And yet a mother's love endures forever. 
 No cruelty, or absence, or frowning horde 
 Of ills can break this tie of adamant, 
 A mother's love is earth's one plant from 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Faith soars aloft on eagle wing, 
 
 LTndaunted e'er and sun-ward; 
 In triumphs thro' each fiery tiling 
 
 In majesty 't moves onward. 
 With mighty stride o'er mountains rife 
 
 It mounts, the highest, the fleetest; 
 Beneath the boisterous storm of life 
 
 Faith finds a calm the sweetest. 
 
 With iron hand, faith grasps the throne 
 
 Of mighty God Jehovah, 
 And claiming heaven's sweets its own. 
 
 With joy it spreads earth over. 
 And faith will lead us home at last. 
 
 Where mind and soul are blended — 
 Where light and love are joined and blest 
 
 In wisdom's feast unended. 
 
 ^ 
 
© — 
 
 604 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 MRS. ANNIE H. MAGEE. 
 
 Born : Canada, Dec. 14, 1850. 
 During a busy life Mrs. Mag-ee has occasion- 
 ally found time to court the muse, and her 
 poems have frequently appeared in the local 
 
 MRS. ANNIE H. MAGEE. 
 
 press. She liopes to publish a book at no dis- 
 tant date. Mrs. Magee is now a resident of 
 Michigan at Golden-Rod Place. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Just merging from the simple walks of child- 
 hood's merry ways. 
 
 The youth and maiden, peering forth with all- 
 impatient gaze, 
 
 Tlie fields of man and womanhood, in glowing 
 color see. 
 
 And long to pass the border line,— to solve 
 their mystery. 
 
 Time passes all too slowly now, scarce seems 
 to move at all, 
 
 Wliileo'er the youthful senses, dreams of fu- 
 ture blessings fall: 
 
 For that future in the distance, ever f;iir and 
 templing lies,— 
 
 Youth fain would overleap all Itounds and 
 seize the glowing prize. 
 
 O, thou whose boyisli mind is filled with visions 
 fair to see! 
 
 Dream on for soon enough thou'lt wake to 
 
 stern reality; 
 Be not impatient,— lagg'ing' time ere long will 
 
 use his wings. 
 Then watch — for only active hands can catch 
 
 the good he brings ! 
 And, little maid with beaming- face and softly 
 
 g-lowing- eyes. 
 In which a child's unconscious grace and wo- 
 man's power lies. 
 Qlie path that thou art treading now is fair 
 
 with budding flowers — 
 Enjoy their bloom, they'll vanish soon with 
 
 girlhood's care-free hours. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Now time reveals the man's strong will. 
 Youth's radiant halo lingers still. 
 
 But life is growing real. 
 With busy hands and active brain. 
 The toiling man strives hard to gain 
 
 The dreaming youth's ideal. 
 The maid, her happy, girlish days 
 Half-hidden by time's misty haze. 
 
 In earnest, thoughtful mood, 
 At last within the threshold stands, 
 Takes up, with untaug-ht, trembling hand. 
 
 The task of womanhood. 
 'Tis thus life's springtime slips away. 
 Till, flying fast, each summer day 
 
 To man and woman calls; 
 (Time's sands, how swiftly now they runlj 
 " Let summer's work be quicklj- done. 
 
 Before the autumn falls! " 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Softly now, with measured tread. 
 Trembling feet with snowy head. 
 All youth's glowing fire dead. 
 
 See the aged come I 
 Broken idols, severed bands. 
 Chastened hearts and patient hands. 
 Wide for them the portal stands, 
 Thej' are almost home. 
 
 Through the changing scenes of life. 
 Fraught with joy — with sadness rife. 
 Past the dreaming, past the strife. 
 
 Seed-time, harve-st gone; 
 Backward turn the dimmed eyes. 
 Back to where the life-work lies. 
 Deeds of light or darkness rise. 
 
 Past recall,— they're done! 
 
 Memories happy, memories sad, 
 {{right or j;l(M)ni.\-. good or bad. 
 Noble acts or errors made — 
 
 Each and all abide; 
 While time's stream flows softly on, 
 Bearing to the land iniknown. 
 Sage and infant,— every one, 
 
 On its ceaseless tide. 
 
 ©- 
 
*■ 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 505 
 
 -)5 
 
 MRS. CLARA M. A. SHORES. 
 
 Born: Parsonsfield, Me., Aug. 1, 1827. 
 The poems of Mrs. Shores have occasionally 
 appeared in the Sunday School Times, Motli- 
 er's Journal, and tlio local press generally. 
 
 -MKS. ('I,AK.A. M. A. SHOIUOS. 
 
 Shu has wi'ilteu simply for the i)leasure of it. 
 Mrs. Shores resides with her iiusband and 
 children at West Bridgewater, Mass. 
 
 SONGS AND SINGING. 
 Is the life of song so fleeting? 
 Like an airy sliade a-greeting 
 
 Of a thrush or linnet in the dewy morning? 
 Nay immortal is its power. 
 Life on earth is but an hour [iug. 
 
 Of its endless inspiration, its eternal dawn- 
 Words of joy, or sobs of sorrow. 
 Love's enchantment, hope's bright morrow, 
 Calm of peace, or thrill of pleasure 
 Will o'erflow in rhytlimic measure. 
 
 While the soul has glad existence in worlds 
 of divine adorning. 
 Whenthou hast almost crossed the ocean. 
 Passed its heaving, wild commotion. 
 
 Almost reached the restful, quiet liaven of 
 thy quest. 
 When " Jerusalem the golden " 
 In the twilight is beholden. 
 
 Faintly gleaming through the amber, au- 
 tumn heavens in the west. 
 Take thy lute again for singing. 
 All thy youthful fire upspringing. 
 
 Like the swan's thy last song be thy best. 
 SJ ■ 
 
 I AM LOOKING. 
 I am looking o'er the dreary mist, 
 
 Which, stretcliing far away. 
 Conceals the mountain's wooded brow 
 And the broad river's sparkling flow, 
 
 And dims the light of day. 
 Makes sad this fading light of day. 
 And now my busy fancy Alls 
 
 That mist with richest dower 
 Of gorgeous scenes in eastern clime. 
 Palace, and dome, and vesper chime. 
 
 For this lone twilight hour. 
 This still, sad, dreamy hour. 
 Beyond it all I seem to hear 
 
 Old Ocean's murmurs come. 
 And see the white sails dimly glide 
 Far off on the receding tide. 
 
 Joyfully sailing home; 
 Bearing fond hearts toward home. 
 Would that it were not fancy's dream 
 
 And I were on that sea, 
 Rushing as swift as thought can fly 
 Through mist and foam and surging high 
 
 My home once more to see. 
 With my loved ones to be. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 I am sitting in the moonlight 
 
 And looking o'er the snow. 
 Where shadows from the tree tops 
 
 Are gliding to and fro. 
 And I am thinking of the shadow 
 
 Of that Reaper cold and strong. 
 Who is gathering in his harvest 
 
 Night and day the whole year long. 
 To some he seems an angel. 
 
 With face of heavenly light; 
 To others grim and fearful. 
 
 With countenance of night; 
 But I have only seen liis shadow 
 
 Fall o'er the loved ones gone. 
 And I've shuddered at his footsteps 
 
 As I've heard them stealing on. 
 And yet my heart oft prayeth, 
 
 Let the shadow fall on me; 
 'Tis not because so radiant 
 
 Is that changeless smile I see 
 On the still face stamped forever. 
 
 Of the pale earth-freed one, 
 'Tis not because the sorrowing 
 
 And toiling all are done. 
 No, 'tis a sweeter blessing, 
 
 Mj' soul desires to win 
 From the shadow of the Reaper, 
 
 'Tis freedom from all sin; 
 For those who sleep in Jesus 
 
 Are free from earthly stain, 
 And when the shadow falleth 
 
 They'll know no sin again. 
 
 © 
 
*- 
 
 -^ 
 
 506 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 THOMAS' F. PORTER. 
 
 Born: Nova Scotia, Oct. 30, 1847. 
 This gentleman is possessed of fine literary 
 talent; wrote a column weekly for the Dan- 
 bury News in its palmiest days, and is a con- 
 tributor (if both prose and verse to th(^ Jiidsrc, 
 Boston .hiiiMial. Yankee Blade, the w ;i\ril.v 
 
 51- 
 
 THOMAS FREEMAN l'( (liit-l!. 
 
 Magazine and the periodical press generally, 
 besides doing considerable reportorial work 
 for the local press. Mr. Porter is prominent 
 in Odd Fellowship, and is a Mason, and has 
 held numerous positions of trust. He is now 
 principally engaged in real estate and insur- 
 ance at Lynn, Mass., where he is well known. 
 
 THE BIRD'S REPLY. 
 
 What's your mission little bird. 
 
 To this world so cold and dreai? 
 1 with joy your songs have heard 
 
 From my window many a year. 
 , Oft with thee my lunch was shared, 
 
 And you gave me good return; 
 Why have you so long been spared? 
 
 Please reply ; I wish to learn. 
 Others 1 have seen like you. 
 
 But so .soon they Mew away, 
 While your song is ever new, 
 
 And it cheers me day by day. 
 Thus I did the birdling chide, 
 
 Tims the bird rci)lied to ine: 
 Tlio' the world bo great and wide, 
 
 I but live to sing for tliee. 
 
 THE WILL IS MORE THAN HALF THE 
 MAN. 
 
 The claim I make is strong and bold. 
 
 And yet disprove the same who can. 
 Whether of big or little mold 
 
 The will is more than half tlie man. 
 The men who scale the heights of fame. 
 
 Leaving the aimless throng below. 
 And chisel there a deathless name. 
 
 Are those alone who will it so. 
 Whoever turns the written page 
 
 To see by what mysterious skill 
 Men stamp themselves upon their age 
 
 Will find that it is force of will. 
 Why idly prate that fortune, luck. 
 
 Aids men some great work to fulfill. 
 Away with this; blind guides! 'Tis pluck, 
 
 Determination, courage, will. 
 Luck does not guide the artist's hand 
 
 To paint those forms which live for aye. 
 Nor cause the sculptor's work to stand 
 
 Deathless in marble, bronze or clay. 
 Luck never made a martyr strong 
 
 To suffer for the true and right; 
 Luck never wrote a deathless song. 
 
 Or armed a chieftain for the fight. 
 The claim I make is strong and bold. 
 
 And yet disprove the same who can. 
 Whether of big or little mold 
 
 The will is more than half the man. 
 
 THY NEIGHBOR. 
 
 Who is thy neighbor? all who need 
 
 The care aifd comfort jou can give. 
 Despite their country or their creed. 
 
 Despite the land in which they live. 
 Who is thy neighbor? they whose eyes 
 
 Are dimmed by sorrow, pain and grief; 
 These claim thy sympathy ; arise. 
 
 And carry to such souls relief. 
 Thy neighbor he whose bleeding feet 
 
 Need shelter from the winter's cold — 
 Who gives such shoes or bread to eat 
 
 Have a reward worth more than gold. 
 Who is thy neighbor? she whose way 
 
 With thorns and brambles sharp are f rant; ht. 
 
 Go! smooth that hard rough road to-tla.\ 
 
 And both to heaven were nearer brouglit. 
 Thy neighbor he who thirsts for drink 
 
 And soon must lall to deptlis l)eKiw — 
 Haste! snatch him from that awful l)rink 
 
 And angi'l bands thy deed sliall know. 
 Thy neighbor he whose honest name 
 
 The thrusts of scandal dei>p have slain — 
 Fly to him, and in love proclaim 
 
 That this world's hate is heavenly gain. 
 Who is thy neighbor? all who need 
 
 The care and comfort you can give; 
 Despite tlieir country ov their creed. 
 
 Despite the land in wliicli tliey live. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 507 
 
 -SB 
 
 AUGUSTA J.CROCHERON. 
 
 BoKN : Boston, Mass., Oct. 9, 1844. 
 When grown to womanhood, Augusta went 
 to Utah with her mother and sister, and was 
 married m Salt Lake City and now has a fam- 
 ily of three sons and two daughters. She has 
 been very prominent in young ladies mutual 
 improvement associations, and has been re- 
 cording secretary of twenty-four associutlons 
 
 AUGUSTA J. CROCHERON. 
 
 at one time. Mrs. Crocheron has been an oc- 
 casional contributor to the Woman's Expon- 
 ent, Juvenile Instructor and other periodicals. 
 In 1881 she published a volume of poems en- 
 titled Wild Flowers of Deseret, and in 1884 Re- 
 presentative Women of Descret,a biographical 
 work. Mrs. Crocheron has taken three gold 
 medals and cash prizes for Christmas stories. 
 In addition to her poetical writings, she has 
 two volumes of prose wliich she hopes to pub- 
 lish at an early date. Mrs. Crocheron is still 
 a resident of Utah in Bountiful. 
 
 *- 
 
 ESTRANGED. 
 And hast thou shut and locked thy heart 
 
 Against me? Nay, not so. 
 Whom once I loved, I ever love; 
 
 I cannot let thee go. 
 Thou, who liast dwelt within my love. 
 
 Winning thy place so well ; 
 Ah! must we .say good-by to hearts? 
 
 I cannot say farewell. 
 
 Thou, w iio alone didst watch my bed 
 
 Of sorrow, pain and fear: 
 While wintry night raged dark and wild. 
 
 And death seemed all too near. 
 Can I forget those dream-like days. 
 
 When, resting in thy care, 
 I traced the wanderings of thy song 
 
 Upon the charmed air? 
 
 E'en if some idle word let fall, 
 
 (As leaves float on the wind) 
 Long wandering, to thy gentle heart 
 
 Its way at last did find. 
 Ah ! who would weigh it 'gainst the past. 
 
 With all its memories dear? 
 Not thou, or I, who know so well 
 
 Life's holj' mission here. 
 
 Ah I who would take the perfect rose. 
 
 Love on its heart had worn. 
 And counting not it's loveliness, 
 
 Treasure alone the thorn? 
 I could not sing in heaven, if there 
 
 A loved face turned away. 
 Unreconciled; 'twould chill my joy. 
 
 E'en in that perfect day. 
 Tliough life be long and earth be wide. 
 
 All vain to turn away; 
 We oft shall meet amid that throng, 
 
 W'ho walk the narrow way. 
 When we shall meet beside that gate. 
 
 Thou wilt not answer no; 
 Thou'lt know with joy my patient faith - 
 
 For I have loved thee so. 
 
 AN IDEAL. 
 Here is my ho\ise! Far below me lying. 
 
 The city spreads its streams of busy life 
 Unto my watching, dreaming eyes replying, 
 
 Banishes loneliness and hushes strife. 
 Sense of companionship without its sighing, 
 Hearts rest from scenes with vexing ques- 
 tions rife. 
 Just within sense of life's sincere endeavor, 
 
 Just within sight of art's creations rare. 
 So comes the life draught welling up forever. 
 As breezes wand'ring through the sunlight 
 air. 
 Gather the freshness from the flowing river. 
 And scatter perfumes culled from every- 
 where. 
 Mountains that yet are white with winter's 
 snowing. 
 Shut out the fair world from my blest re- 
 treat. 
 Out through their riven side a stream is flow- 
 ing. 
 Chanting k psalm the rocky walls repeat, 
 'Till in the valley with warm sunlight glow- 
 ing 
 Breaketh its voice to ripples low and sweet. 
 
 -® 
 
)5- 
 
 -* 
 
 508 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Sheltered from winds adown a dimpled hol- 
 low, 
 Earliest suns have waked the leaves of 
 spring-; 
 Here come the robin and the glancing swal- 
 low, 
 Here comes the lark to build her nest and 
 sing. 
 And here as soon as bud and perfume follow, 
 
 Loiters the butterfly on idle wing. 
 Here is my home, low roofed against the 
 sweeping 
 Of winter winds that spend their strength 
 
 in vain; 
 Here may I listen, wakened from my sleep- 
 ing. 
 Close overhead the music of the rain; 
 And with the morning light a welcome keep- 
 ing. 
 Flowers are nodding 'gainst my window 
 pane. 
 Here are my trees, each has its separate mean- 
 ing. 
 These were for shelter, these for beauty 
 bought; 
 From far and near my search was long in 
 gleaning 
 These most befitting the eyrie T had sought. 
 Drawing from out my fancy's farthest screen- 
 ing 
 The real, living, picture here is wrought. 
 Here come the few, one is not long in finding 
 Tliose who will deem it worth tlieir while and 
 care 
 To thread the pathway up the mountain wind- 
 ills'. 
 Catching the rapture of the upper air. 
 Worship and joy with sacred friendship bind- 
 ing 
 In a sweet charm the soul may inly wear. 
 Here come the loved, the dear ones who've de- 
 parted. 
 Softly their arms my <lroopiiig form en- 
 twine; 
 Here come the sacred, great and noble lieart- 
 ed. 
 Softly their spirits cheer and beckon mine; 
 Have I been dreaming? Hide the tears tliat 
 started. 
 Ah! would that this ideal liome were mine! 
 
 KXTKACT. 
 Say, wliere hast thou wandered, sweet spirit? 
 
 I've missed tliee for ever so long; 
 Thine absence and frown did I merit 
 
 That I've waited in vain for tliy song? 
 Did I wrong tliee when, leaning beside me, 
 
 1 slighted thy voice in mine ear? 
 Did I gi'ieve thee in Ihat I denied tliee 
 
 My lioniage when last llu)u wert near? 
 
 ©-- 
 
 JOHN DOBSON CARROLL. 
 
 Born: Magnolia, N.C, Sept. 3, 1870. 
 Mr. Carroll is now the editor of the Florida 
 Hawkeye, published at Branford. His poems 
 have appeared in local papers of North 
 Carolina, Georgia, Virginia and Florida. Mr. 
 Carroll was married in 1889 to Miss Georgia 
 McDonald, of Atlanta, Ga. 
 
 HOPE. 
 Hope is the guiding star of life 
 
 Which leads the luckless wand'rer on, 
 Nor disappointment, pain nor strife 
 
 Can conquer till all Hope is gone; 
 And, with the sanguine, Hope will last 
 
 Till liuman hearts are still'd in death — 
 The hopes of life are never past 
 
 Till drawn is our last fleeting breath. 
 We hope for greatness, wealth or love. 
 
 With all the sti'ength of earnest hearts — 
 We hope for life and joy above 
 
 And ne'er till death this Hope departs. 
 We never stop to count the cost 
 
 Of disappointment, or the pain. 
 But strive to regain what was lost, 
 
 And fight our battles o'er again. 
 Thus may it ever be with me — 
 
 May hope frustrated give me strength 
 My weakest lighting points to see. 
 
 That I may conquer fate at length ! 
 I'll live in Hope and bless the day 
 
 Misfortune made me weep or wail. 
 Success will come to me some day — 
 
 With Hope there's no such word as fail. 
 
 THE REASON WHY. 
 Dark-eyed beauty, proud and peerless. 
 
 Why should you my heart beguile?— 
 Why should I, so cold and careless. 
 
 Seek .so anxiously your smile? 
 Why should I be always thinking 
 
 Of your sweet and pretty face?— 
 Why am I forever sinking 
 
 Into dreams of your rich grace? 
 Why should sleep be flH'd with visions 
 
 Sweet and dear, because of you — 
 Dreams of happiness elysian. 
 
 Such as nioi'tal never knew? 
 Why sho\ild I, with such iiei-sistcnce, 
 
 Watch you, even when afar?— 
 Why should you, of my existence. 
 
 Be the briglit and morning star? 
 Why shoulil I, when 'wake or dreaming, 
 
 Think of nothing else but you — 
 As my loadstar, brightly gleaming 
 
 In the darkness, i)ure and true. 
 Let me not your feelings liarrow. 
 
 For tlie reason I can prove — 
 Cui>id, with his bow and arrow. 
 
 Has i)ierced my poor heart with Love! 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMifiKlCA. 
 
 509 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS.ELLA H.STRATTON. 
 
 BoiiN: Cakibou, Me., March 26, 1849. 
 In 1867 this lady was mari-ieil to Albion W. 
 Strattoa, wlio served with lioiioi- tltiougliout 
 the civil war. Althoujih Mis. Stratton is cliief- 
 ly litiown as a writer of short stories, she has 
 
 MRS. ELLA HINES STRATTOX. 
 
 written numerous poems of merit, which have 
 appeared in the Woman's Magazine, Portland 
 Transcript, Youth's Companion and other 
 publications. She still resides in her native 
 state on a farm at Washburn. 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF HOME. 
 There's a liingdom the fairest on earth, I 
 ween. 
 Though it finds no place upon history's 
 page. 
 It's titles are grander than noble or dean. 
 It's infiuence grejiter than poet or sage. 
 This Kingdom of Home is a beautiful land. 
 
 Its subjects the truest that ever were seen. 
 If the sceptre is in a wise father's hand. 
 And a loving mother is the faithful queen. 
 
 l5^- 
 
 GRIT. 
 
 It is not so much genius that wins the race 
 In the contest for glory or fame. 
 
 As it is the possession of an inborn grace 
 By a homely, significant name. 
 Success is won by it, 
 
 Fame built upon by it. 
 This sturdy, bull dog grit! 
 
 Your ancestors may have been noble and 
 great. 
 And their virtues may fall unto you. 
 These cannot avail if but idly you prate, 
 And leave the worli which you have to do. 
 Genius is tame to it. 
 Ancestry lame to it. 
 This sturdy, bull dog grit! 
 
 ALTHINE F.SHOLES. 
 
 Born: Goshen, N. H., Feb. 10, 18.5T. 
 This lady is a young writer who has already 
 achieved success with lier pen, and gained a 
 creditable place among the poets of the Gran- 
 ite State. Miss Sholes is still a resident of her 
 native place. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS. 
 Above the lowly village 
 
 And tlie plains that 'round them lie. 
 Forever grand the mountains stand. 
 
 Outlined against the sky. 
 I never tire of watching. 
 
 As the seasons come and go, [and ward. 
 How they lieep their guard with watch 
 
 Above tlie world below. 
 Whether in drear3' winter. 
 
 The Frost-liing there abides. 
 With somber lines on the grove of pines 
 
 That clothe their rugged sides; 
 Or through the mists of azure 
 
 In golden summer time, 
 
 I see as now each nolDle brow 
 
 In majesty sublime. 
 The storms may break around them. 
 
 Or the pleasant sunlight fall. 
 But naught shall harm that mighty calm 
 
 That restetli over all. 
 For God has blessed the mountains 
 
 With everlasting youth; 
 And gives eacli face a rugged grace, 
 
 Unchangeable as Truth. 
 Oh, are they not true emblems 
 
 Of noble human souls. 
 That will not quail, tliough foes assail. 
 
 And dark the storm-cloud rolls"? 
 But far above earth's tempests 
 
 Of care, and wrong and strife. 
 They lift their eyes to the waiting skies. 
 
 And live their patient life. 
 Unchanging, firm and fearless. 
 
 Oh, may our natures be! 
 Then our souls shall stand forever grand. 
 
 Through all eternity. 
 
 m 
 
®- 
 
 ^ 
 
 510 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MOSES H. GREENE. 
 
 born: Chester, N. H., March 10, 1843. 
 THE poems of Mr. Greene have appeared quite 
 frequently in the eastern periodicals. He has 
 been principally engaged In mercantile pur- 
 
 r ■ 
 
 MOSES 11. (.KLl.M . 
 
 suits, and also has been correspondent for 
 various publications. Mr. Greene is now a 
 resident of Haverhill, Mass., where he is well 
 known and highly respected . 
 
 IS LOVE IMMORTAL? 
 
 Cold gleams the moon, 
 
 The twink' ling stars 
 
 Shine sadly on her grave: 
 
 The screeching wind 
 
 In sorrow mourns 
 
 For her, so early saved. 
 
 Aged twenty years. 
 
 She passed from life. 
 
 The gayest of life's fair 
 
 Higli-favored ones, 
 
 Wlio live their day 
 
 ]{l(;st with the tenderest care. 
 
 For two decades 
 
 This cherished form 
 
 Has crumbled b:ick to dust, 
 
 The turf-bound grave 
 
 Hath level grown 
 
 1 Above its sacred trust. 
 
 Tln^y excavate 
 This earthly home. 
 To place another there; 
 
 m 
 
 While yet one more 
 
 Stands ready by 
 
 To join this husband fair. 
 
 A signet ring 
 
 Around a bone 
 
 Of her right hand appears:— 
 
 A token dear 
 
 Of one true friend. 
 
 Way back these twenty year. 
 
 Alas, for man. 
 
 Inconstant man, 
 
 How sad is thy career! 
 
 Remember lier 
 
 Who married thee 
 
 Way back these twenty years. 
 
 Dear kindred dust. 
 
 Peace to thy shades, 
 
 Man's love is not immortal, • • 
 
 UNDER THE LINDENS. 
 We wandered there together 
 In joyous years ago; 
 The linden trees above us 
 Were waving to and fro; 
 We watched the changeful shadow's 
 Sweep over hill and plain, 
 But never more together 
 Shall we wander there again. 
 We gazed into the mirror 
 The waters kindly gave; 
 And saw the milk-white lilies 
 Rise with the heaving wave: 
 The forest birds in gladness 
 Poured forth a tuneful strain. 
 But never more together 
 Shall we hear that song again. 
 The other day I sought the path 
 Down by the river side. 
 And sad at heart and weary, 
 I gazed upon the tide ; 
 The flowers still were lending 
 Sweet perfume to the air. 
 But I remember only 
 Thou wert not with me there. 
 Around me dark and st)mbre 
 Tlie cypress shadows fell ; 
 And bars of golden sunshine 
 With tlu'ir sweet magic spell. 
 But the voice that in the old time 
 Made sweetest music there; 
 It was hushed away in silence 
 On the still soft summer air. 
 I lireathed tliy name in reverence. 
 As the words of an olden prayer; 
 With its sweet soothing memory 
 Came to my spirit there. 
 And now with feet aweary 
 I trciid the way alone; 
 A,„i wonder if this darkness 
 Will ever know a morn. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIOXAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 -511 
 
 CHARLES W. HILLS. 
 
 Born : Mayfield, Ohio, July 30, 18-10. 
 Many of the poems of Mr. Hills have appear- 
 ed in the New Eclectic Magazine, and have 
 been \(i\ fi\niil)l.\- rrcciNiMl liy pre^-, .-iiid 
 
 ( 11 VKLh- W. HILLS. 
 
 public. Mr. Hills is now a resident of Wash- 
 iagton, D. C, where he is well known and 
 highly respected as a scholar and a g-entleraan. 
 
 STATUARY. 
 
 Half to the ear, half to the eye. 
 
 The sculptor's marble forms belong; 
 The group, in postured symmetry. 
 
 Is but embodied song. 
 The severed inid, the broken vase. 
 
 The stricken bird in act to drop, 
 The column perfect at the base 
 
 But shattered at the top, 
 Tlie lamb at rest, the angel white. 
 
 The pillar wound with sombre crape. 
 Are anthems palpable to sight. 
 
 And dirges turned to shape. 
 Tile voice of music dies away. 
 
 But art arrests a truant tone 
 Within her charmed halls astray. 
 
 And turns it into stone. 
 
 BROTHERS. 
 I walked abroad at eventide. 
 
 With brothers twain, to view the sea: 
 One climbed the cliffs with haughty stride, 
 
 One trod the sands with me. 
 What word to-day of him whose feet 
 
 Were swift to run in pathways dim? 
 How wrought he in the dust and heatV 
 
 The plodder, what of him? 
 Tlie duller wight o'ertops the crowd, 
 
 The bolder delves with willing hands; 
 One dares the storm and fronts the cloud, 
 
 One cowers amid the sands. 
 Ah! slow to liail the princely-born. 
 
 And spirit darkling swift to chide: 
 The taper lit at early morn 
 
 Burns low at eventide. 
 
 THEY CAME NO MORE. 
 A lordly castle fair to see ! 
 
 The sloping beams of early suns 
 Illume its chambers royally; 
 
 Hard by, a tranquil river runs, 
 In shadow, to the sea. 
 Long years ago, ere moss and rime 
 
 And storm had blackened roof and walls, 
 
 A maid abode within those halls. 
 In woman's dreamy wooing-time. 
 The maiden's birth was half divine: 
 
 Her sire had walked among the stars; 
 
 The king, long heir of names and wars, 
 Could boast no higher line. 
 And troops of suitors from afar. 
 
 To whom this thing was told. 
 Some clad in vestments silken, rare, 
 
 And some in shining gold. 
 Came, singing, to the radiant gates,— 
 " Go tell the maid what suitor waits 
 
 To breathe the olden story ; 
 Around her life, a wedded wife. 
 
 Shall dawn an added glory." 
 But still the warder from within 
 
 Made answer as the wooers came,— 
 " Who weds my charge must be of kin 
 
 To deathless gods, or bear a name 
 
 Of new renown or ancient fame." 
 And worthy lovers, day by daj-. 
 
 Withdrew with humbled pride; 
 Each, grieved and silent, turned away. 
 
 To seek a willing bride. 
 But now, when winter hours are long. 
 
 No footfall breaks the snow. 
 Not one of all the vanished throng 
 
 Returns to woo. 
 Unmated, hopeless, desolate. 
 
 The faded damsel rules her own. 
 And, scowling, by the castle gate 
 
 The bafHed warder sits alone. 
 
 This legend shows in stone:— 
 "When strangers knock give prompt response. 
 
 Unbar the door; 
 For guests forbade to enter once 
 
 Return no more." 
 
 © 
 
-® 
 
 ®- 
 
 512 
 
 LOCAL AND NA'^'IONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 THE LOST TEMPLE. 
 
 A chronicle of faith, a tale of crimes 
 That staiu the dark mid-years from now to 
 Christ, 
 
 Comes to me, musing;, like the voice of times 
 That wait au annalist. 
 
 The dubious records of a vanished age 
 Preserve this monkish legend, quaintly told 
 
 In later time by one whose every page 
 Is bright with lines of gold. 
 
 In Gothic Spain, when luckless Roderick 
 
 Withstood the Crescent -cross-surmounted, 
 stood 
 The Home of Nuns of good Saint Benedict, 
 
 A pious sisterhood. 
 The dusky conqueror came in lust and greed; 
 
 The sacred crypt became the spoiler's den; 
 The churchyard herbage fed the trampUng 
 steed 
 
 Of ruthless Saracen; 
 
 Old shrines were pillaged; holy vessels graced 
 
 The sinful feast beside the wassail bowl ; 
 And gaudy garb and nodding plume displaced 
 
 The surplice and the cowl. 
 Our convent slumbered: at the night's full 
 noon 
 
 Came blare of trumpets and the warrior cry 
 Of Islam; and, dew-bright beneath the moon, 
 
 A swart host thundered by. 
 
 Then pale forms hurried to the place of pray- 
 er 
 With beads and crucifix; in spotless gown 
 And loose, affrighted maids with unbound 
 hair 
 Ran wildly up and down. 
 
 One clasped a marble saint; one rang the bell ; 
 
 One conned her cloister vows; one sang, 
 dismayed ; 
 But silence fell, from vault to pinnacle. 
 
 The while the Abbess prayed: 
 
 ..Loose the swift darkness, Lord! from pres- 
 ent harm 
 
 Hide thy handmaidens with a kindly veil. 
 Friend of the helpless, bare the potent arm 
 
 Tliat smote the gods of Baal ! 
 
 .. Give altar-stone to axe, and shrine to flame. 
 Let roof and 1 urret fade like morning mist, 
 
 Ere Paynhn wretches drag to sin and shame 
 These stainless brides of Christ! " 
 
 Down sank the walls; the pale moon overhead 
 Looked on a void, a houseless solitude. 
 
 Amain tlie doiiglily Moslem warriors fled. 
 Pale-faced anil fear-pursued; 
 
 m ■ 
 
 But one who cast a furtive look behind 
 Beheld the Cross uplifted, white and dim. 
 
 And heard above the sighing midnight wind 
 The sisters' triumph hymn. 
 
 When prayer arose, the blue sky opened wide; 
 
 A flaming sword shot upward and lay bare: 
 What time the towers sank earthward, voices 
 cried 
 
 And trumpets rang in air. 
 
 The Goth and Moor had passed like later snow ; 
 
 A broken pilgrim sought the spot, alone. 
 The sound of singing came; and, turning, lo! 
 
 A moon-lit cross of stone! 
 
 Not mine, in spirit of a later day. 
 To free this tablet old from clinging moss. 
 
 For still the hosts of darkness fall away 
 Before the lifted Cross. 
 
 There are who see, by faith, the sinless One 
 In daily sacrifice uplifted on the tree; 
 
 Before whose eyes, in shadow and in sun, 
 Christ walks upon the sea. 
 
 For them the ancient symbols shine, though 
 far 
 
 \nd dim to me; the angel-crowded stair 
 Scales the wan sky; the heavenly gates unbar 
 
 Moved by the breath of prayer. 
 
 We walk through temples, blinded, passing 
 
 by 
 Lung colonnade and many-pictured hall, 
 Chancel and transept, aisle and sacristy. 
 And dim confessional. 
 
 In rarer seasons some fine sense reveals 
 This inner world; we catch the gleam of 
 spires. 
 
 And liear, far off, the solemn toll of bells 
 And chant of unseen choirs. 
 
 The stately ritual of a creed unknown. 
 Applausive murmurs of a mighty host. 
 
 Echoes of anthems sung and trumpets blown 
 At some wild Pentecost. 
 
 And then the spirit wakes, its ^l^^^^'''' 
 It sings its longings and it will not. est 
 
 Though Mother-Earth sing to the wearj one 
 Close-gathered to her breast. 
 
 Soul! keep thy holy days: f"--^"**;;" '^^f'he I 
 The league with Death, the kinship ^^ iH' tM j 
 
 The hou'ifof clay,- walk thou in purest light I, 
 Where man may talk with God. ^ 
 
s 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 .513 
 
 -« 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
 Born: Greenfield, Ind., IsrA. 
 Mr. Riley in his youth led rather a wandering- 
 hf e — traveling from place to place as a sig-n 
 writer, sometimes simulating blindness in 
 order to attract custom. He thus acquired a 
 knowledge of men. Tor some time he perform- 
 ed in a theatrical troupe. In 1875 he began to 
 contribute to the local papers verses in the 
 
 m 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
 western dialect, which he found more pop- 
 ular than serious poetry. He afterward 
 found regular employment on the Indianapolis 
 Journal, and in that newspaper many of his 
 poems have appeared from time to time. The 
 collected works of James Whitcomb Riley are 
 Old Swinimin' Hole :uid 'Leven More Poems, 
 Boss Girl and Other Sketches, and .in 1887 ap- 
 peared Afterwhiles, and Character Sketches 
 and Poems. The narrative of his poems and 
 sketches are connected with prose, thus mak- 
 ing them stand out more boldly, and also giving 
 more life thereto. 
 
 The name of James Whitcomb Riley as a 
 great poet has become especially prominent 
 the last few years, his poems having been ex- 
 tensively quoted from, in the journalistic press 
 throughout the country; and in consequence, 
 his works have met with great success. 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Ha ! My Dear ! I'm back again — 
 
 Vendor of Bohemia's wares ! 
 Lordy! How it pants a man 
 
 Climbing up those awful stairs! 
 Well, I've made the dealer say 
 Your sketch might sell, anyway! 
 And I've made a publisher 
 Hear my poem, Kate, my dear. 
 
 In Bohemia, Kate, my dear — 
 
 Lodgers in a musty flat 
 On the top floor — hving here 
 
 Neighborless, and used to that,— 
 Like a nest beneath the leaves. 
 So our little home receives 
 Only guests of chirping cheer — 
 We'll be happy, Kate, my dear! 
 
 Under your north-light there, you 
 
 At your easel, with a stain 
 On your nose of Prussian blue, 
 Paint your bits of shine and rain; 
 With my feet thrown up at will 
 O'er my littered window-sill, 
 I write rhymes that ring as clear 
 As your laughter, Kate, my dear. 
 
 Puff my pipe, and sti-oke my hair — 
 
 Bite my pencil-tip and gaze 
 At you, mutely mooning there 
 
 O'er your " Aprils " and your '• Mays ! " 
 Equal inspiration in 
 Dimples of your cheek and chin. 
 And the golden atmosphere 
 Of your paintings, Kate, my dear! 
 
 Trying! Yes, at times it is. 
 
 To clink happy rhymes, and fling 
 On the canvas scenes of bliss. 
 When we are half famishing!— 
 
 When your "jersey " rips in spots. 
 And your hat's " forget-me-nots " 
 Have grown touled, old and sere — 
 It is trying, Kate, my dear! 
 
 But— as sure — some picture sells. 
 
 And — sometimes — the poetry — ' 
 Bless us ! How the parrot yells 
 His acclaims at you and me ! 
 How we revel then in scenes 
 Of high banqueting ! — sardines — 
 Salads — olives — and a sheer 
 Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear ! 
 
 Even now I ci-oss your palm. 
 
 With this great round world of gold? — 
 " Talking wild? " Perhaps I am — 
 Then, this little flve-year-old! — 
 Call it anything you will, 
 So it lifts your face until 
 I may kiss away that tear 
 Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear. 
 
 * 
 
igB 
 
 514 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 ®- 
 
 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 
 
 Born : Mendham, N. J., May 10, 1818. 
 Mr Coxe has devoted his life to Christianity, 
 and is now Second Bishop ot western New 
 Yorli, a position he has held since 1865. This 
 g-entleman has made various valiial le contri- 
 butions to theological learning, biblical criti- 
 cism, and church literature. He published 
 several volumes of jioems before receiving or- 
 dination. In 18T7 appeared the well known 
 poem The Ladye Chase. Christian Ballads, his 
 best known volume of poems, appeared in 
 1845. and became so popular that it was re- 
 printed in England in 18.50. 
 
 EASTER MADRIGAL. 
 
 MARY AND SALOME. 
 
 Tell us, Gard'ner dost thou know 
 Where the Rose and Lily grow, 
 Sharon's Crimson Rose and pale 
 Judah's Lily ot the ValeV 
 Rude is yet the opening year. 
 Yet their sweetest breath is here. 
 
 GARDENER. 
 
 Daughters of Jerusalem, 
 Yes, 'tis here we planted them: 
 'Twas a Rose all red with gore, 
 Wondrous were the thorns it bore! 
 'Twas a body swathed in white, 
 Ne'er was Lily half so bright. 
 
 THE WOMEN. 
 
 Gentle Gard'ner, even so, 
 
 What we seek thou seem'st to know. 
 
 Bearing spices and perfume, 
 
 We are come to Joseph's tomb: 
 
 Breaks e'en now the rosy day; 
 
 Roll us, then, the stone away. 
 
 GARDENER. 
 
 Holy women : this the spot. 
 Seek him, but it holds him not. 
 This the holy mount of myrrh. 
 Here the liills of incense were. 
 Here the bed of his repose, 
 Till, ere dawn of day— He rose. 
 
 MAGDALENE. 
 
 Yes, my name is Magdalene : 
 I myself the Lord have seen. 
 Here I came, but now, and wept 
 Where I deem'd my Saviour slept. 
 But He called my name — and lo'i* 
 Jesus lives, 'tis even so. 
 
 GARDENER. 
 
 Yes, the mouniains skii)pcd like rams; 
 Leaped the little hills like lambs. 
 All was dark, when shook the ground, 
 Quaked flu! Roman soldiers round, 
 Strciiincd a glorious light, and then 
 Lived the Crucitled again. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Magdalene hath seen and heard ! 
 Gard'ner. we believe thy word. 
 But oh ! where is Jesus fled. 
 Living and no longer dead? 
 Tell us, that we too may go 
 Where the Rose and Lily grow. 
 
 MAGDALENE. 
 
 Come, the stone is rolled away ; 
 See the place where Jesus lay; 
 See the lawn that wrapp'd his brow; 
 Here the angel sat but now. 
 •« Seek not here the Christ," he said; 
 " Seek not life among the dead." 
 »-«-• 
 
 EDITH MATILDA THOMAS. 
 
 Born: Chatham, Ohio, Aug. 13, 1854. 
 Edith was educated at the Geneva normal in- 
 stitute of her native state. She has contribu- 
 ted largely to periodicals, and has published in 
 book form A New Year's Masque and Other 
 Poems, The Round Year in 1886, and in 1887 
 Lyrics and Sonnets. 
 
 THE FOUNTAINS OF THE RAIN. 
 The merchant clouds that cruise the sultry sky, 
 As soon as they have spent their freight of rain 
 Plot how the cooling thrift they may regain; 
 All night along the river-marsh they lie, 
 And at their ghostly looms swift shuttles ply 
 To weave them nets wherewith the streams to 
 
 drain; 
 And often in the sea they cast a seine. 
 And draw it dripping, past some headland high. 
 Many a slender naiad with a sigh. 
 Is in their arms uptaken from the plain; 
 The trembling myrmidons of dew remain 
 No longer than the flash of morning's eye. 
 Then back unto their misty fountains fly : — 
 This is the source and journey of the rain. 
 
 HOMESICK. 
 This were a miracle, if it could be! 
 If, never loitering since llie jirinie of day. 
 Since kissing the cool lips of Northern May, 
 This drowsy wind, at evening, brought to me 
 The fragrant spirit of the apple-tree; 
 Or, if so far sweet sounds could make their way, 
 That I should hear the robin's twilight lay 
 Float o'er a thousand leagues of foamy seal 
 Now, save I know those eyes exchange no 
 
 beams 
 With yonder star (so curves the earth between,, 
 I'd say: My friend doth fnom his casement 
 
 lean. 
 And charge Canopus, l)y his pilol-gleains. 
 To bear love to my port, and lovely dreams 
 Of homeward slopes new-dothed withsuiiuncr 
 
 green. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 515 
 
 -® 
 
 DANIEL SIDNEY WARNER. 
 
 Bokn: Bkistol, Ohio, June 25, 184;3. 
 
 Afte[{ attending: school for a few terms in 
 Oberlin coUeg-e, Mr- Warner pursued, some 
 years later, his studies in connection with 
 ministerial duties in Vermillion college at 
 Hazesville, Ohio. 1m !>•;'' Mr. Warner began 
 
 DANIEL SIDNEY WAKNEK. 
 
 the publication of the Gospel Trumpet at 
 Indianapolis, which he now publishes at Grand 
 Junction, Micliigran. For several years past 
 he lias written verso, and about two hundred 
 hymns luive been composed by this minister 
 and journalist, many of which have appeared 
 with music in several song- books. Mr. Warn- 
 er hopes to publish a volume of his poems at 
 an early date. 
 
 RAYS OF HOPE. 
 
 There are some rays of hope divine. 
 
 To cheer the darkest heart. 
 Around tlie cross they ever shine. 
 
 Where life anew may start. 
 Despondent soul can you not see 
 
 Hope gleaming from above? 
 O look once more to Calvary, 
 
 And know that God is love. 
 
 Though shame and guilt oppress thy soul. 
 
 Thy heart as adamant. 
 Yet Jesus will thy name enroll 
 
 If ye will but repent. 
 
 Thy life of sin now weighs thee down. 
 
 And death and hell are near. 
 But Heaven wills thee yet a crown 
 
 And angels want thee there. 
 O guilty one! tho' bound in chains 
 
 Of dark infernal pow'r. 
 The grace of God supremely reigns 
 
 To save you in this hour. 
 
 TKUTH. 
 
 "What is truth?" inquired Pilate, sober, 
 
 Immersed in deep perplexity. 
 Trembling, while in judgment over 
 
 The One his final Judge must be. 
 He asked, but waited not the answer; 
 
 For in his majesty there stood 
 The truth himself, at his tribunal, 
 
 The incarnate truth of God. 
 Shine on, with all thy constellations 
 
 The precious attributes of God; 
 
 Love, merc.v, justice and compassion. 
 For second in thy magnitude 
 
 Thou only art to love's effulgence. 
 
 •• I am the Truth," and "God is love;" 
 From both, in one omniflc fullness. 
 
 Proceed the streams of truth above. 
 High honored, and from everlasting. 
 
 Thou art, O Truth ! a pillar strong — 
 Upholding justice, faith and virtue. 
 
 Before the stars together sang 
 Our ill-doomed planet's new creation. 
 
 Thy liand didst hold, on Heaven's throne, 
 The baliinces that weighed all nations. 
 
 Upon all worlds that 'round thee shone. 
 
 Then Pity broke the silence weeping. 
 
 Love, deeply moved, to justice spake, 
 And mercy joined his interceding, 
 
 That fallen man, for pity's sake. 
 Should now be ransomed back to Heaven; 
 
 Then rose up Truth in majesty 
 Thus saying: " I for man shall suffer. 
 
 Here love and mercy offer me. 
 Great Spirit give to me a body, 
 
 A proper sacrifice for sin. 
 And thou, O justice! sum man's debit 
 
 And let me surety be for him." 
 Then answered Pity. Love and Mercy: 
 
 " O speed tliee. Truth, but not alone. 
 For we, thy sisters, will go with thee 
 
 To rear on earth thy peaceful throne." 
 
 TWO CONTRASTING SCENES. 
 Along a winding path there came 
 A band of saints in Jesus' name. 
 Leading downward t'ward the flowing river; 
 The rock-paved Allegheny stream. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 516 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Whose oil-biotched waters flow between 
 Tow'ring hills that drop upon her mirror. 
 Adorned in His own holiness, 
 Who first " fulfilled all righteousness," 
 True disciples of the Great Exemplar, 
 Came here to show their love to Him, 
 By burial in the crystal stream: 
 Resurrected in His life forever. 
 The trees that emulative rose 
 From banli to summit's high repose. 
 Waving in the sunliglit's golden glory. 
 Displayed to their enraptured eyes 
 A thousand tints of richest dyes. 
 Varied in sweet autumn's goi'geous beauty. 
 A hymn flowed o'er the water, still, 
 And echoed on from hill to hill; 
 Rising upward to the throne of Heaven, 
 This was the song that sweetly breathed 
 Their praise to Him their hearts believed. 
 Even Christ, with whom their souls had risen. 
 Down into the flowing river, 
 
 Lo ! the Lamb of God we see. 
 There he speaks in clear example, 
 Take the cross and follow me. 
 Cho.— Gently buried with my Savior, 
 
 Let me sink beneath the wave; 
 Crucified to earth forever, 
 Hence alone to God I live. 
 Now the sacred waters cover. 
 
 O'er the holy Son of God. 
 Thus he washed me in the fountain 
 
 Of his sin-atoning blood. 
 Crucified with my Redeemer, 
 Now I sink into the grave, 
 I am dead to sin foi-ever. 
 
 By the life of God I live. 
 Here I witness a confession. 
 
 As 1 merge from human sight. 
 In the tomb of yielding water 
 
 That the blood has washed me white. 
 O how sweet to follow Jesus, 
 In this ordinance to show. 
 That we're cleansed in life's pure river, 
 Even wiiiterthan the snow. 
 To him who said that every where. 
 He wills that men should ofl'er prayer. 
 By this emblem of the tomb of Jesus, 
 His humble saints then meekly bowed. 
 Amid the awe decorumed crowd. 
 Richly favored by His loving presence. 
 Then one by one were downward led 
 And numbered with the sainted dead, 
 Pilgrims happy in the Lord's approval. 
 Anew the spirit of their God 
 Bore witness to the cleansing blood, 
 Making lofty hills witli praises vocal. 
 But some that st«od beside tlmt stream 
 Recalled to mind another scene. 
 
 Thirty years had tied along unceasing, 
 As flows the water o'er tliat spot. 
 Where red intemp'rance left a blot 
 
 Time and tide have passed, yet unerasing. 
 
 A husband, father, genial friend. 
 
 But demonized by liquor fiend. 
 Deeply by this maddening viper bitter. 
 
 Unto his home near Ijj' this shore. 
 
 Then came rum-fired as oft before: 
 Driving thence his own in terror stricken. 
 
 Three- daughters fled adown the ledge. 
 And spied the skifl' at water's edge. 
 
 Boarding this they rowed into the river. 
 To utmost strength they plied the oar. 
 And hastened to the fai-ther shore; 
 
 Praying God from wrath and waves deliver. 
 Tlie frenzied came with angry mien. 
 To drown liis children in the stream. 
 
 Breathing threatening, stagg'ring 'mid the 
 billows. 
 The madman heedless onward surged 
 Till in the depth at last submerged: 
 
 Drowning there, a warning to His fellows. 
 Behold the contrast 'twixt the scenes! 
 The first in mem'ry sadly gleams. 
 
 Over thirty years tliat flowed unceasing; 
 As flows the water o'er that spot. 
 Where dread intemp'rance left a blot, 
 
 Time and tide have passed yet unerasing. 
 Baptized in spirits from the still. 
 Led captive by the devil's will. 
 
 Into awful death he plunged a victim. 
 From thence raised up a lifeless clay 
 His spirit fled in wild dismay. 
 
 Leaving in that stream a doleful requiem. 
 But these immersed in Heaven's light. 
 In garments pure and spotless white. 
 
 Follow joyful down into the river, 
 Tiie steps of him who died on earth. 
 To give their souls a Heav'nly birth; 
 
 Buried deep in Jesus' love forever. 
 He, dead in sin and lost in woe. 
 They, dead to sin and white as snow, 
 
 Botli were buried in tliis river's bosom. 
 His name dislionored floats along. 
 They ri.se to sing redemption's song. 
 
 Prai.sing Him wlio gave their spirits freedom. 
 He builded there a monument 
 Of liquors l)lack and flendisli bent ; 
 
 Casting on that tide a gloomy shadow. 
 They leave upon that sacred shore 
 Footprints of Him wlio went V)efore. 
 
 And His blessing leaves a brilliant halo. 
 Beliold two ways divide our race, 
 The road of sin, and path of grace. 
 
 Choosing this, or that to thee is given. 
 Botli these ways dip in death's cold tide, 
 And judgment sits on yonder side. 
 
 Bending tliat to hell, and this to Heaven. 
 
 «- 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 517 
 
 * 
 
 OBADIAH BAYLY. 
 
 Born: Deahborn Co., Ind., Aug. 7, 18:3.3. 
 In liis youth Mr. Bayly lived on a farm. In 
 1860 ho was married to Miss Cornelia Buck. 
 He then spent a luiniber of years in teaching-. 
 
 OBADIAH BAYLY. 
 
 and is now engaged in farming- in Mitchell 
 county. Kansas. Mr. Obadiah B-iyly is also an 
 inventor, having- patented in 18.57 the first 
 burglar proof time lock ever invented in 
 
 the United States. 
 
 THE YEARS LAST NIGHT. 
 
 Twelve o'clock, 'tis midnight's ring — 
 
 A faithful warning sound. 
 To teach all men from serf to king. 
 
 How fast the years roll round. 
 Tlie dying year wakes up a thought 
 
 That slumbered long and low. 
 That earth's last treasures must be bought 
 
 With measured beat and slow. 
 The echo dies not on our ears 
 
 Till busy scenes of life 
 Witli joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. 
 
 With broils, tumults and strife, 
 Have caught the thought from mem'ry's 
 page 
 
 That leads us to tlie goal. 
 That gives us strength with age 
 
 To vitalize the mind and soul. 
 
 But all through life we find. 
 
 Though the mills of life grind slow. 
 Two classes, there are, they ahv;iys grind; 
 
 The lovers of fashion and show. 
 And the lovers of cupid's line arts, 
 
 As wandering too and fro 
 They search for his wonderful darts 
 
 That conquer and charm as they go. 
 
 But luck toils hard with hands raised high. 
 
 As highei- the gold he piles. 
 With heavy breath and sweat and sigh 
 
 While riches his soul beguiles. 
 And love is building castles tall, 
 
 Just like a spider's net. 
 She plans to catch him and his all. 
 
 And now her trap is slily set. 
 
 She has him now, him and his gold, 
 
 And joined in hand for life 
 With both hands tilled they hold 
 
 Naught else Init care and strife; 
 What then can wean the soul away 
 
 From such rude (jares as these? 
 The proud, the rich, the gay 
 
 Can nowhere be at peace and ease. 
 
 Gold can not give such share. 
 
 Nor j'et can knowledge buy, 
 Where then, O, tell us where 
 
 Such precious treasures hie? 
 For riches knows not, neither seeks 
 
 Such high and holj' aims. 
 But wisdom riches speaks. 
 
 Though riches wisdom claims. 
 
 The christian's heart doth yield 
 
 Such priceless jewels rare, 
 A fragrant flowering field 
 
 Of thoughts both pure and fair, 
 To stir us up to deeds of worth 
 
 And garnish our minds like leaven. 
 To wean our souls away from earth 
 
 And guide our footsteps up to heaven. 
 
 Kind reader, do not pass with slight 
 
 The thoughts here roughly hewn. 
 For mind and soul with heavenly light 
 
 Should have their alleys stored and strewn ; 
 Then death though dark and stormj' too 
 
 You'll welcome with delight. 
 These lights will then be set to show 
 
 That heaven is in sight. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Come men of worth through all the earth. 
 
 In high and lowly stations, 
 Come help us fight witli all your might. 
 
 This enemy of nations. 
 Now all good song has value strong. 
 
 To thrust at his distillery. 
 Then let us choose the poet's muse, 
 
 As part of our artillery. 
 
 ® 
 
©■ 
 
 518 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKIOA. 
 
 -« 
 
 NATHAN CHORION. 
 
 Born: Chester, N. J., Nov. 2. 1869. 
 Mr.Horton taught school when only sixteen 
 years of age, and later graduated at the State 
 Model School at Trenton, N. J. In 188 lie en- 
 tered the law department of the university of 
 Pennsylvania, and for a short while was the 
 
 NATHAN C. HORTON. 
 
 city editor of the Advance of Middletown. In 
 the spring- of 1889 he graduated and receiv- 
 ed the degree of bachelor of laws. Mr. Hor- 
 ton is now editor of the Insurance News of 
 Philadelphia, but he expects to follow the 
 profession of the law. His poems have ap- 
 peared in many of the leading publications. 
 
 SB 
 
 EASTER DAY. 
 
 'Tis Easter Day. Come strew the way 
 
 With early springtime flowers; 
 Let peace and joy, without alloy. 
 
 Fill up the sunny liours. 
 Our griefs .and pains, 'midst rueful strains. 
 
 Were buried long ago; 
 Now love and lile and hope are rile. 
 
 And hearts with .j^iy o'ertlow. 
 In sweet perfume the lilies bloom. 
 
 In token of the day; 
 The roses, too, with life anew. 
 
 Are out in ricli array. 
 And every shoot and tiny root 
 
 In Nature's 'wakening bed 
 
 Burst forth and tell, to liill and dell. 
 
 The resurrected dead. 
 Let hope arise, let gladsome eyes 
 
 Witli joy be bright and gay ; 
 Let all confess their joy and bless 
 
 This happy Easter Day. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 Sweeter than the lips of Venus, 
 
 Fairer than the wood-nymphs are, 
 Is the modest flower that blossoms 
 
 In the wild-wood near and far. 
 Kissed by dews and rocked by zephyrs, 
 
 Sweetest flower that woos the day. 
 Scarce before we know thy fragrance 
 
 Thou liast died and passed away. 
 Hidaen half bj' leaves, thy perfume 
 
 Gentle breezes to us In-ing, 
 Tenderly we stoop and pluck thee, 
 
 First and fairest love of spring. 
 
 JUST OVER THE STREET. 
 I think it was just before twilight. 
 
 As I sat in the parlor alone, 
 I was musing, my thouglits were at random, 
 
 And all but my fancy had flown. 
 When a vision appeared at the window, 
 
 At the window just over the street. 
 In the form of a beautiful maiden, 
 
 A maiden exquisitely sweet. 
 She was fair, was this beautiful maiden. 
 
 This maiden just over the street, 
 As she carelessly toyed with the curtains 
 
 That enclosed her half-hidden retreat. 
 Her tresses, in charming abandon. 
 
 Were as black as the blackest of jet. 
 And the dimples plaj-ed sweetly and softly 
 
 By the mouth of this lovely brunette. 
 Her features were those of a Venus. 
 
 Witli a smile more of heaven than earth. 
 Her cheeks were rose-tinted and tender. 
 
 Her face was all radiant with ihirth. 
 And her eyes had a wondrous lustre 
 
 As they coyly glanced over at mine. 
 And she seemed, as she stood at the window. 
 
 A creature almost divine. 
 And I sat and I thouglit and I wondered 
 
 If ever and how we should meet. 
 For I longed to be nearer this maiden 
 
 Than to see her just over the stret>t. 
 
 I sit and 1 muse in the parlor. 
 
 Hut I sit. and I muse not .-ilone. 
 For 1 now liave a jolly companion. 
 
 Who quaffs with me all of life's foam. 
 And she is the self-same maiden ! 
 
 Whom I erstwhile had longed to meet. 
 But she is now, forsooth, no longer, ! 
 
 The maiden just over the street. . ; 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 .519 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. A.G.BENNETT. 
 
 Bor.n: Wakner, N. H. Nov. 8,lJvi8. 
 While at school this lady was considered 
 quite a poet, but notliing- of importance ap- 
 peared from lier pen in the press until the 
 year of her marriage in 1877. At that time 
 she furnished holiday, anniversary and spe- 
 cial poems as occasions demanded, and soon 
 
 MRS. ADELAIDE G. BENNETT. 
 
 achieved quite a reputation as a local poet. 
 The poems of Mrs. Bennett have appeared in 
 the Cliicago Advance, Interior, Brattleboro 
 Household, Good Housekeeping-, Wide Awalie 
 and nearly a liundred other prominent pub- 
 lications, from whicli they have been exten- 
 sively copied by tlie local press from Maine 
 to California. She is now a resident of Pipe- 
 stone City, Minnesota. 
 
 51- 
 
 A PICNIC DETOUR. 
 We left the dull and dusty streets. 
 
 And with the crowd we wended 
 Tlie rural iiighways to retreats 
 
 Alone by nature tended. 
 We left the busy, bustling- crowd — 
 
 So winsome was the weather — 
 Beyond tlic jarring voices loud. 
 
 We found ourselves together. 
 We strayed among the leafy trees. 
 Where constantly were trilling 
 Clear bird-notes wafted on the breeze, 
 
 Our eager senses filling. 
 
 O sweet the air that summer day 
 
 And sweet the wild-bird's singing! 
 But sweeter than the roundelay 
 
 Which through the woods came ringing. 
 Was the shy voice so sweetly heard 
 
 Of one who, with me faring. 
 Was timid as the wild-wood bird. 
 
 As wary of ensnaring. 
 We rowed upon the lucent lake — 
 
 Our skiff was deftly hollowed — 
 And flying after in our wake. 
 
 The skimming songsters followed. 
 fair the water lilies pure 
 
 Upon its bosom floating! 
 But fairer far that face demure 
 
 Which went with me aboating. 
 O bright the sunbeams shining hot, 
 
 No shadows o'er us casting! 
 So bright the day we both forgot 
 
 It was not everlasting. 
 
 APPLES OF SODOM. 
 One Tristam pensive, melancholic, grave, 
 Replete with surfeit of all earthly joy. 
 Bereft of power once potent to decoy. 
 Deemed life a bubble burst, a shore-spent 
 
 wave. 
 Too burdensome to hold, too poor to crave. 
 
 Mixed as It was with cankering aUoy. 
 Lead, trusty Faith, and when time shall de- 
 stroy 
 And blight the buds which once sweet pro- 
 mise gave. 
 Bear us triumphant from the alien shore 
 Where bounteous Nature bears no grateful 
 boon. 
 And tropic richness chains the sense no more 
 And rouse us with a grand, inspiring tune. 
 As onward speeds the bark and dips the oar; 
 The way is short ! Be brave ! Christ cometh 
 soon! 
 
 THE PRAIRIE LARK. 
 Not where dark hills contract the scene 
 And shadowed vales lie cool between. 
 Is thy clear song the sweetest heard. 
 Thou blithesome, fearless, bonny bird! 
 A wider field thy wing explores, [soars, 
 
 Tlirough broader space thy sweet song 
 And fills the vast acoustic dome 
 Where thou, unfettered, lov'st to roam. 
 Where pasque flowers stud the velvet 
 
 sward, 
 A carpet, reaching far abroad 
 Till the wide floor is lost to view 
 And merges in the airy blue 
 Of arching ceiling overhead;— 
 In this vast hall thy wing- is spread. 
 Here ringing notes of music sound 
 And fill the eclioing space around. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 520 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 With one glad, rapturous rush of song 
 In soaring billows rolled along 
 Clear as transparent crystal bright 
 Or water in the glad sunlight. 
 Redundant, brimming over, free, 
 One overflowing melody! 
 O sweet-voiced bird! in joy we stand, 
 Thy home is summer's Beulah land. 
 
 THE BATTLE ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 
 A darkening cloud surcharged with mist, 
 
 And chill November rain. 
 Hung low o'er Lookout's rocky crest. 
 
 Where erst the foe had lain. 
 There two contending forces waged 
 
 A battle high in air. 
 And watchers in the vale below 
 
 Could see no action there. 
 Only a long, incessant roar. 
 
 Of crashing thunder loud. 
 Came from the strong held mountain top. 
 
 Above the darkened cloud. 
 When from the west, a sunset shaft 
 
 Shot through the purple haze. 
 All eyes were turned upon the foe. 
 
 With, fearful, anxious gaze. 
 But when the clear white stars shone out. 
 
 Upon the frosty night, 
 The fair-haired, brave Potomac boys 
 
 Stood victors on the height. 
 They placed the stai--gemmed banner there 
 
 Upon the rocky crest. 
 The white stars shining overhead. 
 
 The white star on their breast. 
 O battle waged above the clouds, 
 
 How typical thou art 
 Of that o'erwhelming civil strife 
 
 Which rent the nation's heart. 
 We watching in the valley-land. 
 
 Saw but the war's dark cloud. 
 The smoke of lurid strife and woe, 
 
 Low hanging like a shroud; 
 Heard but the surging ebb and flow 
 
 Of mighty armies led 
 To victory or dire defeat. 
 
 With steady martial tread. 
 While on the eternal height above. 
 
 Stood Liberty unseen 
 Assailing Treason's fortress bold. 
 
 With set, determined mien. 
 And when the morning broke at last. 
 
 On the dark night of woe. 
 She stood secure upon the mount. 
 
 And vanquislied was the foe. 
 O Goddess, hold thou still the height. 
 
 The white-starred flag benoatli ! 
 Place thou tlie white-star on <nir breast 
 But leave the sword in sheath. 
 
 CARRIE GNAGA. 
 
 BoKN : Linden Grange, Ind., June 16, 1867. 
 After attending hijuh school for two years 
 
 Carrii.' lu'Lian lii'i- 
 
 -I'lKMil li'arlierat 
 
 CARRIE GNAGA. 
 
 the age of twenty. Her poems have appeared 
 in the local press ; and she has also written 
 several short stories, which she hopes soon to 
 publish. Miss Carrie Gnaga is well known 
 for her many accomplishments, and numbers 
 among lier acquaintances many ardent ad- 
 mirers. 
 
 8B- 
 
 aftek awhile. 
 
 After awhile will all our bitter pain — 
 All our remorse, our care, our grief. 
 Be swept away in life's ceaseless surging 
 main. 
 And the sorely -tried spirit find a sweet re- 
 lease, 
 
 After awhile. 
 After awhile the sun will sliine, 
 
 And the rain cease to fall in a pitiless heat. 
 Life's water's taste less of the salt sea brine. 
 And the thorns grow fewer 'neat h t lie weary 
 feet. 
 
 After awhile. 
 After awhile is a weary, far-oflr time. 
 
 But wait till it comes, as it surely will. 
 There'll be an end of sorrow, sin .•md crime. 
 Of misery, hatred and human ill. 
 After awhile. 
 
 > 
 
^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 521 
 
 ® 
 
 JOHN LAIGHT WINCE. 
 
 Born : R.\ppahannock Co., Va., Dec. 24, 1832. 
 At the age of nineteen Mr. Wince eonmieneed 
 to teaeli seliool, and in 1835 began writing' for 
 the press. Since tliat time he has written 
 both prose and verse on a variety of themes, 
 generally I'eligious, which have been publish- 
 ed in the relig-ious and secular press. Mr. 
 Wince was married in 1867 to Sarah Roxana 
 Chaplin, who is represented in this work. Mr. 
 Wince follows agricultural pursuits, occa- 
 sionallj' preaches the gospel, and resides in 
 Pierceton, Ind, 
 
 ® 
 
 SIX THOUSAND YEARS. 
 Six thousand years the tide of sin 
 
 Has spread destruction far and wide; 
 Six thousand years the world has been. 
 
 To Satan's wicked cause allied. 
 From this dark age to Eden's prime. 
 
 The world has walked away from God ; 
 Six thousand years of blood and crimfe. 
 
 Have cursed the earth and stained the sod. 
 Six thousand years ! Ah, that will do ! 
 
 To try the hateful rule of wrong; 
 Ring- out the old, ring in the new. 
 
 The era of angelic song-. 
 Then glory to our God on high; 
 
 Good will on earth and peace to men. 
 Will swell in song- through earth and sky, 
 
 In sweeter strains, by far, than when 
 The shepherds watched their flocks by night. 
 
 And music sweet fell on their ears. 
 From choristers enrobed in light, 
 
 And trained amid the upper spheres. 
 
 CONTRASTED CREEDS. 
 We are not left alone to guess 
 Our pathway through this wilderness; 
 A light beneath and overhead. 
 Illumes the weary path we tread. 
 We ask no heathen Socrates, 
 About this self, that thinks and is; 
 A Darwin no sure answer brings. 
 To satisfy our questionings. 
 We know in truth, from whence we came. 
 Our mortal being's end and aim; 
 We learned it from a book we love. 
 Whose author sits enthroned above. 
 A book, which unbelieving sage 
 Styles legend of a childish age; 
 Imposture, which designing men. 
 Composed in distant ages, when 
 The sun of science had not slied 
 Its light upon the human head. 
 But our sure confidence is stayed. 
 On what the Hebrew prophets said. 
 We put the question —What of life? 
 Is it a vain and liopeless strife? 
 
 Its destiny, an endless sleep. 
 
 In oblivion, dark and deep? 
 
 From dust we came, to dust we turn; 
 
 But from the ashes of the urn, 
 
 A glorious form shall yet arise. 
 
 To bloom again in Paradise. 
 
 As pledge of this, our living bead 
 
 Arose triumphant from the dead. 
 
 The thrilling fact that he arose, 
 
 W^as testified by friouds and foes. 
 
 Then why reject the blessed hope. 
 
 Whose range of view has endless scope? 
 
 That, in the ages yet to be. 
 
 The good shall taste and hear and see. 
 
 The wondrous scenes of joy and bliss. 
 
 In a lovelier world than this? 
 
 To love indeed is happiness. 
 
 For love has power on earth to bless. 
 
 But only as it flows in deeds. 
 
 To meet the cry of human needs. 
 
 Be this the rule and this the test. 
 
 Then put the question — Who loved best? 
 
 Both saint and infidel, 1 ween. 
 
 Would give reply — The Nazarene! 
 
 Against whose name no sin is set, 
 
 From Bethlehem to Olivet. 
 
 For here is love exemplified. 
 
 In life and in the death he died. 
 
 He satisfies our deepest quest. 
 
 Concerning the eternal rest; 
 
 And what the life beyond the tomb. 
 
 Beyond the silence and the gloom. 
 
 No solace in the skeptic's creed. 
 
 Can bind the wounded hearts that bleed; 
 
 Nor smooth the thorny way to death, 
 
 Down to the last expiring breath; 
 
 Nor comfort give to weeping friend. 
 
 Who shall above the dying bend: 
 
 Like word of Christ, so grand and sweet. 
 
 That death-dissevered friends shall meet. 
 
 Where painful partings come no more. 
 
 On Canaan's fair and deathless shore. 
 
 MRS.S. ROXANA WINCE. 
 
 Born : Collamer, Ind., Feb 10, 1838. 
 This lady is the daughter of Rev. S. A. Chap- 
 lin, now of Plymouth, Ind., who has gjnined 
 quite a reputation as a poet, and is represent- 
 ed elsewhere in this work. She was mai-ried 
 in 186" to John Laight Wince, who has also 
 been given a place in this worlc. Since 1857 
 Mrs. Wince has written poems quite exten- 
 sively for the periodical press, which have 
 been well and favorably received. Prior to 
 her marriage she successfully taught school. 
 The only child of Mrs. Wince died in infancy. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE HOUR. 
 
 O let the surging seas grow calm. 
 Dear countrymen of ours! 
 
 -« 
 
«B- 
 
 522 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 — * 
 
 * 
 
 Sow wide the healing seeds of balm, 
 
 Aud plant the deathless flowers. 
 For tide of party -strife has long: 
 
 Swept o'er our precious things; 
 Half hushed the tender words of song, 
 
 And stained her drooi)ing wings. 
 And love aud hope of ancient years 
 
 Are sinking 'neath her waves. 
 While dark ambition flings our seers 
 
 In bribery's nameless graves. 
 But vain we lift our anguished cry. 
 
 The sea will not be still; 
 No clay is there for blinded ej'e, 
 
 No chain for demon will! 
 When, country mine, shall man be found 
 
 With strength for these dark days. 
 Who, with our tangled skeins unwound. 
 
 Shall win our meed of praise? 
 Who, true and brave aud heaven-tauglit. 
 
 Shall rule the hordes of wrong? 
 And turn to safer grooves of thought. 
 
 The swift pens of the strong? 
 
 EXPECTANT. 
 I sit by my window, and listen. 
 
 While the mists of the morning go by. 
 To catch the first sound of his footsteps; 
 
 To meet the bright glance of his eye: 
 And day after day, as the noontide 
 
 Ls marked, on tlie sill of the door; — 
 While the tired men rest in the shadows. 
 
 And the little ones play on the floor. 
 I list for the sound of his chariot; 
 
 I wait for the light of his smile; 
 For the coming in glory of liim. 
 
 Who tarrieth the little while. 
 I sit on the door-step at evening; — 
 
 A maiden is singing below; — 
 T hear the sweet laughter of children. 
 
 And the rivulet's musical flow. 
 The niglit-birds are trilling the chorus 
 
 or all the glad songs of the day. 
 And mingled with these are the voices 
 
 Of villagers far away: 
 But still in the beautiful gloaming. 
 
 My eyes are' gazing afar. 
 To note the first glimpse of the rising 
 
 Of Uethleliem's magical star. 
 The star that advancing before him. 
 
 Shall herald the hope of the world; — 
 Ah, none but the wiilcheis will see it; 
 
 The wateliers witli l)anners unfuiletll 
 So 1 keep on the watch through ilie moi iinig. 
 
 My heart all alert through the day; 
 Lest coming at noon-tide or midnight. 
 
 He find me unready and say: 
 Why not at thy post in the vineyard? 
 
 Thy garments are stained by thy sin! 
 Thou caiKst not to rapture of wedding, 
 
 Witli these my proved virgins come in! 
 
 Thou heard'st not my voice when 1 bade thee, 
 
 Go work at the forge or the plo\.' ; — 
 My bride is all stainless in beauty; 
 
 Unworthy, unworthy art thou ! 
 So busy with clothing the needy. 
 
 The lamp freshly trimmed in my room, 
 I'm watching, and waiting, and working. 
 
 And training new hands to the loom. 
 And onward with watchers I'm marching, 
 
 While closer the foeman they press; 
 My armor all girded upon me. 
 
 And keeping my beautiful dress. 
 I wait for the glorj' of morning. 
 
 The change to unchangeable youth; 
 No doubt in my heart of the issue. 
 
 Firm -bound to fair dutj' and truth; 
 For the Lord holds the life of His children; 
 
 Not the rack nor the flame can destroy; 
 Nor danger, nor terror may move them, 
 
 In light of eternity's joy. 
 So I sit by my window and listen. 
 
 While the mists of the morning go by. 
 To catch the first sound of His footsteps. 
 
 To meet the bright glance of His eye. 
 And still in the beautiful gloaming. 
 
 My eyes are gazing afar. 
 To note the first glimpse of the rising 
 
 Of Bethlehem's Magical Star. 
 
 MRS. KATE M.GUNNELL. 
 
 The poem of The Violin appeared in Braiii- 
 ard's Musical World and in numerous other 
 publications. Mrs. Guniiell has wiitten num- 
 erous poems, and resides in Miiiier, III. 
 
 THE VIOLIN. 
 Within that little case you lie — 
 
 Thy powers how concealed. 
 One would not think that little box 
 
 Had so much unrevealed; 
 But let the artist's finger 
 
 Apply his skillful bow. 
 And then from off those tiny strings 
 
 Will majestic music flow. 
 Tliey sit enraptured, all who liear— 
 
 The saddest heart is soothed. 
 And by thy mournful wailing chords 
 
 The lightest heart is moved. 
 Tlie human voice can scarce e.\'ccl 
 
 Thy notes so clear and varied. 
 One half believes when 'ne:itli tliy sound. 
 
 He's ill the realm of f;iiries. 
 Could I from off those magic strings 
 
 Draw music pure and sweet. 
 My heart would bound with silent pride. 
 
 My soul's desire complete. 
 Now with pride I look uiion thee 
 
 Simple bo.x, and l)ow. and string, 
 .loin the thousands to admire thee. 
 
 Kor of all instruments thou art king. 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 523 
 
 -® 
 
 JOHN S. STEPHENSON. 
 
 Born: Pittsbuho, Pa., Jan. 1, 1839. 
 First attending- the Andrew Freese's public 
 school at Clevehmd, Mr. Stephenson next at- 
 tended a chissical school in the same city. At 
 eighteen years of age he commenced life as a 
 school teacher. Mr. Stephenson next filled 
 the position of deputy sheriff; then was ad- 
 
 mitted to practice law; later became local mail 
 agent at Cleveland; and for some years was 
 editor of the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Since 
 1879 Mr. Stephenson has been in the business 
 oj railroad construction. He has held vari- 
 ous positions of trust, and has been president 
 of tlie Fireman s Association. The poems of 
 Mr. Stephenson have appeared in the Toledo 
 Commercial and other papers of prominence. 
 He is at present located at Elyria, Ohio. 
 
 eg 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 The red sun sets and the bright day doth die, 
 While night's gray shadows fall on land and 
 
 sea; 
 As the days pass and silent years go by. 
 They bear life on,— what sliall its ending be? 
 0, fleeting life! how brief thy longest span 
 Like a dream or as the swift eagle's flight. 
 As shadows fade at sunset so dies man. 
 Like falling star lost in a rayiess night 
 He sinks from mortal memory and sight. 
 
 When from the earthly form, the trembling 
 
 breath 
 Departs, doth then our being end, in death? 
 Or doth the spirit live and speed its way 
 To home of peace, where shines eternal day? 
 When in the gloom our life-star shall have 
 
 set 
 Beneath the dark and troubled sea of time, 
 It soon will rise beyond and shining yet 
 Continue ever on its course sublime. 
 Man lives again, dread death is not the end; 
 The unencumbered spirit doth ascend 
 From mortal plane to a celestial birth 
 In higher life, 'mid grander spheres than 
 
 earth. 
 Each thinking, individual soul lives on 
 Forever — lives to know and to be known. 
 Unchanged in form and personality 
 Through endless ages that are yet to be; 
 As grain of sand to the vast ocean's shore, 
 Is time compared to life that is in store; 
 As drop of water to the mighty sea. 
 Death changeth not the love for good or ill. 
 They who are evil will be evil still: 
 If bound by earthly superstition's chain. 
 The ignorant, debased, and vile in mind. 
 Until enlightened, will in gloom remain. 
 And each pursue the course to which inclined. 
 They who love good, to greater good aspire; 
 And as the ages pass in onward flight. 
 Their powers expanding, ever soaring higher. 
 They reach in wisdom to unmeasured height; 
 From sphere to sphere they constantly ascend 
 Toward perfection, at the life dawn sought, 
 That will in distant centuries be wrought; 
 In that grand existence that hath no end; 
 We know not what their destiny may be. 
 What boundless stores of knowledge they 
 
 shall gain, 
 What views of joy and fadeless beauty see. 
 What changes pass, what eminence attain. 
 In gardens where God's flowers of wisdom 
 
 bloom. 
 Where there is no parting, and no dark gloom. 
 
 JOHN A. LOGAN. 
 
 Dark falls the night, in gloom the day hath 
 fled ; 
 
 As years have swiftly passed with silent 
 tread ; 
 
 Many a life of promise bright hath flown. 
 
 Death's angel claimed the highest for his 
 own ; 
 
 One history from the past, now rises to the 
 view. 
 
 That time cannot efft^ce, and centuries but re- 
 new. 
 With noiseless stei) and bated breath 
 We enter tlie silent halls of death. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 •5 
 
 524 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIOXAT- TOETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 S. KINGSBURY WHITING. 
 
 Born: Winthrop, Me., Feb. 10. 1831. 
 Since the age of twenty the poems of Mr. 
 Whiting have appeared from time to time in 
 prominent newspapers and magazines. He 
 was married in 1856 to Mary E. Dow. Mr. 
 Whitiiifi is engaged in tlie real estate l)usiness 
 
 S. KINO-SBUUV WHITING. 
 
 at Kansas City. Mo. He tauglit school for 
 many years in New England: conducted the 
 musical department of Youth's Temperance 
 Visitor, and for two years published the daily 
 and weekly Herald. Mr. Whiting has publish- 
 ed .several musical works, including Crystal 
 Spring. Pure Light. Music Without a Master, 
 Church. School and Home. Mr. Whiting has 
 conducted musical conventions over tlie en- 
 tire west, and has contrilnited church music 
 tu many collections publisheil since 18.59. 
 
 THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT CUP AND 
 LIP. 
 
 • • There's many a slip 'twi.\t the cup and the 
 lip," 
 
 Is a proverb both old and true; 
 
 But. if you doubt for a minute, there's any- 
 thing ill it. 
 
 Let me tell you a thing or two! 
 
 Just tiike your own case, and with a good 
 honest, face. 
 
 Tell me whom did you marry at last : [fe;it Lire 
 
 Was it the angelic creature, in form and in 
 
 You courted, way back in the past'? 
 
 O no! not at all — tho' the heavens might fall. 
 You vowed you'd be true to each other. 
 But the fitful emotion of boyhood's devotion 
 Unconsciously changed for another. 
 It ne'er entered your head, you never would 
 
 wed 
 The sweetheart you courted at school: 
 Of course you would marry the sweet little 
 
 fairy! 
 But you did'nt — and that is the rule. 
 So there's many a slip 'iwixt the cup and lip 
 In most that we do or wish; 
 And a bird in hand, young man, understand, 
 Is worth two or three in the bush. 
 
 OLD MAN'S QUERY. 
 At what age does love begin 
 Our Cupid seek the heart to win? 
 Methinks your rosy lips reply— 
 " I can't tell you, if I try." 
 When does hoary love expire. 
 And silvery Age put out the Are? 
 My lips shall answer — old and wise — 
 Though youth may pass, love never dies. 
 
 G.W.LYON. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Lyon have appeared quite 
 extensively in the periodical press. He has 
 written enough poems to fill a fair-sized vol- 
 ume. Mr. Lyon is engaged in the subscrip- 
 tion and publishing business at Cedar Rapids, 
 Iowa. 
 
 PERENNIAL LIGHT. 
 
 If sometimes lone and sad, the heart. 
 
 And rayless night hangs o'er the soul. 
 If so bereaved, in mourning clad. 
 
 How weary hours like ages roll. 
 No smiling faces greet the .sight. 
 
 Nor voices sweet entr;ince the ear. 
 E'en love seems but a broken pliglit. 
 
 And friendship cold with doubt and fear. 
 Obscure the rugged path of life 
 
 With valleys deep and niountains high. 
 Suggesting ceaseless toil and strife. 
 
 And groping thus to fall and die. 
 And yet. if we but A-iew aright. 
 
 Above are fadeless starry skies. 
 And worlds revolve; upturn in flight, 
 
 From nadir forth to zenth rise. 
 As clouds and darkness drift away. 
 
 The heavens will open wide and blue. 
 And glorify with rising tiay, 
 
 Our journey on with raptures new. 
 So life may pass serene, secure. 
 
 Like sliip througli calm or shifting blast. 
 With coniiiass guiding straiglit and sure 
 
 To heaven of peace and joy at last. 
 
 ®- 
 
 « 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 51 
 
 -m 
 
 ISAAC DURAND. 
 
 Born: Old Milford, Conn., 1808. 
 COMJiENCiNG to write verse at an early age, 
 the poem.s of Mr. Durand have appeared from 
 time to time in tlie i^eridilical ])ress. lie lias 
 
 ® 
 
 ISAAC DURAND. 
 
 followed various mercantile pursuits, but is 
 now living- on a farm at Verdon, Nebraska. 
 Mr. Durand has traveled quite extensively 
 throughout the United States and Canada. 
 
 A HUSBAND'S TALK TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 Just four and fifty years to-day 
 
 Has pass'd of wedded life. 
 We Iieard the Eeverend Preacher say 
 
 You now are man and wife. 
 I could not tell the prize I drew 
 
 Tliese many years now tell. 
 That in the act of choosing you 
 
 The choice was wise and well. 
 A patient, kind and loving wife — 
 
 You've shared my hopes and fears — 
 You've cheered the patliway of my life 
 
 Through four and fifty years. 
 What, though there's silver in your hair 
 
 And wrinkles on your face, 
 1 know the same kind heart is there 
 
 And love thee none the le-ss. 
 How wise your acts in social life. 
 
 Your many friends can tell; 
 As sister, daughter, mother, wife 
 You have succeeded well. 
 
 Just list to me, my own g-ood wife, 
 
 I'll whisper in your ears: 
 I've fondly loved you through a life 
 
 Of four and fifty years. 
 Of all the gifts, through all the scenes 
 
 Of this mysterious life. 
 To me the greatest blessing seems 
 
 That faithful friend, the wife. 
 Our children, they will ever keep 
 
 Your council and j'our care. 
 You sowed good seed and now you reap 
 
 A harvest rich and rare. 
 A harvest that's more highly prized 
 
 Than rubies, far above; 
 And every message that arrives 
 
 Begins and ends in love. 
 How greatly would it cheer our hearts 
 
 To see them here to-day ; 
 But they are dwelling far apart. 
 
 And far from us away. 
 How few of all tliose friends still live 
 
 That cheered our wedding day. 
 The few their love we still receive 
 
 The rest have passed away. 
 When death h;is entered our abode 
 
 And borne loved ones away, 
 Our sighs and tears together flowed 
 
 On the sad parting- day. 
 And still deatli's work goes steady on. 
 
 Not heeding tears or sighs. 
 The last one called, our eldest son 
 
 Bade friends farewell and dies. 
 O! wife and mother, dearest friends 
 
 On earth to mortals given ; 
 Your presence and your memory sends 
 
 Our grateful thanks to heaven. 
 If first I'm call'd to yield my breath 
 
 And bid farewell to time, 
 You'll smooth my pillow down to death. 
 
 Or I'll do so by thine. 
 And when we've traveled all life's road 
 
 We most devoutly pray. 
 We may, sustained by thee our God, 
 
 Serenely pass away. 
 And may the blessed Lord above. 
 
 Who knows our hopes and fears, 
 Grant us an interest in his love, 
 
 Through all the eternal years. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Those days seem brightest of my life 
 
 I can to recollection call, 
 When all the children and the wife 
 
 Were seated round the dining hall. 
 And now through life 1 pass along-, 
 
 My children's voice I may not hear. 
 Nor ever hear their voice in song, 
 
 Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 ^ 
 
 526 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 MRS. LAURA GRICE PEKUEL. 
 
 Bokn: Nukth Cakolina. 
 
 This ludy has resided in Hoarne, Texas, for 
 ten yea rs, and for a year assisted Dr. Royall as 
 
 MKS. LAURA GKICE PENUEL. 
 
 teacher in Baylor university. Mrs. Penuelisat 
 present engaged in teaching, in which pro- 
 fession she has a reputation of being a super- 
 ior literary instructor. She is the author of a 
 volume of poems entitled Rain Lilies, 
 
 SB- 
 
 LONGINGS. 
 
 " Oil for the clash of the battle, 
 Tlie shouting, the banners, the strife!" 
 
 So longed we, ignorant cliildren. 
 Not knowing tlie whole of life. 
 
 Tlien cherry bougiis drooped in the orchard, 
 Aud strawberries liid in tlie leaves. 
 
 And blackberries girdled the cornfields. 
 And poppies sprinkled the slieavcs. 
 
 We wandered at dawn in tlie woodland. 
 
 We lingered at eve on the hill, 
 And the Brownings sang in the bird's song, 
 
 And Tennyson laughed in the rill. 
 
 The golden glow of tlie gloaming. 
 With one star trembling tiirough. 
 
 Were the shining streets of Heaven, 
 And " the city's " distant view. 
 
 We leaned from the lattice at midnight. 
 Tiie roses bluslied beneath. 
 
 But the stars above were marching. 
 And they shouted, "Tlie victor's wreath?' 
 
 And we longed to march with the legions. 
 
 Heroic, and giand and strong. 
 That storm the castles of evil. 
 
 That scatter the ranks of wrong. 
 
 Now, we know not if gardens are sunny. 
 If blossoms and berries are sweet. 
 
 We dare not lay down our armor, 
 Or linger for resting feet. 
 
 And yet, in the glare of the conflict. 
 Remembering beauty and balm. 
 
 Not backward, but forw.-ird forever, 
 We look for refreshment and calm. 
 
 Dear God ! ever gracious and tender, 
 The earth is thy footstool small. 
 
 But Heaven is the heait of Thy beauty. 
 Where we may recover all. 
 
 We know 'twill be wondrously lovely, 
 Dear Lord, could we only know. 
 
 That, there, we may cherish the roses. 
 And the lilies of long ago! 
 
 M. C. KING. 
 
 The poems of this gentlemen have appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. We 
 here give an extract from The Silent Majority, 
 one of his most popular pieces. 
 
 THE SILENT MAJORITY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Could all who thirst for empty fame he con- 
 scious of false liopes, 
 
 One ship, witli crew of .some fourteen, would 
 not have loosed its ropes. 
 
 But it sailed on the tempting waters of glory 
 and renown ; 
 
 And, not without fair warnings, the ship and 
 all went down. 
 
 There was our Captain, Tracy, the bravest 
 
 man on deck. 
 As he'd never heeded danger, he never 
 
 thought of wreck; 
 He saw his doom before him, but filled with 
 
 contemplation. 
 He thought of nothing, to the last, but 
 
 " Irren's Vindication." 
 O, for private Zimmerman, most timid of the 
 
 lot. 
 Who sniffed the breeze of ruin, took sick, and 
 
 died upon the spot. 
 His mother'l ever weep and mourn the fate 
 
 of her mad son. 
 Who died for .. Old England and the Policy of 
 
 Gladstone." 
 
 ^ 
 
88- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, I'OETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 * 
 
 527 
 
 MRS. SOPHIE M.A.HENSLEY. 
 
 Born : Nova Scotia, May 31, 1866. 
 From fifteen to eighteen years of age this 
 lady was at school in England and Paris. She 
 has a passion for poetry and some of her pro- 
 ductions were written and publislied when 
 hut foiirlr., M M-ir, i,r niiw This lafly was 
 
 MRS. SOPHIE M. A. HENS 1. 1 
 
 married in 1889 to Arthur Hensley, a rising- 
 young barrister. Mrs. Hensley has publish- 
 ed a small volume of short poems which has 
 received quite a wide circulation. She is now 
 preparing a volume for the literary world, to 
 be brought out in London in 1890. The poems 
 of Mrs. Hensley have appeared in the leading- 
 pubUcations of Canada, and have received 
 flattering: praise. 
 
 « 
 
 TOUT POUR L'AMOUK. 
 The world may rage without, 
 
 Quiet is here; 
 Statesmen may toil and shout, 
 
 Cynics may sneer; 
 The great world,— let it go,— 
 June warmth be March's snow, 
 I care not,— be it so 
 
 Since I am here. 
 
 Time was when war's alarm 
 
 Called for a fear, 
 When sorrow's seeming- harm 
 
 Hastened a tear. 
 
 Naught care I now wliat foo 
 Threatens, for scarce 1 know 
 How the year's seasons go 
 
 Since I am here. 
 This is my resting-place 
 
 Holy and dear. 
 Where pain's dejected face 
 
 May not appear: 
 This is the world to me, 
 Earth's woes I will not see. 
 But rest contentedly 
 
 Since I am here. 
 Is't your voice chiding. Love, 
 
 My mild career. 
 My meek abiding-. Love, 
 
 Daily so near'?— 
 " Danger and loss," to me? 
 Ah, Sweet, I fear to see 
 No loss but loss of thee. 
 
 And I am here. 
 
 I WILL FORGET. 
 
 I will forget those days of mingled bliss 
 And dear delicious pain, — will cast from me 
 All dreams of what I know can never be, 
 
 l-"ven the remembrance of that parting kiss. 
 
 I knew that some day it would come to this 
 In spite of all ovir sworn fidelity. 
 That I must banish even memory. 
 
 And, sorrowing, learn to say, nor say amiss, 
 I will forget. 
 
 I register this vow, and am content 
 That it be so. A h me !— yet, if the door 
 
 Shut on our heaven might be asunder rent 
 
 Even now, and I could see the way we went, 
 T might retract my vow, and say no more 
 I will forg-et. 
 
 TRIUMPH. 
 
 The sky, grown dull throug:h many waiting 
 days. 
 Flashed into crimson with the sunrise 
 
 charm. 
 So all my love, aroused to vague alarm. 
 Flushed into fire and burned with eager blaze. 
 I saw thee not as suppliant, with still gaze 
 Of pleading-, but as victor,— and thine arm 
 Gathered me fast into embraces warm. 
 And I was taught the light of Love's dear 
 
 ways. 
 This day of triumph is no long-er thine. 
 
 Oh conqueror, in calm exclusive power.— 
 As evermore, throug-h storm, and shade, and 
 shine. 
 Your woe my pain, your joy my ecstacy. 
 We breathe together,— so this blessed 
 
 hour 
 Of self-surrender makes my jubilee! 
 
 ~© 
 
*- 
 
 528 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 EMMET D. C. HEGEMAN. 
 
 Born: Avon, III., Mav 23, 1859. 
 After receiving bis education at Milford 
 classical and collegiate seminary, Emmet 
 commenced to court the muse, and his poems 
 
 EMMET D. C. HEGEMAN. 
 
 have since appeared quite extensively in the 
 periodical press. Mr. Hegeman follows the 
 profession of journalism, and is now editor of 
 the Gazette, published at Laurel, Delaware. 
 
 *- 
 
 WITH THEE ALONE. 
 
 Witli thee alone! How much is meant 
 
 By tliese three little words: 
 What language could express the joys 
 
 Tliat thine embrace! affords. 
 With thee alone! And thy dear face, 
 
 Tliat liaunts my nightly di'eams; 
 How swift the hours would flit away; 
 
 Like paradise it seems. 
 With thee alone! And tliy great lieart 
 
 Returning my fond love; 
 My happiness, as poets sing, 
 
 Were •> lilic tliat above." 
 With thee alone! What other form 
 
 Is half so dear as thine? 
 I often t-liink of lliy pure face 
 
 As something that's divine. 
 With thee alone! Say, may it be, 
 
 Tliat I may know such bliss? 
 
 May linger in thy sweet embrace? 
 
 Thy darling lips may kiss? 
 With thee alone! 'Tis all my thought. 
 
 For thee my fond heart sighs; 
 To hear the music of thy voice, 
 
 To watch thy laughing eyes. 
 
 With thee alone! How strange 'twould be 
 
 Such loveliness as thine. 
 Would condescend to list to love 
 
 From sucli rude lips as mine. 
 With thee alone! Ah yes my love. 
 
 Thou dost not guess my heart; 
 With thee alone, I long to be, 
 
 Nor ever from thee part. 
 With thee alone ; this dreary world 
 
 Would wear a golden mask. 
 And daily toil, for thy sweet sake. 
 
 Would be a welcome task. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 Under a star-lit sky and over softly rippling 
 
 waves, 
 Peacefully our fair steamer glides on; [night. 
 Over all reigns the silence of the mid-summer 
 Nor is there a wish for the dawn. 
 This stillness and rapture entrances the soul. 
 Heartaches and cares are all forgot: 
 Environed by the spell that such pleasures 
 
 afford. 
 Naught but joy is the enthusiast's lot. [dear. 
 Ah, happy the place when enchantment so 
 Nurture thoughts but of i-apturo and love, 
 'Tis the scene of sweet memories, when night- 
 ingales sing 
 In response to the note of the dove — 
 Can this fair earth afford a more restful resort 
 Of the weary, to rest from care's yoke? 
 Knowledge fails in completeness nor reaches 
 
 its bounds; 
 E'er it explores the old Nanticoke. 
 
 1 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 Delightful revery inveighs my soul to-night. 
 Over my spirit breathes a sweet delight; 
 Love thrills my heart with an intense desire. 
 Love pulses every nerve with amorous tire. 
 It breathes thy name like music sweet to me. 
 Each day reveals some new and pleasing 
 
 grace. 
 Portrays some fresh charm in thy lovely face 
 Endears thee more and more to my fond lieart. 
 Closer entwines the lioiids enwove by Ciipid s 
 
 art. 
 Keeping my heart in sure captivity to thee. 
 Whatever fate this world may hold for nie 
 Over my heart whatever griefs there be. 
 Rest thou assured my heart to thee is true. 
 True to \\w flist real love it ever knew. 
 However flckle it at times may seem to be. 
 
®- 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 529 
 
 MRS. FANNIE S. LOVE JOY. 
 
 Bohn: Sidney, Me., Nov. 39, 1840. 
 This lady was educated in the best schools 
 and was an apt and ambitious scholar. It 1857 
 slie was married to John Lovejoy, and re- 
 moved to her present home iu West Newbury, 
 Mass., wheif slic has endeared herself to a 
 
 MRS. iANNIE S. LUVEJUY. 
 
 large circle of friends. The poems of Mrs. 
 Lovejoy have appeared extensively in the 
 periodical press, and have won high praises, 
 and she certainly occupies a worthy place 
 among the writers of American poetry. She 
 is a lady of rare beauty, an interesting con- 
 versationalist, and in her home life she is the 
 personification of cheerfulness and domestic 
 happiness. 
 
 PROGRESSION. 
 With swiftest strides progression 
 Is marching through the land. 
 And thinking ones are joining 
 Its ranlss on every hand. 
 They turn from superstition 
 In reason's hall to throng. 
 Where growth unites with progress 
 To lielp its cause along. 
 A world of facts, not fancies. 
 All unexplored is thought; 
 The mighty powers which rule the world 
 From its deep eaves are brought. 
 
 But back of all these forces 
 In this vast realm, we find, 
 A grand and mighty temple, 
 Where rules a king called Mind. 
 O, haste to seek this temple. 
 And bow before this King, 
 That out of reason's storehouse 
 Some treasures you may bring. 
 To aid the car of progress. 
 And speed the time along. 
 When truth shall banish error. 
 And right shall conquer wrong. 
 
 THE ISLES OF LONG AGO. 
 O, lovely isles so far away 
 
 In life's vast surging sea. 
 Around their slopes the sunbeams play 
 
 Their silent melody; 
 Above their heights the changing skies 
 
 Their lights and shadows throw. 
 As they again before me rise — 
 
 The isles of long ago. 
 
 lovely isles, forever fair. 
 
 And clothed with green they stand; 
 No change or death can enter there. 
 
 In that fair summer land ; 
 Where happy birds in shady bowers 
 
 Sing with the brooklet's flow. 
 And myrtles deck, and fadeless flowers — 
 
 The isles of long ago. 
 
 I've sailed out on the sea of life. 
 
 Far from this pearly strand. 
 Yet often through the din and strife 
 
 I see that sunny land. 
 The ocean surging 'round it there 
 
 With ceaseless ebb and flow, 
 So grand, and pure and deathless fair — 
 
 The isles of long ago. 
 Time, which life's mighty tide moves on. 
 
 Stands ever at the helm, [storm. 
 
 To guide o'er quicksands and through 
 
 Safe to a higher realm. 
 There, standing on the hills of light 
 
 To view the scene below, 
 I'll see them with a clearer sight — 
 
 The isles of long ago. 
 Far from the ceaseless rush and roar 
 
 Of life's vast surging sea. 
 They stand in light forever more 
 
 In God's eternity. 
 There in that blessed land of truth 
 
 No death or change to know, 
 I'll walk again the ways of youth — 
 
 The isles of long ago. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Softly as evening shadows 
 Fold round this world of strife. 
 Come the mysterious breathings 
 Of a purer, better life. 
 
 ~m 
 
©- 
 
 630 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -9 
 
 MRS. H.PERRY ALLEN. 
 
 Born: Friendship, N.Y., March 18, 1839. 
 At an early age tliis lady displayed a decided 
 taste for composition, and wrote poems from 
 time to t'me, some of wliieh subsequently 
 
 werepnlilislicd in Goilcy's I^ady's Budk and 
 
 I'l KKI \LLEN. 
 
 other prominent mag-azines. She was mar- 
 ried in 1862 to H. Perry Allen, who is now en- 
 gag-ed in mercantile pursuits at Colwieh, Kan- 
 sas. Mrs. Allen occasionally writes for the 
 press, and her poems are always g-ladly ac- 
 cepted and receive most flattering- praise. 
 
 SB- 
 
 FAITH. 
 When the days arc dark and drear. 
 Then, 1 know my God is near; 
 'Tlio earthly friends unmindful be. 
 Still my God remembers me. 
 Yes, Tie g-uards with loving' care. 
 He is with me e\'ery where; 
 Should all earth forgetful be. 
 Still my God remembers me. 
 From all cai-c 1 fain would flee, 
 I come, T call, my (Jod lo Thee; 
 To Thy feet, my cross 1 bring-. 
 To rest beneath Thy sheltering wiug. 
 Gracious Father, hear my prayer. 
 Guard me witli thy loving care, 
 Wiien I wander lead me right 
 From tiie darkness into light. 
 
 When angry waves sweep through my 
 
 breast — 
 When sinful thoughts disturb my rest,— 
 Through the tempest's strife I hear 
 Tones in sadness whispering near. 
 "Why grieve the love that shelters thee. 
 Return my wandering child to me." 
 And angry waves obey the will 
 Of Him to whispered: "Peace, be still." 
 
 WINTER IS COMING. 
 Glad bells are ringing; snow-birds are sing- 
 ing. 
 Winter is coming with its fleecy white snow. 
 Snowflakes are falling, snow-birds are call- 
 ing- 
 Come merry north winds cheerily blow. 
 For winter is coming, winter is coming. 
 
 Winter is coming with fleecy white snow. 
 Life's winter is bringing song-birds for sing- 
 ing. 
 What are they saying to you and to me? 
 Time's snowflakes are falling, the master is 
 calling. 
 Where is the talent that was given to thee? 
 Life's winter is coming, winter is coming. 
 
 Winter is coming to you and to me. 
 Will our winter be dreary, our song-birds be 
 cheery. 
 Telling of duties fulfilled one by one? 
 Glad be its staying if the Master is saying: 
 Thou hath been faithful, my servant, well 
 done. 
 Winter is coming, winter is coming. 
 Winter is coming to all, one by one. 
 
 WINTER WINDS. 
 Fiercely blow the winter winds. 
 
 With a cheerless, dismal sound. 
 And to his boisterous music dance 
 The snowflakes o'er the frozen ground. 
 
 And all is dark and diear. 
 Dark clouds aie o'er my heaven spread — 
 Chill storms are bursting on my head. 
 But one ray of joy and light is shed, 
 My lonely path to cheer. 
 It is the thought, through all tliese scenes, 
 
 However cheerless, st range or new. 
 For me one smile of kindness beams — 
 One faitliful heart is true — 
 
 One soul's deep love is mine, 
 Sliining witli pure unwavering light 
 Tlu-ough sunny day or starless night. 
 Filling my soul with stiange delight. 
 And thought of Ciod divine. 
 I thank Thee, Father, of yon lieaveii, 
 
 Tliat sorrow has been mine. 
 Else these tboughts had not been given; 
 In vain this humble light would shine 
 Ou life's uneven way. 
 
I 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 531 
 
 -® 
 
 ELIZA JANE MCMAHAN. 
 
 Bohn: Callaway Co., Mo., Dec. 22, 1837. 
 A FALL in infancy caused this lady to be 
 crippled for life. Having- acquired the rudi- 
 ments of an education, she entered Danville 
 academy, where she firaduated witli lienors, 
 and sul)si'iiuently liefiim :i surcostLil career 
 
 ELIZA .JANE M'MAHAN. 
 
 Of teacliitifT. This lady has, on account of her 
 health, now retired from teaching-, and is 
 living- in New Florence, Mo., surrounded by a 
 multitude of friends and associates, upon 
 each of whom she leaves an impress of her 
 own sweetness of nature and purity of soul. 
 The poems of Miss McMahan have appeared 
 in many of the leading publications. 
 
 THE POWER OF THOLTGHT. 
 
 If we harbor thouglits unbolj". 
 
 Cherish purposes unkind. 
 Though we labor hard to hide them 
 
 They will some expression find. 
 While the earth is soft and yielding. 
 
 When tlie Spring and Winter meet, 
 Those who lurk within our gateway 
 
 Leave the impress of their feet. 
 Thus it is in hfe's sweet Spring-time, 
 
 Thoughts that linger in the breast 
 Never fail to leave their tokens 
 
 On the character impressed. 
 And when fully they possess us. 
 
 Bring the will beneath their sway. 
 Slowly they will mold the features. ' 
 
 As the potter shapes his clay. 
 Thus they make or mar the beauty 
 
 Of the human face divine. 
 Just as wisdom or as folly 
 
 Leaves thereon its outward sign. 
 For upon the face so plainly 
 
 Do the children of the brain 
 Trace the history of their triumphs, 
 
 W^rite the record of their pain. 
 That the simplest, ofttimes reading-. 
 
 Quick are drawn unto their goal. 
 By the language of the features 
 
 Emanating- from the soul. 
 
 CHILDREN'S DAY. 
 
 Oh this has been a glorious day ! 
 
 The length and breadth of the land, 
 
 For the children of the church have met 
 
 In many a joyous band. 
 
 By .stream and Itike, on mountain high. 
 
 In midst of the City's throng-. 
 
 They've called the golden hours their own. 
 
 To spend in prayer and song. 
 
 The poor have come, in fear of the Lord; 
 
 His holy Temples within ; [wealth. 
 
 Where flowers outshnie the children of 
 
 And yet neither toil nor spin. 
 
 But the hues of the blossoms, so fair to be- 
 hold. 
 
 Cannot vie with the pure simple trust 
 
 Of the meek and lowly whose treasures are 
 hid 
 
 Far away from corruption and rust. 
 
 These pretty sweet flowers came out of their 
 graves. 
 
 Where the ice King laid them low; 
 
 So our bodies will rise at last from the tomb 
 
 With fresh life and vigor aglow. 
 
 Our God can unlock the dark pri.sons of 
 
 death. 
 By the streng-thof that same loving arm 
 That circles the poor little sparrow that falls. 
 And that keeps little children from harm. 
 I love the dear birds, the bright happy birds. 
 As they soar far away from sig-ht; 
 I think where the hearts of the children must 
 
 turn 
 To seek for the fountain of lig-lit. 
 I missed them alas, in the dark winter hours. 
 When the clouds gather'd heavy and black: 
 I wonder if God kept them safe in His house. 
 Till beautiful spring- called them back. 
 
 If they've been up above, where angels live. 
 And nestled around the white Throne; 
 I wish they'd sing us a song of that land 
 Where winter and clouds are unknown. 
 
 ® 
 
©- 
 
 532 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -S& 
 
 Should a message come from the City of Light, 
 
 Borne out on the songs of the birds. 
 
 How closely I'd listen, how hard I would try 
 
 To find out its meaning- in words. 
 
 For then I could live so much nearer to God, 
 
 When I heard what the birds had to say, 
 
 And linew that His voice had spolieu the 
 
 words 
 Sent down in that beautiful way. 
 But now, I can learn what his will is to us 
 From this Book which came down from 
 
 above, 
 'Twas utter'd in thunder, 'twas written in 
 
 blood — 
 Yet we know that its meaning- is love. 
 We all met this morning- its truths to imbibe; 
 Here to worship, to sing and to pray. 
 With parents, teacher and friends in our midst 
 Who are seeking- to learn the good way. 
 And now that the bright happy May-day is 
 
 gone 
 When the Stars light us home to our rest. 
 May no soul g-o out from the temple of God, 
 By the love of our Savior unblest. 
 May each carry home a new treasured thought 
 That will brighten his lot as he goes. [life 
 Some hope lighting up the dark corners of 
 And dispelling- its shadow of woes. 
 A rich gift is life, if we use it aright. 
 And our father knows best what we need 
 Tlieu murmur not, when tliat is withheld 
 For which often, we earnestlj' plead. 
 These meetings on earth are but types of the 
 
 time 
 When the sea giving up her vast dead. 
 The Just shall stand out on the righthand of 
 
 God, 
 From the Fountain of Life to be fed. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SICK-ROOM MUSINGS. 
 Many dreary years have vanished. 
 
 Many friends lie cold and dead. 
 Since affliction lieavy handed 
 
 Laid me low upon this bed. 
 Oh, the work these years have witnessed! 
 
 Lisping children, balies unborn. 
 Now I see as happy parents. 
 
 Passing from life's dewy morn. 
 Wlien in streng-th I last went walking. 
 
 All the land was dark witli strife, 
 War was rag-iiig, cannon roaring, 
 
 Brothers seeking life for life. 
 High the star of peace lias risen. 
 
 Twenty years we've known hci- rnlc; 
 
 Oil to tread familiar pathways 
 With the friend I love so well; 
 
 Guided on some sunny morning 
 By the music of the bell. 
 
 ABRAM BEXNET BREES. 
 
 Born : Medina, Mich., Dec. 30, 1841. 
 The poems of this gentleman have appeared 
 in Signs of the Times, Spencerville Journal, 
 Ohio Democrat and various other public- 
 ations. In 1874 he was married to Miss 
 Harriet Wilson. By occupation Mr. Brees is 
 a farmer, at Spencerville, Ohio. Mr. Brees 
 was ordained to the Baptist ministry in 1869, 
 and travels extensively preaching the gospel. 
 
 HOW I MEET A MAN. 
 As I meet a man I wonder 
 
 What the motive of his heart. 
 Whether honesty of purpose 
 
 Doth its hallowed grace impart. 
 
 Wliether his good salutation 
 
 Is as free from selfish aims. 
 As his words are full of praises, 
 
 When he calls me honored names; 
 
 Whether his professed affection 
 Long will bear the test of time. 
 
 And his earnest resolui ions 
 Prove themselves in acts sublime; 
 
 Whether truth or whether follj' 
 
 Will direct his future state. 
 And his aims be mean and lowly, 
 
 Or his acts be good and great. 
 
 What the choice of his companions, 
 
 Whether frivolous or good; 
 If, in public life and private. 
 
 All his ways are understood; 
 
 Whether, when at church in worship, 
 Vain conceits his mind control; 
 
 Or a pure and sweet devotion. 
 Animates and lifts his soul. 
 
 Husli! My Muse, and let me ponder 
 
 O'er the lesson thou liast taught; 
 Have I time to judge and censure. 
 
 If I labor as I ought? 
 God, I know, hath wisely hidden 
 
 All the hearts of men from ine; 
 'Tis enougli if I can profit 
 
 By the vanities I see. 
 If the evils of my nature 
 
 Cause me deep and constant grief. 
 Greater p;iin, tlirougli greater knowledge. 
 
 Were a bane without relief. 
 'Tis enough that men arc lu-ovon 
 
 As their heart and faitli are tried; 
 'Tis enough that. God hath promised 
 
 Tliat his truth shall be my guide? 
 Let some holy Censor guard me. 
 
 Criticise each act and tliought. 
 That my life and love and labor. 
 
 May employ me as I ought. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 533 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. MAGGIE MAY DANEHY. 
 
 Bokn: Faikfield, Ohio, July 5, 1862. 
 Graduating at the liig-li scliool in 1880, Magg-ie 
 four years later was married to Mr. Dan Dane- 
 
 li\ . :i ri-iii'-i' > iiuml;' 1);i rri^tcr. The iiocins nf 
 
 MRS. MAGGIE MAY DANEHY. 
 
 Mrs. Danehy ha%-e appeared in the Cincinnati 
 and Lancaster papers, from which they have 
 been extensively coiiied by tlie local press. 
 
 ©- 
 
 LOVE THEE? 
 
 Love thee? Canst thou ask me still 
 
 If, in truth, I love thee? 
 Ask tlie breezes, if you will. 
 
 Ask tlie stars above thee. 
 Nightlj-, daily, on the air 
 
 Passing soft before me. 
 Breathe I not thy name in prayer 
 
 To the heavens o'er me? 
 Xaught but breezes fond could tell. 
 
 Naught but stars give token 
 Of those words they know so well. 
 
 Ne'er to mortal spoken. 
 Waking, dreaming, near or far. 
 
 Gay, or when I'm lonely. 
 Of but one my dreamings are — 
 
 Thee — and of thee only. 
 Life and love are now but one, 
 
 I had known them never, 
 Till witii love was life begun. 
 
 To live on forever. 
 
 Came a presence strange to me, 
 
 Never to be banished ; 
 Brighter as it grew to be — 
 
 Slow all others vanislied. 
 Many footsteps 'round me fall — 
 
 One alone I'm learning; 
 Many voices to me call — 
 
 One alone discerning. 
 
 Many eyes there are, 1 (jwn, 
 Shedding true love through tliem; 
 
 Strange — but just one pair alone 
 Draw my own unto them. 
 
 Manj' lips unto me speak. 
 
 Friendship's faith repeating; 
 Lips of one alone I seek. 
 
 With their gentle greeting. 
 Many hands there are, I learn. 
 
 Fain would truly guide me; 
 But I only care to turn 
 
 To one hand beside me. 
 What were life, if love were gone? 
 
 Love — if life should sever? 
 Life and love will still be one 
 
 In that vast forever. 
 
 SONG OF THE FOREST. 
 Friend of my friends, the poets true. 
 
 To thee, in humble verse, I sing. 
 With this my theme, so old yet new — 
 
 No fitter thought the Muses bring. 
 Old, j'es, because what year gone by. 
 
 Caressed by breath of summer morn. 
 Aloft unto the smiling sky 
 
 Has not its wealth of verdure borne? 
 And what new year hath other power 
 
 To sway with sweeter charm than tliese — 
 The trembling leaf, the opening flower. 
 
 The grandeur of its noble trees? 
 Oh ! who is there within whose heart 
 
 The love of noble manhood dwells. 
 Who feels the thrill of pleasure start 
 
 When other tongue the story tells 
 Of deeds sublime? with true eye sees 
 
 Tlie beautiful in art and thought — 
 Dares stand before God's stately trees, 
 
 Declaring that he loves tliem not? 
 Companions of our childhood days! 
 
 Companions still though grown we be! 
 Still through thy leaves the light breeze 
 strays. 
 
 Whispering the same old song to me. 
 And from beneath thy cooling shade 
 
 Methinks I hear a well known tread — 
 Alasl that dreams should ever fade — 
 
 The footsteps of our honored dead. 
 
 Those wlio, with calm and thoughtful brow. 
 Communed with thee in days of yore. 
 
 -m 
 
*- 
 
 534 
 
 *' 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Whose foi-Dis, wheu seen beside thee uow, 
 
 Foud memory doth iiloiie restore. 
 ProtectiDgly thy broad arms bend 
 
 Above the cool and waving- grass. 
 Nature's fair guardians that attend 
 
 The place wliere they were wont to pass. 
 To-day once more the birds rejoice, 
 
 The mui-mur of the winds I hear, 
 Imagining some gentle voice 
 
 Commingling- with those sounds so dear. 
 
 'Tis here, beneath thy branches free. 
 
 Spirits of old ag-ain appear. 
 Not elsewhere speaketh unto me 
 
 In language half so sweet or clear, 
 
 The words that fell from poet lips. 
 In years gone by — true words of power. 
 
 That we imbibe as sunbeam sips 
 The dewdrops pure from earthly flower. 
 
 Dear forest! Down thj' aisles dim 
 Soft sweeps the zephyr's Ught caress; 
 
 Worthy indeed art thou of Him 
 Who made thee in tliy loveliness. 
 
 Long- may thy graceful branches wave. 
 
 Piercing with pride the balmy air. 
 Harm ne'er would come if I could save — 
 
 Fit objects of our love and care. 
 But though erect each noble form. 
 
 As year by year rolls swift along. 
 Thou too, like man, must face the storm, 
 
 And fall — or live to be more strong-. 
 Forever, upward, day by day. 
 
 Patient thy growing- branches turn. 
 Nearer the heavens each year alway — 
 
 Maj' we the simple lesson learn. 
 
 Though few our years, or many be. 
 It matters not the number given. 
 
 If we can feel that, like the tree. 
 Each year hath found us nearer heaven. 
 
 gB- 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 Just as one who, idly wandering 
 
 In some forest pathway lone. 
 Gathers here and there a flower 
 
 Chance into his way has thrown. 
 
 Stoops, in pleased surprise, on finding-, 
 'Mid the dead leaves at his feet, 
 
 Some sweet favorite of the wildwood. 
 Hiding in its dim retreat. 
 
 Climbs the mountain side to capture. 
 Where the rough rocks cheerless frowi 
 
 Some rare blossom he had noticed 
 On his pathway smiling down. 
 
 Pauses by the sparkling waters, * 
 
 From the trembling- waves to bear. 
 
 Some shy water-maiden nodding 
 'Mong the green leaves floating there. 
 
 NELLIE LINN. 
 
 Born : Minonk, III., Feb. 2ti, 1861. 
 This lady has written quite extensively for 
 the local press, and has published a little 
 pamphlet of Temperance Poems and Other 
 Recitations. She is a little below the medium 
 height, with auburn hair and blue eyes, and 
 has a wide circle of admirers; she now resides 
 in Liberty, Nebraska. 
 
 LIFE'S MORNING. 
 My heart is light, from sorrow free ; 
 
 Time's hand hath not yet creased my brow, 
 I'll dance and sing in merry glee: 
 
 The present mine! I'm happy now! 
 While other's fret, I'll not complain; 
 
 Gay thoughts of joy doth fill my heart; — 
 Away, away, all thoughts of pain ! 
 
 Within my life they have no part. 
 Talk not to me of toil and care, 
 
 That wait for me adown the road : 
 'Twill be enough for me to bear. 
 
 When I must lift the weary load. 
 So I will laugh while yet I may. 
 
 If sorrow then shall come at last 
 I can endure the coming- day. 
 
 For joy was mine in days of past. 
 Then let me laugh in merry glee! 
 
 Away with grief! from me beg-one! 
 Although we know the night must be; 
 
 We still enjoy the early dawn. 
 
 WANTED. 
 
 Men of honor, men of might; 
 Men who boldly stand for right; 
 Men who scorn to tell a lie; 
 Men whom money cannot buy; 
 Men who never take a drink. 
 But from liquor always shrink; 
 Men who never learned to smoke; 
 Men who do not always croak; 
 Men who know just what to say. 
 Where to say it and the way; 
 Men whom politics won't spoil, 
 And their reputations soil; 
 Men who do not cringe to power; 
 Men-— they're' wanted every hour. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I'm mithing but an outcast. 
 
 No mother, home or fi-iends; 
 My father is a drunkard 
 
 And all his money spends 
 For liquor or in gambling. 
 
 While I am left to roam — 
 Why don't some one take |iity 
 
 And give to me a home. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 •535 
 
 m 
 
 BELA CHAPIN. 
 
 Born: Newpokt, N. H., Feb. 19, 1829. 
 At the ag-e of eighteen Mr. Chapin was ap- 
 prentieed to the printing- busiaess, and after- 
 ward was employed in various places as a 
 compositor. Having- earned some money by 
 much industry, lie entered Kimball I'liidii 
 
 BEL.\ CHAPIN. 
 
 academy where he was fitted for college. 
 After leaving the academy he continued the 
 study of the Latin and Greek languages. 
 About 1865 Mr. Chapin became proprietor of 
 the Dartmouth press printing and book-liind- 
 ing establishment in Hanover, N. H. Com- 
 mencing to court the muses at an early age, 
 the productions of this writer have constantly 
 appeared in the New England journals and 
 magazines, and have been deservedly admir- 
 ed. In 188:i he edited the Poets of New Hamp- 
 shire, a large volume of some eight liundred 
 pages. He has just completed a translation 
 in verse of Virgil's Eclogues. Mr. Chapin 
 now resides in Claremont, and Is proprietor 
 of the Grandy Brook fruit and dairy farm, on 
 which are some very fine horses, choice Jersey 
 cattle, and the finest of fruit. The library of 
 this gentleman contains about two thou.sand 
 volumes of standard works. 
 
 THE REALM OF RHADAM ANTHUS. 
 Begemmed upon old Ocean's breast, 
 Where gentle billows swell. 
 
 Lie the feigned islands of the blest, 
 
 Where souls departed dwell. 
 Not in Cimmerian gloom profound. 
 
 Where ebon night pervades, 
 But in the realm where joys abound, 
 
 Rest unsubstantial shades. 
 There in that clime, forever bright. 
 
 The sun with equal ray 
 Illuminates the tranquil night 
 
 And gilds the cloudless day. 
 There fields of asphodel and balm 
 
 And roses bloom for aye; 
 There naught can mar the soul's sweet calm. 
 
 And love finds no decay. 
 There hero-shades with joy possess 
 
 An ever-peaceful home, 
 A seat exempt from all excess 
 
 Where pain can never come. 
 There where enchanting beauty teems 
 
 In exquisite delight. 
 Mid citron groves, by crystal streams. 
 
 Walk chiefs of former might. 
 O'er those feigned isles no storms prevail. 
 
 No snow white-drifting there; 
 No raging blast, nor rain, nor hail. 
 
 Nor pestilential air. 
 There fragrant breezes, balmy airs, 
 
 Pure offspring of the main. 
 Sweep from the isles corroding cares 
 
 And fan the lovely plain. 
 There smiling fields afar extend 
 
 In living verdure new; 
 There trees with fruits ambrosial bend. 
 
 With flowers of every hue. 
 There bright-winged birds, on every tree. 
 
 Pour forth their dulcet strains, 
 AVhile mirth, and song, and dance, and glee 
 
 Pervade the flowery plains. 
 There Rhadamanthus rules in trust 
 
 The realm of beings blest; 
 The brave, the noble and the just. 
 
 They own his high behest. 
 
 They who, in truth and virtue strong. 
 
 From guilt's contagion pure. 
 Did ever keep their lives from wrong. 
 
 Rest in the isles secure. 
 There with the honored gods so dear, 
 
 With them forever blest. 
 They dwell, and pass from year to year 
 
 Their tearless age of rest. 
 They who were once o'er-fraught with care 
 
 And bowed beneath the load. 
 No heaviness their spirit bear 
 
 In that their last abode. 
 And they whose weary days were spent 
 
 In penury and pain. 
 In sore disease and discontent. 
 
 In hardship and disdain; 
 
 -m 
 
®- 
 
 636 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 And they who were by scorn and pride 
 
 Dowu-trodden and oppressed, 
 In joyfulness they all abide 
 
 Where woes can not molest. 
 And shades of men, the wise and good. 
 
 Both old and young- are tliere, 
 Matrons and blooming- womanhood. 
 
 And youtlis unwed and fair. 
 No toil is there, nor languislnnent. 
 
 There no deceit beguiles ; 
 Tliere pleasure reigns with glad content 
 
 Witliin those halcyon isles. 
 No hurt nor ill that trouble yields 
 
 Can reach that peaceful shore, 
 But in the sweet elysian fields 
 
 Is bliss forevermore. 
 In such a place the Greeks of old 
 
 Hoped after death to rest, 
 But earth doth not that region hold. 
 
 Such islands of the blest. 
 
 IN HEAVEN. 
 There shall the sainted dead abide 
 
 In never-ceasing light; 
 The pure in heart, the glorified. 
 
 Shall walk in garments white: 
 And in their midst the lamb shall be 
 Their friend and guide eternally. 
 Tliere God shall wipe all tears away 
 
 From true believers' eyes; 
 No pain is there, nor sad decay, 
 
 No sorrow, grief, nor sighs; 
 And death itself shall nevermore 
 Be known upon that peaceful shore. 
 The glory of the world of bliss 
 
 On earth we cannot know ; 
 It far transcends all scenes in this 
 
 Our fleeting life below; 
 The beautiful of earth and fair 
 Cannot with heavenly things compare. 
 Some gleam, perhaps, God's people see. 
 
 While here they serve and M'ait; 
 Some fortaste of the things that be 
 
 Within the shining gate. 
 Where dwell in ever sweet accord 
 The ransomed of the risen Lord. 
 Great Tather, Spirit blest, and Son, 
 
 Tliou evei--liviiig Three; 
 Tl'.ou ever-living Three in One, 
 
 We place our trust in thee: 
 And in our dear Redeemer's peace 
 We hope for joys that ne'er will cease. 
 
 8B- 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM TRANSLATION OF 
 VIRGIL'S ECLOGUES. 
 Happy old man ! At ease how blest, 
 Beside familiar streams to rest — 
 Beside the pure translucent springs 
 To know the bliss that quiet brings! 
 
 Just here a hedge of willow-trees. 
 
 Your pasture's hither bound. 
 Is fed upon by Hyblean bees. 
 
 That buzz its blossoms round: 
 And oft their murmur sweet and low 
 Tliat cause you into sleep to go. 
 Shall where yon towering- rock inclines 
 Shall sit the pruner of the vines. 
 
 And sing to every breeze. 
 Near by your favorite pigeon throng 
 Their plaintive clamor shall prolong. 
 And turtledoves shall utter still 
 Their cooing with complaining bill 
 
 Upon the tall elm-trees. 
 
 Come hither, come, O beauteous boy! 
 For you the smiling nymphs with joy 
 Their baskets full of lilies bring; 
 A naiad fair is gathering 
 For you gay poppy-heads and neat. 
 
 CHRISTIAN CRALL. 
 
 Born: Mansfield, Ohio, Nov. 17, 1819. 
 Under the nom de plume of Allan Bane, the 
 poems of this writer have appeared in many 
 of the prominent publications, from which 
 they have been extensively copied by the lo- 
 cal press. He is now a resident of Pioneer, 0. 
 
 MY FATHER'S CLOCK. 
 My father's clock hangs on the wall. 
 
 Just as it hung of yore; 
 Year in, year out, it ticked for those 
 
 Who hear its tick no more. 
 Hair darker then the raven's wing 
 
 Has changed to silver gray. 
 Since first that clock began to tick. 
 
 And still it ticks away. 
 For fifty years that pendulum 
 
 Was swinging to and fro; 
 Just how long I shall see it swing 
 
 I do not care to know. 
 There is no beauty in that clock 
 
 That stranger eyes can .see: 
 'Tis like its owner, old and scarred. 
 
 But no less dear to me. 
 I often look on that old clock 
 
 And think of youth's bright days. 
 And of a goodly company 
 
 So liai)py, blithe and gay. 
 Sad are f lie changes lime has wrouj. 
 
 And yi't amidsl tliem all. 
 That good old clock has kept its iilace. 
 
 Secure against the wall. 
 My fatlier's clock. Oh, guard it well! 
 
 As in the days of yoi-e. 
 And tliink how long tiiat clock has ticked. 
 
 For those who liear no more. 
 
 ;lit. 
 
®- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEUICA. 
 
 J. TRE MAINE KEEGAN. 
 
 Born: Berlin, Conn., Sept. 16, 1847. 
 
 Mr. Keegan graduated as a civil engineer at 
 an early age. He has contributed to many 
 newspapers and periodicals; lias traveled ex- 
 tensively through Europe, Mexico and the 
 United States, and many of his poems and 
 sketches are scenes from life in other lauds. 
 
 J. TREMAINE KEEGAN. 
 
 Among his best efforts are the Bells of San 
 Bias, Deserted City in Yucatan, The Exile's 
 Dream and The Wanderer's Return — the lat- 
 ter pronounced as a first-class poem and was 
 well received by ihe press and public. Many 
 of his sketches of life in the far west are very 
 readable and humorous. He was married 
 June .30th. 1887, to a Jewish lady. Miss Frances 
 Simons, of New York City. Mr. Keegan is 
 now a resident of Idaho Territory. 
 
 ©• 
 
 ON LAKE CCEUR D'ALENE. 
 
 The vision burst o'er me like a beautiful 
 
 dream ; 
 The lake and the river of fair Coeur d'Alene; 
 Thy mountains and canyons, the defile and 
 
 glen. 
 Are sweet bouquets of beauty in the pathwaj- 
 
 of men. 
 
 The old mission chapel seems lost in decay 
 Where the knee of tlie savage was once bent 
 
 to pray ; 
 But mission and chapel are shrouded in gloom, 
 And savage and priests slumber on in the 
 
 tomb. 
 There the grand, lofty pines in yon canyon 
 
 behold : 
 Stand erect like giant knight-errants of old. 
 Guarding their treasures of mountain stream 
 That glitter and sparkle in the bright sun-ray's 
 gleam. 
 
 THE WANDERERS RETURN. 
 
 Sad and pensive now I'm sitting 
 At the fireside's warming blaze, 
 
 Thinking of the years that's flitting 
 With memory struggling through the 
 haze. 
 
 " Home again" — it sounds so mournful 
 
 After years of battling strife. 
 And my heart is growing scornful, 
 
 Grieving o'er my misspent life. 
 
 " Yes, home again," and now I'm thinking 
 
 Over all and every charm ; 
 Happiness and sorrow linking, — 
 
 The latter trying to disarm. 
 
 How they watched last night at service 
 When I reached the familj' seat. 
 
 And my poor heart became so nervous 
 The text and prayers could not repeat. 
 
 Ob, how the music thrilled mj- memory! 
 
 Subdued and soft then loud it rolled; 
 As thej' sang the Christmas anthem 
 
 Tears and doubt bereft my soul. 
 
 And when the pastor spoke his sermon — 
 
 Recalled to them his burdened years, 
 "The Father's ways he was ever learning," 
 
 While my poor eyes were dimmed with 
 tears. 
 And when the pastor gave his blessing, 
 
 I heard the whispers at my back; 
 Some old friend his son addressing, 
 
 "'Tis twenty years since he's been back." 
 
 And now this morn I viewed the village; 
 
 The church, the school, the old red mill 
 The same old farms are under tillage,— 
 
 The same old elms are standing still. 
 
 I viewed the house with its gable windows — 
 Its quaint old chimney of rock and clay; 
 
 And in the fields last season's winrows 
 Are left to molder and decay. 
 
 The last but me in the churchyard sleeping; 
 
 They sleep beneath yon granite stone. 
 And I there lonely watch am keeping, 
 
 I, their wanderer, am home. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 538 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MATTIE NICHOLS. 
 
 Born : Salem, Ohio, 1854. 
 Under the nom de plume of J;iye Jacques, 
 many flue poems liavc appeared in tlie jircss 
 
 MRS. MATTIE NICHOLS. 
 
 from the pen of this -writer, who, however, is 
 devoted to prose rather than to verse. 
 
 m- 
 
 THOSE BONNIE EYES. 
 
 Those bonnie eyes. 
 They are my skies; 
 
 They hold for me both sun and rain, — 
 They frown, and liope within me dies; 
 They smile, and peace is mine again. 
 They are noon. 
 My sun, my moon. 
 My restful light at close of day, 
 They shed for me the blessed boon 
 Of love's dear light across my way. 
 Sweet eyes that sliine 
 And si)eak to miiK^ 
 Ot love lliat never wa.xelh cold. 
 Ah, never veil thy beams divine. 
 Though time bi'ings change and lieurts 
 grow old. 
 
 WHEN THE SILK IS ON THE CORN. 
 The geese were flying southward 
 
 And t.lu^ clouds were hanging low, 
 Tlie lealiess boughs were shivering 
 
 As llicy chattered of the snow; 
 
 And the frost was in our faces 
 
 As we said good-by that morn. 
 But you promised, sweet, to wed me. 
 
 When the silk was on the corn. 
 'Neath the naked boughs we parted. 
 
 In the autumn cold and gray; 
 But the winter's reign is over 
 
 And 'tis now the pleasant May. 
 And I know you're slyly watching 
 
 Each evening and each morn. 
 Where the tender husk is bursting. 
 
 And the silk is on the corn. 
 There are sweet, contented whisperings 
 
 Now among the tossing trees. 
 For the spring has come to crown them 
 
 And has brought them back their leaves. 
 And my crown of love is waiting, 
 
 Where, some sunny, summer morn, 
 I will claim my queen, my darling, 
 
 When the silk is on the corn. 
 
 A WIFE'S LAMENT. 
 I know a mountain, high and grand. 
 
 And seamed with chasms dark and deep; 
 Dark, stern, magnificent, it stands 
 
 And guards the hamlet at its feet. 
 Through cloud, and fog and morning mist. 
 
 Unmoved by tempest, storm or time; 
 And when the sun its brow has kissed. 
 
 It smiles with radiance sublime! 
 The fertile valley lies below. 
 
 Clothed in her shimmering summer dress, 
 And smiles up to the gray, cold rock 
 
 That guards, but stoops not to caress. 
 I know a face, a kingly face. 
 
 That towers high above my own ; 
 An artist's eye, a form of grace, 
 
 A poet's soul — a heart of stone ! 
 He stands, unmoved by praise or blame. 
 
 With conscious power and mind complete; 
 He lives for labor, art and fame. 
 
 Nor heeds the offerings at liis feet. 
 I'd give the world were I the sun. 
 
 To kiss to smiles that haughty face. 
 And see the lightning glance of love 
 
 Light up those eyes with tender grace 
 I nestle mutely at his feet. 
 
 He shields me from the storms of life, 
 I bring him oll'erings pure and sweet, 
 
 A worshiping, devoted wife. 
 But, ah! his heart once all my own, 
 
 Foi-gets the gracious tenderness 
 Of l)ygone days. 1 sit alone. 
 
 He guards, l)ut stoops not to caress. 
 
 A TOUCH OF FROST. 
 
 There's a U)uch of frost in the wandering air, 
 
 Tlie twilights call. 
 
 The grass is all, ['">'' 
 
 And streaked with white like the first gniy 
 That comes with the rounding years of ea 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIIICA. 
 
 539 
 
 -© 
 
 WOLFF WILLNER, M. A. 
 
 Bokn: Germany, July 20, 1863. 
 At the age of eleven the subject of this 
 sketch emigrated with his mother and family 
 to America, whither his father preceded him 
 the year before. He lived first in Newburgh, 
 N. Y., then ni New Haven, Conn., where lie 
 entered Yale in 1881, graduated at the acade- 
 
 m- 
 
 REV. WOLFF WII.r.NKH. 
 
 mic course in 1885, and in 188T was made an M. 
 A. Then he was called to the ministry of the 
 congregation Gheb Shalom, in Newark, New 
 Jersey. He has written poetry from his 
 
 youth, but his later years have been devoted 
 mostlj' to translating from the Hebrew or 
 German. Newspaper articles on religious and 
 Hebrew literary subjects are published in 
 several Jewish weeklies and in the Meuorah 
 Monthly. In 1890 Mr.Willner took eliarge of 
 the Hebrew Congi-egation in Houston, Texas. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING. 
 Little beauty, kiss me, pray! 
 Little beauty turns away? 
 Kisses to take and give the same. 
 Need not now cause you to shame. 
 A hundred times pray kiss me o'er. 
 Kiss me, and mark well the score, 
 I'll repay-i- and I speak true — 
 Tenfold each of them to you, 
 Wlien the kiss no more is play. 
 And you're ten years older than to-dav. 
 
 WHOM I SHALL MARRY. 
 Whom I will marry, you would ask? 
 Well now, it is no easy task. 
 And one must think a good deal. 
 Before he finds his true ideal. 
 But that in answer you rejoice 
 I herewith make known my choice: 
 I'll marry her, both tall and fair. 
 Blue are her eyes, blonde is her hair. 
 As beauteous as one only seeks. 
 And pretty dimples in her cheeks. 
 A tiny nose between her eyes. 
 Her ears are just the correct size. 
 Her skin as fine as velvet is. 
 Her ruby lips invite a kiss. 
 And whom sh: passes, looks behind. 
 For no greater beauty he can find. 
 Her I will marry, she'll be my wife, 
 My beauteous partner throughout life. 
 
 Or else her of the blackest hair. 
 
 Of small brown eyes, complexion fair. 
 
 Of roundest, softest, shapeliest arms, 
 
 of countless beauties, wond'rous charms, 
 
 Her rosy lips are small and pretty. 
 
 Her speech is bright, her sayings witty; 
 
 Of daintiest hands, prettiest feet. 
 
 The nicest girl that walks the street. 
 
 A beauty blonde, beauty brunette, 
 
 No matter, a beauty I must wed! 
 
 And if j'ou ask me, where I find 
 
 A beauty of this, or of another kind? 
 
 And if a girl I see, how will I know, 
 
 That as she looks, she's really so'? — 
 
 What if no beauty wants me, you mean? 
 
 Oh, then — you know I am extreme — 
 
 I take the homeliest girl in the land. 
 
 Such as no other man would demand; 
 
 With bonj', freckled face, with nose awry. 
 
 Long donkey ears, and .squinting eye. 
 
 Red is her hair, and firm her grip, 
 
 A full mustache adorns lier upper lip. 
 
 Big, gnashing teeth, a cornered chin, 
 
 A fiery temper, devilish hard to win. 
 
 Her speech is rough, her talk is hoarse, 
 
 LTgly are her ways, and her demeanor coarse. 
 
 Her will I wed, she'll be my wife. 
 
 To vex and trouble me throughout my life! 
 
 Thus now before you I my choice arrange. 
 
 And, my mind made up, I will not change: 
 
 'T must either be a beauty of renown. 
 
 Or else, the homeliest girl in town. 
 
 SONNET. 
 High be thy standard, lofty be thine aim. 
 
 Know thou thy duty, know thou to obey! 
 On ;-ecord's brightest page appear thy name; 
 
 Hope brighten, when in woe.thine every day. 
 LTiitrue to thee may never prove a friend. 
 This greatest blessing God upon thee send. 
 
 -« 
 
«- 
 
 •540 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -^ 
 
 *- 
 
 WHAT THE SPRING TOLD ME OF THE 
 TRANSIT OF VENUS. 
 
 Come then, ye clouds! In darkness clothe 
 
 the sky ! 
 In due obedience to their master's call 
 The clouds from all sides came. This Venus 
 
 saw 
 And to herself thus spoke: •» Oh, woe is me! 
 What can I do to set to naught the plan 
 Of wily Zeus, who hid the sky from view. 
 That none my visit to the Sun can see !" 
 Thus grieving- in her heart fair Venus said, 
 And to ^olia went, the home of winds, 
 Where ^olus in a deep cave restrains 
 Their force and sways his scepter over them; 
 Indignant they against the wall do press 
 All eager seas and lands and e'en the sky 
 To fill and thither great commotion hring. 
 This fearing did the powerful father lock 
 Them in a cave and placed a rock 
 Upon them, and made ^olus their king. 
 Him Venus now beseechingly addressed: 
 " King JSolus, thou knowest that to-day 
 The Sun I'll visit and with him converse. 
 All my admirers wish to see the sight. 
 Now jealous Jupiter has grieved me much 
 For he has overliung the sky with clouds. 
 Thee, .JSolus, I do implore, relieve 
 My heart from fear and let thy winds dis- 
 perse 
 The clouds and open unto view the sky." 
 She said it and she stepped to him and took 
 His hand and pressed it warmlj', looked at 
 
 him 
 Imploringly, contracted then his lips 
 As though she ready were to kiss the king. 
 Who could resist her beauty? Who refuse 
 Her wish, when his reward would be a kiss 
 Of lips as beautiful as her's? And so 
 His heart failed jEoIus. He promised thus: 
 •' O beauteous Venus, what thou sayest shall 
 Be done. Thy will to me is divine command." 
 Slie kissed him — O that kiss, well was It 
 
 worth 
 To undergo the wT'ath of Jupiter. 
 An opening king .^olus made in 
 The cave,— out rushed the winds and filled 
 
 the air. 
 In vain they l)lew, the clouds woidd jiot give 
 
 way. 
 Already rosy-flngerod morning rose 
 Wlien first tlie winds began to liave effect, 
 F(n' Uranus, lord of the sky hold tliem. 
 Ho Nei>tune, all the phmets envied her. 
 Lo there the Sun:— 'Tis time now, Venus, 
 
 come! 
 Slie came, and surely would be seen by all. 
 Would not cloud gathering Jupiter retain 
 A cloud jnst at the edge, Ihat no one saw 
 Fair Venus enlei'ing (he Sun's abode. 
 
 "O beauteous Venus, hast at length thou 
 
 come? [all?" 
 
 How doest thou fare? How are the planets 
 
 "O thou bright shining Sun, great is the 
 
 strife 
 Amongst the planets; jealous are they all 
 That none but me thou entertainest here. 
 But Jupiter commenced; first he did cloud 
 The sky, and t^ranus helped him in it ; 
 War-loving Mars in anger shook his fists 
 And Neptune, ruler of the sea, turned green. 
 There Saturn offered me his brightest ring 
 If only I desist; and on the earth 
 All men are crazy sure; why, only think! 
 Professors, old and learned, nothing dt) 
 But look at me — I'm sure their wives will 
 
 scold ! 
 But I have no regard for aught but thee, 
 
 ever-glorious Sun, tcio thee alone 
 
 1 turn my face. All others satisfied 
 Must be to see my back — dark as it is !" 
 Thus flattering vain Venus spoke. She kissed 
 The Sun, called him her love; when thus the 
 
 talk [wont 
 
 Commenced, she could not stop — as is the 
 Of women — till the time was come to part. 
 Then bright Sun said with sadness in his 
 
 voice: 
 •' O couldst but sooner thou return, than is 
 By time and almanac here specified. 
 It were so nice — but ah ! it cannot be ! 
 And foolish 'tis to murmur 'gainst the fates. 
 But know, thj' visit e'er will be to me 
 Most pleasant recollection of my life, [bye! 
 Now one more kiss, since part we must, good 
 They parted, — "Quite a chap," thought Venus, 
 
 "but 
 He's not aesthetic, not like Oscar Wilde ! 
 His looks are not as handsome as 1 tliougiu, 
 For many spots on his bright face I saw. 
 Not beauty-plasters, for he is ashamed 
 To show them, and the largest spot ho hid 
 When 1 came near; I saw it though ! 'Tis good 
 That many years will pass before again 
 I'll visit him." 
 
 Thus Venus said. Wliile Sun 
 When she had gone thus of fair Venus said: 
 " How vain that woman is — how talkative 
 And old! What is her beauty, 1 should ask, 
 If 1 to Mrs. Langtry her compare! 
 Vi't she tliinks she is pn-ttiest of all! 
 Woidd Venus not be dark if 1 
 Send not my rays to her? 1 make her bright! 
 And good it surely is, that not so soon 
 Her visit she'll repeat. Come, Mercury. 
 To ni(>, n\y sole attendant. Let her pass." 
 Thus endod S|)ring's report. "What tliiidu'st 
 
 thou." 
 He said to me, "that Sun and Venus thus 
 Do of each other speak? " " 'Tis just," said I, 
 " As on our earth the boys and girls oft do. 
 
 -» 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 •541 
 
 -« 
 
 ARTHUR SHELDON PEACOCK 
 
 Born: Kandolph Co., Ind., March 14, 1858. 
 Since 1875 Mr. Peacock has been successfully 
 entrasred in the profession of teaching in 
 
 Michifraii and Kansas, in wliioh latter state lie 
 
 ARTHUR SHELDON PEACOCK. 
 
 now resides at Wa-Keenej-. Since his youth 
 Mr. Peacock has occasionally written verse, 
 which has appeared from time to time in the 
 press. 
 
 ® 
 
 THE SUNFLOWER AND THE PEA. 
 Good Kansans all, of every sort. 
 
 Come join with me in song-; 
 And if we find the meter short 
 
 We cannot sing- it long. 
 We'll sing the praise of prairie plants 
 
 That grow our fields among. 
 And here relate the circumstance 
 
 And burden of our song: 
 Ould Ireland has her shamrock green 
 
 And praties fine galore, 
 Auld Scotia has her thistle keen 
 
 Aboon the Solway shore; 
 The Bay state has her brown-baked bean 
 
 In Boston by the sea — 
 But Kansas boasts her sunflower's sheen 
 
 And eke the black-eyed pea. 
 The sunflower grows so very tall 
 
 And branches out so free ; 
 That where there's nothing else at all 
 
 It seems quite like a tree. 
 
 'Twas one of these Sir Francis climbed 
 And filled his heart with pride. 
 
 As peeping o'er Sierra's crest 
 Pacific first descried. 
 
 The sunflower's good as any wood 
 
 That grows upon the plain; 
 'Tis proof to drouth or winds of south. 
 
 And seldom hurt by rain. 
 The black-eyed pea is victual good. 
 
 And here we all agree. 
 The Kansan eats no other food — 
 
 When nothing else has he. 
 Then join with me the glad refrain 
 
 And sing it full and free; 
 Without her patron flower and grain 
 
 What would this country be? 
 
 A DAY. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 When the sky-light and the twilight 
 Fade before the blushing day. 
 
 Blend together like a feather. 
 Ribs of red and brush of graj-; 
 
 These are forming wings of morning - 
 Early hours soon soar away. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Sunbeams beat w'ith noon-tide heat 
 On the fields of growing grain. 
 
 Fierce caressing, yet a blessing 
 For the vales and spreading plain. 
 
 Thus performing what the morning- 
 Promised by her ruddy train. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Clouds of j-ellow, rich and mellow 
 Float across the evening- sky. 
 
 From his cover in the clover 
 Comes the rabbit sleek and sly. 
 
 Pigeons homing in the gloaming 
 Say to all the night draws nigh. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CHIP. 
 On the treeless plains of buf 'lo grass. 
 Where the vaulting jack and coyote pass. 
 Where the tumbleweed with might and main 
 Rolls north, then south, then back again — 
 O, who can now the end descry 
 Without our aid my mates and 1 1 
 But the cactus' spine and yucca's bloom 
 May soon g-ive way to the raging boom, 
 The grazing- herd and furrowed field 
 To the Imsbandman rich harvest yield — 
 Uncertain yet the end I spy 
 Without our aid — my mates and I! 
 We'll serve you -when the hot winds blow; 
 When wintry winds hurl the drifting snow 
 We'll toast your toes or steep your tea 
 And all shall neat and cheerful be — 
 For on the plains without our aid 
 A single home has ne'er been made. 
 
 ■© 
 
©- 
 
 -« 
 
 542 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GAYLORD DAVIDSON. 
 
 Born: Havana, III., Dec. 10, 1860. 
 This journalist has won quite a reputation as 
 a poet, many of liis poems liaving- been widely 
 published in the leading- newspapers and ma- 
 
 GAYLORD DAVIDSON. 
 
 gazines. Mr. Davidson is now assisting his 
 father,the Hon. J. M. Davidson,editor and pro- 
 prietor of tlie Republican at Carthage, 111. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MOTHER IS DEAD. 
 
 Sorrow broods upon blackened wing. 
 Death has come with his cruel sting; 
 Hearts are bleeding, pleading and crushed. 
 While rooms are darlfened and voices hushed. 
 A mother sleeps, and a world of care 
 Has passed from the brow of marble there; 
 And the sweet, white lips are closed for aye. 
 Heedless, at last, to the children's cry. 
 A motherless brood, with aching hearts, 
 A new, fresh grief as each day departs; 
 NothinK remains save a deep, black pall. 
 And mocking echoes through room and hall,- 
 Echoes of eartli on a, cofTin Md, 
 Thoughls of a face forever liid. 
 Shafts of pain tliat pierce and rend, 
 Sobbing farewells to our only friend. 
 Echoes of mother's words and song, 
 Eclioes tliat come in aliurrying throng,— 
 Of kindness, and love, and ))a(i('nt ways. 
 Of watchful care througli nights and days. 
 Memory of hand with toil acquaint. 
 
 Of burdens borne with no complaint; 
 
 Echoes of prayers, and hopes, and fears, 
 
 A perfect trust througli many years; 
 
 Echoes of all that we did or said 
 
 To whiten the hair in that mother's head; 
 
 Memory of acts, in a childish mood. 
 
 That showed to her ingratitude. 
 
 Vainly we call and cr}% and weep, 
 
 We cannot awaken from that sleep 
 
 The mother who loved us and gave us birth, 
 
 Her dear form rests 'neath a swell of earth. 
 
 But night has fallen, the day is done, 
 
 And sorrow reigns on his dread, black throne. 
 
 " Mother is dead ! " is our wailing cry. 
 
 And hollow echoes go hurrying by. 
 
 Oh! who can tell of a mother's lovei? 
 
 Who can measure, save God above? 
 
 And who can tell of a mother's loss. 
 
 But those who bear that heavy cross. 
 
 LOOLY'S LULLABY. 
 
 Come to mammy, honey darling, kase yo' 
 
 want to rock', 
 Bye-o-baby, dat's a purty, whar's de honey's 
 
 frock'? 
 S'eepy, s'eepy, whar's yo' daddy? — out a 
 
 hoe'uco'n, — 
 Rock-a-pussey, yo's my baby, sweetest eber 
 
 bo'u. 
 Close dem peepers dar, yo' rascal, doan' yo' 
 
 fool aroun'. 
 Time to take de little trundle; whar's de ba- 
 by's gown? 
 Sambo's gone to hunt de 'possum ober by de 
 
 creek, 
 'Possum all de time a-nappin', berry sly an' 
 
 meek. 
 Dar yo's lafln', little nigga; boun' to keep 
 
 awake? 
 Sambo's comin', an' he's hungry,— bake a 
 
 Johnny-cake. 
 Fold-de-roldy, swing de baby, gi>t a little toof. 
 Laws-a-massy. my ole Sambo! Haint yo' 
 
 kotclied a hoof? 
 Massa's gone to sell de cotton, an' de day an; 
 
 done; 
 See dem turkeys in de treetop roostin' one by 
 
 one. 
 Hear dat daddy owl a-hooting, on de holler 
 
 tree, 
 Screeching for dc manuny owl,— wliat a fool 
 
 am he! 
 Bye-o-baby, Looly's honey, sleepin' dar so 
 
 sweet, 
 Tired was dc little chubby,— tired little feet. 
 Dream an' sleep my little Leo, safe until dc 
 
 morn, 
 God am carin'for de baby— sweetest ever l)o'n, 
 
 * 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POKTS OF A31KKI0A. 
 
 543 
 
 -^ 
 
 MRS. SARAH A. MATHEWS. 
 
 Bok.n: Mercer Co., Pa., Oct. 5, 1S44. 
 AFTER iittending- the seminary at Jamestown 
 for awhile, Sarah commenced teaching school 
 
 MRS. SARAH A. MATHEWS. 
 
 at the age of eighteen. In which occupation 
 she continued until lier marriage in 1866. 
 
 RAINDROPS. 
 Pretty little raindrops. 
 
 Falling by my door. 
 Waking up my pansies' 
 
 Bright eyes by tlie score; 
 Falling down so gently 
 
 On the drooping leaves. 
 Hear their joyous welcome — 
 
 Earth, and flowers and trees. 
 But, my little raindrop. 
 
 Why do you intrude? 
 I must close my window. 
 
 For .you're getting rude. 
 Really! now you're trying 
 
 Through each crack to squeeze ; 
 Tell me, raindrop, do you 
 
 Always as you please? 
 Madly now descending, 
 
 Putting in a plight 
 All my pretty flowers 
 
 With your puny might. 
 Now adown the gutters. 
 
 What a rush you make. 
 
 Till the meadow yondei 
 
 Looks more like a lake. 
 Listen to the roaring 
 
 Of the swollen stream; 
 Angry little raindrops. 
 
 Now you miscliief mean. 
 Plunging through the woodlands. 
 
 Washing out the trees; 
 Naughty little raindrops 
 
 Doing as you please. 
 Pushing through the mill-dam. 
 
 Taking mill and all; 
 Everything you gatlier, 
 
 Whether great or small; 
 Cattle, barns and fencing. 
 
 Trees and everything; 
 Bridges are but playthings 
 
 For the water king. 
 Crowding into cellars; 
 
 Through the streets you pour; 
 Deafening everybody 
 
 With your thundering roar. 
 Sweeping off the railroads. 
 
 Built by honest toil: 
 Thieving little raindrops. 
 
 Everything is spoil. 
 Cruel, cruel raindrops. 
 
 Care j'ou when we weep? 
 Teardrops now are dimming 
 
 Eyes that cannot sleep. 
 Many hearts are saddened 
 
 By your hasty fall; 
 Loved ones who are missing 
 
 Come not at our cull. 
 There are great disasters 
 
 Everywhere you go. 
 Tell me, wicked raindrop. 
 
 Why do you do so? 
 Ah ! I know the reason 
 
 You this work have done — 
 Out upon a frolic. 
 
 Bound to have some fun. 
 Listen to me, raindrop. 
 
 While I speak a word: 
 Liberty is precious, 
 
 I have often heard; 
 Precious, as it may be. 
 
 And splendid to be free. 
 Yet restraint, I'm thinking. 
 
 Is good for you and me. 
 
 TO A FUCHSIA BLOSSOM. 
 Poor flower, have you done something naugh- 
 ty or mean. 
 
 That you're hanging your head down so? 
 Well, then, it's commendable in you, I ween. 
 
 To put your face down so low. [you. 
 
 When I have done wrong I would rather, like 
 
 My sad looks should publish the tale, 
 Thau have my proud actions proclaim as I go 
 
 That I care not tho' evil prevail. 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 -«& 
 
 oU 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JONATHAN JANES MARVIN. 
 
 Born: Hammond, N. Y., Sept. 23, 1833. 
 In 18.39 he entered the university of Vermont 
 at Burlington; deli%'ered a poem. The Trouba- 
 dours, at the Sophomore exhibition, and grad- 
 uated in 1844 with a poem. Truth — the Life of 
 Scholars. In 184t; he was admitted to the bar 
 in Franklin county, Vermont, and left for the 
 lead mines of Wisconsin. In the fall of 1847 
 was elected county clerk of LaFayette county, 
 Wi^ciiiisiii. and aftci-wanl ilisliiri atlnriicx' 
 
 JONATHAN JANES MARVIN. 
 
 and county judge. In 1818 he was married to 
 Elizabeth J. Ware, of Galena, Illinois. In 1862 
 he volunteered in the 2.5th regiment Missouri 
 volunteers, and in 186.5 he returned from the 
 army to Falls City, Nebraska, where he was 
 elected without opposition as prosecuting at- 
 torney of Richardson county ; was postmaster 
 three years and has served for over fourteen 
 years as justice of the peace by election. Of 
 his longer poems the Origin of Water, a tem- 
 perance poem. Christian Woman's Work, 
 Eulogy on Gen. Grant. Pomona, and several 
 fourth of July and memorial poems have been 
 published. He also won tlie first prize of a 
 hundred-dollar sewing machine for a poem. 
 
 FIFTY YE.\RS TO-DAY. 
 
 Alas' hatli half a century flown 
 Since first the feeble infant's moan 
 
 Escaped my helpless frame ! 
 The happy mother fondly pressed 
 Her new-born babe unto her breast,— 
 
 The smiling, loving dame. 
 
 Alas! her bent and shattered form 
 That held a heart so pure and warm. 
 
 Long since has found repose; 
 And there the mossy gravestones tell 
 Where now the dust we loved so well. 
 
 The moldering clods enclose. 
 The joys and sorrows, smiles and tears 
 Of life, have waned their fifty years 
 
 And still I here remain. 
 While those I dearly loved of yore 
 To the distant bourne have gone before, 
 
 A link in a broken chain. 
 Ere many days this fleeting breath 
 Will hush beneath the touch of death — 
 
 This weary form repose; 
 But o'er a life of failings here, 
 May gentle mercy drop a tear 
 
 And brighter life disclose. 
 
 UP SALT RIVER. 
 
 There is a stream, 'tis said. 
 
 Traced to its fountain head. 
 
 Will make one shake and shiver; 
 
 A troublous creek to travel 
 
 Running over flint and gravel. 
 
 They call its name Salt River. 
 
 No one likes to make. 
 
 Or see a friend e'en take, 
 
 A journey up its water; 
 
 When party friends betray. 
 
 And speed us on our way. 
 
 We are apt to call it slaughter. 
 
 'Tis a sort of Botany Bay, 
 
 Where the people stow away 
 
 The men they wish to deliver 
 
 From office's turmoil 
 
 And duty's arduous toil. 
 
 By sending up Salt River. 
 
 And just about this time. 
 
 You bet your bottom dime! 
 
 Tliere are crowds of gentry going; 
 
 Though the stream is rough and shallow. 
 
 They navigate a fellow 
 
 Up with little rowing. 
 
 And no one ever yet 
 
 A ticket chanced to get. 
 
 And thanked the generous giver. 
 
 We'd rather stay at home 
 
 Than e'en for pleasure roam 
 
 The banks of old Salt River. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Let the flag of my country enshroud me, 
 I have loved it so well and so long, 
 
 I have cherished that banner so proudly. 
 As the theme of oration and song: 
 
 5(- 
 
 -* 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 .54.5 
 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 
 
 Born : Martin's Ferry, O., March 1, 1837. 
 Almost as soou as he could read, Howells be- 
 gan to make verses and put them in type in 
 his father's printing office. Later he worlied 
 as compositor on the Ohio State Journal. 
 From 1861 to 1805 he was United State consul 
 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 
 
 at Venice. In 18fl he became editor of the 
 Atlantic Monthly, Mhich he filled until 1879, 
 when he relinquished it to devote himself ex- 
 clusively to writing. Poems of Two Friends is 
 from his pen, but although an ardent lover of 
 everything poetical his time is principally oc- 
 cupied in writing prose, among which the most 
 read are No Love Lost, A Chance Acquaintance, 
 Undiscovered Country.and A Modern Instance. 
 He married in 1862, and has three children. 
 
 THE SARCASTIC FAIR. 
 Her mouth is a honey-blossom. 
 
 No doubt, as the poet sings; 
 But within her lips, the petals. 
 
 Lurks a cruel bee, that stings. 
 
 9r 
 
 A POET. 
 
 From wells where Truth in secret lay 
 He saw the midnight stars by day. 
 " O marvelous gift! " the many cried. 
 "O cruel gift! " his voice replied. 
 The stars were far, and cold, and high. 
 That glimmered in the noonday sky ; 
 He yearned toward the sun in vain. 
 That warmed the lives of other men. 
 
 CAPRICE. 
 She hung the cage at the window: 
 
 "If he goes by," she said, 
 •» He will hear my robin singing. 
 
 And when he lifts his head, 
 I shall be sitting here to sew. 
 And he Will bow to me, I know." 
 The robin sang a low-sweet song. 
 
 The young man raised his head. 
 The maiden turned away and Ijlushed: 
 
 " I am a fool ! " she said. 
 And went on broidei-ing in silk 
 
 A pmk-eycd rabbit, white as milk. 
 The young man loitered slowly 
 
 By the house three times that day; 
 She took her bird from the window: 
 
 " He need not look this way." 
 She sat at her piano long. 
 And sighed, and played a death-sad song. 
 But when the day was done, she said, 
 
 "I wish that be would come! 
 Remember, Mary, if he calls 
 
 To-night— I'm not at home." 
 So when he rang, she went — the elf ! — 
 She went and let him in herself. 
 They sang full long together 
 
 Their songs love-sweet, death sad; 
 The robin woke from his slumber. 
 
 And rang out, clear and glad. 
 "Now go! " she coldly said; " 't is late:" 
 And followed him — to latch the gate. 
 He took the rosebud from her hair, 
 
 While, " You shall not! " she said: 
 He closed her hand within his own. 
 
 And, while her tongue forbade. 
 Her will was darkened in the eclipse 
 Of blinding love upon his lips. 
 
 CONVENTION. 
 He falters on the threshold. 
 
 She lingers on the stair: 
 Can it be that was his footstep ! 
 
 Can it be that she is thei-e? 
 
 Without is tender yearning. 
 
 And tender love is within; 
 They can hear each other's heart-beats. 
 
 But a wooden door is between. 
 
 THE THORN. 
 "Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, 
 
 But this has none, I know." 
 She clasped my rival's Rose 
 
 Over her breast of snow. 
 
 I bowed to hide my pain. 
 With a man's unskilful art: 
 
 I moved my lips, and could not say 
 The Thorn was in my heart! 
 
 ® 
 
88- 
 
 546 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 Born: Beverly, Mass., in 1826. 
 As a child of seven years she wrote stories and 
 poems for her own amusement. Her father 
 died when she was ten years of age, and a few 
 years later we find Lucy working as a mill-op- 
 erative in Lowell, Mass. When twenty years of 
 age she removed to Illinois with her married 
 sister, where Lucy taught school for some 
 time, and later spent three years as a pupil in 
 Monticello female seminary. 
 
 Miss Larcom then returned to Massachusetts. 
 During the civil war she wrote many patriotic 
 songs. In 1884 appeared a complete collection 
 of her Poetical Works. 
 
 THE ROSE ENTHRONED. 
 It melts and seethes, the chaos that shall grow 
 
 To adamant beneath the house of life: 
 In hissing hatred atoms clash, and go 
 To meet intenser strife. 
 
 And ere that fever leaves the granite \eins, 
 
 Down thunders over them a torrid sea: 
 Now Flood, now Fire, alternate despot reigns. 
 Immortal foes to be. 
 
 Built by the warring elements they rise. 
 
 The massive earth-foundations, tier on tier. 
 Where slimy monsters with inhuman eyes 
 Their hideous heads uprear. 
 
 The building of the world is not for you. 
 
 That glare upon each other, and devour! 
 Race floating after race fades out of view. 
 Till beauty springs from power. 
 
 Meanwhile from crumbhng rocks and shoals of 
 death 
 Shoots up rank verdure to the hidden sun; 
 The gulfs are eddying to the vague, sweet 
 breath 
 Of richer life begun ; 
 
 Richer and sweeter far than aught before 
 
 Though rooted in the grave of what has been : 
 Unnumbered burials yet must heap Earth's 
 floor 
 Ere she her heir shall win ; 
 
 And ever nobler lives and deaths more grand. 
 
 For nourishment of that which is to come; 
 While 'mid the ruins of the work she planned 
 Sits Ntiture, blind and dumb. 
 
 For whom or what she plans, she knows no 
 more 
 Than any mother of her unborn child: 
 Yet beautiful forewarnings murmur o'er 
 
 Her desolations wild. 
 Slowly the clamor and the clash subside; 
 Earth's restlessness her patient hopes sub- 
 due: 
 
 © 
 
 Mild oceans shoreward heave a pulseless tide; 
 The skies are veined with blue. 
 
 And life works through the growing quietness. 
 
 To bring some darling mj'stery into form: 
 Beauty her fairest Possible would dress 
 In colors pure and warm. 
 
 Within the depths of palpitating seas, 
 
 A tender tint, anon a life of grace. 
 Some lovely thought from its dull atom frees. 
 The coming joys to trace :— 
 
 A penciled moss on tablets of the sand, 
 Such as shall veil the unbudded maiden- 
 blush 
 Of beauty yet to gladden the green land;— 
 A breathing, through the hush, 
 
 Of some sealed perfume longing to burst out. 
 
 And give its prisoned rapture to the air:— 
 A brooding hope, a promise through a doubt. 
 Is whispered ever j'w here. 
 
 And, every dawn a shade more clear, the skies 
 
 A flush as from the heart of heaven disclose: ! 
 Through earth and sea and air a message flies. 
 Prophetic of the Rose. 
 
 At last a morning comes, of sunshine still. 
 
 When not a dew drop trembles on the grass, 
 When all winds sleep, and evei-y pool and rill 
 Is like a burnished glass. 
 
 Where a long-looked-for guest might lean to 
 gaze; 
 When Day or Earth rests loyalty — a crown 
 Of molten glory, flashing diamond rays, 
 From heaven let lightly down. 
 
 In golden silence, breathless, all things stand; 
 What answer waits this questioning repose? 
 A sudden gush of light and odors bland. 
 And, lo,— the Rose ! the Rose ! 
 
 The birds break into canticles around 
 The winds lift Jubilate to the skies: 
 For, twin-born with the rose of Eden-ground, 
 Love blooms in human eyes. 
 
 Life's marvelous queen-flower blossoms only 
 so. 
 In dust of low ideals rooted fast: 
 Ever the Beautiful is molded slow 
 From truth in errors past. 
 
 What flery fields of Chaos must be won, 
 W'hat battling Titans rear themselves a 
 tomb, 
 What births and resurrections greet the sun 
 Before the Rose can bloom! 
 
 And of some wonder-blossom yet we di-eam 
 Whereof the time that is enfolds the seed; 
 Some flower of light, to which the Rose shall 
 seem 
 A fair and fragile weed. 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMJSKICA. 
 
 547 
 
 * 
 
 EDWARD GILLIAM. 
 
 Born: Rockingham Co., N. C, Feb. 37, 1868. 
 
 At a very early age Edward was apprenticed 
 to tlie printing' trade, and since liis sixteenth 
 year lias had a passion for poetrj'. His poems 
 have appeared in the leiidiiiu- Nortli Carolina 
 
 EDWARD GILLIAM. 
 
 publications, and have received liigh com- 
 mendation. Mr. Gilliam first published Belles- 
 Letters, a monthly literary periodical, and 
 later established the Weekly Review of Reids- 
 ville. North Carolina, of which he is now the 
 editor and part proprietor. 
 
 m 
 
 THE CRY OF THE AGNOSTIC. 
 "Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief!" 
 And let me learn the lesson thou wouldst 
 
 teach. 
 Nor strive in vain beyond my wisdom's 
 reach 
 For thy great truths. O, Lord giveth me relief. 
 From craven tears which haunt a life so 
 brief. 
 And as my soul sinks while the casuists 
 
 preach 
 Incredulous I call from out the breach, 
 " Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief!" 
 I am half skeptic — still a slave to doubt when 
 I would know thee ere my lips can part. 
 
 I question with a faith still uudevout, 
 
 This is the full confession of my heart, 
 And thus I cry who am of sinners chief, 
 " Lord, believe, help thou mine unbelief!" 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 Phoebe, thy rapt, patrician beauty seems 
 A type of that surpassing womanhood 
 Which in the days of earlier Hellas would 
 
 l^elight men's hearts and give the poet 
 themes; 
 
 Divinely tall, high bosomed front which 
 gleams 
 Like two pale stars. In thy unstudied mood. 
 Transfigured in the shadow of the wood, 
 
 1 see thee now, as one who dimly dreams. 
 
 Thou hast the self-same classic form and air. 
 Broad petaled lips, just opening in sur- 
 prise. 
 Abundant wealth of hyacinthine hair 
 And like a glimpse of burning, turquoise 
 skies. 
 Thine eyes, brimful of passionate despair. 
 Still haunt me through this mad world's des- 
 tinies. 
 
 THE HAUNTED CASTLE. 
 
 Upon its plinths the time-worn arabesque 
 Peeps through gray lichens. By tlie rifted 
 
 wall. 
 The jasmines nod and snake-like ivies 
 crawl. 
 
 Around the arcades, dimly picturesque. 
 Are old mosaics, grim, but j'et grotesque. 
 
 The watch-tower stands, while through the 
 vacant hall 
 
 The wind sings and defiance shouts at all. 
 
 The colonnades cast in a quaint burlesque 
 Their mimic shades upon the settled gloom. 
 Which fall, half tumbling in their vain at- 
 tempt. 
 
 No bird does woo the castle from its doom. 
 Where in the vines, dismal and unkempt, 
 Decayed, deserted, preyed upon by fate. 
 Deep-noted death reigns weird and desolate. 
 
 TWO OPINIONS. 
 In your eyes are a mischievous twinkle. 
 
 As you say, with the air of a sage, 
 " On her face there is surely a wrinkle. 
 
 Which betrays the arrival of age." 
 
 But I think you decidedly simple. 
 
 Or in envy you murder the truth. 
 For it is but a beautiful dimple. 
 
 Which reveals the abiding of youth. 
 
 -m 
 
® 
 
 548 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -« •! 
 
 DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 
 
 Born: Portland, Me., July 14, 1810. 
 Since his youth Mr. Colesworthy has been 
 more or less ideutifled with the publishing- 
 business. In 1830 he published Youth's Paper, 
 and five years later started tlie Portland Tri- 
 bune. He has written and published about 
 thirty volumes on a variety of sulgeeis. The 
 
 ®- 
 
 DANIEL CLE.MENT COLESWORTHY. 
 
 poems of Mr. Colesworthy are always full of 
 tenderness and overflowing- with simplicity 
 and grace. For lialf a century he has been 
 engaged in the book business — twelve years 
 in Portland; the remainder in the city of Bos- 
 ton, where he still resides devoting- his time 
 almost entirely to mercantile pursuits. 
 
 GIVE A TRIFLE. 
 It is a trifle; give a mill 
 
 To help the poor along; 
 'Tis not ihe amo\int, it is the will 
 
 That makes the virtue strong. 
 " I have but little," never say, 
 
 "'Twill not avail to g-ive;" 
 A penny, if you give to-day 
 
 Will make the dying- live. 
 It is the spirit, not the gold 
 
 Upon the waters cast. 
 That will return a hundred fold, 
 
 To cheer and bless iit last. 
 Then give a trifle cheerfully 
 
 Out of thy little store; 
 With interest it will come to thee 
 When thou wilt need it more. 
 
 FAULTS OF OTHERS. 
 
 What are another's faults to me? 
 
 I've not a vulture's will 
 To pick at every flaw I see, 
 
 And make it wider still. 
 14; is enougli for me to know 
 
 I've follies of my own. 
 And on my heart the care bestow 
 
 And let my friends alone. 
 
 WHEN I WOULD DIE. 
 I would die when the day 
 
 Lingers bright in the west; 
 When the bird hies away 
 
 To his soft, downy nest; 
 When the hum of the bee 
 
 Is not heard on the lilU, 
 ■ And the woodland and lea 
 
 And the hamlet are still. 
 When the sad, weary heart 
 
 Can no longer abide; 
 O, how sweet to depart 
 
 At the still eventide I— 
 When the sun's parting rays 
 
 Flash glory and bliss. 
 And the heart is all praise !— 
 
 Be my death like to this. 
 
 MATTER AND MIND. 
 I built a city, wide and vast. 
 
 Whose lofty domes and spires 
 For many a league their shadows cast. 
 
 And flashed like lightning flres. 
 Its walls, mag-niflcentlj' grand, 
 
 Like solid mountains stood. 
 And might for countless ages stand. 
 
 Defying- frost and flood. 
 I wrote some verses mild and sweet. 
 
 As simple as could be. 
 Which every mother could rei)eat 
 
 To lisping infancy. 
 Tliey soothed the weary in their tt)ils. 
 
 And shafts of sunshine threw, 
 Whicli melted to delicious smiles. 
 
 And blessed like evening dew. 
 The city crumbled, stone by stone. 
 
 Ground by tlie tooth of Time; 
 Gone — mitred head and sceptered theme, 
 
 Once glorious and sublime. 
 Tlie verses live, and day by day, 
 
 Oneartli — in worlds beyond 
 To truth, taught in this simple lay 
 
 Ten thousand hearts respond. 
 Mountains upheave and systems fall. 
 
 But truth, in language dressed. 
 Gentle and sweet survives them all. 
 
 On deathless minds impressed. 
 
©■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 549 
 
 ^ 
 
 ALBERT ELISHA JONES. 
 
 Born: Weld, Me., Aug. 16, 184;J. 
 Working on a farm until the age of twentj' 
 three, he next started in tlie mercantile bus- 
 iness at Strong- in his native state. In 1873 he 
 removed to Farming-ton, and four-years later 
 left fur TiiiM'ka, K;ins:is, whci'i- he is now the 
 
 te- 
 
 ALBERT ELISHA J< i M v 
 
 proprietor of the Oakland Jersey Stock Farm. 
 Mr. Jones was correspondent of the Farming- 
 ton Chronicle in 1876, and after settling in 
 Kansas he lias occasionally -written sketches 
 for that and other papers. Since 1883 he has 
 ■written poetry more or less in leisure hours. 
 
 THE DEVILS ELBOW. 
 
 Tell me in truth, by word or Ime. 
 
 The simple tale as heard of yore. 
 
 Legend, tradition, or record give 
 
 And end this query forevermore. 
 
 Dill Lucifer come sailing down. 
 
 In a sulphurous skiff of Are, 
 
 Or did old Pierpole take revenge 
 
 And manufacture the name entire? 
 
 Perhaps as Satan passed that way 
 
 On a tour to visit friends. 
 
 His craft was stranded on the shore 
 
 Where now the elbow bends. 
 
 Go hunt the cliffs, perchance you'll find 
 
 Of cloven hoof and tail a trace. 
 
 And stones, and earth whereon he sat. 
 
 Might give a clue to his hiding place. 
 
 Fear not, good folk, so near approacli 
 In your midst, this serpent sly. 
 You always said he would not stay. 
 Where men are just and will not lie. 
 
 AN AUTUMN SUNSET. 
 We see far off 'round tlie smoky hills, 
 
 On this radiant autumn day. 
 Where mi.sty swells of the battlement clouds, 
 
 Show grouping- of colors, in Nature's own 
 way. 
 We wonder and think, as the crimson haze 
 
 Creeps over the drowsy land, [air. 
 
 How an artist could grasp from fathomless 
 
 And trace on canvas the master hand. 
 The blending of shades as evening comes on. 
 
 Has never been equaled by art. [make. 
 
 Who are the painters, such pigments can 
 
 As is shown in each delicate part? 
 Still to admire the ambition of man. 
 
 Who aims to draw beautiful lines. 
 And give to the scene those wonderful tints. 
 
 That charm when the daylight declines. 
 
 DARKNESS WAS UPON THE DEEP. 
 
 Before our sun had learned his course. 
 
 Before the moon in its orbit shone. 
 Fierce darkness crept upon the waste. 
 
 Chaos reigned supreme and alone. 
 What mighty throes convulsed that void, 
 
 ■What throbbing- mountains rose and fell, 
 And oceans lashed by sunless waves. 
 
 No living types therein did dwell. 
 
 No cipher traced on plastic stone. 
 
 No crumbling bones to mark the age; 
 Hushed in deep and awful gloom. 
 
 Thy history sealed from saint or sage. 
 No g-lorious morning woke the earth. 
 
 No rainbow the heaven spanned; 
 Our blackest midnight would be light 
 
 To the shadowy pall that bound the land. 
 A spirit moved upon the deep, 
 
 A new-born light swept back the veil, 
 'Twas good, the waters from land divide. 
 
 In the midst a firmament did ever avail. 
 What need of life, of sun, or light; 
 
 What need of man to till the soil; 
 A voice rang out in earthquake tones. 
 
 Thorns mark thy path and damp thy brow 
 with toil. 
 Ill trouble rule all beasts and birds. 
 
 In sorrow eat and labor still, 
 Transgression holds to strict account 
 
 A flaming sword to keep his will. 
 Fulfill our mission then on earth, 
 
 Fulfill the graven laws on stone; 
 Be hushed for Sinai frowns above. 
 
 And man, for his deeds, must soon atone. 
 
 ■© 
 
®^ 
 
 550 
 
 ® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FRED ERNEST ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Cato, Wis., Feb. 23, 1865. 
 The poems of Mr. Robinson have qiiito often 
 
 appeai'fil in tin' Incal pn---. Hi- iv iMiii-.-i'jcMi in 
 
 FRED ERNEST ROBINSON. 
 
 the profession of school teaching- at Alexan- 
 dria, Minnesota. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 'Twas during the Grand Army encampment. 
 
 When the town was full of fun. 
 When I returned to my home one morning. 
 
 Long after the clock struck one. 
 E'er long I was deeply sleeping. 
 
 Where oft before I had lain. 
 And soon wild fancies came sweeping 
 
 Through my excited brain. 
 I dreamed I was on the ocean. 
 
 Driven by a terrible storm. 
 On the face of every poor sailor 
 
 Was the look of wildest alarm. 
 I heard the loud voice of the captain, 
 
 Tn a lull of the fearful blast. 
 Shout forth witli strong voice his orders. 
 
 As the ci'ew all stood aghast, 
 «'My men bo quick, let down the boats. 
 
 And helmsman, tilt the bows. 
 We soon will strike the breakers. 
 
 So all your courage rouse." 
 The storm increased; tlie lightning flashed; 
 
 I heard tlie thunder roar; 
 I heard the wails of the fated ones 
 Who would see their friends no more. 
 
 The crackling of the ship on flre 
 
 Soon struck upon my ear; 
 I heard the song of the Angel of Death 
 
 And my heart was filled with fear. 
 I felt a shock — the ship had struck. 
 
 The waves against it broke; 
 I was hurled from the deck to the surging 
 deep. 
 
 And with the splash I awoke. 
 
 The voice I'd heard was my father's voice, 
 
 Calling with lungs so strong. 
 To rouse me from my slumbers soft, 
 
 As I had lain too long. 
 " Up quick, and then put on your boots. 
 
 And help them milk the cows. 
 E'er noon j-ou'll like some breakfast. 
 
 So from your slumbers rouse." 
 The fancied lightning was the sun 
 
 Glancing through tlie trees, 
 And what I thought was thunder loud 
 
 Was humming of the bees. 
 Tlie fearful wails that I had heard 
 
 Of those poor wretches dying. 
 Was nothing more or less than that 
 
 Of my little sister crying. 
 The " flre " was crackling on the hearth; 
 
 The song which 1 had heard. 
 Sung as a dirge by the Angel of Death, 
 
 Was that of an innocent bird. 
 Tliat dreadful shock— I hide my face. 
 
 How badly I was sold ! 
 My brother had jerked me from my bed 
 
 Into a tub of water cold. 
 
 ®- 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Merry Christmas has come and gone, 
 Christmas fair, with its laugh and song. 
 Old Santa Claus has gone around. 
 And childish hearts with rapture bound; 
 The Ciiristmas trees shone in the hall. 
 With Christmas gifts for large and small; 
 Many Christmas songs they sang— 
 The hall, with Christmas music, rang. 
 
 Many came to the Christmas tree. 
 While others chose the dancing glee; 
 A few young men each with his •• paid," 
 Went to a Ciiristmas ball at Villard. 
 Tlie sleigh bells rang with Christmas chime. 
 The eve was fair — the weather flue; 
 All thoughts of care were thrown aside 
 As the party o'er the snow did glide. 
 
 Soon gentle siiowfliikes filled tiio air, 
 I'ntil you could scarcely see them there. 
 They would have fared worse, we greatly fear, 
 But tlie rest of the party hovered near. 
 And two young men soon fixed them right, 
 And on they sped with all their might. ^ 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 5.51 
 
 -© 
 
 BESSIE PORTER. 
 
 Born: Ireland, May 9, 1865. 
 This lady is now a resident of Currie, Minn., 
 where she is engaged in the profession of 
 
 BESSIE POli'l I i; 
 
 school teaching-. Miss Bessie Porter received 
 a good education in her youth. She has but 
 recently commenced to court tlie muse. 
 
 © 
 
 FORGET THEE NOT. 
 Once my life was full of pain. 
 Now, I possess life's richest gain,— 
 A heart so strong-, so fond and pure. 
 That, well I know my love's secure. 
 No limpid lake, nor lucid stream. 
 Can enter into love's young- dream: 
 A dream so sweet for me, I know 
 Of naught that can my dream o'erthrow. 
 A love so fond that none can tell. 
 Oh! how I love thee, none so well, 
 ril follow thee whate'er thy lot; 
 Forget thee not; forget thee not. 
 From mansion brig-lit to humble cot; 
 Forget thee not; forget tliee not. 
 When tempests strong o'ertake thy bark. 
 Thy liarbor still find in my heart; 
 When waves doth toss, and seethe and swell. 
 And seem to sound thy dirge and knell, 
 ihe hoary foam, and angry spray 
 Seem anxious, love, to end thy day,- 
 Then steer my yacht straight to my heart, 
 
 And never from its refuge part. 
 Secure thou'lt be from all thy foes; 
 I'll pour sweet balm upon thy woes; 
 I'll soothe thee, heal thee, cheer thy lot; 
 Forget thee not; forget thee not. 
 Love thee as long as life I've got; 
 Forget thee not; forget thee not. 
 
 BENEATH THE SNOW. 
 Can'st tell me where doth the blue-bell hide. 
 
 The primrose sweet, and fox-glove tall. 
 The lily-of-the-valley's pride? 
 
 I miss; oh! yes, I miss them all: 
 The waving fern so stately fair, 
 
 Found where wood anemonies blow; 
 Sweet mignonette and maiden hair. 
 
 " They're gone to sleep beneath the snow." 
 Can'st tell me where the rose doth bloom. 
 
 The dainty rose with queenly grace? 
 Shall I only find its tomb 
 
 Where once it bloomed in the garden place? 
 The lilac sweet, and cowslip bell. 
 
 The pansiesin their bed so low? 
 If you know, stranger, tell, oh ! tell. 
 
 "They're gone to sleep beneath the snow." 
 Will they wake when gentle spring 
 
 Sends her zephyrs 'cross the plain 
 To warm and welcome everything? 
 
 Shall I see their heads again? 
 Must I calmly watch and wait 
 
 Anxiouslj% as you well know 
 For the balmy southern breeze 
 
 To wake my friends from 'neath the snow? 
 
 FOR YOU! FOR YOU! 
 Last night the nightingale woke me, 
 
 Last night when all was still. 
 It sang in the golden moonliglit 
 
 From out the woodland hill. 
 I opened my window so gently— 
 
 I looked on the dew, and, oh ! 
 The bird, my darling, was singing, 
 
 Was singing of you, of you. 
 I think of you in the daytime, 
 
 I di-eam of you by night, 
 I woke and would you were here, love, 
 
 And tears are blinding my sight. 
 I hear a low breath in the lime-tree. 
 
 The wind is floating thro' 
 The night, my darling, is sighing 
 
 Is sighing for you, for you. 
 Oh! think not, I can forget j-ou — 
 
 I could not, tho' I would ; 
 I see you in all around me. 
 
 The stream, the night, the wood. 
 The flowers that slumber so sweetly. 
 
 The stars above the blue. 
 The heaven itself, my darling. 
 
 Is praying, is praying for you. 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 ■® il 
 
 552 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MAY L. BUCKNER. 
 
 Born: Columbus, Wis., Feb. 23, 1862. 
 Under the nom de plume of Dolores the 
 
 poems of this lady liave appeared in Godey's 
 
 JIKS. MAY I>. BUCKNER. 
 
 Lady's Book, Arthur's Magazine and otlier 
 prominent journals. She was married in 1884 
 to Van W. Buckner, with whom she now re- 
 sides in Lemoore, California. 
 
 tulXre lake. 
 
 A wide expanse of waters spread, 
 
 Within the desert's palm — 
 Silvery waters lying- still. 
 
 Naught to disturb their calm. 
 On the low hanks the tulles bend, 
 
 And kiss the water's brink,— 
 From it many a traveler 
 
 Has quaffed a cooling drink. 
 And far away the mountains seem. 
 
 Wrapped in a purple veil. 
 And oft the flsherman we see 
 
 By tlie sunliglit on his sail. 
 A mighty lake — mysterious. 
 
 Tt sleeps upon the plain,— 
 Not ours to know its destiny, — 
 
 We searcli its shores in vain. 
 What curious records it c<Mild tell, 
 
 Of many bygone years! — 
 M'hat histories and tragedies. 
 
 Of mortals' hopes and fears. 
 
 ®- 
 
 Of days when hordes of cattle. 
 
 Of Ijands of the wild horse. 
 Up and down the desert. 
 
 Pursued their waywai'd course. 
 Of bauds of fiercer l^andits 
 
 Who lingered at its side. 
 And chattered as they rested. 
 
 Of their dangerous, weary ride. 
 What it could tell, we know not — 
 
 It keeps its secrets well. 
 And shrinks away as if it thus 
 
 Man's questionings would repell. 
 Fair lake, we leave thee with regret. 
 
 Fair, smiling, and serene, — 
 A sleeping beauty still enwrapped 
 
 In love's entrancing dream. 
 
 MY BOYS. 
 He lies in his cradle asleep. 
 
 My baby, my boy! 
 His soft cheek caressingly laid 
 
 On plaything and toy! 
 His tiny mouth kissed by a smile. 
 
 Dimpled hands on his breast. 
 His dancing eyes hidden add still — 
 
 My baby at rest. 
 He lies in his coffin asleep. 
 
 My baby, my boy ! 
 The baby who never can know 
 
 Earth's sorrow or joy. 
 With waxen hands folded and still 
 
 On tiny, still breast.— 
 He lies in his coffin asleep. 
 
 My baby at rest. 
 He lies in his cradle asleep. 
 
 My frolicsome one, — 
 Forgotten his romps and his play. 
 
 His glee and his fun. 
 Dreaming, we know not what. 
 
 While we, standing near, 
 Hope that life's pathway may be 
 
 Bright for the baby dear. 
 He lies in his coffin asleep. 
 
 Our dear, silent one! 
 His wee life too brief to contain 
 
 Sorrow or fun; 
 The willow bends low over liim, 
 
 Our bal)y at rest ! 
 Wliile we know, e'en thro' blinding tears, 
 
 That his fate is best. 
 Our baby asleep in his crib. 
 
 Awakens to life — 
 Life made of sorrow and joy. 
 
 Of peace and of strife — 
 
 Our baby asleep in his grave. 
 
 Has done with tliis life — 
 He wakens to Christ and His love,— 
 
 All peace and no strife. 
 
© 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 553 
 
 ANN IE STEWART ETHRIDGE 
 
 Boiix : RUTLEDGE, Ga., Oct. 14, 1868. 
 The poem Bereaved wiis written iu 1887 ou 
 the deatli of the mother of Miss Ethridge. The 
 
 nniMiis of this lady Imve aiipi'iin'd in the loral 
 
 ANNIE STEWAliT ETnlUDOE. 
 
 press from time to time ; slie is now engagred 
 in writing a novel. Miss Ethridge is now a 
 resident of Birmingliam, Alabama. 
 
 BEREAVED. 
 
 Without a home: oil bitter fate! 
 
 Oh hopeless, loveless destiny. 
 To sit a stranger in thy gate. 
 
 With but a stranger's cheer for me. 
 A stranger at a stranger's hearth ; 
 
 Strange children prattling at my side; 
 Sweet faces — but they call to eartli 
 
 Old hopes and joys that long liave died. 
 And yet, thou'rt full of gentle deeds 
 
 To me, and kind words lack I none; 
 But oh thou canst not know the needs 
 
 Of hearts that hunger for their own ! [aught 
 And think not, friend, thou'st grieved me 
 
 If sometimes in the fire-light's glow, 
 I silent sit and mingle not 
 
 In merry laugh and jest. Ah no! 
 My thought is not of thee unkind; 
 
 1 dwell on day forever past: 
 The love that in thy home I find 
 
 But makes me crave for that I've lost. 
 Ye kindly scold my tear-dimmed eyes. 
 
 And chide my songs because they grieve; 
 Yet how can songs of joy arise 
 
 From hearts of all their joy bereaved? 
 ® 
 
 1 loved onee in my hap|>y day, 
 
 .\nd she I loved as injreness pure. 
 And fairer than all my songs can say, 
 
 Than all my songs can tell, was truer; 
 But once I lost her. Oil ! and call 
 
 You yet for smiles, when joy hath fled, 
 And hope with her — oh, friend my all! 
 
 And lie with her adead, adeadl' 
 
 And can you speak of life's large bound, 
 
 When all my life is compassed well 
 Twixt four low walls of hollowed ground, 
 
 With roof of turf and asphodel":? 
 Wlieu, on a mound that once I made. 
 
 My all-time tlioughts but linger o'er; 
 And when my starving heart will feed 
 
 But on its mate that lies below? 
 
 Our two lives were but halves of one: 
 
 E'en yet, as earth — half night, half day - 
 Her brighter half turns to the Sun, 
 
 While mine goes on night's darkling way. 
 And still, oh friend ! dost chide my tears? 
 
 Dost bid my famished soul to live 
 On but the stones that friendship bears. 
 
 When bread of love thou canst not give? 
 Ah! no. I can but grieve: my eyes 
 
 Must ever melt in sorrow's stream. 
 My nights be voiced with bitter cries. 
 
 And all my life a requiem. 
 Aye friend, my songs must eacb one be 
 
 But cravings for her vanished face; 
 Each year I live, but one long plea 
 
 To rest me in her dear embrace. 
 But oh how drear the twixt-time years, 
 
 To spend intruding each fireside; 
 A loveless waif whose simple tears. 
 
 But do recall the rain outside. 
 What! has my chiding given pain! 
 
 Forgive, kind friend, I meant not so, 
 I did but crave those joys again 
 
 That lie entombed in Nevermore! 
 
 DAY BY DAY^ 
 
 Wliy every morn, a vain endeavor 
 
 To out-rise my jjoor self; and ever. 
 
 At night, to find me still back-drawn 
 
 Unto old depths — no new heights known,' 
 
 No memorj- of a kindlier deed 
 
 Than yesterday's, to give its meed 
 
 Of pitiful cheer to my worn soul; 
 
 That dreads the hours when constant roll 
 
 My tears like rivers,twi.\t niglit's black banks. 
 
 Ofttimes to-day, deep in regret 
 
 O'er yesterday's downfalls — and yet. 
 
 My tears do naught but blind my eyes. 
 
 So that I fall again, to rise 
 
 With yet more tears, then stumble on 
 
 Aweeping: Or to gaze upon 
 
 My bruised hands and feet, and cry, 
 
 "Wliy am I Father? But to die 
 
 A death with every vesper? " 
 
 -® 
 
ti 
 
 8&- 
 
 — ^ 
 
 654 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES BRAINERD MORGAN. 
 
 Born: Berkeley Co., W. Va. 
 In boyhood James began writing poems, and 
 has ever since been an occasional contribu- 
 tor to numerous magazines and periodicals 
 published in different parts of the country. In 
 1870 he founded The Times of Gerrardstown, 
 
 ®- 
 
 JAMES BRAINERD MORGAN. 
 
 and still remains its editor and publisher. 
 For the past eight years Mr. Morgan has been 
 grand secretary of the Independent Order of 
 Good Templars, and was the editor of its of- 
 ficial organ during its existence. Mr. Morgan 
 was married in 1867 to Miss Maggie Gold, 
 daughter of the late Washington Gold. 
 
 THE SUNNY DAY. 
 The day is warm and briglit and cheery. 
 It shines and the sun is never dreary. 
 The roses bloom when the sunbeams fall 
 Giving sweet light and fragrance to all. 
 And the day is bright and cheery. 
 My life is warm and bright and cheery, 
 Itsliines and the sun is never dreary. 
 My thoughts recall glad scenes of the past. 
 Around t.lie future fair hopes are cast, 
 And tlie day is bright and cheery. 
 Be glad my heart and still be singing. 
 Rejoice in all that time is bringing. 
 Though care and sorrow come to all. 
 Into each life rich blessings fall. 
 And the days are bright and clieery. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 Dear sister mine a wreath I'd twine 
 Of Poesy's fair flowers for thee; 
 For love as pure as thine I'm sure 
 Such tribute well may claim from me. 
 I hope 'twill prove that tho' I rove 
 Far from my boyhood's distant home. 
 That oft sweet thought with pleasure fraught. 
 Of thee doth to my bosom come. 
 When in sad death a mother's breath. 
 One Summer-day grew chill for e'er; 
 Thou then didst take for her dear sake 
 A little child in love to rear; 
 Full well hast thou fulfilled the vow 
 Unto that dying mother given. 
 And oft has she since then on thee 
 Approving smiled, methinks from Heaven. 
 With earnest love, like hers above. 
 Her wishes thou didst e'er fulfill. 
 With watchful care that Child to rear 
 To love the good and shun the ill; 
 And here to-day, though far away. 
 He in this little song I sing. 
 With fond delight a tribute slight 
 Of gratitude to thee would bring. 
 Thy footsteps now have passed the brow 
 Of life's hill, and thence tend down 
 Unto the tide that doth divide 
 The Christian's trials and his crown; 
 As years increase may joy and peace 
 E'er unto thee be multiplied; 
 Life's sweetest flowers wreathe all thy hours. 
 And blessings fall on every side. 
 Oh ! when at last we shall have passed 
 Across Death's dark and chilly river. 
 Then may we rest amid the blest. 
 Out in the unseen great forever. 
 When ne'er again come grief and pain, 
 But all is endless joy and love. 
 In the abode of Christ our God, 
 And angels bright and saints above. 
 
 A SUNSET LESSON. 
 'Mid cloudy curtains of the west. 
 At close of day though sets the sun, 
 Gilding unto his couch of rest, 
 Glad that his daily cour.se is run; 
 In brighter light he will appear 
 E'er as the morning drawelh near, 
 Glowing Hope's bright sun may set, 
 ort 'mid the slindes ol sorrow's night; 
 Look upward still for day shall yet 
 Dawn far more beautiful and briglit. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 ■ The gold-dust of tire opening day 
 Is strewn along the eastern sky : 
 Bright rosy beams of glowing liulii 
 Over the earth in beauty flj'. 
 
 -« 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilOA. 
 
 -►5 
 
 ooo 
 
 JACOB W. GREE"tsE. 
 
 Born: Hakhison Co., Ixd., Jan. 18, 1839. 
 Since 1861 Dr. Greene 1ms been following the 
 profession of a dental surgeon, and is now 
 located at Cliilllcothe, Mo. He was married 
 In 1863 to Miss Annie Eliza Pitt, of New AI- 
 
 i 
 
 I' 
 
 PI 
 
 k 
 
 1 
 
 
 f ^USSh. 
 
 ^- 
 
 W^ 
 
 \^ 
 
 
 
 JACOB W. GREENE. 
 
 bany, Ind. Dr. Greene lias written quite ex- 
 tensively for tlie periodical press; and in ad- 
 dition to his poems he has furnished prose 
 writings on dental and other subjects. He 
 has a work. Philosophies of Betsy Spoon, 
 which he hopes to publish at au early date. 
 
 « 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 What e'er be our portion in life, or its where. 
 We realize ever the golden bright truth. 
 That the points of the compass all radiate 
 
 there. 
 And center again at the home of our youth. 
 And whether in mansion or hovel we dwelt. 
 Companions' sweet faces and voices we found. 
 Whose presence, like sunshine of summer, we 
 
 felt. 
 Brought halos of briglitness and pleasures 
 
 around. 
 
 'Twas there gorgeous sunsets, with glamour 
 afar. 
 
 Lit up the round heavens to the zenith above. 
 
 And through the soft azure one bright even- 
 ing star [love. 
 
 Beamed first in its beauty and twinkles of 
 
 That star of the evening, still twinkling, re- 
 minds 
 
 Of the liills and the valleys and playmates so 
 fair; 
 
 But one, of all others, like Venus, outshines 
 
 In memory's sweetness, tlie rest that were 
 there. 
 
 Dear Orree La Faivrie, were yet he on earth. 
 Would prize much thistribute (excuse andde- 
 
 fend 
 Its weakness of genius and beauty and 
 
 worth)— 
 Because it was written by the liand of His 
 
 Friend. 
 
 HOPE TO THE RESCUE. 
 Oh! tell me not this flitting life is all — 
 Is all there is in store for me ; 
 'Twere better, indeed, I'd never lived at all 
 Than now that I should cease to be. 
 Away down deep beyond the ken of man. 
 In Nature's bosom hidden lies a plan 
 That finite minds can never scan; 
 Yet a kindly whisper of a low, sweet voice 
 Bids my consciousness within rejoice. 
 That nevertheless there is the decree 
 That I shall never cease to be. 
 The troubling where, the how, and the why 
 Are details the Goddess of Hope passes by. 
 As Supreme over reason she takes control. 
 And proclaims the immortality of the soul. 
 Yea: when the absurd creeds of men are 
 
 rotten. 
 And materialistic philosophies forgotten; 
 When agnosticism is a hoary sage 
 And rules over a knowledge-lacking age: 
 Still, then will Hope to the rescue arise 
 And claim the part that never dies. 
 
 THE INDIAN FAIR. 
 
 The scene: In early Southern Hoosierdom, 
 Where 'possums, 'coons and hoop-poles grow. 
 Amongst the clear Ohio's bluffs and glades, 
 Wliere poets never were known to go. 
 But why these musers always kept awaj- 
 Is difflcult to understand; 
 For, ever, witches, fairies, ghosts — and 
 
 spooks — 
 Stood waiting 'round on every hand. 
 'Twixt knobs and hills and mossy, rocky 
 
 cliffs. 
 Where panthers howled and hoo-owls hoo-ed, 
 A weirdly strange, but lovely vallej', hid. 
 Where fairy lads and lasses wooed ; 
 Wliere numerous Indian graves and dead 
 
 men's bones. 
 And arrow-flints, and quaint old mounds. 
 Were proof that there where fairies often 
 
 danced 
 Had once been known as battle grounds. 
 
 ^ 
 
©- 
 
 556 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DR.BEN JAMIN G. INMAN. 
 
 Born : Pleasant Hill, Ohio, Aug. 11, 1836. 
 Studying medicine in early youth Mr. Inman 
 graduated iu 1859. Since tliat time he has 
 been busily engaged in the practice of his 
 
 DR. BENJAMIN G. INMAN. 
 
 profession. His poems have received exten- 
 sive publication in the local press. In person 
 Dr. Inman is of large stature. 
 
 THE PATH OF LOVE. 
 
 Love's enchanted chain binds the soul. 
 
 Like Prometheus to the captive rock. 
 
 Yet free from pain and mortal woe, 
 
 And feeds on food that angels know. 
 
 In that dream-land of eternal bliss. 
 
 'Tis this that prompts the mother with her 
 
 babe. 
 In the silent churchyard to be peacefully laid. 
 There to rest from the busy cares and si life. 
 And awaken in the sweetness of a better life 
 Wliere love reigns one eternal golden day. 
 The same will bind the father and the son, 
 When life's ))ilgriniage is closely run. 
 With :inxious liope and longing eye 
 They look back and vainly sigh. 
 For moi'e of love's enchanted days. 
 So it be in all the walks of human life. 
 Love dispels the mists of hatred and of sti'ife. 
 It feeds the soul and warms tlu! lieart. 
 Turns from darkness to the golden light. 
 And bathes in the ocean of eternal bliss. 
 
 The sunlit hills of peace divine. 
 In constant charge of father Time, 
 Will melt the icebergs of hate and wrath. 
 And furnish a new and better path. 
 The path of joy, of peace, and love. 
 
 HOPES OF LIFE. 
 
 Alas! for the poor wayfaring man, 
 How he sighs as he thinks of the distant be- 
 yond; 
 But little to comfort, but little to cheer him. 
 As he views the empty, and viewless beyond. 
 Ah ! the vague thoughts of a future to all, 
 'Tis a mystery enshrouded in ogres and gloom ; 
 We know of the past, the present is ours. 
 The future to all is in doubt and in gloom. 
 We speak of the realms of the blessed. 
 The home of the soul, of the joys on high: 
 But who can descry witli an infinite eye, 
 Or know what is in the distant beyond. 
 Do we know beyond doubt of a soul, 
 That has crossed the dark waters of time. 
 That is living to tell us of whither we go 
 When we cross the dark waters of time. 
 Is it right to cherish the fond hope 
 Of a life in the happy and distant beyond? 
 A place where the weary can peacefully rest. 
 And hide from life's tempests and storms. 
 Verily ! verily ! 'tis right to hope on 
 For what can we be without hope in this life? 
 It prompts us to act,to move forward in works. 
 Makes life to us blessed, and saves us from 
 
 harm. 
 Then who would stay the fond hopes. 
 Of the life-giving virtues of a life that is now. 
 The good that we hope for, may it come to us 
 
 soon, 
 Perchance we may miss it, in tlie liappy be- 
 yond. 
 'Tis a hope that our fathers have all enter- 
 tained, 
 They believed it, they taught it, as verily 
 
 true; 
 The hope that they had was stronger than 
 
 death. 
 Let have been whatever it was, false or true. 
 
 PULLING THE TOOTH. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 1 iiave been racked with the painsof nour 
 
 gia. 
 With all kinds of torments, and of fear. 
 But the worst to be dreaded of Earth 
 Is pulling the tooth you've carried for yea 
 Sun, moon and stars may grow dim. 
 The earth with his charms grow cold; 
 Friends may forsake us but we'll never forj 
 Pulling the tooth we've carried for years. 
 
 m- 
 
 ■g( 
 
& 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. MARY FELTOX. 
 
 Born: Cedar Falls, Iowa, Nov. 21, 1853. 
 At eig-hteen years of age this lady comnieuced 
 to teach. From early cliildliood she was very 
 fond of verse. In 1877 she was married to 
 
 MRS. MARY FELTON. 
 
 Frederic C. Felton, with whom she now resides 
 at Belmoud, Iowa. The poems of Mrs. Felton 
 have appeared in Good Houselseeping-, New 
 York Ledger, Peterson's Magazine and vari- 
 ous other publications. 
 
 1*- 
 
 THE DYING YEAR. 
 I lean from my chamber window 
 
 And gaze on the world below. 
 A world that lies cold and silent, 
 
 'Neath a sheet of drifted snow. 
 My trusty clock on the mantel 
 
 Will soon chime the midnight hour; 
 The knell of the dying Old Year, 
 
 The end of his reign and power. 
 But I love the dying Old Year, 
 
 Though the New one looks so gay, 
 He brought me sorrows, but truly 
 
 Not more than the New Year may. 
 So while I may greet the New one 
 
 With a welcome kind and true. 
 My heart lies half with the Old Year, 
 
 To me, as dear as the New. 
 I lean again from my window. 
 
 To see, if only I 
 
 Have love enough for the Old Year, 
 
 To care to see him die. 
 Bui the wind sobs through the tree-tops, 
 
 A dirge, sincere and loud; 
 While a crystal tear falls softly 
 
 Upon the Old Year's shroud. 
 The stars like funeral tapers 
 
 In the heaven, shine cold and bright. 
 As they watch the Old Year dying. 
 
 On his snowy couch to-night. 
 But the Old Year dieth bravely. 
 
 Like many a hope of mine — 
 He died in an hour of darkness, 
 
 And he died without a sign. 
 
 WORDS OF CHEER. 
 Ah! weary mother, 'round whose evening 
 chair [kissed. 
 
 Bright faces cluster to be washed and 
 You're most too tired now to hear the prayer 
 
 By baby voices, in the twilight lisped. 
 You scarce can read your daily page aright. 
 
 You simply voice a longing cry for rest. 
 But, weary mother, cheer thee up, to-night 
 
 I bring thee greetings, we are truly blest! 
 
 Yes, truly blest, that we can work and pray 
 
 For those we love, however hard the task; 
 Sufficient sti-ength is promised day by day. 
 
 No better gift my grateful heart can ask. 
 How many children creep to beds to-night. 
 
 By mother hearts unloved and uncaressed? 
 Ah! weary mothers, clasp your ti-easures 
 tight. 
 
 Thank God, be happy, know that you are 
 blest. 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 What heights sublime a suffering soul may 
 
 reach. 
 While those around it little care or know; 
 As Marah's waters lave their bleeding feet. 
 And wasli their garments white as driven 
 
 snow. 
 Lord I submit; how can I tell how great. 
 How deep, how good or wisely thou hast 
 
 planned; 
 I only know thj- children well can wait. 
 In the blest knowledge, thou dost understand. 
 
 THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 So come, ye sons and daughters. 
 
 Leave restless city strife; 
 Come ere you lose your relish 
 
 For the quiet joys of life. 
 Come back ye roaming children, 
 
 Fi'om prairies far and wide; 
 And cluster 'round the hearthstone 
 
 Once more at even-tide. 
 
 * 
 
©• 
 
 ^ 
 
 558 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. HARRIET M. CONKLIN. 
 
 Born: Sphingville, N.Y., Sept. U, 1835. 
 Removing with her parents to AUegau, Mich- 
 igan, when an infant, the subject of this 
 sketch was there educated and taught school 
 for several years. At the ag-e of twenty-two 
 she attended the Michigan state normal 
 
 MRS. HARRIET M. CONKLIN. 
 
 at Ypsilanti for two years ; afterward became 
 principal of the seminary at West Liberty, 
 Iowa, and later entered into the millinery 
 business. In 1869 she was married to William 
 A. Conklin, who together with his wife are 
 now publishing the Independent at St.Charles, 
 Mich. Her poems have appeared in some of 
 the leading publications of America. 
 
 ALLEGAN, MY HOME. 
 Allegan! Home! Allegan thy glory lias de- 
 parted ; 
 The torch of the Are fiend ignited your walls; 
 My heart beats quickly, I am nearly dis- 
 tracted 
 For fear that my kinsmen have lost by y(nir 
 fall. 
 Who governed the wind as it fanned the 
 fierce flames? 
 Nor let it abate 'till your ruin was o'er. 
 Had the Are king no mercy for your fortune 
 or names: 
 But to grasp for your wealth and blot out 
 your store? 
 
 Allegan! Proud Allegan now is sackcloth 
 and ashes. 
 The clarion of confusion screams over your 
 heads. 
 And humbled in sorrow the truth o'er you 
 flashes — 
 A scourge has been sent here, was it from the 
 Gods? 
 
 Peace ! Peace to the pioneers who sleep in 
 tlieir graves. 
 They were spared this grief which came not 
 in their day, — 
 The workers, the builders, the many old 
 slaves. 
 Who built up the town and then passed away. 
 
 Then brace up, and build up your many sad 
 losses. 
 Gather up those burned brick without stop- 
 ping to rest; 
 Make the town what it has been, don't give 
 up foi' crosses 
 For God in liis wisdom rules all for the best. 
 
 Allegan my home! The home of my child- 
 hood, 
 My heart melts in sorrow — for dear to me yet 
 Are its pines on the hillside , and back near 
 the wildwood 
 Loved friends are sleeping wliom I cannot 
 forget. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 She had gone to bed for the night-time, 
 
 Her weary form laid down to rest 
 
 Beside little Nell who lay dreaming. 
 
 But whose face was rosy and sweet, 
 
 Making one think of Life's Eden, 
 
 Where naught of sorrow or tears 
 
 Nor the bleak chilling storm of trials 
 
 Had furrowed her face with tears. 
 
 Hark! she hears a footstep coming 
 
 At the door. Say Ma are you tliere? 
 
 And she knew the heart it came from. 
 
 And that God had answered lior prayer. 
 
 In the time and that hour of trouble 
 
 Came he hopeful, fearless and strong. 
 
 As a fltting stafl" to lean on 
 
 When everything was going wrong. 
 
 Back home again dear mother. 
 
 He said, and she stooped to kiss 
 
 The loving lace that was lifted 
 
 For what some mother's miss. 
 
 That boy will do to depend on. 
 
 His heart is kind and true. 
 
 From lads who care for their mother 
 
 Our bravest heroes grew. 
 
 Earth's grandest hearts are loving ones 
 
 Since time and earth bi'gan. 
 
 And the boy who protects his mother 
 
 Will always be a man. 
 
 ©■ 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 5o9 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. MARY C.DUNCAN. 
 
 Born: Calaveras Co., Cal., Nov, 24, 1860. 
 This lady is not only a poet but also a musi- 
 cian and artist. After completing her educa- 
 tion at the state university she was married 
 
 MRS. MARY C. DUNCAN. 
 
 to Dr. M. P. Duncan. The poems of Mrs. Dun- 
 can have been widely published in the papers 
 of California and a few have appeared in the 
 eastern magazines. She is still a resident of 
 California, at Hanford. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 Beaming in thy beauty there — 
 
 O Stella, siiimmering star! 
 Enthroned high In the southern heavens, 
 
 In purity afar — 
 Out o"er the dusky dome of night, 
 
 Tliy silver splendors play. 
 And shadow e'en the radiance of 
 
 The shining Milky Way ! 
 The earth quick wakens to thy kiss. 
 
 And language soft of love 
 Wafts on the wind — the rustling leaves — 
 
 The murmuring of the dove. 
 While Arcturus bold and Antares — 
 
 Blood-red upon the sight — 
 Grow pallid in those brilliant beams, 
 
 And crown thee King of Night! 
 But O fair jewel — gem of eve ! 
 
 Thy rays have failed to wrest. 
 The shadows from the heavy heart 
 
 That burns within my brea.st! 
 
 Fond mem'ries wake when e'er thy form 
 
 Steals soft athwart the sky — 
 Of other eves when 'neath thy glow, 
 
 We strayed — my love and I. 
 But now no more the eyes whose light 
 
 Was stolen from thine own. 
 Shed o'er my soul their showers of love — 
 
 To-night I'm all alone! 
 The soft sweet voice whose cadence low 
 
 Made music in my heart. 
 Is heard no more, for silently. 
 
 We wander worlds apart! 
 
 TO THE FALLEN MONARCH. 
 
 Aged Monarch of the forest! Majestic Ruin! 
 
 Thou'rt regal yet though prone to earth 
 
 And crumbling 'ii decay! 
 And mighty still, though but a blackened 
 trunk 
 
 Now shorn of all thy beauty. 
 For full three thousand years tliat kingly 
 form 
 
 Was reared above its fellows. 
 And from that lofty eminence 
 
 Looked proudly down upon the world. 
 Vainly then did the tempest rage 
 
 And beat about thj- branches. 
 While the lightning sought to rend thy heart 
 
 And lay the giant low. 
 Many, many :i summertime the birds of heaven 
 
 Have sought a refuge in thy leafy canopy. 
 Hanging there the downy nests, to sway in 
 every breeze. 
 
 The while, their mingled songs 
 
 Freighted the air with melody. 
 Manya winter's snows have clothed thy boughs 
 
 In weird, strange beauty. 
 Wrapping about thee robes of royal ermine. 
 
 Meet for even such as thou to wear. 
 
 For ages long that towering trunk — 
 Withstood the wear of Time, 
 While nations rose and flourished;— 
 
 Wavered;— waned and died. 
 
 But now, O forest King! thy reign is o'er! 
 And Time victorious, claims thee for his own 
 
 at last : 
 Thy day is done; and 'round that aged form, 
 Oblivion's wave is closing fast! 
 
 TO THE FULL MOON. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Far out across the lovely lake 
 
 A trail of glory lies. 
 Whose silvery sheen might surely mark 
 
 The path to Paradise! 
 Methinks that glisteiiingtrack should roach 
 
 Away! beyond tlie night! 
 •And lead up to the City blest 
 With many mansions white! 
 
 ^ 
 
®- 
 
 9^1 
 
 560 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOETS OF A:MKK1CA. 
 
 FAY HEMPSTEAD. 
 
 Born: Little Rock, Ark., Nov. 24, 1847. 
 For some years this gentleman lias been a 
 constant contributor to numerous papers and 
 Magazines, among which might be mentioned 
 the Boston Transcript, New York Mail and 
 Express, Richmond Dispatch, and the St. 
 Louis Ropubliciin. The i>n)ductio!is of Mr. 
 
 FAY HEMPSTEAD. 
 
 Hempstead have received special recognition 
 from both press and public, and his poems 
 have elicited a complimentary letter from the 
 poet John G. Whittier. He is frequently 
 called upon to read original poems on public 
 occasions. In 1878 he published his first 
 volume of poems which met with fair suc- 
 cess, and now has a second volume which will 
 be brought out in due season. Mr. Hemp- 
 stead has become quite prominent as a public 
 speaker, and is widely known as a im>se 
 writer. In 1889 he published Hempsteads 
 School History of Arkansas, whicli lias met 
 with an enthusiastic reception. Mr. Hemp- 
 stead was married in 1871 to Miss Gertrude B. 
 O'Neal, by whom he has a family of four sons 
 and three daughters. This lawyer, author 
 and lecturer is grand secretary of the Free 
 Masons for the state of Arkansas, in which 
 state he is very popular. 
 
 «- 
 
 THE DEPARTED YEAR. 
 
 Old year! old year! that liest here 
 So cold and stark upon thy bier. 
 
 I fold thy hands upon thy breast. 
 And pray for thee unbroken rest! 
 
 Gone, gone! — yea, gone! Thy breath with- 
 drawn ! 
 Yet ere the rising of the dawn. 
 Like fickle courtiers, do we sing, 
 "The king is dead! Long live the king! " 
 Away, away ! In coffined clay 
 Such feeble source of strength doth lay. 
 We turn from those whose lips are dumb 
 To worship who succeeding come. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. 
 I stand where the maid with the pale cold face 
 
 And her palms together pressed. 
 Lies robed for her last abiding place,— 
 
 For her sleep of endless rest. 
 And her marble cheek is as fair as the rose, 
 
 That at her throat there lies; 
 And death's unlovely presence shows 
 
 Nowhere but in her eyes. 
 
 Not the placid face, nor the shining hair, 
 
 But the vacant gaze alone; 
 And naught is left of the life that was there, 
 
 Save the place where the brightness shone. 
 For the light has gone from her bright blue 
 eye. 
 
 Where the soul was shining through; 
 As a star fades out of a summer sky. 
 
 And only leaves the blue. 
 O earth in time bring forth the rose, 
 
 Bring bud and blossom rare. 
 To where she lies in soft repose 
 
 For she was passing fair. 
 Bring daisies and the violet's eyes, 
 
 Wliere swells the grassy sod. 
 As calm in settled peace she lies. 
 
 While her soul has gone to God. 
 
 HENRY TARRING ECKERT. 
 
 Born: Northumberland, Pa., Aug. 20, 1842jj 
 The poems of Mr. Eckert have appeared W 
 the Detroit Free Press and other publications 
 He follows the occupation of a salesman. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 Fly fair Aurora o'er the eastern liills. 
 Distill thy dews, flash in the silver rills. 
 Bid night- and darkness flee before thy face, 
 And beauty dazzle at tliy touch of grace. 
 Call forth again the orient god of day. 
 And bid him search with brightest fervid ni; 
 The darkest morass, glade, or no.xious fen. 
 And gild with silver light the gloomiest giei 
 Blot out the planets, veil the moon oncenior 
 And touch with pearl the waves on many 
 
 shore. 
 Gild with thy wand eternal peaks of snow. 
 And flood with light the grateful world belo' 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 561 
 
 -iS 
 
 ANDREW ALLEN VEATCH. 
 
 Born: Brookeland, Tex., May 3, 1860. 
 In 1884 Mr. V'eiitch joined tlie ehurcl), and 
 soon afterward bi'uan preaflnii<r. He still re- 
 
 ANDREW ALLEN VEATCH. 
 
 sides at Brookeland, Texas, where he is very 
 popular. From his youth Mr. Veatch has 
 written poems, which have appeared exten- 
 tensively in the periodical press. 
 
 OVER THE LINE. 
 Over the line, — yes, over the line. 
 Delay no longer, no more repine; 
 Why dost thou falter, O soul of mine? 
 The Master is calling', •• Come over the line." 
 The world is cruel, and cold and hard. 
 And the Word has promised a sure reward,* 
 To those who follow the voice divine 
 Of the tender Sheplierd, •' Come overthe line." 
 Come out of the snare, then ; out of the path 
 That is leading thee forward to endles 
 
 wrath ;t 
 Be moved by that whisper of mercy benign. 
 And haste to tlie highway over the line.? 
 Thou hast walked full long in a desolate way. 
 Alone in thy journeyings day by day, [cline. 
 Thou art weary ; find rest where the blessed re- 
 By the cross of the Crucified, over the line.i 
 Thou hast sought after honor; It now will be 
 
 given — 
 The honor to walk with the children of 
 
 heaven I** 
 * 
 
 Tliou hast sighed for true friendship; it now 
 
 may he thine — 
 The Faitlif ul++ is waiting thee over the liue. 
 There's a void in tiiy life, there are tears in 
 
 thy gaze. 
 Thou art sad, and the light has gone out of 
 
 thy days;** 
 Yet again iu thy path may the young roses 
 
 twine. 
 And the morning smile o'er thee— Come over 
 
 the line!§§ 
 
 A Spirit stirs in tliee, impelling thee on. 
 With thy face to the Kingdom, thine eyes to 
 
 the Dawn; [cline, II 
 
 Hush ! Resist not, but now to His wooings in- 
 Aud follow thy Guardian over the line. 
 And these that would stay thee — grandeur 
 
 and wealtli — 
 Which have blighted thy manhood, stolen thy 
 
 health; [sign. 
 
 Cold phantoms ! Now learn without grief to re- 
 For the treasure immortal,! justover the line. 
 There are angels watching to see thee start, 111! 
 And counting each stroke of thypulsing heart. 
 To know if the victory at last shall be thine — 
 To know if thou yet wilt come over the line. 
 And those gone up to the Land of Bliss, [tliis, 
 As they gaze through the portals of light to 
 With hands like the lily and brows that shine, 
 How lovingly beckon thee over the line! 
 Come forth— 'tis the voice of the Bridegroom — 
 
 UllCome! 
 He calls to His palace — invites thee home; 
 He bids to the banquet of life divine,W 
 And urges thee kindly, >• Come over the line I" 
 
 Hark! — Music, ringing!— Sweet holy airs 
 Are floating down from the azure stairs; 
 All Heaven's blest harmonies seem to combine 
 In the joyful burden,"Come over the line I"++t 
 Over the line, yes, overthe line; 
 There's all that the soul needs over the line, II II II 
 A robe and a ring,§§§ and a crown divineTTIT 
 And a pass to Paradise,*** over the line. 
 
 *Prov. 11;18; Psalms 
 
 58:ll;Col.3:24;Matt. 
 
 19:28,29. 
 + Matt. 7:13; Prov. 14: 
 
 12. 
 * Isaiah 35:8. 
 § Matt. 11:28. 
 **Tsaiali 35:8,9; Matt. 
 
 5:9. 
 ++ Rev. 3:14; Heb. 13:8. 
 $tLam. 5:17. 
 ggMatt. 5:4. 
 Iljosh. 24:23; Psalms 
 
 78:1 & 119:36; I Thes. 
 
 5:19. 
 
 1 Matt. 6:20; Luke 12: 
 33; I Peter 1:4. 
 
 nil Luke 15-10; Heb.l:]4 
 
 liH Malt. 26:6; Isaiah 
 54:5—3. 
 
 «*Matt. 22:2 — 4. Isa- 
 iah 55:— 1—3. 
 
 ■t++ Rev. 22:17. 
 
 II II II Luke 12 :3L Romans 
 8:.32. 
 
 §S§ Luke 15:22. 
 
 •:';T I Peter 5:4; James 
 1:12; Rev. 2:10; II 
 Tim. 4:8. 
 
 ***Eph.4:30;&l:13,14. 
 
 © 
 
^ 
 
 562 
 
 9 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MALCOLM M.LUZADER. 
 
 Born : Grafton, W. Va., Nov. 27, 1858. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Luzader have appeared 
 extensively iu tlio local press. By profession 
 
 he is a iiM'-liiT (if vdi'ul music, in wliich he 
 
 MALCOLM M. LUZADER. 
 
 is eugag-ed in his native state at Auburn. Mr. 
 Luzader has become quite popular, and has a 
 wide circle of friends and admirers. 
 
 THE MYSTIC VEIL. 
 
 God, bj' mortal eyes unseen. 
 By serapli tong-ues untold. 
 Year.s, wrapped up iu mystic g'loom. 
 Set Destiny to unfold. 
 
 Behind the dark drawn veil of time. 
 Life's liidden stores await ; 
 Nor can we choose the sweets alone. 
 But bide the gifts of Fate. 
 
 Yet, who would dare to lift the veil 
 That binds this mortal spell; 
 Who, knowiiijj-all would be a god. 
 And coming: ages tell? 
 
 Dear heart of mine, seek not to learn 
 What Heaven denies its own ; 
 Sweet liope will paint our darkest doubts, 
 And meet them one by one. 
 
 Now, these years of constant strife 
 To us, in time are given. 
 Each joj- or grief may reappear. 
 Reclaiming us to heaven. 
 
 Many long years may come and go. 
 And our patlis in life not meet; 
 Years of happiness or woe, 
 For you and me may wait. 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S HOPE. 
 We talked of books, we talked of songs, 
 We talked of home and friends; 
 The longed for bliss of future years. 
 Its ills and their amends. 
 
 And then my nervous lips told out 
 The story of my heart ; 
 And the lustrous language from her eyes. 
 Sweet sunshine did impart. 
 
 I told her of the timid hopes 
 
 That gave my being zest; 
 
 That doubts and fears had vainly rose. 
 
 My hopeful love to test. 
 
 Said I: The girl who shares mj' fate. 
 Thro' life's revolving years. 
 Must be the sunshine of my home. 
 To banish all my cares. 
 
 Angelic grace must clothe her form. 
 The fairest of her kind; 
 Her face must hold perpetual smiles. 
 Reflected from her mind. 
 
 Her voice be like the full moon's beams — 
 As silvery calm and sweet. 
 Whose gentle words and rippling songs 
 Shall make my joys complete. 
 
 Whose queenly ways, and depth of soul 
 Shall fill mankind with awe; 
 With noble sense of truth and right, 
 O'ercome tlie proudest foe. 
 
 A heart filled with eternal love. 
 Averse to pride's coneeifs, 
 Who'd scorn the idle jests of life. 
 Nor stoop to vain deceits. 
 
 And now, dear love, for you I've lived,— 
 I took licr hand in mine,— 
 And you of all the girls on earth 
 Can bring my life sunsliinc. 
 
 She stole lier trembling hand away, 
 1 kni'W my fate was sealed; 
 In the soul's blue windows deej) I read 
 The truth her word revealed. 
 
 Then with an earnest steady look, 
 Hemembered, but forgiven. 
 She spoke these cruel, awful words: 
 "Young man, your liome's in Heaven." 
 
*• 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 563 
 
 JOHN VINTON POTTS. 
 
 Born: Napier, Pa., Jur.v 33, 18:36. 
 At tlie ;iKe of eighteen Mr. Potts commenced 
 to teach school, and since thiit time has tuuglit 
 about ninety months, principally in the pub- 
 lic schools. In 185T Mr. Potts was licensed as 
 a minister, and has spent seventeen years in 
 the anwr pi,t..ii,il ^\ork n<' h;is hcoii a 
 
 JOHN VINTON POTTS. 
 
 diligent private student all his life, and in ISfifJ 
 entered tlie coUog-e at Westerville, Ohio. He 
 has written and published two ijooks, and has 
 been correspondent of various newspapers, 
 writing- on a variety of topics — social, relig-- 
 ious, political and educational. Mr. Potts has 
 spoken in public in many states. His present 
 home is at North Robinson, Ohio, where he is 
 engaged in literary work, and is editor and 
 publisher of the Monthly Monograph. He 
 was married in 1861, and has a family of bright 
 boys. 
 
 THE PENALTY. 
 
 I am sick to<lay. 
 
 And so can not be gay. 
 
 I went away 
 
 On yesterday 
 
 To see a new-made friend ; 
 
 And with the mental strain, 
 
 And what I ate, 
 
 And driving late. 
 
 To-day I have the pain; 
 
 And now will rest amend 
 
 The broken chain 
 
 In healtli's domain. 
 
 Oil ! would man be wise. 
 
 Amid the scenes that rise, 
 
 To take the best. 
 
 Refuse the rest, 
 
 And follow truth alone. 
 
 In all the walks of life; 
 
 Then were his fate 
 
 A rich estate. 
 
 Without a jar or strife. 
 
 As royal as a throne; 
 
 And highest joy 
 
 Would never cloy. 
 
 Oft we eat too much; 
 
 And ott our tho'ts are such 
 
 As lead away 
 
 The soul astray. 
 
 We toil beyond our strength; 
 
 Or want of exercise 
 
 Doth enervate 
 
 The whole estate. 
 
 Thus heavy clouds arise. 
 
 And bring the tomb at length, 
 
 And we are laid 
 
 In Stygian shade. 
 
 NEARLY WILD, OVER THE CHILD. 
 
 The precious little one, 
 
 I met upon the street. 
 It could not walk or run 
 
 Upon its dainty feet. 
 A little maiden held 
 
 The babe within her arms: 
 Its beauty me impressed 
 
 To pause and note its charms. 
 " Whose child is this," I said; 
 
 And then I saw it smiled. 
 " Oh ! it belongs to Ned ! 
 
 And he is nearly wild! " 
 
 MY FIRST POEM. 
 Bright spring, the triumph of the year. 
 Brings warbling birds from far and near 
 
 To sport among the trees. 
 In forests wide, and round our domes. 
 With cheerful hearts they make their homes. 
 
 And float upon the breeze. 
 The silent buds now open wide: 
 The branches wave like ocean tide 
 
 By balmy breezes blown. 
 The morning dews from grass and flowers 
 Arise on higli and fall in showers 
 
 Where cooling draughts are thrown. 
 Thee bee is out on busy wing. 
 Though but a weak and tiny thing. 
 
 To gather treasure sweet 
 From opening flowers in wood and field. 
 And finds a joy in what they yield. 
 
 Of sweetness for us meet. 
 
 -m 
 
^- 
 
 564 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF ASlElllCA. 
 
 ® 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 In friendship pure 
 
 Is envy's cure. 
 Who owns this sacred treasure, 
 Is sure of lasting pleasure. 
 
 Not bouglit with wealth, 
 
 Nor bound to health, 
 Nor like the changing weather. 
 It warms the heart forever. 
 
 When fortune's urn 
 
 At every turn 
 Pours joy and happy greetings. 
 And brings oft social meetings; 
 
 When summer friends, 
 
 For selfish ends, 
 Are lavishing their praises. 
 It shows but common phases. 
 
 When adverse storms. 
 
 Misfortune's forniS, 
 Marli gloom upon to-morrow, 
 And bring lean want and sorrow; 
 
 When most, indeed. 
 
 Kind aid we need, 
 And outer friendship alters. 
 True friendship never falters. 
 
 Should foes arise. 
 
 That cheat espies 
 Our failings with the rabble. 
 And o'er them all will gabble; 
 
 But this will stand, 
 
 Tlio' fiends may band 
 Each hope from us to sever. 
 And show, 'tis friendship ever. 
 
 If space arise. 
 
 And dim our eyes, 
 Tlaat we see not each other. 
 Nor meet at all together ; 
 
 Yet memory brings . 
 
 Upon her wings. 
 The images we cherish. 
 Thus friendsliips never perish. 
 
 If mortal fate 
 
 Should ope the gate 
 Through which must mankind travel 
 Before they can unravel 
 
 Those mysteries 
 
 Which no one sees. 
 This side the mystic river. 
 That makes the stoutest quiver. 
 
 Around the bed. 
 
 Which hides the dead. 
 Slow forms may sadly wander, 
 And oft in sorrow ponder; 
 
 There friendship may 
 
 Its tribute pay. 
 In tears from souls true hearted. 
 To loved ones — the departed. 
 
 Time's icy liand 
 
 The heart can stand. 
 
 If every recollection, 
 
 And tombs increase affection; 
 
 For grief refined 
 
 Exalts the mind. 
 And death his claims releases. 
 Where friendship but increases. 
 
 'Tis liard by arts 
 
 To sever hearts. 
 If love be cord and token. 
 For friendship ne'er Is broken; 
 
 If virtue grows 
 
 Above earth's woes, 
 If forms apart be riven. 
 They meet again in heaven. 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW. 
 Here light and shadow fill the day. 
 While every soul is sad and gay; 
 The sunlight does not always shine. 
 Or heaven e'en here would sure be mine. 
 The night not always clouds the brow. 
 Or demons would possess me now. 
 False friends are often in dismay. 
 But truthful friends are in array. 
 They stand and work in my defense. 
 That I may hope and onward go. 
 If others make a mere pretense, 
 I will in honor live below. 
 Then I shall live in joy above. 
 And be with those whom now I love. 
 
 HOPE. 
 I am sad and weary 
 
 With the sorrows of my life: 
 Days and nights are dreary 
 
 With the sore and angry strife. 
 Thus my soul in anguish 
 
 Cries in hopeless toil of night; 
 I in weakness languish 
 
 With the dimness of my sight. 
 May I rest in heaven 
 
 When the darkness here is past"? 
 Yes, the hope is given. 
 
 E'en amid the stormy blast. 
 Lo the light is gleaming 
 
 On the path of fervent souls. 
 Graceful showers are streaming 
 
 While the angry tempest rolls. 
 
 Consolations given 
 Are for those who hope and trust; 
 
 So when tempest driven 
 Let me lean upon the just. 
 
 Let no doubting ever 
 Rob my soul of joy or ease; 
 
 Naught but sin can sever 
 Me from bliss in large degrees. 
 
 Let the life be cheery 
 As the thrilling joys go by; 
 
 Catch them as they near me. 
 They will help me to the sky. 
 
 ► 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 .5()0 
 
 -* 
 
 D.A.REYNOLDS. 
 
 Born; Isabella Co., Mich., April, 1854. 
 At an early age Mr.Keynolds became a school 
 teacher. He was married in 1874 and settled 
 on a farm, but taught school during the win- 
 ter months. Mr. Reynolds was always very 
 fond of liistory, and thoroughly mastered 
 Hume, Macaulaj', Gnizot, and other famous 
 
 I>. A. HKVNOLUS. 
 
 European histoiuuis. lu 18,S:i Mr. Reynolds 
 established tlie Herald at Lyons, Mieliigan, at 
 the same time devoting: a larg-e portion of his 
 time to literary work for the Metropolitan 
 journals. Among- his poems, at Heaven's 
 Window, lias attracted the widest attention, 
 while Thurman Wolverton is unquestionably 
 his best novel The facts and fancies of 
 Heaven's Window is said to spring- from his 
 mother's second marriag-e and is pronounced 
 monaganistic views. 
 
 AT HEAVEN'S WINDOW. 
 
 In a pleasant forest villagre, 
 'Twixt the highlands and the lowlands. 
 Basking in the eastern sunbeams. 
 Stood there once a lovely cottag-e: 
 O'er its porch the clinging- ivy 
 Drooped and trembled in the zephyrs. 
 While the fiowers vied in bidding- 
 Welcome to the weary strang-er. 
 Summer's twilight's deepening- beauty 
 Overspread the western hillside. 
 
 While each parting- summer sunbeam 
 
 Kissed the lofty, eastern bower; 
 
 And the riv'let 'ueath the village 
 
 Murmured quaintly on its journey. 
 
 While the chirrup of the locust 
 
 Undulated in the chorus. 
 
 'Neath the viue-clad portal, singing-, 
 
 Sat a lovely maiden knitting-. 
 
 And the notes in tender cadence 
 
 Floated on the summer air. 
 
 Just beside the gate there lingered — 
 
 Weary with his day of hunting- — 
 
 One from out the busy city. 
 
 Wooing- nature's fairest boon; 
 
 And forgetting- else the singing- — 
 
 For Jiis heart beat to the measure — 
 
 Drank the Hood of guileless passion. 
 
 Dwelt upon each thrilling- note. 
 
 He had met full many maidens 
 
 In the brisk and busy city. 
 
 But no voice had ever thrilled him 
 
 As the rustic village belle. 
 
 He had mills and many vessels — 
 
 Wealth in store and wealth in land; 
 
 And he vowed to crown his triumph 
 
 By the winning- of her hand. 
 
 Over hill, and dale and valley. 
 Where she strolled in quest of flowers, 
 Sought he often, and her g-reeting- 
 Fired his heart with fiercest passion. 
 Thus mistaking- gentle breed hig 
 For an echo to his wooing-. 
 He had pressed her hand at parting — 
 Swore to her undying love. 
 
 Thus awakened from her girlhood. 
 Sought her lieart to know its meaning; 
 But within iis secret chamber 
 Found she not one throb for him. 
 But she knew beyond the village. 
 By the broad and verdant meadow. 
 Whistling in the early twilight. 
 Following home the gentle kine, 
 Dwelt her playmate— girlhood lover — 
 Who, in happy hours of childhood. 
 They had played at " getting married," 
 And the sterner cares of life. 
 
 They had loved as little children. 
 When they played upon the meadow, 
 And the vows in childhood plighted 
 Strengthened with each coming year. 
 Thus it was when Allen Alden 
 Sought the hand of Annie Gray, 
 She could find within her bosom 
 Only sorrow for his loving. 
 
 Ere the winter's glistening jewels 
 Crowned fair nature's brow with pearls, 
 Lawrence Henry claimed the promise? 
 She had made in childish glee; 
 And no happier bride in Clifton 
 
 -* 
 
— * 
 
 Ever spoke the solemn promise 
 
 As they bowed before God's altar 
 
 In the sacred bond of love. 
 
 Thus began their wedded journey. 
 
 Fraught with promise, joy and pleuty. 
 
 And though wealth was not their portion. 
 
 Love supplied each heart's desire, 
 
 While the star of true affection 
 
 Lighted all their onward journey ; 
 
 Angels hovering 'round them chanted: 
 .. Mighty is tlie realm of love." 
 If the world was cold and cruel. 
 Threatening doom o'erspread the skies. 
 He was never heard to murmur. 
 For the love in Annie's eyes 
 Told him of a purer purpose. 
 Prompted him to higher goal- 
 Broadened mind and heightened purpose. 
 Purifying mind and soul. 
 
 Twelve short years -how soon they num- 
 
 ber. 
 Counted on afifection's dial, 
 But they bring within their scabbard 
 Deepest sorrow - threatening doom. 
 For consumption's withering presence 
 Now pervades that happy home. 
 And the father, husband, lover. 
 Knows that he, alas, must go. 
 Could my pen but paint the bitter 
 Yearning in that father's heart '. 
 Could I sketch that husband's unguish 
 As he takes his last adieu ! 
 Could my prayer but reach the mercy 
 Seat within the courts of Heaven. 
 I would melt the heart of nature. 
 That a respite might be given. 
 .. Dearest Annie," Lawrence faltered. 
 As he wiped away a tear. 
 Held her hand with gentle pressure. 
 Sought her sorrojving heart to cheer: 
 .. I have been so very happy 
 In our pleasant Eden home. 
 That 1 cannot, cannot leave you. 
 Crossing o'er the stream alone. 
 .il am going, shortly going 
 Wliere our friends have gone before. 
 But I'll never cross the river 
 Till you meet me at the shore; 
 For I know the hymns of Heaven 
 Would but fill my heart with pain. 
 While I knew my darling Annie 
 Cannot sliare eacli joyous strain. 
 ..Heaven, they say, is all about us. 
 And our friends are ever nigh. 
 Death is but a transformation — 
 Souls immorlal cannot die. 
 I shall watch o'er you my darling. 
 And our children good and kind. 
 
 Looking out at Heaven's window 
 For the friends I leave behind. 
 ..Tell the children how I loved them 
 Ere from them I had to go; 
 Tell them in the bright hereafter 
 They shall yet their father know ; 
 For my spirit vision brightens. 
 Friends are gathering 'round my bed. 
 Heaven is here and 1 am ready 
 When our last farewell is said. 
 
 .. Darling —wife, I'm going - going. 
 
 Lay my face upon your breast; 
 
 I would fe(?l its gentle throbbing 
 
 Ere 1 pass to yonder rest,— 
 
 One fond kiss - the last dear Annie, 
 
 Till we meet on yonder shore. 
 
 Where the soul to soul united. 
 
 Love shall dwell forever more." 
 
 Ah the sorrow of that parting. 
 Few may know and none can tell; 
 How the heart but stops its beating 
 When we say the last farewell; 
 But in dreams she often sees him. 
 Feels his kiss upon her brow. 
 And his presence ever near her 
 
 Whispers gentle words of cheer. 
 
 Many months of patient sorrow. 
 
 Years have numbered nearly two. 
 
 When across the briny waters 
 
 Comes a friend of former days. 
 
 He would share her every sorrow. 
 
 Win for her those joys anew ; 
 
 Offered her that nameless passion 
 
 She had won long years ago. 
 
 Did she falter in her answer? 
 
 Did her eyes grow dim with tears ^ 
 
 Did she hear the voice of Lawrence, 
 
 Feel his touch upon her cheek? 
 No. 'Twas but the summer zephyr 
 And the sighing of the wind: 
 Yet she knew with clearest vision. 
 Lovers twain were pleading then. 
 
 Three short years. At Heaven's window 
 Stands a spirit, bowed in sorrow, 
 wiile all Heaven is hushed m sadness 
 For the grief that soul hath known. 
 For an anguish, deep, unyielding. 
 Turns each joyous note to sorrow. 
 Killing all the courts of Heaven 
 With the wail of deep despair. 
 
 -IVU me tales of withering ;^^^>;;-;;;;'7 
 HcMits that break and souls that fall 
 
 Ti'U to me the saddest ditty 
 Pen can write or poet sing; 
 1 would rob them of their sorrow - 
 Garner up each word of Are. 
 1 With the which to paint the anguish 
 Of a souUiy treason slam. 
 
s 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 567 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. AMBER E. ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Bridgewatek, Me., Feb. 14, ISti". 
 
 This lady was married in 1883 to Willie E. 
 Kobiuson. The poems of Mrs. Kobiuson have 
 appeared in the Chicago Christian Scientist 
 and the periodical press generally. She is still 
 
 MRS. AMBER E. ROBINSON. 
 
 a resident of lier native state in the town of 
 Blaine, where she is well known and has a host 
 of friends and acquaintances. In person she 
 is about the averag-e lieig:ht and weight, and 
 has brown hair and hazel eves. 
 
 SOWING. 
 Sowing the seed of Truth, 
 
 Pause not to sigh or weep; 
 Joyfully doing thy part; 
 
 Knowing not who will reap. 
 
 Scattering words of life 
 
 Into the valley of death; 
 Teaching that life in Christ, 
 
 Is more than a vapor or breath. 
 Shedding a ray of light 
 
 Into a darkened soul. 
 Bidding the weary arise. 
 
 Believe and thou shalt be whole. 
 What shall tlie liarvest be? 
 
 Soon shall thine eyes behold. 
 
 The reward of labors of love; 
 'Twill yield thee a hundred fold. 
 
 Thus prayerfully working on 
 
 Labor at any cost; 
 Remember tlie seed that's sown 
 
 In love can never be lost. 
 
 TRIUMPHANT OVER DEATH. 
 
 Quietly on her piilow 
 
 A fair young maiden lay. 
 It seemed that disease was doing a work 
 
 That was ebbing her life away. 
 
 Death appeared to her one night 
 And he said •• Ah, who can save? 
 
 I soon siiall claim thee, maiden fair, 
 Thy form ca.st in the grave! 
 
 You have planned a pleasant future. 
 You have hoped and planned in vain; 
 
 For soon you'll pass unto the grave 
 From whence you'll ne'er return. 
 
 But soon the form of another 
 
 Beauteous to see, 
 Came and stood by her bedside 
 
 And said "Believe thou in me." 
 
 Death slirunk away at the presence 
 
 Of one so wondrous fair, 
 Hope brightened in the maiden's heart 
 
 Where shortly before was despair. 
 
 " Fear not my child," he spake again, 
 " For I have passed death too; 
 
 And suffered in a cruel world. 
 That life might be given you." 
 
 " Now, just now will you accept 
 
 That blessing which I g-ive, 
 Believe on me in Eternity 
 
 Forever shalt thou live." 
 " I will accept," she quickij- cried. 
 
 And then the form was gone; 
 Whither lie went she could not tell. 
 
 Nor yet from whence he come. 
 Again stood beside the maiden. 
 
 The monster Death — so grim : 
 He claimed in accents harsh and cold 
 
 That she belonged to him. 
 He quickly grasped her slender form 
 
 And hissed. Ah, wc shall see. 
 For none is mightier than I, 
 
 All stand in fear of me. 
 A smile broke o'er his features cold. 
 
 For now his work is done: 
 "Aha," cried lie, •• I liold tliec now,— 
 
 The victory I have won ! 
 In liis stern and cold embrace 
 
 But a lifeless form there lay; 
 He looked in rage upon tlie face. 
 
 For lie held but a form of clav. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 )5 
 
 568 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 He heard a song so soft and sweet, 
 
 He looked beyond the sky; 
 For he saw the sainted maid, 
 
 For her 'twas life to die. 
 Close, close to her Redeemer's feet, 
 
 The miglity one to save. 
 She sang .. Where is thy sting, O Death, 
 
 Thy victory boasting grave." 
 
 " All worthy is the Lamb," she sang, 
 "Whositteth ou tlie throne; 
 
 All glory unto Him be given. 
 The victory his alone." 
 
 SB- 
 
 FALLING LEAVES. 
 I strolled to the forest-clad liillside. 
 
 The day was uearing its close; 
 To me the gay colors of autumn 
 
 Seem fair as the tint of the rose. 
 
 A feeling of sadness came o'er me; 
 
 I could not refrain a sigh, 
 When I thought as the leaves we are failing. 
 
 As the leaves we must all fade and die. 
 
 I gathered leaves from the forest 
 
 Of hues so bright and gay. 
 But some I did not gather. 
 
 And there unnoticed they lay. 
 
 In my imagination 
 
 I heard them breathe a sigh ; 
 Because, devoid of loveliness, 
 
 I passed them quickly by. 
 
 Tlie human mind will ever 
 
 Seek out the good and bright; 
 As the traveler in the darkness 
 
 Seeks yon sinning light. 
 
 But I think of another autumn 
 Succeeding the summer of life; 
 
 And I wondered if mine would be glorious 
 With gentle zephyrs rife. 
 
 But there comes the closing day 
 
 Of a lifetime, long, misspent; 
 When the faded leaves uncared for lay. 
 
 And the tree stands lone and bent. 
 
 The naked tree sighs mournfully 
 
 As it feels the Winter's blast; 
 And remembers the days forever gone — 
 
 Remorsefully views tlie past. 
 
 I think again of another; 
 
 A good and useful life, 
 Abounding with love toward the neighbor, 
 
 Ai)art from hatred or strife. 
 There comes a glorious autumn 
 
 A foliage grand to see; 
 While the golden rays of a, scttinc sun 
 
 Are lovely beyond degree. 
 Tho' stern, relentless Winter 
 
 Comes where the leaves have lain. 
 
 Yet soon in a robe far brighter 
 The tree shall appear again. 
 
 Fair, e'en fairer than before 
 In the courts of our God and King, 
 
 The tree shall bloom forever 
 In the land of Eternal Spring. 
 
 The autumn leaves, the memories 
 
 That we leave behind; 
 They speak the life— God grant that mine 
 
 May be ever true and kind. 
 
 UNFORGOTTEN STILL. 
 'Twas during the calm days of summer; 
 
 The flowers sweet fragrance threw; 
 And the Sun climbing high in the Heavens 
 
 Gladdened the concave of blue. 
 
 Yet, amid the rejoicing of Nature, 
 
 I was weary and ill at ease; 
 E'eu the singing of birds seemed discordant 
 
 As they sang from the green leafy trees. 
 
 In vain had I sought rest and comfort. 
 Where others had drunk at tlieir will; 
 
 Friends proved unworthy and heartless. 
 With gall my cup seemed to fill. 
 
 When one appeared for a moment; 
 
 And a chord struck by hands divine. 
 Came from her soul as I met her. 
 
 And entered into mine. 
 
 As a dove flutt'ring over tlie waters. 
 
 And restoring order again : 
 Her presence seemed as a glimmer. 
 
 Of sunshine after rain. 
 
 Would she trust her heart to my keeping? 
 
 Her freedom for me resign"? 
 I felt this question was answered. 
 
 When I clasped her hand in mine. 
 
 Her voice so soft, it thrilled mc. 
 
 When a sad sweet strain she sung; 
 I remember it now as plainly 
 
 As in days when my heart was yt)ung. 
 But my dream was momentary; 
 
 The one I loved had gone; 
 Yet tiioughts of that angel vision. 
 
 Comfort me wlieii I'm alone. 
 Tho' I knew her but for a moment, 
 
 We met but met to part; 
 Yet amid those mem'ries cherished 
 
 I liave deeply buried my heart. 
 'Twill know no resurrection 
 
 Till I meet her, my lost, my love: 
 I'll wait e'en tho' unrewarded 
 
 Till I reacli those regions above. 
 For it may be that somewhere in (Uory 
 
 I shall liear that sad sweet strain : 
 It may be that only in Heaven 
 
 1 sliall clasp that liand again. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 © 
 
 569 
 
 HENRY H. JOHNSON. 
 
 Born: Cobleskill, N.Y., Jan. 14,1840. 
 SiNCK 1880 Mr. Joliuson has written poetry 
 almost exclusively for the New York Banner 
 Weekly, for which publication he has written 
 nearlj- two hundred poems. At the age of 
 
 HENRY H. JOHNSON. 
 
 eighteen Mr. Johnson commenced teaching 
 school, which he continued about ten years. 
 He was then given the position of railroad 
 station master at Hyndsville, N.Y., which he 
 still holds. 
 
 te- 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 When sickness lays me low 
 And life is ebbing slow. 
 
 Whose form will stand 
 Beside my dying bed. 
 With lowly drooping head. 
 
 And clasp my hand? 
 Who'll love me till the end 
 With warmer love than friend 
 
 Can e'er bestow? 
 Whose heart will bleed for me? 
 Wliose 1ears will silently 
 
 Beside me flow? 
 Who'll close m.v sightless eyes 
 When my freed spirit flies 
 
 From earth away? 
 Who'll mourn when I am dead, 
 And tears of sorrow shed 
 
 More than a dav? 
 
 Will sorrow's teardrops lave 
 The cold and silent grave 
 
 Wherein I sleep? 
 Who'll plant sweet flowers there, 
 With hues and fragrance rare. 
 
 And o'er them weep? 
 Must I forgotten be? 
 Lost to the memory 
 
 Of human kind? 
 Will no good deed I've done 
 For some poor needy one. 
 
 Be left behind? 
 Oh may kind thoughts of me 
 Live in the memory 
 
 Of some dear one. 
 When I am gone to rest 
 O may some life be blest 
 
 By what I've done. 
 
 DOT BABY. 
 
 Who yells und screeches ven he's mad, 
 Und laughs and cackles ven he's glad, 
 Ish somedimes good, und somedimes bad? 
 Dot Baby! 
 
 Who greeps und grawls around the vloor, 
 Und rolls himself right out de door, 
 Und jams und hurts himself some more? 
 
 Dot Baby ! 
 Who raises Gain mosht all de night, 
 Und makes me mad enough to fight, 
 Or kick up high ash any kite? 
 
 Dot Baby ! 
 Who bulls mine viskers und my nose, 
 LTnd musses up mine Sunday clothes, 
 Und alvays into mischief goes? 
 
 Dot Baby ! 
 Who makes me somedimes almost cry, 
 Und vipe de teardrops vrom my eye? 
 Vat would I do if he should die? 
 
 Dot Baby ! 
 Who'll be a big man ven he grows, 
 Und make somebody, I suppose. 
 Maybe a Bresident, who knows? 
 
 Dot Baby ! 
 Dis leetle chap vot climbs mine knee,— 
 If I were poor as poor could be 
 Not worlds of gold could buy from me 
 
 Dot Babv ! 
 
 THE MAN WITH AN IRON WILL. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Give me the man with an iron will. 
 
 And a purpose firm and strong. 
 Who dares to stand by the riglit until 
 
 He has crushed to death the wrong; 
 Who treads where the path of duty leads, 
 
 Though the way be blocked by foes; 
 Wliose heart and hand a good cause speeds 
 
 No matter who oppose. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 670 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 CLARENCE LADD DAVIS. 
 
 Born: Manchester, N. H., Aug. 11, 1861. 
 
 Admitted to the bar of Michigan in 1881 Mr. 
 Davis settled for a while at East Saginaw. He 
 wrote a series of articles in 1885 for the Sag- 
 inaw Evening- News on the labor question, 
 wliich drew the attention of laboring- men, 
 
 CLARENCE LADD DAVIS. 
 
 and he was there candidate for city recorder 
 in the spring of 1886. About this time Mr. 
 Davis removed to New York City, where he is 
 now engaged in journalism. Since 1880 his 
 poems have received publication, and have 
 invariably been widely copied. Mr. Davis was 
 vice-president of the Western Association of 
 Writers in 1886-7, and trustee of same in 1888. 
 
 «- 
 
 THE WINDS OP FATE. 
 By trifles light as the atoms wafted 
 
 Aloft on the wings of a fan's soft breeze. 
 Our lives arc fashioned, and conscripts draft- 
 ed. 
 We mai-('h with th(> arnnes of Pain or Ease. 
 
 Light as the thistledown blown'niid the ripen- 
 ed sheaves. 
 Doth weigh in Time's balance our love or 
 hut-e, 
 For we all are blown as the autumn leaves 
 To Heaven or hell by the winds of fate. 
 
 ACTRESS AND AUTHOR. 
 In the blaze and glare of the footlights. 
 
 In the gilded temple of art. 
 To the world of wealth and fashion. 
 
 The actress played her part; 
 
 And with phrase from the playwright bor- 
 rowed — 
 
 The fruit of his toiling years, — 
 Touched the golden chords of pathos. 
 
 And drew from their eyes the tears. 
 
 They gave to her their plaudits, 
 But not one of the weeping tliroug. 
 
 Gave thought to the stricken author. 
 Who had wove from his soul lier songl 
 
 AT SUNRISE. 
 Dark-mantled night, the star-eyed and the 
 dumb. 
 Flees when she hears the Sun-god's chariot 
 wheels; 
 When at her throat from out his hand doth 
 come 
 A javelin of light; she dying reels. 
 And her heart's life-blood, as it ebbs away, 
 Dj'es crimson the white garments of the 
 day. 
 
 THE CYCLE. 
 
 'Tis love alone creates and doth destroy — 
 
 Sweet love is lord alike of life and death;— 
 
 For love is father unto joyous life, 
 
 And life in turn is mother to desire. 
 
 And honey-lipped desire the dam of death. 
 
 And death, destroyer of all living things. 
 
 Ay, even slayer of desire herself. 
 
 So ran tlie cycle since Time first began : 
 
 Sweet love, life, mad desire and death; and so 
 
 Will run the evcle until Time shall end. 
 
 JUSTINE. 
 A face, a form, like a statue rare. 
 
 Two lips, twin roses; bright golden hair 
 Flowing and rippling o'er shoulders fair; 
 
 Two violet eyes, whose melting sheen 
 Would thrill the heart of a marble man. 
 Till his blood iu amorous riot ran 
 To the tune love plays on the pipes of Pan ; 
 
 Such is your picture, O fair Justine! 
 And so men love you. Ah ! if they know. 
 Those poor fools duped by your smiles uii- 
 
 t rue. 
 Into a soul scorching love for you. 
 
 That that angel face and form that's seen,— 
 A death's head hid by a silver casque,— 
 Is but the beautiful, lying mask. 
 The devil gave yt)u to do his task. 
 
 Of luring men into hell, Justine ! 
 
 •* 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AilKUICA. 
 
 571' 
 
 -® 
 
 REV. DWIGHT WILLIAMS. 
 
 Born: Kippleton, N.Y., Apkil 26, 1824. 
 As a religious poet the Rev. Dwight Williams 
 is well known. Most of his life was spent in 
 pastoral work in the state of New York. For 
 some years Rev. Williams devoted himself to 
 editorial work; he has contributed to the 
 current literature of the day ; and many of his 
 
 liL\. DWlliUT Wil^LlAAlb. 
 
 productions have been extensively copied by 
 the press of this and other countries. Mr. 
 Williams has published three small volumes ot 
 poems, the last and best of which perhaps is 
 The Beautiful City. The verses of this gentle- 
 man always contain much delicate sentiment 
 and purity of thoug-ht and feeling-. Mr. Wil- 
 liams is a polished christian gentleman, and a 
 great lover of music and art. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SNOW FLAKES. 
 Little snowflake, number one. 
 Lives up yonder near the sun; 
 Come to stay with us awhile. 
 Till the great sun gives a smile, 
 And the snowflake will be gone. 
 Number two came all alone. 
 From an angel land unknown; 
 May no touch of sin defile 
 Little snowflake. 
 Precious as a diamond stone. 
 Never eyes more lovely shone; 
 
 All our hearts doth she beguile 
 While the storm drifts 'round us pile. 
 Queen she is upon a throne. 
 Little snowflake. 
 
 SPRAY OF THE GOLDEN SEA, 
 My bark is outward bound 
 
 O'er stormy billows far; 
 Beneath, are depths jtrofound, 
 
 Above, the sailing star; 
 Somewhere the waves divide 
 
 Along the shadowy way. 
 And I shall reach the tide 
 
 Where leaps the golden spray. 
 To catch the breezes there 
 
 Will touch with youth the hrow: 
 Nor shall a danger dare 
 
 Disturb my sunlit prow: 
 O voyage of delight, 
 
 To watch the sails that cross 
 The line where storms affright, 
 
 With bitter pain and loss. 
 To welcome them, and know 
 
 The battle-flags they bore, 
 For him who loved them so 
 
 And won them evermore; 
 The salt sea spray is here. 
 
 What if it buffet me? 
 The boundless tides are near 
 
 Spray of the golden sea. 
 
 THE EVENING RIDE. 
 Bring Dapple up! the velvet ribbons take! 
 Which way to catch the sunset's golden 
 
 hues. 
 And make the most of twilight's charming 
 views? 
 Up past the walnuts where the glassy lake 
 Reflects the beauty of the clouds that break 
 In archipelagoes of light. Now choose 
 A by-road fragrant with the evening dews. 
 Where roadside maples pleasant vistas make; 
 Let Dapple out! the stars begin to gleam 
 On past the farm-house porches dim and 
 low — 
 Now by the winding of a stream. 
 Till thicker under shadows grow the stars 
 and,— 
 Ah, soon it will be time to rest and dream. 
 The home stretch quickly made, — 
 .' Whoa, Dapple, whoa!" 
 
 MY FRIEND AND I. 
 
 My friend and I — two souls agreed — 
 
 His way I take as he doth lead. 
 Or in some path he may not know. 
 He follows me, and thus we go. 
 And mutual honor we concede. 
 
 My friend hath moods, ah strong indeed. 
 
 As if an autocrat decreed 
 
 -© 
 
SB 
 
 572 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE. 
 
 Born: Somerset Co., Me., May 25, 1839. 
 Mrs. Cooke is a resident of Oeonto, Wis., 
 where her liusbaud is a iiurserymuii and 
 farmer. Since her twentieth year the pro- 
 
 MKS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE. 
 
 ductions of this lady liave appeared more or 
 less in the periodical press. In 1888 she pub- 
 lished, in conjunction with Mrs. Julia Ellen 
 Jenkins, a neat volume of poems entitled 
 Memories, a work that has been well and 
 favorably received. 
 
 5(- 
 
 DROPS OF DEW. 
 
 Radiant spark of trembling- liglit. 
 
 Little silver spray ; 
 The spear of knot grass' shining bright 
 
 In gorgeous array. 
 As diamond bright it does entrance, 
 
 Tlie various rays combine. 
 Garnet and topas at a glance. 
 
 With violets do entwine. 
 
 Yes, there's tlie ruby's clearest hue, 
 
 And amethyst so gay. 
 And s;ippliires ever cluiiiging- too, 
 
 Tlic cineraUl; but stay. 
 It all in one bright rainbow seems, 
 
 Atid by the breezes tossed. 
 Like sudden gleams on life's dark stream. 
 
 Is quickly, strarig-ely lost. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 Indian summer's g-olden days, 
 
 Tho' the leaves are sere and brown. 
 The lonely heart now breathes thy praise, 
 
 Blue-crested jays scream thy renown. 
 Oil! blest incensed reviving- air; 
 
 Than balmy June's most perfumed flower, 
 That lines the walks, thou art more fair, 
 
 Indian summer's golden hours. 
 Indian summer's golden hours. 
 
 How soft thy breeze o'er smoky hill. 
 Bears autumn leaves and wrecks of flowers, 
 
 Ere winters breath comes cold and chill. 
 I love thy tints, thy sweet perfume. 
 
 Thy dimmest ray, thy loudest tone; 
 Thy voiceless morn, thy mellow moon, 
 
 Indian summer's golden day. 
 
 MRS. ROSALINE E. JONES. 
 
 Born: Sparta, Ind., Mav 7, 1846. 
 For the past ten years Mrs. Jones has written 
 numerous poems that have appeared in the 
 leading periodicals in the east. She was mar- 
 ried in 1870, and now resides with her husband 
 in Geneva, N. Y. 
 
 IN THE GLOAMING. 
 
 When the earth lies steeped in dreams. 
 And the glinting starlight beams 
 
 On the mist; 
 Mystic speech of elfln sprite, 
 Through the awesome hush of night 
 
 Lisp, "Olist." 
 And I hear the whisperous murmur 
 Of the lullabies of summer 
 
 Softly croon. 
 While the owl hoots his reflections 
 In lugubrious inflections 
 
 To the moon. 
 All the night creatures uncanny 
 Sally forth from nook and craiuiy 
 
 Bosk and fen, 
 For their nightly reconnoiter. 
 Where the .somber shadows loiter 
 
 In the glen. 
 Now a dusky bat flops thither. 
 And a beetle hit^s him hither 
 
 With a thump; 
 And a whippoorwill is singinjr 
 Where the woodbine's arms are clinging 
 
 Round a stump. 
 O this night! Howc'erl crave it 
 Thougli I try I cannot save it 
 
 Or bring back 
 Bat or beetle, owl or moon. 
 Unless in a grim cartoon 
 
 On a plaque. 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 573 
 
 * 
 
 ROBERT HUNTER FENTON. 
 
 Bokn: Peekskill, N.Y., March 7, 1847. 
 Since an infant Mr. Fenton has resided in 
 Nyack, New York, wliere he is now emploj'ed 
 most of the time in local newspaper work. 
 His poems have appeared in mag'nzines and 
 
 '^ 
 
 ROBERT HUNTER FENTON. 
 
 miscellaneous publications, and he has writ- 
 ten several hymns for public celebrations. As 
 a poet the compositions of Mr. Fenton exhibit 
 more talent tiian genius, and are written in 
 widely different measure and style. 
 
 THE THRUSH. 
 
 Sweet is the song that tlie l)rown thrush sings. 
 
 From its lofty seat 'midst the forest gloom; 
 Sweeter by far than tlie notes that ring 
 
 From other songsters of brighter plume. 
 The oriole flits through the blossoms white. 
 
 Displaying its beauty and flaunting its 
 pride. 
 And the jay with its colors so blue and bright. 
 
 Disports on the hills, and the mountain side. 
 They sing in their season, so full of clieer:— 
 
 The chippy its paradise song of spring. 
 And the robin calling so loud and clear. 
 
 And the bluebird warbling while on the 
 wing. 
 
 But sweeter than all is this minstrel fair 
 Which keeps in the loneliness of the wood. 
 
 And sings in the purple twiliglit there. 
 Its harp-like anthem of solitude. 
 
 NYACK. 
 
 Oh fair and quiet village, peacefully 
 
 Thou lyest by the Hudson's noble stream. 
 While art and nature blend their charms in 
 thee. 
 
 And all the prospect doth with beauty teem ; 
 
 No spot on eartli is worthier for a theme. 
 For where doth lands more beautiful appear! 
 
 Not e'en Arcadia of the poet's dream 
 Hath fairer scenes the human heart to cheer. 
 For each fair season bears its phase of beauty 
 here. 
 
 The spring returns and spreads her robes of 
 green. 
 And summer follows, lingering long until 
 The amaranth of autumn crowns the scene. 
 And doth the landscape with new glories 
 
 fill; 
 Then winter comes — stern winter, when the 
 rill 
 Is ice-bound and all nature sleeps in white; 
 Still fair the prospect seems o'er town and 
 hill. 
 And by the river side, 'neath floods of light. 
 And o'er the cheerful scene there cometh not 
 one blight. 
 
 No storms have swept thee with a ruthless 
 hand. 
 Nor war nor pestilence dealt dire dismay: 
 So long a favored latitude — a land 
 Protected by kind Providence each day; 
 While nature's warring hosts may press 
 their way 
 Through other lands with havoc, dealing 
 woe,— 
 The cyclone or the earthquake, far away. 
 Or simoons that o'er desert gardens flow; 
 Of these and kindred ills thy people do not 
 know. 
 
 Go out upon the waters, or across 
 The bosom of the river wide, and there 
 
 Look on the prospect that extends, or pause 
 On distant hill tops, if you will, or where 
 The panorama may appear most fair; 
 
 But let no vision tluis th.v heart delude. 
 Thinking that all is perfect, for a share 
 
 Of earthly ills do even here intrude. 
 
 For sorrow comes, alas, and deatli with hand 
 most rude. 
 
 And if, with nearer view, all hearts did seem 
 
 As perfect as the scenes that here repose, 
 'Twould be a paradise beyond life's dream — 
 
 A favored realm e.xempt from human woes; 
 
 But wheresoever nature thus bestows 
 Her choicest gifts the serpent's trail is found; 
 
 In human hearts the imperfection shows. 
 And elements of evil there abound 
 That veils the spirit's sight to that which dotli 
 surround. 
 
 © 
 
I 574 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 LEWIS LAMAR. 
 
 BOKN : BUKKITTSVILLE, Md., 1838. 
 
 THIS gentleman taught school for six years 
 during- which time he prepared himself for 
 colleo-e For two years he was school com- 
 mi-sLner. In ISHT Mr. Lamar graduated m 
 
 Along the track he'll bring us hack, 
 The many precious things we lack. 
 Now ..Van " may " Winkle " in his bed 
 And dormant lie, appearing dead; 
 The fogy croak and shake his head. 
 And tell us what grand-daddy said. 
 The days of steam are drawing nigh. 
 Our trudging days are passing by, 
 Tlie iron horse is coming through. 
 His freighted train will soon be due. 
 T he iron horse is all the talk ; 
 We should not cease or make a balk, 
 But help along with friendly ties. 
 This great and public enterprise. 
 
 He'll never come, the iron horse. 
 
 Unless we shall his way endorse; 
 
 Unless we take sufficient stock. 
 
 He'll far away our wishes mock. 
 Cho.— The iron horse is halting now. 
 
 And we are trudging, trudging how 
 
 LEWIS LAMAR. 
 
 Starling medical college of Columbus. Ohio. 
 In 18T4 and 1875 Mr. Lamar was a member in 
 the legislature of Maryland. Since that time 
 he has been actively engaged in the practice 
 of medicine, and is now located at WolfsviUe, 
 in his native state^ 
 
 THE IKON HORSE. 
 
 The iron horse is coming sure. 
 Our plodding days will soon be o'er: 
 The engineer has gone before. 
 To mark the way and make it sure, 
 Cho.— The iron lior.se is coming sure. 
 
 Our plodding days will soon be o'er. 
 With hoofs of steel, and iron-bound. 
 
 He's coming sure to Middletown; 
 
 There's work around for evermore 
 
 And feed enough for him in store. 
 
 If business fly, or pleasure hie. 
 
 Alike his best endeavors try ; 
 
 If pressed with heavy loads, or light, 
 
 IHe moves along in brave delight. 
 To better markets swiftly bear 
 Our noble products, rich and fair; 
 
 m 
 
 THE OLD COVERED BRIDGE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The covered bridge is travel-worn 
 
 By massive loads across it borne. 
 
 It's sidings once were new and fair. 
 
 But time has wrought its mischief there. 
 
 The oaken floor on duty there, 
 
 A storv tells of age and wear; 
 
 Its sill is patched, and here and there 
 
 Are seen rude traces of repair. 
 
 Those rudely cut, initials show 
 
 The rustic hand of years ago. 
 
 Its aged sides a'-e pencil-lined 
 
 With diagrams the oddest kind 
 
 On frame and gabe' and everywhere 
 
 Are seen the marks of age and wear; 
 
 And on its ragged hulk appears 
 
 The gathered dust of many years. 
 
 Its high and handy walls aB'ord 
 
 A ready advertising board. 
 
 And gaudy bills are posted thickly 
 
 To fool the green and fleece the sickly; 
 
 There quack' ry makes a great display. 
 
 It don't •> verstehen," but quacks away. 
 
 Unblushingly. for gain and pay. 
 
 And basely barters life away. 
 
 How merrily tin- light and gay 
 
 Have trii>pe(l across it tunnel way. 
 
 And loving once have lingered there. 
 
 Perchance the envied kiss to share. 
 
 And little feet have pattered through 
 
 This bridge so trusty aud so true; 
 
 The halt and bli.ui. oppressed and poor 
 
 Have freely crossed its dusty floor. 
 
 This bridge has *een year after year 
 
 The emerald hue of s)>ring appear. 
 
 And summer full of Hfe and cheer. 
 
 As well as autumn, brown and sere: 
 
©- 
 
 -m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 SALLIE CARSON. 
 
 Born: Beaver Co., Pa., March 13, 1847. 
 Having taught school successfully for one 
 term, failing health forlxide further effort iu 
 that direction, and early in life Miss Carson 
 became a great sufferer and a confirmed in- 
 valid. Siie bravely took up the burden of 
 life, and her uncomplaining active ways and 
 sweet christian spirit have won tor her many 
 friends. When scarcely in her teens this lady 
 
 i>ALLlE CAKSO^. 
 
 began to write poems of more than ordinary 
 merit, and she has since contributed to the 
 Pittsburgh Post, Telegraph, Philadelphia 
 Commonwealth, and other periodicals of 
 equal prominence. In 1880 she issued a 
 volume of her select poems entitled Wayside 
 Flowers. She still resides with her father's 
 family, now located at Beaver Falls. In per- 
 son she is of the average height but rather 
 slonder,brown hair and eyes of brownish gray- 
 
 i^- 
 
 IN MEMORY'S FAIRY HALLS. 
 
 Not dimly Ijurns the lamp to-night 
 
 111 Memory's fairy halls. 
 That gilds with such a liallowed light 
 
 Each picture on the walls. 
 Where olden scenes a freshness wear 
 
 It thrills the heart to see; 
 Where faces fair with beauty rare. 
 
 Are smiling down on me. 
 
 And wliile I ponder here alone. 
 
 Rich music greets my ear; 
 I list to each familiar lone 
 
 I once so loved to hear; 
 What hidden power thus voice can lend 
 
 Unto this old-time throng. 
 Till notes of friend and lover blend 
 
 In sweet, melodious song';r' 
 
 Her magic touch let Fancy boast, 
 
 And smile at sober thought; 
 The imagery that charms us most. 
 
 Not Fancy's hand haili wrought; 
 Her pencil is not skilled to trace 
 
 A scene of bygone years: 
 Nor paint with grace each vanislied face 
 
 That here to-night appears. 
 'Tis Memory to the raptured gaze 
 
 Can thus the past unfold. 
 Till form and face of other days, 
 
 All perfect, we behold; 
 And pictured lips that deck her walls 
 
 Breathe music soft and low; 
 Each strain that falls within her halls — 
 
 A song of long ago. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 " After the storm a calm," they say; 
 
 The winds may blow, and the rain may pour, 
 But we wait for the light of a golden day 
 When the rifted clouds shall drift away. 
 
 And, after the rain, return no more. 
 In the time of battle we look above, 
 
 Through mist and heavy smoke, for we know 
 With the olive-branch, from the land of love, 
 Shall come the beautiful white-winged dove. 
 
 And peace shall reign in the world below. 
 Each heart has a trial scene in life. 
 
 When good angels whisper, "Be patient, 
 endure," 
 Till the tempest is stilled, and the bitter strife. 
 And 'mid the loud din and discord rife, 
 
 .. Be silent, and keep your garments pure." 
 
 A SUMMER REVERIE. 
 
 The gentle summer breezes bear 
 
 On their soft wings a ricli perfume. 
 Fresh from the fragrant gardens where 
 
 The sweetest roses bud and bloom. 
 All nature wears a smiling face, 
 
 As, robed anew in gorgeous dress. 
 With queenly air and modest grace, 
 
 She blushes in her loveliness. 
 The birds in yonder forest now 
 
 In gladsome chorus blithely sing; 
 And from the waving, leafy bough 
 
 Ascends their simple offering. 
 Fair childhood, full of playful glee. 
 
 The meadow roams, and woodland wild; 
 
 ® 
 
© 
 
 576 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. S. L. B. MCFARLAND. 
 
 Born: Halifax, Pa., April 12, 1839. 
 The poems of Mrs. McFarland have appeared 
 in the Harrisburg- Patriot and Telegraph, and 
 the periodical press generally. She was mar- 
 ried in 1860 to C. E. McFarland, secretary of 
 the 46th Pa. V. V. Infantry at Halifax, where 
 
 MRS. SARAH L. B. MFAHLAND. 
 
 she still resides. Personally Mrs. McFarland 
 is ratlier small in stature, but a little robust, 
 with black hair and brown eyes. She is well 
 known and greatly admired for her many ac- 
 complishments among her many friends and 
 acquaintances. 
 
 SONG OF THE SPARROW. 
 
 The sparrow sang as fleeing night. 
 Gave place to morning's dawning light- 
 Heralding gleams of sunshine bright. 
 
 Sweet! sweet! 
 Unmindful all of ice or snow. 
 From bough to bough they fluttering go, 
 Ever one song still twittering low : 
 
 Sweet! sweet! 
 Oh ! winds of March, yotir biting blasts. 
 The sparrows tt'l! of winter j)ast; 
 They sing to us of spring at last: 
 
 Sweet! sweet! 
 Brown earth so cold and snow-clad hill. 
 Ice-bound river and rippling rill. 
 The tuneful sjjarrow singing still: 
 
 Sweet! sweet I 
 
 Oh ! souls bowed down with earthly care. 
 New buds spring forth fresh fruit to bear. 
 New burdens take, new dangers dare. 
 
 Sweet! sweet! 
 Each sorrow brings its strengthening grace, 
 That earth may seem a fairer place, 
 To those who do life's burdens face, 
 
 Sweet! sweet! 
 Oh ! tiny bird with dark brown-wing. 
 Teach ever thus my lips to sing, 
 And nearer to my God to cling. 
 
 Sweet! sweet! 
 
 WHEN THE EVENING SHADOWS 
 LENGTHEN. 
 When the evening shadows lengthen, 
 
 And th' weary day is almost done; 
 Then on the fainting soul to strengthen. 
 
 So sweetly gleams the setting sun. 
 Lights all the hills with gorgeous splendor, 
 
 Aud makes earth-life like dreamland seem, 
 While brilliant clouds reflect the grandeur 
 
 That on the glowing waters beam. 
 The gay world seems fading from our view — 
 
 All its cares and tempting pleasures; 
 Eagerly we grasp with faith anew. 
 
 The Master's heavenly treasures. 
 Whilst heaven's portals widely open. 
 
 As we thus stand in glad amaze; 
 Behold of love divine the token 
 
 Greets again our wandering gaze. 
 And the heart doth thrill to hopes new-born, 
 
 At glimpses fair of better life. 
 No more by dread fear the spirit's torn. 
 
 Stern witness of an Inward strife. 
 To the wounded soul it bringeth balm. 
 
 And this life's terrors vanish all. 
 For the wearers of the victors palm. 
 Who calmly wait the Master's call. 
 
 SB- 
 
 MRS. S. J. STEVENS. 
 
 Born : Belfast, Me., July 17, 1839. 
 Mrs. Stevens has written quite a few poems 
 for the Boston Morning Star. Tliis lady re- 
 sides in Troy, Me., where she is very jiopular. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 She prayed for death's long dreamless sleep. 
 Beneath tlie ereen turf, cold and deep. 
 To rest from grief and ceaseless pain. 
 Her aching heart and weary brain. 
 The voice of song that hearts had thrilled. 
 In cruel sorrow now was stilled. 
 Her cheeks, once bright with beauty's glow, 
 Were white and cold as winter's snow. 
 Her pale, sweet lips, so pure and fair. 
 Are breathing now their evening pr:iyer, 
 The moonbeams bathe her pillowed brow. 
 Her heart In dreamland wanders now. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IER1CA. 
 
 -« 
 
 CHARLES ANDERSON DANA. 
 
 Born : Hinsdale, N H., Aug. 8, 1819. 
 The boyhood of Charles was spent in Buffalo, 
 where he worked in d store until he was eigh- 
 teen years of age. The jouruahstic life of Mr. 
 Dana has been an active one. Perhaps, to a 
 greater e.\tcat than in the case of any other 
 conspicuous journalist, Mr. Dana's personality 
 
 CHARLES ANDERSON DANA. 
 
 is identified in the public niind with the news- 
 paper that he edits — the New York Sun. 
 
 In 1843 he became a member of the Brook 
 Farm association, being associated with George 
 and Sophia Ripley, George WiUiam Curtis, 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, Theodore Parker, Willi- 
 am Henry Channing, John Sullivan Dwight, 
 Margaret Fuller, and other philosophers more 
 or less directly concerned in the remarkable 
 attempt to reaUze at Roxbury a high ideal of 
 social and inteUectual life. 
 
 Mr. Dana was assistant secretary of war in 
 1863, and was in the saddle much of the time 
 during the campaigns of northern Mississippi 
 and Vicksburg, the rescue of Chattanooga, and 
 the marches and battles of Virginia in 1864- 
 65. Mr. Dana has written numerous works. He 
 planned and edited The American Cyclope- 
 dia, which has since been revised and issued 
 in a work of sixteen volumes. In 1868 he wrote, 
 with Gen. James H.Wilson, a Life of Ulysses S. 
 Grant, and in 1883 edited Fifty Perfect Poems. 
 He has also contributed to and edited numer- 
 ous miscellaneous works. 
 
 ETERNITY. 
 Utter no whisper of thy human speech. 
 But in celestial silence let us tell 
 Of the great waves of G<^d that through us 
 
 swell. 
 Revealing what no tongue could ever teach; 
 Break not the omnipotent calm, even by a 
 
 prayer, 
 Filled with Infinite, seek no lesser boon; 
 But with these pines, and with the all-loving 
 
 moon, 
 Asking naught, yield thee to the Only Fair: 
 So shall these moments so divine and rare. 
 These passing moments of the soul's high noon, 
 Be of thy day the first pale blush of morn ; 
 Clad in white raiment of God's newly born. 
 Thyself shalt see when the great world is made 
 That flows forever forth from Love unstayed. 
 
 HERZLIEBSTE. 
 My love for thee hath grown as grow the flow- 
 ers. 
 Earthly at first, fast rooted in the earth. 
 Yet, with the promise of a better birth. 
 Putting forth shoots of newly- wakened powers. 
 Tender green hopes, dreams which no God 
 
 makes ours; 
 And then the stalk, fitted life's frosts to bear, 
 To brave the wildest tempest's wildest art. 
 The immovable resolution of the heart 
 Ready and armed a world of ills to dare; 
 And then the flower, fairest of things most 
 
 fair. 
 The flower divine of love imperishable. 
 That seeth in thee the sum of things that are. 
 That hath no eye for aught mean or unstable. 
 But ever trustful, ever prayerful, fecleth 
 The mysteries the Holy Ghost revealeth. 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 Dear, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest. 
 For like a god toiling in earthly slavery. 
 Fronting thy sad fate with a joyous bravery. 
 Each darker day a sunnier smile thou wearest. 
 No grief can touch thy sweet and spiritual 
 
 smile. 
 No pain is keen enough that it has power 
 Over thy childlike love, that all the while 
 LTpon the cold earth builds its heavenly bower. 
 And thus with thee bright angels make their 
 
 dwelling. 
 Bringing thee stores of strength when no man 
 
 knoweth ; 
 The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swell- 
 ing. 
 That forth through each least thing in Nature 
 
 goeth , 
 In thee, O truest hero, deeper floweth; 
 With joy I bathe, and many souls beside 
 Feel a new life in the celestial tide. 
 
 « 
 
JULIA CAROLINE R. DORR. 
 
 born: Charleston, S. C. Feb. 13, 1835. 
 IN 1847 tbis writer married Seneca R. Dorr, who 
 did in 1884. Mrs. Dorr has written smoe child- 
 h^V but her first published poem was sent to 
 thTunl Magazin^e by her husband without 
 h^. knowledge, a year or t^^o-ner^^^^ 
 riao-e la 1848 she became a contiibutor to 
 Sartains Magazine, aud won one of its hun- 
 dreSar prizes by her first published prose 
 ?ale Isabel Leslie. She has written numerous 
 noveis and several volumes of verse, among 
 which Xht be mentioned Friar Anselm and 
 mher Poems, Bermuda, and Afternoon Songs^ 
 She hafalso contributed both prose and poetry 
 to various periodicals. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 O wind that blows out of the West! 
 
 Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, 
 Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings 
 
 The breath of my love to me? 
 O sun that goes down in the West! 
 Hast thou seen my love to-day, 
 As she sits in her beautiful prime 
 
 Under skies so far away? 
 O stars that are bright in the West 
 
 When the hush of the night is deep! 
 Do ye see my love as she lies 
 
 Like a chaste, white flower, asleep? 
 
 DISCONTENT. 
 
 THE BRIER ROSE. 
 
 I cling to the garden wall 
 
 Outside, where the grasses grow: 
 Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun, 
 
 And the vellow mulleins blow. 
 The dock and the thistle crowd 
 
 Close to my shrinking feet, 
 
 And the gypsy yarrow shares 
 
 My cup and the food I eat. 
 
 The rude winds toss my hair. 
 
 The wild rains beat me down, 
 The way-side dust lies white 
 
 And thick on my leafy crown. 
 I cannot keep my robes 
 
 From wanton fingers free, 
 And the veriest beggar dares 
 
 To stop and gaze at me. 
 Sometimes I climb and climb 
 
 To the top of the garden wall. 
 And I see her where slie stands. 
 
 Stately and fair and tall — 
 My sister, the red, red Rose, 
 
 My sister, the royal one. 
 
 The fairest flower that blows 
 
 Under the summer sun! 
 
 What wonder that she is fair? 
 
 What wonder that she is sweet? 
 The treasures of earth and air 
 
 Lie at her dainty feet: 
 The choicest fare is hers. 
 
 Her cup is brimmed with wine; 
 Rich are her emerald robes. 
 
 And her bed is soft and fine. 
 
 She need not Uf t her head 
 
 Even to sip the dew; 
 No rude touch makes her shrink 
 
 The whole long summer through. 
 Her servants do her will : 
 
 They come at her beck and call. 
 Oh, rare is life in my lady's bowers 
 
 Inside of the garden wall. 
 
 THE GARDEN ROSE. 
 
 The garden path runs east. 
 
 And the garden path runs west: 
 There's a tree by the garden gate. 
 
 And a little bird in a nest. 
 It sings and sings and sings! 
 
 Does the bird, I wonder, know 
 How, pver the garden wall. 
 
 The bright days come and go? 
 
 The garden path runs north. 
 
 The garden path runs south; 
 The brown bee hums in the sun. 
 
 And kisses the lily's mouth; 
 But it flies away ere long 
 
 To the birch-tree dark and tall. 
 What do you find, O brown bee, 
 
 Over the garden wall? 
 With rough and farthingale. 
 Under the gardener's eye. 
 In trimmest guise I stand - 
 
 Oh, who so fine as I? 
 But even the light wind knows 
 
 That it may not pla)- with me. 
 Nor touch my beautiful lips 
 
 With a wild caress and free. 
 Oh, straight is the garden path. 
 
 And smooth is the garden bed. 
 Where never an idle weed 
 
 Dares lift its careless head. 
 But I know outside the wall 
 
 Th(>>' gather, a merry throng: 
 They dance and flutter and sing,- 
 
 And I listen all day long. 
 The Brier Rose swings outside; 
 Sometimes she climbs so high 
 I (;an see her sweet, pink face 
 
 Against the blue of the sky. 
 WluU wonder that she is fair. 
 
 Whom no strait bonds enthrall/ 
 Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose. 
 Outside of the garden wall! 
 
 ft 
 
«- 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 579 
 
 MRS. GRACIA SOUTHWORTH 
 
 Born: Worcester Co., Mass., Aug. 6, 1833. 
 When nineteen j'ears of age she removed 
 with her parents to Jackson, Michig-an, where 
 she taught scliool for several years. At the 
 age of twenty-two Gracie was married to N. 
 W. Soutiiwortli. Slie still pursues her litti:i- 
 
 <.l:-\( 1 \. V '-ol IIIWUHTH. 
 
 ry pursuits in a quiet way, and both iier prose 
 and verse have appeared quite extensively in 
 the periodical press. Her oldest daughter, 
 EmmaL. South worth, has received a classical 
 education, and is a graceful writer of hoth 
 prose and verse. Mrs. Southwortli lives with 
 her husband on a farm at Albion, Michigan. 
 
 AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
 The Autunm winds are wailing. 
 Sadly wailing as they pass. 
 The autumn leaves are sailing 
 To tlie sere and withered grass; 
 The cliilling frost hath blighted 
 The wealth of summer's bloom. 
 And the torch that Love hath lighted. 
 Burns dim in the Soldier's home. 
 The Soldier's home is lonely. 
 When the shades of evening spread, 
 And the Soldier's little children 
 Lie down in their trundle-bed; 
 They miss a father's fond caress, 
 They miss a father's care: 
 " Keep safe dear absent pa to-night," 
 They lisj) at their evening prayer. 
 
 The Soldier's wife. Heaven help her. 
 
 Her heavy load to bear. 
 
 For on her brow and heart is pressed 
 
 Tiie heavy weight of care; 
 
 And anxiou.s, sleepless nights are hers, 
 
 When hope gives place to fears; 
 
 And the sanguine strife, and battle-cries 
 
 Are ringing in her ears. 
 
 The autumn moon is sliining 
 Fi'om out a southern sky; 
 Its rays illume the tented field. 
 And the dear flag floating nigh; 
 It shines on the northern Soldie:- 
 Pacing his weary beat; 
 He is thinking of home. 
 His eye grow moist 
 With memories sad and sweet. 
 
 Within his heart is pictured 
 His northern home to-night; 
 The image of all the dear ones. 
 Love keeps it ever bright. 
 The children in the trundle-bed. 
 The cradle with its sleeping fair. 
 The lonely wife with fear oppressed 
 Bending beneath a weight of caue. 
 The autumn moon is shining. 
 And hope will its rays impart: 
 The cloud " liath a silver lining," 
 That presseth the weary heart; 
 It speaks of a bright to-morrow. 
 When this cruel war shall cease. 
 Of dear ones returned in safety, 
 Of Victory and Peace. 
 
 GIFTED. 
 A wondrous gift is tliine my child, 
 A wondrous gift is thine; 
 Within thy woman's grasp is placed 
 A Harp from Hand Divine. 
 A harp whose chords when rightly swept. 
 Attuned with skillful art. 
 Hath power to touch the secret springs 
 That move the human heart. 
 And thine the power to wake the tones 
 Of sweetest melody : 
 To breathe the spirit's purest thought 
 In tuneful harmony. 
 O! better far this gift of thine 
 Than gold or diadem. 
 Or treasure from the ocean depth, 
 Of pearl or costly gem. 
 O ! use aright this gift divine. 
 And let its numbers roll 
 Of all that helps humanity 
 And elevates the soul ; 
 And when within the " pearly gates " 
 The "golden liarp " is given. 
 Thy song begun in weakness here 
 Shall be complete in heaven. 
 
 -m 
 
8B- 
 
 '580 
 
 -® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. E. H. WEBSTER. 
 
 Born: 1822. 
 This lady is the autlior of Clover Blossoms, a 
 well written and entertaining volume of 
 
 
 .i- 
 
 M 
 
 MRS. ELIZAISKTII llKIXii: WEBSTi;!!. 
 
 poetry and prose. Her poems have constant- 
 ly appeared in some of the leading- magazines. 
 Mrs. Webster resides in Hyde Park, Mass. 
 
 ® 
 
 WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR? 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 " Who is my neighbor? Not the one 
 
 Who best may please my foolish heart; 
 Nor yet the wise and good alone 
 
 Who in my love and joy bear part. 
 Perchance the poor, the low, or vile 
 
 My steps may pass and kindness need; 
 Such is my neighbor as myself to love. 
 
 The naked clothe, the hungry feed. 
 
 OUR DEPARTED HEROES. 
 Not in the moldering ground below. 
 
 Do our dead heroes lie; 
 But in the glowing spirit-land 
 
 Where they can never die. 
 The Howers we drop, the tears we shed, 
 
 Memorials of our lost. 
 Bring sadly to oui' burdened hearts 
 
 Their fearful price and cost. 
 But, slain in freedom's holy cause 
 
 We may not mourn their loss; 
 
 For not a good of precious worth 
 
 Has been without its cross. 
 The freedom which the black man shares 
 
 Will yet be given all; 
 And male and female. Gentile, Jew, 
 
 Respond to freedom's call. 
 
 MRS. SARAH S.CONVERSE. 
 
 Born : Corinth, Vt., 1825. 
 In 1857 this lady was married to Hon. P. M. 
 Converse of Lyme, N. H., where she has ever 
 since resided. Mrs Converse has written for 
 a large number of newspapers and magazines, 
 and still contributes to the Boston Morning 
 Star, and other prominent publications. 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 If with the lowest station. 
 
 The heai't contented be. 
 Could happiness be added 
 
 By wealth of land or sea? 
 Than blest contentment in the breast. 
 Can mortal here know sweeter rest? 
 The poor man with this jewel. 
 
 Views with most sweet delight. 
 Earth's thousand varied beauties. 
 
 That daily greet the sight. 
 And blesses God with sunny face. 
 His lines have fallen in pleasant place. 
 He calls his home an Eden, — 
 
 Adores the God who reigns. 
 Nor knows the sting of envy. 
 
 But joys in others' gains; 
 Of beauteous things his eyes may see. 
 He claims all these were made for rae. 
 Yet wealth, with few exceptions. 
 
 From man this treasure steals. 
 Draws from life's cup the elixir. 
 
 And spring of love congeals; 
 Self-love and hate being the evil eye 
 That darkens all of earth and sky. 
 O, great the curse that follows 
 
 Increase of shining ore. 
 When that within the bosom. 
 
 Begets a, thirst for more. 
 To kindle rivalry and strife, 
 
 And wither uj) the blooms of life. 
 Wealth may give place and power,— 
 
 Let who will for it pine. 
 And heaven bestows its honors. 
 
 On other heads than mine.— 
 I ask no idol to control 
 And sap the warm currents of the soul. 
 B:t grant me, O Most Holy, 
 
 The bliss content ment Virings, 
 And let me taste the blessing 
 
 Of joy in humblest things. 
 And prove how glorious to jiossess 
 Contentment sweet with godliness. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 581 
 
 KIMBx\LL CHASE TAPLEY. 
 
 Born in Canada. 
 By profession Mr. Taploy is a telegraph oper- 
 ator, but that work being- too confluiug- he is 
 at present a steamboat agent. Under the 
 nom de plume of Casey Tap this writer lias 
 
 KIMUALL CHASE TAPl.EY. 
 
 contributed, in addition to his many poems, 
 numerous prose articles of a humorous nature 
 to Pecks Sun, Tidbits and other papers. The 
 poems of Mv. Tapley have been very favor- 
 ably received. 
 
 *■ 
 
 GETTIN' ALONG. 
 
 A'though it eums 'long- ev'ry year. 
 It alius makes me feel that queer 
 An' sort o' juicy round the eyes — 
 The time, I mean, when dead leaves flies. 
 Air when the birds hez lost ther tune. 
 An" when the dark draps down too soon. 
 An' througli the boughs an' all erlong 
 The road, the wind its dismal song- 
 Jes' kind o' howls an' kicks up tricks 
 With all the crisped-up leaves an' sticks, 
 An' flings the dust right in yer eyes; 
 An' wlien the dull clouds heavy lies 
 Acrost the sky an' makes you tliink 
 The ()k> year's jes' beg-un ter sink — 
 Wall, that's erbout the time o' year 
 I alius feel so kind o' queer! 
 The summer days hez up an' fled. 
 An' most the trees is painted red; 
 
 The jay-bird's stopped his little tlute 
 An' skipped ofl' in his bed-tick suit; 
 The lily's head hez drapped down low 
 As o'er it now the ciiill streams flow, 
 An' through the air a suddint quack 
 Cums tellin' us the wil'-<luck"s back. 
 The hick'ry nuts drap off the trees 
 An' makes a feller think he sees 
 The woods a-sheddin' of ther tears 
 A-thinkin' of the passin' years; 
 'Cos when the wind blows s'rill an' cold 
 A feller feels he's g-rowin' old; 
 He's sorj; o' juicy round the eyes — 
 The time, I mean, when dead leaves flies! 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 To-day the wind blows bleak and chill. 
 
 The sun is hid behind the mist. 
 But, with the morn, each dale and liill 
 
 Shall with his glad'ning- beams be kissed — 
 And so, my dear, cheer up — you'll find 
 Each sombre cloud is silver lined. 
 The harp, to-day, twangs out of tune. 
 
 And mournful sound the piper's notes. 
 But soon the birds of em'rald June 
 
 Shall thrill the air from joyous throats. 
 And warm shall blow the scented wind — 
 Each sombre cloud is silver lined. 
 To-day the heart feels fraug-ht with woe. 
 
 And keen-pronged thorns lie in the way, 
 But as the Spring's breath melts the snow. 
 
 E'en so our sorrows go, aud gay 
 And peaceful soars each troubled mind — 
 Each sombre cloud is silver lined. 
 So, in my humble key, my dear, 
 
 I sing- to you of coming days. 
 And bid you in your heart take cheer 
 
 And watch the star-gleams thro' the haze; 
 For, though to-day the sun's unkind, 
 Each sombre cloud is silver lined. 
 
 HER GRAVE'S GREEN SIDE. 
 
 When standing by her grave's green side, 
 Methinks I see the patient face. 
 And hear that voice that gave no trace 
 Of suff'ring in th' unecjual race, 
 . And hear her sigh and say " good-bye! " 
 
 When standing by her grave's green side. 
 
 Why should the grave, O, Lord, divide 
 Two loyal hearts? Ah. why not take 
 Both to their liome and soothe the ache 
 Of one that mourns for lier dear sake? 
 Comes no reply save a deep sigh. 
 
 When standing by her grave's green side. 
 
 As strives a bark 'gainst wind and tide. 
 E'en so doth strive tliis struggling heart 
 Against the throbs tliat thro' it dart 
 And leave behind tiieir piercing smart. 
 
 m 
 
*- 
 
 682 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SAMUEL E.LOWRY. 
 
 Born: West Salem, Ohio, Aug. 23, 1863 
 The poems of Mr. Lowry have appeared in the 
 Toledo Blad 
 periodical i 
 
 Kvaujielical Messenger and the 
 iiuTalij\ He follows the 
 
 SAMUEL, E. LOWRY. 
 
 occupation of farming in his native county. 
 Mr. Lowry is of very fine stature, black haij', 
 brown eyes, and still remains unmarried. 
 
 SI- 
 
 HOME. 
 How blessed the home, where all is accord, 
 
 Where true love reigns as the household 
 queen. 
 And no look of distrust, or unkind word 
 
 From its loved ones ever is heard or seen. 
 The patii to its threshold I fain would tread, 
 
 Witli quickening step and a joyful mind ; 
 With its low bent roof above my head. 
 
 The rest of tiie world is left behind. 
 The cheerful cottage with inmates fair; 
 
 The cosy hearth and clean swept Hoor; 
 The smiles of a loved one waiting there 
 
 To welcome me when the day is o'er. 
 These are more than the crowded lialls. 
 
 Where splendor glitters on all around; 
 Where fashion sports, while virtue falls. 
 
 And the gay-clad trip to the giddy sound 
 Oil, the humble home! the happy home! 
 
 No place on earth has a stronger claim 
 
 Than the spot beneath its friendly roof, 
 Ai'ound the hearth with its glowing flame. 
 
 There love is found to comfort and cheer; 
 And the richest blessings of life may come— 
 
 Angels of heaven are hovering near 
 To guard the peace of the christian home. 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 Life is a constant transformation, 
 A process of change and new creation ; 
 A mingling of new life with old decay, 
 Tiie prospect that allures to-day. 
 To-morrow may vanish into air; 
 And out of the depths of dark despair 
 May spring a hope that will lead the soul 
 Onward and upward to the goal. 
 The way to fame and fortune's ground 
 
 Is paved not with blossoms and flowers fair. 
 But with many a weary stepping stone 
 
 Of sad disappointment, and burden, and 
 care. 
 
 PROSPECT AND RETROSPECT. 
 I look to the east 
 
 When the morning light 
 Has pierced the veil 
 
 Of the dismal night, 
 And I feast my soul 
 
 On the prospect sweet. 
 Of the accomplishments 
 
 Which I shall greet; 
 Of the labor light. 
 
 The reward to cheer. 
 And the joys so bright 
 
 That with day shall appear. 
 I look to the west 
 
 When the sun is set. 
 And my soul is wrung 
 
 With a sad regret. 
 I think of the anguish 
 
 And the labor hard; 
 Of the hopt's denied 
 
 And the ill reward; 
 And I sigh for rest 
 
 From my effoi'ts viiin, 
 And trust the morrow 
 
 For future gain. 
 So ever it is 
 
 In this world of strife, 
 And a day's experience 
 
 Tstliatof a life. 
 Though the morn be tilled 
 
 With a cheei-ing sense. 
 The evening appears 
 
 Without recompense, 
 And the .soul departs 
 
 With a cry of pain. 
 And trusts in God 
 
 For eternal gain. 
 
 — « 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 583 
 
 ■® 
 
 EDWARD FRANKLIN TABER 
 
 Born: Brooklyn, N.Y., Dec. 30, 1859. 
 Under the iiom de plume of B. Frank Liuta- 
 ber this writer has eoutributed poems quite 
 extensively to the leading- publications of 
 America, from wliich tliey liave been exten- 
 sively copied by the local press. He was ad- 
 mitted to the bar in 1887 and four months 
 
 EDWARD FKANKLIN TABEH. 
 
 later graduated with tiie degree of L. B. In 
 1887 Mr. Taber was married to Miss Bertha 
 May Cleveland of Brooklyn. For a time he was 
 sole editor and proprietor of The Long Island 
 Traveler, but in 1888 Mr. Taber resumed his 
 profession as examiner of real estate titles for 
 the Title Guarantee and Trust C^. of New 
 York and Brooklyn. 
 
 RETURNED WITH THANKS 
 '• Returned with thanks "—summed up in this 
 
 Is all of life's humilation. 
 The poet's blighted dream of bliss, 
 
 Tlie ruin of his avocation ; 
 'Tis sad to have them come amiss. 
 
 Those cliildren of our mind's creation 
 Whom flekle fortune fails to kiss 
 
 Or gladden with her approbation. 
 " Returned with thanks "— and yet my heart 
 
 Is throbbing with strange exultation. 
 Let those who ply the poet's art 
 
 Term this, my hope, infatuation; 
 I would not have it otherwise 
 
 Nor change with any in the nation, 
 For 'twas a witch with sweet blue eyc's 
 Returned with thanks — my osculation. 
 
 WOULDN'T YOU? 
 Her little hand was cold. 
 
 Her dainty fingers blue; 
 And so I held her little hand 
 
 And pressed it. Wouldn't you? 
 She hung her pretty head. 
 
 Her eyes were wet with dew; 
 I whispered something in her ear 
 
 To soothe her. Wouldn't you? 
 My arm stole 'round her waist, 
 
 Her fragile form I drew 
 Close up against my throbbing- heart; 
 
 I loved her! Wouldn't you? 
 Her darling little mouth 
 
 Said: "Don't!" I thought it "Do! " 
 And so upon her cherry lips 
 
 I kissed her. Wouldn't you? 
 And then I let her go. 
 
 Nor tried to make it two ; 
 If you were I, and she had eaten 
 
 Onions — wouldn't you? 
 
 FELICITY. 
 The cat sang on the back-yard fence. 
 
 Whence all but she had fled; 
 I seized my stock of common sense 
 
 And flung it at her head ; 
 I flung my best habiliments. 
 
 My chair, my feather-bed: 
 Yet still with passion quite intense. 
 With strange contorted lineaments, 
 Tliat cat sang on the back-yard fence 
 
 Whence all but she had fled. 
 I spake with strange grandiloquence, 
 
 In coaxing tones I plead; 
 My boots were gone, my last defence — 
 
 My Sunday hose— had sped; 
 All things, or petty or immense. 
 
 Found lodgment on the shed. 
 The feline wondered much from whence 
 They came; but still, with grief intense. 
 She sang upon the back-yard fence, 
 
 Wlience all but she had fled. 
 Slie roused two other residents,— 
 
 I oft liad wished them dead. 
 For they were music-loving "gents," 
 
 And dwelt abov^e my head. 
 They seized their stringed instruments. 
 
 Which stood hard by their bed — 
 They played with wondrous eloquence — 
 With one vast howl of pain intense 
 That feline fled afar from thence: 
 She sings no more upon our fence. 
 But on a loftier eminence — 
 
 Our next door neighbor's shed. 
 
 -88 
 
©- 
 
 584 
 
 )i! 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 HER PHOTOGKAPH. 
 I took her to a tiu-type man 
 
 To have her likeness taken. 
 It looked as though hy Jersey chills 
 
 It had been roughly shaken; 
 He perched her on a paper rock, 
 
 'Mid scenery of plaster. 
 And posed her in an attitude 
 
 Betokening disaster; 
 Some twenty years unto her age 
 
 Remorselessly he added ; 
 
 Her fair aiid fragile, fairy form 
 
 Seemed plump and puffed and padded. 
 Her fair young face so Uly like. 
 
 In ebon-hue he painted; 
 And when she saw her photograph 
 
 What wonder that she fainted? 
 I took her too an artist higli 
 
 In people's estimation- — 
 He put a scowl into her eye 
 
 To challenge admiration; 
 He robbed her mouth, her rosy mouth. 
 
 Of all its sweet expression. 
 And placed four wrinkles on her brow 
 
 In sorrowful succession. 
 I took her to an amateur, — 
 
 A fellow in Hohokus, — 
 Alas! alas! there must have been 
 
 Some trouble with his focus. 
 Four eyes she had, eight lips, three arms. 
 
 And thirty-seven noses ! 
 Deep in the bottom of the sea 
 
 That work of art reposes. 
 She sat beside me on a chair 
 
 In all her radiant beauty; 
 And as I kissed her forhead fair 
 
 Love seemed a simple dutj-. 
 I gazed enraptured at her face 
 
 Until each lovely feature 
 Upon my tlirobbing heart was traced 
 
 Of this delicious creature I 
 And now I have a photograph 
 
 Without one flaw or error, 
 AVhich cannot be obtained from me 
 
 By treachery or terror; 
 Which proves my friends that things there 
 are 
 
 Cannot be had for pelf; 
 If you want a perfect photograph 
 
 You must do the job yourself! 
 
 «- 
 
 MY ROSEBUD. 
 There were liundreds of showy blossoms, that 
 
 proud by the wayside stood. 
 There was cue wee snowy-wliite rosebud, all 
 
 alone in the wild, wild wood; 
 And my heart went out to the rosebud as it 
 
 ne'er to the otliers liad done, 
 For the blossoms were all of a sameness, and 
 
 the i-osebud was onlv one. 
 
 And often I went to the wild-wood and tend- 
 erly watched by its side. 
 
 Till they built a big wall all around it, a bar- 
 rier strong and wide : 
 
 Then sadly I roamed through the gardens to 
 seek for another as fair. 
 
 But never a blossom so lovely, so sweet and 
 so fragile was there ; 
 
 And I crouched by the wall in my sorrow, for 
 I knew where my rosebud was pining, 
 
 And I battered it slowly to pieces and shook 
 its foundations with mining; 
 
 And when the great wall was fallen, the rose- 
 bud a blossom had grown. 
 
 More beauteous, sweeter than ever. I've 
 named it,— I call it " Mine own." 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 TO L,. H. 
 
 Leafless are the oaks and beeches. 
 Cold and shrill the wintry blast. 
 Whistling through the forest, preaches 
 
 That the summer time is past; 
 Through the pines no footstep ranges. 
 But true friendship never changes. 
 
 TO B. M. C. 
 
 Although the last. 
 Count me not least among thy friends! 
 
 We've known no past, — 
 The golden future never ends. 
 
 TO B. c. c. 
 I know a little girl, Bertlia, 
 
 With eyes of blue, and golden hair 
 Which falls in many a curl. Bertha, 
 
 Briglit and fair. 
 Sometimes tliose eyes are grave, Bertha, 
 Sometimes they fairly dance with glee; 
 And she is good and brave. Bertha, 
 
 Just like thee. 
 As days glide swiftly by. Bertha, 
 
 I oftentimes shall think of thee: 
 Fond memories nev^er die. Bertha, — 
 
 Forget not me ! 
 
 TO A YOUNG POET. 
 
 EXTUACT. 
 
 Beautiful child with the fair golden tresses; 
 
 Painter and poet, whose muse, sweetly wild, 
 Comes at thy bidding to woo thy caresses;— 
 
 Sweet is thj' verse for tlie song of a child. 
 A new and a beautiful star has arisen, 
 
 A marvelous poet, an artist of skill: 
 And lier song shall be heard in the palace and 
 l)rison — [thrill. 
 
 The he:irts of the saddest with rapture sliall 
 Ah ! quickly we glide over life's rapid river, 
 
 Eagei'Iy seeking its iileasurc and fame: 
 Anxiously, weiirily watching, we (juivor 
 
 With fevered ambition, and all for a name. 
 
 -« 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OFASIKHICA. 
 
 585 
 
 -m 
 
 MICHAEL J. KETRICK. 
 
 Born: Ireland, March 33, 1857. 
 The poems of Mr. Ketrick have appeared in 
 the Serautoii Republican, Times, Free Press 
 ami other periodicals. He is at present occii- 
 
 MICHAEL, J. KETRICK. 
 
 pied m teaching: at a public school in Scran- 
 ton, Pa. This gentleman graduated in 1879, af- 
 ter which he tooli a classical course at a Cana- 
 dian colleg-e. He was married in 1884 to Annie 
 C. Lahey, and resides in his own home. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 WHY I LOST HER. 
 'Mid flowers perfume she mused o'er Hume, 
 
 I at her feet was lying- — 
 Among- the trees the zephj'r breeze 
 
 Seemed with me softly sig-hing. 
 She viewed the book with distant look — 
 
 I felt my heart beat strong-er. 
 But thoug-ht not wise her to surprise 
 
 And bode-<i little longer. 
 Then came a chang-e. I said, " Chere ange,"- 
 
 But oh, my heart so fluttered, 
 I thoug-ht 'twould burst within my breast! 
 
 Ex — beg- — excuse, I muttered. 
 In this ado the soft wind blew 
 
 And swayed the leafy branches. 
 And to my mind dread thoug-lits consigned 
 
 Of bashful love's lost chances. 
 I tried again in sweetest strain — 
 
 In sofiest language spoken : 
 
 I told her how true hearts ere now 
 
 AVere oft by coolness broken. 
 With love-lit eye I told her why 
 
 The willow must be weeping, 
 And why in night's serenest sky 
 
 The stars were never sleeping. 
 Ensuite je dis, '• Ma chere amie," 
 
 She looked up fnmi her reading — 
 With guileful smile and coquette's wile 
 
 She scorned my earnest pleading. 
 " Adieu, adieu, 'tis time you knew " — 
 
 And leaving where she sat in 
 She added, " Go, my favored beau 
 
 Must love in Greek or Latin." 
 
 LINES. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CLASS-MATE. 
 
 The leafless branches swaying 
 
 In sorrow seemed to say : 
 A soul in youthful splendor 
 
 Has sought eternal day; 
 A soul too good to linger 
 
 On earthly paths of sin, 
 A blooming, wingless angel. 
 
 To pure for haunts of men. 
 Soar blithely, joyous spirit. 
 
 And sing thy praise to Him 
 Who lifts thee up to enter 
 
 His band of cherubim; 
 And may thou be as cheering 
 
 To them as thou wert here. 
 Then, surely, all will love thee, 
 
 And ever wish tliee near. 
 Thy many friends are sighing 
 
 At friendship's holy shrine. 
 And there's with lonesome faces 
 
 Thy class of 79; 
 Their anxious, searching glances. 
 
 Their every look and tone. 
 Show them to miss the missing, 
 
 And doubly feel alone. 
 
 MY MOUSTACHE — A DIRGE. 
 'Tis off, 'tis off! ah me, the fall! 
 Like leaves it answered autumn's call. 
 And lies in death without a pall — 
 
 My moustache. 
 Let salt tears trickle down thy cheek, 
 For never will its dun down seek 
 To rest upon the two lips meek — 
 
 My moustache. 
 O, maidens! curse the hour forlorn 
 That such a boon from view was torn. 
 And left ye weep for— aye, and mourn - 
 
 My moustache. 
 Oh, know its radiant covirsc is run; 
 To ye 'twas like tlie glorious sun. 
 In atrial, rosy chariot spun — 
 
 My moustache. 
 
 -m 
 
©- 
 
 -^ 
 
 586 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. EMMA TRAIN. 
 
 born: Union City, Pa., Dec. 23, 1855. 
 For the past decade the poems of Mrs. Train 
 have appeared quite extensively in the Erie 
 County Independent, Ottumwa Offering, Bos- 
 
 MRS. EMMA TRAIN. 
 
 ton Banner of Light, San Francisco Carrier 
 Doxe, Cincinnati Better Way, Wonmn's Tri- 
 bune, and many other periodicals. IVTrs. Train 
 now resides with her husband in North Col- 
 lins, in the state of New York. 
 
 •B- 
 
 SONG OF PROGRESS. 
 Ho: ye toilers in the valley. 
 
 Looking toward the distant height. 
 As ye round your standard rally 
 In life's rough, unequal flght. 
 Let not clouds and shadows blind you, 
 
 See the harvest you have sown. 
 Cast aside the chains that bind you — 
 
 Fearlessly demand your own. 
 Ho! ye workers, never shrinking 
 
 •Neath the noonday's blinding glare. 
 Be ye earnest in your thinking 
 
 'Mid life's turmoil, want and care; 
 Study well tbe potent reason 
 
 Why ye sow and others ivap; 
 Understand the mighty treason 
 
 That e'er garners while ye sleep 
 Hoi ye earnest ones and quiet 
 Winners of a nation's good; 
 Listen to the sounding flat 
 Of your sacred brotherhood. 
 
 .1 By the noble-hearted heroes 
 
 Who have fought, and bled and died; 
 By the martyrs and the heroes 
 
 Whose red blood has swelled the tide; 
 By the hopes of struggling millions. 
 
 By the poverty and crime; 
 By the gleaming hoarded billions 
 
 Grasping for the paltry dime; 
 By the prayers of soul's awaking 
 
 To a knowledge strange and new; 
 By the tender hearts now breaking 
 
 Labor yet shall have its due." 
 It must come; the trusted fetter 
 
 Will be cast fore'er aside. 
 Progress whispers of the better 
 
 With its firm, resistless tide. 
 Ho! ye toilers, climb the mountain, 
 
 Though its steps are all unknown. 
 Ye shall drink from justice's fountain. 
 
 Know the right and claim your own. 
 
 LIFE'S POSSIBILITIES. 
 Would you know the higher way? 
 
 Be content to learn it. 
 There shall shine a purer day 
 Through the shadows cold and gray 
 
 For the ones who earn it. 
 Truth's great jewel would you wear? 
 
 Deeply it is lying. 
 You must dig through earthly care. 
 It will shed its ray so fair 
 Not for useless sighing. 
 Would you fill an honored place? 
 
 Climb until you reach it. 
 Much is said of saving grace, 
 But the truth has purer face 
 
 Than the ones who preach it. 
 Would you read your title clear? 
 
 Do no interlining; 
 Trace each page as it comes near, 
 Leave no blots of doubt or fear 
 
 Where the light is shining. 
 Would you join the heavenly song? 
 
 Learn the tunes of duly. 
 Sound the notes where they belong, 
 Discords -^ver come from wrong — 
 
 Marring all the beauty. 
 Would you wear a robe of white? 
 
 Labor then to weave it. 
 Ff<im the warp of purest light. 
 Fill it with the threads of right 
 
 And you shall receive it. 
 Would you be the blest of earth 
 
 As you stand the latest? 
 Give the truth a grander birth. 
 Do the good of highest worth; 
 
 Lo! you are the greatest. 
 Seek your wisdom's choicest store! 
 Life is what you make it. 
 
® — 
 
 I.OOAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 587 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. MARY E. HOWE. 
 
 Born: Painesville, Ohio, June 26, 1831. 
 In 1861 this lady was married to Orville D. 
 Howe, an educated gentleman, who has for the 
 most part of his life been engaged in teaching, 
 and for six years superintendent of the 
 scliuolsof PinvnoOL-ouiHy. She has twd cliild- 
 
 MRS. JIARY E. HO^\ L 
 
 ren — Edmund Dudley, who graduated at the 
 Nebraska state university in 1887, and is now 
 teaching; and Myrta, a daughter now attend- 
 ing the Beethoven conservatory of music at 
 St. Louis. Mrs. Howe received a prize for a 
 composition of prose and poetry atthePaines- 
 ville academy in 1849. She is now a resident 
 of Table Rock, Neb 
 
 ®- 
 
 OUR WOMAN'S CLUB. 
 "O, write us a lay," 
 I hear the sisters say; 
 " For tliis is our natal day. 
 And our hearts are light and gay. 
 So give us a happy song 
 As the glad liours sweep along." 
 Ah, well, let me sound the lyre; 
 May the muses my pen inspire. 
 And give me words of Are, 
 Like strains from some glorious choir. 
 While we with souls elate 
 Our birthday celebrate. 
 And this is a wintry morn 
 Like the day our club was born; 
 
 Ah, many gave it scorn 
 
 And wished it a fate forlorn; 
 
 But still we held our way 
 
 And said: "We have come to stay." 
 
 And then the rolling hours 
 
 Brought springtime's gentle showers 
 
 And suuuner's birds and bowers. 
 
 And autumn's golden flowers. 
 
 And through all the passing year 
 
 Our club still gathered here. 
 
 Five years, and still we meet, 
 
 And from out the busy street 
 
 W^e come with willing feet. 
 
 And here each other greet. 
 
 Our logic and lore increase. 
 
 And over us hovers peace. 
 
 And sometimes in high debate 
 
 We talk of affairs of state. 
 
 Or of things not quite so great — 
 
 Such as bread and butter we prate. 
 
 Or perchance how mothers and wives 
 
 Should wisely order their lives. 
 
 Of every household lore 
 
 We gather a goodly store ; 
 
 And stiil we search for more. 
 
 And study each precept o'er 
 
 That can help in woman's art. 
 
 Or to keep a husband's heart. 
 
 And now our frieuds so dear 
 
 We gladly welcome here. 
 
 To give our social cheer 
 
 On this birthday of our year. 
 
 With feast and speech and song. 
 
 The hours shall speed along. 
 
 Then here's to our long, brave life! 
 
 May our future with grace be rife; 
 
 And amid earth's cares and strife. 
 
 May each of us, maiden and wife. 
 
 Press onward in glad array 
 
 Till we enter the perfect day. 
 
 GEMS. 
 Where the ocean's waves are dashing 
 
 On the far-oft' Indian shore, 
 WMiere the coral rocks are flashing 
 
 'Mid the waters' rush and roar — 
 Where the sands are heaped and gathered 
 
 By the strong and sweeping tide, 
 And the billows, capped and feathered, 
 
 On their prancing air steeds ride — 
 Where wild mountain ledges, frowning. 
 
 High their granite faces lift. 
 And where rivers Oriental 
 
 'Mid their palmy islands drift — 
 There the gems of Earth are gleaming. 
 
 Diamonds flash and rubies shine; 
 Pearls of light are softly beaming 
 
 Down the dark and foaming brine. 
 
 ■« 
 
1 
 
 * 
 
 ® 
 
 588 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 DR. ABNER AUSTIN COLLIER. 
 
 born: HUNTSViLLE, Mo., Aug. 15,1830. 
 GRADUATING ill 1852 f foiu the Jefferson Medi- 
 cal college of PliiUidelphia, Mr. Collier at 
 once began the practice of his profession at 
 ChiUicothe, Mo. A few years ago he retired 
 from medical work, and moved to Trenton, 
 
 DR. ABNER AUSTIN COLLIER. 
 
 Mo where he intends to devote his attention 
 more exclusively to literary pursuits. Dr 
 Collier has contributed quite a number of 
 articles to prominent publications that have 
 been widely read and favorably commented 
 upon. 
 
 THE INFIDEL'S SOLILOQUY. 
 When sad and chilling- thoug-hts of death 
 
 Athwart my soul are flying-. 
 Like moaning- notes of wintei-"s breath 
 
 Around my mansion sighing; 
 
 When earthly pomp, its wealth and state. 
 
 In darkest shadows cast. 
 And sounds of earthly fame would grate 
 
 As grates the midnight blast: 
 
 When friends of earthly mold and nature, 
 To my sad and dreaming- lu:art. 
 
 Nor a smile of hope's brig:ht feature 
 C:ui one solid joy impart — 
 
 I oft-times think my comrades gone 
 
 With all blasphemous mirth. 
 Of the sad story of the holy One, 
 
 Who dwelt, as christians say, on earth: 
 
 Whose life so pure and God-like was. 
 
 And all his precepts given. 
 So consonant with the Gre:it First Cause, 
 
 And speaks so plain of heaven ; 
 
 I think I see his robe, his crown. 
 
 His blood-besprinkled brow. 
 The mocking rabble kneeling down 
 
 In taunting suppliance low;— 
 
 Hail, king of the Jews, all hail! 
 
 Methinks 1 hear resound. 
 And qulv'ring lips, with scornful curl 
 
 Speak malice most profound; 
 
 I think! see — O, horrid sight! — 
 
 Upon the crimson tree. 
 The God of all miracles and might 
 
 In death's relentless agony ! 
 
 I think I see Him fettered, bound — 
 
 All pierced his hands and feet, 
 And from the cross a plaintive sound 
 
 My unwilling ears doth greet- 
 
 ..Fiither. forgive them," and with look 
 
 Of heavenly mercy fraught. 
 He cries, -'Tis finished! " the bloody book 
 
 Is sealed! - immortal souls are bought! 
 
 The astonish'd earth doth cleave and quake. 
 The temple's holiest vail is rent. 
 
 The ancient saints from dusty slumbers 
 wake 
 At the death-knell of the Omnipotent. 
 
 The sun withdraws his blushing face, 
 
 Tliick darkness hovers o'er,- 
 All n:iture, save the favor'd human race- 
 
 These guilty scenes deplore! 
 
 Again ! I see the sacred stream 
 Fortli gushing from his side — 
 
 A living f<nintain, to redeem 
 Mankind from sin and pride. 
 
 To cleanse and purge the guilty heart 
 
 From all its lust and vice. 
 And the priceless hojif impart 
 
 Of eternal paradise! 
 For. lo! I see his Gocl-liko form arise 
 
 Up from t he darkling tomb ! 
 •Tis conquer'd .-deatli itself that dies. 
 
 And yields his horrid gloom ! 
 And now, methinks 1 hear Him sing 
 
 Triuniph;inily on high — 
 Oil '• Deal h ! — where is thy sting," ^^ 
 \nd .' grave - where is thy victory. 
 
 li 
 
 I 
 
 m- 
 
 -^ 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL rOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 589 
 
 -© 
 
 COURNELLI E. GITHENS. 
 
 Born: Cameron, O., Dec. 27, 18&3. 
 This g-entleman is now principal of tlie grad- 
 ed school at Hannibal, Ohio. He has written 
 poems for the past decade, which have ap- 
 
 CUUKNELLI ELLSWORTH GITHENS. 
 
 peared in the Ohio State Journal, Wheeling 
 Register, Atlanta Constitution, Youth's Com- 
 panion and other publications of note. 
 
 ©- 
 
 MY DAUGHTER. 
 It is mj' little daughter 
 
 And she has grown so sweet, 
 I'm entranced to hear the patter 
 
 Of her noisy little feet. 
 Coming up the winding stairway 
 
 To my room to have a chat 
 AVith her papa 'bout her playtliings. 
 
 Coming, coming pit-a-pat. 
 Now she bursts in through the doorway 
 
 Like a sudden beam of sun 
 From the skies when all is gloomy 
 
 Does my little daughter come. 
 All my mighty cares forgotten. 
 
 Every trouble quickly fleeting, 
 -■^s she puts her lips of crimson 
 
 To mine for tlie welcome greeting. 
 How I pity all who have not 
 
 Little daughters, loving wives. 
 And without such love as their's is 
 
 Worry out their liapless lives. 
 
 So I press my love the closer. 
 
 And I think her talk so wise. 
 Her golden hair so like the sunlig'ht 
 
 And the starlight like herej-es. 
 Thus an hour goes by uiniotcd. 
 
 Then I tell my little love 
 Of a blue eyed mamma waiting. 
 
 Blue-eyed mamma we both love. 
 So a good-bye kiss she gives me, 
 
 Calls me " papa " and all that. 
 And I hear her down stairs going, 
 
 Going- slowly pit-a-pat. 
 Yet upon me 'mid tliis sunshine 
 
 Comes a cloud of misery, 
 As I wonder if my darling 
 
 Always will be spared to me. 
 Father-like, in hopeful logic, 
 
 I dispell such gloomy thought. 
 Saying " He will guard our treasure 
 
 That He in His goodness brought." 
 
 ATONEMENT. 
 Prince-like, above the virgin sod 
 There grew a stalk of Golden-Rod ; 
 A poet low-bowed with worldly care 
 Passed by and saw It blooming there. 
 With joy at finding richest gem 
 He plucked it from its stately stem. 
 But scarcely done, in idle greed, 
 He repented of the vandal deed. 
 " Behold 'twill now soon fade away,— 
 tJnplucked 'twould bloom full many a day." 
 The flower-Queen saw the repentant tears 
 And straightway calms his sighs and fears. 
 »• To atone for this, you shall " she says, 
 •'Attune your verses to its praise." 
 Obedient to the Queen's behest 
 He sang the song as he knew best. 
 Its notes fell on the pulsing main 
 And earth-wide grew the glad refrain. 
 Till all mankind were mad to see 
 This theme of the poet's minstrelsy. 
 
 J. D. BUTTON. 
 
 Mr. Dutton is connected witli the Enquirer 
 of Oakland, California. His poems generally 
 appear under the nom dc plume of Timothy 
 Hay. 
 
 BEAUTIFTL OAKLAND. 
 
 Mighty queen of royal line, 
 (So 'tis writ in Book divine,) 
 Wisely spoke these words sublime, 
 Rising still adown through time, 
 
 '. The half was never told me." 
 Likewise tourists from afar 
 Following the empire's star, 
 Wlien tbey reach this Golden Shore, 
 Echo back those words once more, 
 
 "Tlie half was never told me." 
 
 -© 
 
m- 
 
 m\ 
 
 590 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 WILLIAM E. HOUSWERTH. 
 
 Born : Selin sgrove. Pa., Nov. 7, 1853. 
 At an early age William learned the printers' 
 trade, but abandoned it and followed the pro- 
 fession of school teaching- for about twelve 
 Vears. In 1878 Mr. Hduswciili cdiiiiuciii 
 
 WILLIAM E. HOUSW£KX-H. 
 
 the Study of law and was admitted to the bar 
 two years later. In 1885 he was honored with 
 a teachers' permanent certificate, and is now 
 engaged in the practice of the law and in lit- 
 erary work in his native town. Mr. Hous- 
 werth is known in central Pennsylvania as the 
 Bard of the Susquehanna. 
 
 m- 
 
 THE TRAMPS SOLILOQUY. 
 It's twenty years since I have seen 
 
 The house where I was born; 
 Tlie meadows and the valleys green. 
 
 The fields of rip'ning- corn. 
 Oh, bow I loved in days g-oiic by. 
 
 To stoop and fondly drink 
 Tlie brooklet's waters dancing hig-h — 
 
 Up to the mossy brink. 
 My cliildhood's days — sweet days of yore ■ 
 
 forever they have fled; 
 And soon this world will give me o'er. 
 
 To slumber with the dead. 
 'Tis twenty j'ears since I have felt 
 
 A mother's love so dear; 
 And oft my eyes to tears would melt 
 
 To think she's left me here. 
 
 My father, too, has g-oue to dwell 
 
 With her in bliss complete; 
 O would that I might break the spell. 
 
 And join their chorus sweet. 
 Ah, three-score years and ten have passed, 
 
 And I am left to roam 
 Unsheltered fiom rude winter's blast — 
 
 No cheerful, happy home. 
 But soon this form will wing its flight — 
 
 My troubles all will cease, — 
 To mansions of the fair and bright, — 
 
 To rest in Heavenly peace. 
 
 MRS. XENO W. PUTNAM. 
 
 The poems of this lady have appeared from 
 time to time in the periodical press under the 
 nom de plume of Wilder Grahame. She is a 
 resident of Harmousburg, Pecns3'lvania. 
 
 THE BELLS THAT RING TO-NIGHT. 
 
 Gently falls the evening curtain. 
 
 As the sunlight steals away; 
 And the old church bell is tolling. 
 
 For the dying light of day. 
 Though the night is calm and silent. 
 
 And the evening air is clear. 
 And the old bell swings above me. 
 
 It is not the bell I hear. 
 While my heart is sad and weary. 
 
 There is something yet to do; 
 And I crave once more the freedom 
 
 And the rest my childhood knew. 
 Though the world is full of promise. 
 
 And the sky is clear and bright. 
 Yet the distant bells of childhood. 
 
 Are the bells I hear to-night. 
 Oh! The night is full of music. 
 
 As the day has been of care; 
 And it bears the rest and comfort, 
 
 Of the sacred hour of prayer; 
 Or the scented breatii of summer. 
 
 That subdues the raging sea; 
 And the evening bells are ringing. 
 
 But they bear no charm for me. 
 Though the goal of peace is nearer. 
 
 Yet the road is rough and wild; 
 And I wander in the meadows 
 
 Oft, agaui a little cliild. 
 'Tis a walk my fancy pictures. 
 
 But the patlis are clear and bright; 
 And tlie bells that then are ringing. 
 
 Are the bells I liear to-niglit. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 It was only a rose some unknown baud 
 
 Had sent to ambition's slave. 
 But it fell like a pearl in the ocean sand, 
 
 And ope'd iu his heart a grave. 
 
 —3 
 
&- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OP^ AMERICA. 
 
 091 
 
 MRS. MARTHA E. WRITTEN. 
 
 Born : Austin, Texas, Oct. 3, 1843. 
 At twelve years of age Martha contributed to 
 the press, and from that time on lier pen has 
 been kept busily employed. Marrying- young, 
 she was left a widow at twenty-four witli three 
 children, and teaching was her only support. 
 After five years slie again married, and has 
 now a large family. Mrs.Whitleii's ijueiiis arc 
 
 MRP. AIARTHA E. WRITTEN. 
 
 full of thought and pathos; they wei-e collect- 
 ed in 1886 and published under the title of Tex- 
 as Garlands, which work was followed by the 
 Drunkard's Wife, a temperance poem in pam- 
 phlet form. She has written numerous other 
 poems tliat liavc received a wide circulation, 
 and consequently is a writer of whom Texas 
 may well be proud. 
 
 THE SNOW! THE SNOW! 
 The snow, the snow, oh the beautiful snow ! 
 Falling so softly, so gently below; 
 Hiding the rubbish in bj'-way and street; 
 Bridging the road for the traveler's feet — 
 Silently, solemnly eddying down 
 Robing the hillside and shrouding the town. 
 
 The snow, the snow, it is with us again. 
 It is drifting in heaps o'er valley and plain; 
 'Tis spoiling the paths our feet loved to tread. 
 Winding its slieet o'er our dear precious dead- 
 
 Whisking and whirling and sailing around, 
 Filling the doorway and whitening the ground. 
 
 The snow, tlie snow, how we liail its return. 
 As higher the fires on the hearthstone burn; 
 The young and the merry, with fond liearts 
 
 aglow. 
 Welcome thy coming, thou beautiful snow! 
 Flitting and friskuig ;ind Hying about 
 'Mid the sleigh-bell's jingle and the sch(X)l 
 
 boy's shout. 
 
 Tlie snow, the snow, unsullied it comes — 
 In its vesture of white 'tis draping our homes; 
 'Tis heaping a grave for the dear dying flowers, 
 Wreathingin licauty this l)leak world of ours— 
 Till the woodland sparkles with crystalized 
 
 gems. 
 Where the sun rays slant through its glittering 
 
 stems. 
 
 The snow, the snow, 'tis staying tlie course 
 Of the " onward train " with its »> flei'y hor.se," 
 Snorting and neighing, it boldlj- defies. 
 While deep o'er the track the snow-mountain 
 
 lies. 
 Oh the snow, the snow, the beautiful snow I 
 What ruin and wreck it can work below ! 
 
 The snow, the snow, how its feathery flakes 
 Kiss the faces cold of the pure glassy lakes. 
 Till lost on their bosom in rest serene 
 The moon looks down on the l)eautiful .scene 
 Where the lakes and flakes are blended in one, 
 And the Frost King reigns on his ice-girt 
 throne. 
 
 The snow, the snow, it is hurrying past. 
 Borne on the wings of the wild wintry blast ; 
 Its deUcate down is filling the air 
 O'er village and steeple, and city so fair — 
 Over the churchyard silent and white. 
 It gleams like a specter abroad at niglit. 
 Tlie snow, the snow, it is finding its way 
 Through the battered hut where the wretclied 
 
 stay; 
 It mocks their wants with a broad, cold grin. 
 As through crevice and crack 'tis hurrying in - 
 It heeds not their tatters.but pierces through 
 
 all; 
 God pity the xjoor when the snow-flakes fall! 
 The snow, the snow, the pitiless snow! 
 L^nheediug the pauper, bereft and low; 
 He dies alone in the cold dreary street. 
 With naught but the snow for his winding 
 
 sheet. 
 Like an angel kind with a deliciite wing. 
 It bears liim away to the home of the King. 
 The snow, tlie snow, by wayward winds toss'd. 
 Soon in the miie of the sti'et't to be lost. 
 An emblem thou art of man's i)rimitive state 
 Ere yet the drawn sword guai-ded Iklen's lone 
 
 gate. 
 
 -^ 
 
»- 
 
 -* 
 
 692 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. JAMESTHOMAS WARD. 
 
 Born: Georgetown, D. C, Aug. 21, 1820. 
 The poems, which are chiefly religious, of the 
 Kev. James Thomas Ward, have appeared in 
 the leading christian publications of America. 
 
 Heis Presidentof tlie Th(_'olot;ical Seniinaryof 
 
 REV. JAMES THOMAS WARD. 
 
 the Methodist Protestant Church, at West- 
 minster, Maryland. The Rev. Ward has been 
 in the ministry for half a century. 
 
 8B 
 
 SPRING SONG. 
 
 Awake my soul! thy tribute bring 
 To him who sends returning Spring; 
 Mountain and vale resound his praise. 
 And grateful song should mortals raise. 
 Through Winter long, his grace was near, 
 Amid the gloom to bless and cheer; 
 And now, that gloom itself removed 
 Gives proof anew how much he loved. 
 He ever loved — he loves us still. 
 Let us deliglit to do his will ; 
 With opening Spring renew thy vows 
 My soul! and now to duty rouse. 
 As streams go rippling to the sea, 
 As violets bloom in modesty. 
 As everything in nature's round, 
 In service of its God is found:— 
 So, oh my soul ! be thou each hour 
 Employed, with every gift and power. 
 Thy Savior and thy God to own. 
 And make his truth and mercy known. 
 
 Be good, through his assisting grace. 
 Do good to all, each chance embrace; 
 Through life to God thy tribute bring. 
 And thou shait And unending Spring. 
 
 THE WORLD OF BOOKS. 
 The world of books is a wonderful world. 
 
 Embracing all facts and fancies; 
 And through it the mind may be rapidly 
 whirl'd. 
 
 As the car of thought advances. 
 But not too rapidly should we go. 
 
 If we would behold its beauties. 
 And learn the lessons we need to know 
 
 To fit us for life's great duties. 
 The traveler through it, if he be wise. 
 
 Will pause at every station. 
 And take due time for his mental eyes 
 
 To make full observation. 
 How many the lessons he thus may learn. 
 
 For future profit and pleasure! 
 Each answering some good, in turn. 
 
 For hours of business or leisure. 
 But the best of all in this world of books 
 
 Is the Book that God has given. 
 To guide the soul, through all life's crooks, 
 
 To an endless home in heaven. 
 
 THE "PUNCTUALITY TICKET." 
 Mamma, don't you hear the bell 
 
 With its merry chime? 
 That is for the Sunday school — 
 
 I want to be in time. 
 Dress me quick and let me go 
 
 In my class to be: 
 They give a ticket, don't you know. 
 
 For punctuality. 
 I have seven tickets now. 
 
 And when I get ten 
 They a book will give to me — 
 
 Oil, I'll be happy then! 
 Besides, the lessons are so nice. 
 
 My teacher is so good. 
 She always gives us such advice 
 
 As you desire she should. 
 She tolls us of the Savior kind 
 
 Who caiiie from heaven above, 
 And sliowed us how the way to find 
 
 To him whose name is Love. 
 Then dress me quick and let me go, 
 
 I'll trip with joy along. 
 And reach my chiss in time to join 
 
 1 n the sweet children's song. 
 'Tis all about that Savior dear 
 
 Who gave his life for me. 
 And I will sing it with the rest 
 
 If I but putu'tual be. 
 
 -® 
 
9 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 i93 
 
 ® 
 
 JOHN HOLMES. 
 
 Born: England, about 1840. 
 Mr. Holmes has been in business for the past 
 twenty-flve years as plumber and tinner in 
 Baysbore, L. 1. He has written both pru.se 
 
 EBHT 
 
 JOHN HOLMES. 
 
 and verse more or less since his youth, which 
 have appeared extensively in the periodical 
 press. Mr. Holmes is a charter member of 
 the Iron Cross, and is well and favorably 
 known in his adopted state. 
 
 OUR DARLINGS. 
 How we miss our little darlings, 
 
 No other tongrue can tell; 
 Only we feel they are safe with Jesus 
 
 Who doeth all things well. 
 Yes, they are up in heaven. 
 
 Our dear little darlings fair. 
 Are safe in the arms of Jesus, 
 
 From suffering grief and care. 
 They are living amongst the blessed. 
 
 Our sweet little angels bright, 
 Held in tlie arms of Jesus, 
 
 Clothed in perfect white. 
 Safe in the arms of Jesus, 
 
 Though early carried away. 
 Are rejoicing to dwell with Jesus 
 
 In peace to endless day. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 Bayshore, it is a quaint old name. 
 And it is really a pretty town ; 
 Yea, it has caught the progressive flame. 
 Surely with honor and renown. 
 Hail, all hail to the beautiful bay. 
 O'er which white-winged skiffs doth glide; 
 Running to and fro, busy and gay, 
 Ever the people's joy and pride. 
 
 WILLIAMWxVLLACE MAXIM. 
 
 Born: Buckfield, Me., Sept. 19, 1844. 
 The poems of Mr. Maxim have occasionally 
 appeared in the periodical press. He follows 
 the occupation of f;irming and gardening in 
 his native state at Paris. 
 
 COURTING. 
 she; 
 O, are not you a little soft my darling. 
 
 To want to hold me in your lap so long? 
 Let me arise and go to the piano. 
 And tra-la-la a dainty little song. 
 he: 
 Yes, but be brief, I can but poorly spare you, 
 
 'Tis awful here without you to abide; 
 I may be soft, but then I'm hard of hearing,— 
 Pray let me linger closelj- by your side. 
 
 THE SILENT HOUR. 
 The deepest thought comes forth in solitude 
 
 When holy stillness greets the new-born day ; 
 The purest aims are sought and actions rude 
 Are hated most when from our kind awaj\ 
 When silence creeps upon the heart and 
 brain. 
 And holds them in its long and sweet em- 
 brace. 
 When all their cords and fetters loose again, 
 
 And feel true pity for the fallen race. 
 When angels hang their harps upon the tree 
 
 And gaze in silence to the dome above, 
 'Tis then the soul stands forth so full and free 
 And claims its own peace, happiness and 
 love. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The low dull, hollow sound within the forest. 
 
 The leafy tree that seems to stand aghast 
 Beside the ghostly lines of flickering shadow. 
 Proclaim the summer gone.the harvest past 
 The rustling reeds that erst gave up their jui- 
 ces 
 To sighing winds, are standing stark and 
 gray ; 
 Health breezes blow among the pines and 
 spruces. 
 And down the rocky leaf-strewn goi-ges play 
 
 -^ 
 
©- 
 
 591 
 
 -ft 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. VIRGINIA FRANTZ. 
 
 Born: Brandon, Miss., 1838. 
 After receiving' her education this lady he- 
 came a school teacher, which occupation she 
 followed until her marriage to Col. A. J. 
 Frantz in 1857. Since her marriage she 
 has resided in Bi'andon, and has been a con. 
 
 MRS. VIRGINIA FRANTZ. 
 
 staiit contributor of both prose and verse to 
 the periodical press. In 1885 she published a 
 beautiful volume of poems, containing over 
 five hundred pages, entitled Ina Greenwood 
 and Other Poems, which have been highly 
 complimented by the press. 
 
 S( 
 
 ONLY A WORD. 
 
 Only a word ! but a broken heart. 
 In secret bleeds with its tale untold; 
 
 Only a word ! but the better part 
 Of one more life has away been rolled. 
 
 Only a word ! but the silent tear 
 And quiv'ring lip of a little child 
 
 Tell how it pierced, lilce a sharpened sword. 
 And made it weep when It should have 
 smiled. 
 
 Only a word! just a yes or no. 
 Hath sealed the fate of a noble boy, 
 
 Opened the door that doth lead to woe. 
 And robb'd a true mother-heart of joy. 
 
 Only a word I 'tis a woman speaks. 
 
 And signs away all her peaceful rest; 
 'Tis the first note of the funeral knell 
 Of lioi)e and joy in her own pure breast. 
 
 Only a word ! but it saved a soul 
 From sinking quite into dark despair; 
 
 A friendly word to an erring one, 
 And hope revived and she knelt in prayer. 
 
 Only a word ! Let us ever speak 
 
 Such woids as bring to some heart sweet 
 cheer, 
 Intones that yield the most sweet of joys. 
 
 And ne'er the word that will cause a tear. 
 
 HUNGRY HEARTS. 
 Is there no hunger on this earth. 
 Save that in want of bread has birth? 
 And only lurketh famine where 
 Walks Poverty, all gaunt and bare? 
 
 Yes, many a spirit starves and dies. 
 For want of life's sweet harmonies. 
 In wealthy mansions, grand and fair, 
 With sumptuous viands rich and rare. 
 
 How many starving hearts doth hide 
 Beneath the silken folds of pride; 
 And bosoms bright with gems of gold. 
 For want of loving faith grow cold: 
 
 Yes, hearts, so starved, all wealth they'd give 
 For crumbs of love on which to live; 
 Yes, with all earthly treasure part 
 For balm to soothe the aching heart. 
 
 Why must hearts ache? They cannot buy 
 The food for which they pine and die; 
 And yet so very small's the cost. 
 That he who gives hath nothing lost. 
 
 What brings to life so much sure blessing, 
 As low, sweet tones, and love's carefsing':* 
 By what, as by a gentle word. 
 Is all the heart's deep music stirred? 
 
 All ye who do the bodies feed. 
 Of huna-ry, starving hearts take heed. 
 And scatter crumbs of sympathy 
 For every lonely one you see. 
 
 " Give us this day our daily bread," 
 Means more than it doth seem when read; 
 For all our wants the Savior knew. 
 And he provided for them, too. 
 
 .. Man shall not live by bread alone," 
 Saitli Jesus, who such love hath shown; 
 He kindly draws us to His breast. 
 For bread of life, comfort and rest. 
 
 If hungering for righteousness, 
 Through sin, and sorrow and distress. 
 We'll find relief in Jesus' arms. 
 From all earth's shadows and alarms. 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 m 
 
 595 
 
 MILTON H. MARBLE. 
 
 Born: Wayne Co., Ohio, March 16, 1839. 
 The subject of this sketch has been corres- 
 pondent to various piibiications.aiid liis poems 
 have appeared in tlie Western Rural, Phila- 
 
 MILTON H. M.\RBLE. 
 
 delphia Ledger.St. Louis Mag-azine, Peterson's 
 Magazine, and the local press generally. He 
 is now in the real estate business at Table 
 Rock, Nebraska. 
 
 \i~ 
 
 LOVE'S BLINDNESS. 
 
 " Come be mj- Fair}-, Mabel, 
 
 And g-ive me a g-ift to-day, 
 A gift that shall last till the Present 
 
 Embraces the great for Aye." 
 "I will be thy Golden Fairy, 
 
 What would thy heart's wish be? " 
 And the laugh of the beautiful Mabel, 
 
 Sounded so sweet to me. 
 "Not a costly, lordly mansion, 
 
 Not a gift of golden pelf; 
 But the gift I ask for, Mabel, 
 
 Is nauglit but thy own dear self." 
 "Oh! blindest of all blind mortals," 
 
 She said in a voice so low, 
 "Tile gift you ask me for, darling, 
 
 I gave you, long, long ago." 
 
 WAITING. 
 Only in the Realm of Dream-land 
 Have I seen her beaming face. 
 
 Only in imagination 
 
 Has her form as yet a place; 
 But, I know tlie briglit Ideal 
 
 Into Real stH)ii shall bloom. 
 And this maid shall come to bless me 
 
 As the Soul-Queen of my Home. 
 Oft when slumber comes to woo me 
 
 To her fond and close embrace. 
 There arises up before me 
 
 With a smile, a beaming face. 
 Seeming far too fair a vision 
 
 For this earthly sphere of ours. 
 As if born to deck the other 
 
 World of bright, unfading flowers! 
 So I wait for buds to blossom. 
 
 Knowing it will not be long; 
 While the bright and fairy vision 
 
 Comes to make my soul most strong. 
 And I know the bright Ideal 
 
 Into Real soon shall bloom. 
 And this maid shall come to bless me 
 
 As the Soul-Queen of my Home! 
 
 WHO WILL CARE? 
 When I sleep beneath the flowers, 
 
 In the churchyard on the hill; 
 And the years seem but as hours 
 
 To my form so cold and still — 
 And mj' spirit soars in gladness 
 
 To its blissful home above. 
 Who will care? and who, in sadness. 
 
 Who will drop one tear of love? 
 Who will care? no one will miss me 
 
 From the busy walks of life, 
 Wlien along my grave they pass me, 
 
 Where I rest all free from strife! 
 Who will drop a tear of sorrow 
 
 That I passed from earth so soon. 
 That there dawned a brighter morrow 
 
 For me ere I reached my noon? 
 Should one loved one chance to wander 
 
 Down a-through the churchyard gate. 
 Sit down by my grave to ponder 
 
 O'er the problem of my fate — 
 Drop a tear-gem, cast a flower 
 
 There, 'twould seem as golden rain. 
 It would prove a glorious hour 
 
 That I had not lived in vain! 
 
 AN IMMORTELLE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I took a little tiny seed, 
 You might not dream contained a treasure. 
 And placed it in its earthly bed; 
 
 Wlien, after days and days of leisure, 
 I saw a little tender plant 
 
 Spring gently up, from old Earth's bosom, 
 And knew that soon a precious hud 
 
 Would come, and afterward a blossom ! 
 
 -© 
 
s- 
 
 696 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL. POETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 -® 
 
 JAMES HENDERSON, M.D. 
 
 Born: Canada, April 7, 185T. 
 The poems of this gentleman have appeared 
 in the Detroit Commercial Advertiser and 
 other publications. He is now practicing his 
 
 DR. JAMES HENDERSON. 
 
 profession at Bad Axe, Michigan. Dr. Hen- 
 derson will soon issue a book of his poems and 
 essays. His poems have received very flatter- 
 ing praises from tlie press and public. 
 
 *- 
 
 A SPRIG OF HEATHER. 
 A sprig of Scottish heather 
 
 They have sent me o'er the sea. 
 From Grampion's stately mountain foot. 
 
 Where oft I wandered free. 
 To pluck the wee blue flowers 
 
 That won my childish heart 
 And bound me so to native land. 
 
 That death alone can part. 
 When last I looked on Forfarshire 
 
 And Grampion's Hills beside, 
 I felt my blood course faster 
 
 And my heart was filled with pride ; 
 For I felt where'er I wandered, 
 
 Be it far or be it near. 
 No hame like Scotland's Highlands, 
 
 Would to me be lialf sae dear. 
 Oh welcome, sprig of heather. 
 
 You are doubly dear to-day, 
 As I press you to my bosom. 
 
 O'er a thousand leagues away. 
 
 And my mind reverts to Scotia, 
 Where you often clieered my sire; 
 
 And I see at foot of Grampion Hills, 
 The bairnes of Forfarshire. 
 
 ELLEN OF DUNBY. 
 
 Oh, 'twas but a wliitewashed cabin. 
 
 On a barren hill beyond; 
 But a something hung around it. 
 That made my heart grow tond; 
 And I quietly stopped to listen. 
 
 To those notes so full and sweet; 
 'Twas an Irish maiden singing. 
 And her words I'd fain repeat. 
 For my heart sank low within me. 
 
 And I smothered up a sigh. 
 As I thouglit of lonely Eileen, 
 
 Lovely Eileen of Dunbwy; 
 As she sung to the breezes wafting 
 
 Those sweet notes across the sea, 
 Oh, could her love but listen 
 
 To the song that greeted me. 
 Oh, 'twas Eileen, lovely Eileen, 
 
 Faithful Eileen of Dunbwy 
 As she strolled without the cabin 
 
 That had caught my wandering eye. 
 Eileen, singing to her lover. 
 
 As he dwelt far o'er t he main ; 
 True to Ireland still and Eileen, 
 
 Safe beyond the captive's chain. 
 Lovely Eileen sweetly warbled, 
 
 'Till within the cabin door. 
 Stood her aged mother calling 
 
 ..Eileen, Eileen, come asthore; 
 You will break me heart me darlin'. 
 
 Don't be strollin' tliere alone. 
 Don't be grievin' so for Terrance, 
 
 He will come some day, ochone." 
 Soft the shades of even gathered. 
 
 Soft those notes fell on my ear: 
 And the evening twilight found me 
 
 Deep in thought, still lingering near. 
 For no fairer maid had ever 
 
 O'er my spirit cast lier spell. 
 All unconscious of your conquest. 
 
 Faithful Eileen fare you well. 
 Beauteous Eileen sing your love song 
 
 As the lark sings to his mate. 
 Dwell upon that barren liillside. 
 
 Nature's queen in rural state. 
 Charm the lieart of each lone minstrel, 
 
 That may chance to pass you by. 
 But be true, be true to Terrance, 
 
 Lovely Eileen of Dunbwy. 
 
 THE BELLS OF JOHNSTOWN. 
 In mute abjection. 
 And sad reflection, 
 1 often dream 
 Of those Johnstown bells: 
 
 ■ ^U 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 597 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. ALMA P. HAYDEN. 
 
 Bokn: Limerick, Me., 1856. 
 
 This lady gained the first prize for composi- 
 tion and in scholarship earned the rank of 
 valedictorian. At the alumni receptions she 
 has several times delivered the poem. She 
 was married in 1886 to Cliarles Herbert Hay- 
 den, with whom she now resides in Lewiston, 
 
 MRS. .-VLMA PKMIEXTER HAYDEN. 
 
 Maine. The poems of Mrs. Hayden have ap- 
 peared in the Chicag-o Tribune. Boston Tran- 
 script, Globe, Portland Transcript, and other 
 periodicals. Prior to her marriag-e she taught 
 school for seven years. Personally Mrs. Hay- 
 den is a little above the medium heig-ht, with 
 blue eyes, dark brown hair, and is a very en- 
 tertaining conversationalist. 
 
 WHEN THE SHIP WENT DOWN. 
 What was tliy cry, O sailor lad. 
 
 In the wild storm's roaring sound? 
 What wastliy thought, O sailor lad. 
 
 When the ship went down? 
 Was thy thougrht of the childhood's home. 
 
 In a far-off eastern town. 
 And thy cry to the loved ones there. 
 
 When the ship went down? 
 Didst know they would pity thy fate. 
 
 As they sadly g-atlier round. 
 To hear the tale of that fearful night 
 
 When the ship went down? 
 
 Alas! their grief comes late, too late. 
 
 In the deep grave thou hast found. 
 And the mother-land sent back no word. 
 
 When the ship went down. 
 But the Lord of seas was close beside; 
 
 His voice 'mid the breaker's sound 
 Said, " I am with thee, fear thou not," 
 
 When the ship went down. 
 
 BETWEEN THE LINES. 
 It was such a discreet little letter. 
 
 Not formal enough to be cold. 
 Not fond enough to encourage 
 
 The reader to love and be bold. 
 It held him at right proper distance. 
 
 No sweet words or dead give-away, 
 Yet somehow it filled him with gladness 
 
 And brightened the whole prosy day. 
 For he read her love all unspoken. 
 
 And he had the assurance to write: 
 •' My dearest, e.\pect me at Lakewood 
 
 On the late train Saturday night." 
 Then he said that day in the office 
 
 He should take a week out of town. 
 That his sister was off in the country. 
 
 And he " really must make a run down.' 
 O, happy the lover whose sweetheart, 
 
 Tho' prudent and shy she may be. 
 Leaves hid 'neath the lines of her letter 
 
 Some message he only can seel 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 She used to wait for him down by the gate. 
 
 With a rosebud pinned in her curls. 
 With a smile and a kiss and a welcome so 
 sweet. 
 He vowed her the dearest of girls! 
 Now she meets him at noon with her hair up 
 in pins. 
 On her face is an ominous frown, [est man. 
 As she calls out in shrill tones, " You stupid- 
 
 You've forgotten tny errand in town! " 
 And he — well, he isn't exactlj' the same; 
 
 Quite different from four years ago, [tect, 
 When he promised to cherish, to love, to pro- 
 
 And all sorts of nonsense, you know. 
 Now the watch dog protects her at night while 
 he goes 
 Away to his club or to dine. 
 And he grumbles and finds fault, and uses 
 harsh words. 
 When he's taken too freely of wine. 
 So the picture has changed since be asked her 
 to be 
 His loving and meek little wife. 
 When he swore that to make her liappiness 
 sure 
 Should be the grand aim of his life! 
 
 -« 
 
©- 
 
 -* 
 
 598 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LUCY M. CHAFFEE-ALDEN. 
 
 Born: Wilbraham, Mass., Nov. 20, 1836. 
 For twenty years tliis lady taught school. 
 
 Verses alw: I \s liad a rharni t'cn- Mi>s CliatTee, 
 
 ■1 
 
 MRS. CHAFFEE AT^DEN. 
 
 and her poems have appeared in the leading 
 publications of America. She also writes 
 prose occasionally for the eastern periodical 
 press. 
 
 TO H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 Dear busy hand, so wont so long 
 
 The fair white page to trace. 
 In gentle ministry and strong 
 Dispensing generous wealth of song 
 
 And verse of sweetest grace, 
 To take thee once would be delight, 
 
 Because we claim thee kin 
 By sympathy — in daring spite 
 Of will of thine, or mile, or hight. 
 
 Or social line between. 
 And busy brain, whose patient play 
 
 Has wrought us pleasure so. 
 In opening for us far away 
 Enchanted galleries of to-day 
 
 And of the long ago,— 
 Whose sceneries, rich with cottage, tower. 
 
 Sea, mountain, stream and lake. 
 Have held our eyes for many an hour,— 
 We feel thine artful, artless, power. 
 And glad confession make. 
 
 Dear heart, whose faith and hope and love 
 
 Do make cold words so warm. 
 And find for doubt, the floods above. 
 Always some olive-leaf to prove 
 
 The passage of the storm, 
 
 We court the friendships thou hast wrought, 
 The charms thy loves can lend. 
 
 Till many a form thy fruitful thought 
 
 Has into mystic being brought. 
 Seems like our household friend. 
 
 Of " one dead lamb," one " open door," 
 
 One " solemn voice and slow," 
 Of many a shape that comes once more 
 With noiseless footsteps on the floor. 
 
 Ah ! yes, we know ^ we know. 
 
 At "Children's Hour" we've seen them glide 
 
 Softly — for siege prepared — 
 Then, victor-victims, fast inside 
 The tender-hearted •> dungeon " hide, 
 
 "Grave," "laughing," "golden-haired." 
 
 What rhythm, witching to our ears. 
 
 In Plymouth story rings, 
 And follows far, through hopes and fears, 
 Patient Evangeline for years. 
 
 And her sad victory sings ! 
 
 War's " Miserere " on the air, 
 
 Christ's "Peace" and God's "Good-will," 
 The sweet-voiced reading after care. 
 The clock's " forever " on the stair. 
 
 Are sounds that echo still. 
 With " God o'erhead and heart within," 
 
 Dear songful soul, sing on. 
 Till thou Shalt reach that ..wayside-inn 
 Where toil shall cease and rest begin," 
 
 When sets thy westering sun. 
 Beyond this strangelj'-changing lot — 
 
 Beyond these pictures dim — 
 Be thine the life where death comes not, 
 Thine .. Ultima " of this forgot 
 
 In that life's perfect hymn. 
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The years are full of men's wedding days, 
 
 The altars, of bridal gifts; 
 And high o'er the festive scenes of joy. 
 
 How many acurtain lifts! 
 Ay, the sun sets not on a single day 
 
 Unmarked by the solemn vow 
 Of two to abide in each other's love. 
 
 Till one to the grave shall go. 
 Hut wlien the years fr.im eacli plijilitm 
 time 
 
 Have woven the lives of men 
 Into half the web of a century. 
 
 Ah ! where are the pledgers then? 
 
 8B- 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 599 
 
 MILLEN SANFORD GREENE. 
 
 Born : N. Stonington, Conn., Dec. 23, 1825. 
 This g'eutleman worked on a farm in his 
 youth, taught school in winter, and liis leis- 
 ure hours were passed in study. At the ag-e 
 of twenty-two Mr. Greene went to sea, and 
 continued in that employment for six years. 
 After his return he ag'ain took up the avoca- 
 
 MILLEN f?ANF(>KU GREENE. 
 
 tion of a school teacher, which he followed for 
 twelve years, when he entered a counting- 
 room. In 1869 he entered the insurance and 
 real estate business, in which he has ever 
 since remained. Early in life Mr. Greene de- 
 veloped a taste for poetry and music, and is 
 the author of a series of Fireside Stories,with 
 sketches of social ehiit. in verse. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S SONG. 
 "I know that my Redeemer lives. 
 What comfort this sweet sentence g-ives;" 
 
 My mother often sung. 
 In soothing numbers, soft and mild, 
 To me, when I, a fretful child. 
 
 Unto her bosom clung-. 
 I could not know the sense of pain. 
 That, mingled with the sweet refrain. 
 
 Her gentle spirit wrung! 
 I could not know the weight of care. 
 With which she breathed for me the prayer 
 
 That trembled on her tongue 
 That love-wrought cadence to my ears 
 Comes floating down the stream of years 
 
 In tones that seem divine! 
 My soul is lulled to calm repose. 
 As when of yore, at daylight's close, 
 
 She laid her face to mine. 
 And now, beyond the mystic veil. 
 Angelic voices never fail 
 
 That song- of love to swell ; 
 The Heavenly chorus greets her ears, 
 In praise of Him, who thro' long years 
 
 She loved and served so well. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SEA. 
 What news art bringing from over the sea, 
 
 Tliou foam-capped billows of brine? 
 What messages art thou whispering to me. 
 
 As thy white lips beckon to mine? 
 I lay mine ear on thy wave-washed sand. 
 
 And list to the undertone, [strand. 
 
 That comes with the surge from the far-off 
 
 Like the sobs of a distant moan. 
 It comes like soft music into my soul, 
 
 In cadences plaintive and low! 
 It seems like the dirge which the ages unroll, 
 
 As I list to thy rhythmical flow. 
 Is it sweet sounds from the coral isles, 
 
 Where the sea-god's temples are? 
 The chanting of priests In the deep defiles, 
 
 That lead to their place of prayer? 
 Is it the moan of a dying gale. 
 
 Whose breath is well nigh spent. 
 Bearing- its load with a sorrowing wail. 
 
 From the islands of discontent? 
 Is it thy lullaby song- to repose 
 
 When the sunset portal unbars, [goes. 
 
 As thy wave-rocked cradle, when the daylight 
 
 LviUs in thy bosom the stars? 
 Is it the suppliant pleadings and cries 
 
 Of languishing sea-nymphs that weep [skies 
 While breathing their love to the tremulous 
 
 Way down in thy fathomless deep! 
 Not these! my spirit bows with reverent fear. 
 
 When the on-c(miing billows I greet; 
 For the voice of thy Great Creator I hear. 
 
 As they foam and dash at my feet. 
 
 TO SAINT VALENTINE. 
 My dear old saint, I thee implore 
 To kindly pass my errors o'er. 
 And grant that in thy loving- heart 
 Forgiveness thou to me impart. 
 One only boon from thee I crave: 
 The best that e'er imuiortals gave; 
 That I may at thy holy shrine 
 Choose Mary for my valentine; 
 And maj' her kind confiding heart. 
 Transfixed by love's unerring dart. 
 Receive the message so divine. 
 That I'll be hers and she'll be mine. 
 And live to bless Saint Valentine. 
 
 ■® 
 
^- 
 
 600 
 
 9 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 ISAAC R. SHERWOOD. 
 
 Born: Stanford, N.Y., Aug. 14, 1835. 
 In political and journalistic circles Isaac R. 
 Sherwood is prominently known throughout 
 the union, and has been in the editorial har- 
 ness for over thirty years. He is the present 
 editor of the Daily News Democrat of Canton, 
 Ohio. Mr. Sherwood enlisted in the union 
 armj' in 1861, and served until the close of the 
 war: first in the 14th Ohio infantry and later 
 in the 111th. which he commanded in over 
 
 ISAAC K. SHKRWOOD. 
 
 thirty battles. This hero went in as a private 
 and came out a brigadier-general. Gen. Sher- 
 wood served as secretary of tlie state of Ohio 
 for two terms and represented the Toledo dis- 
 trict in congress in 1873-4. While Gen. Sher- 
 wood has written considerable poetry, includ- 
 ing a thrilling epic of the services of the army 
 of the Tennessee, it is more as a writer of hu- 
 morous verse in whicli he has won most dis- 
 tinction. His Army Gray liack, a poem issued 
 in book-form, profusely illustrated, has liad a 
 great run with the veterans, both north and 
 south. Gen. Slierwood was married in 18.59 to 
 Miss Kate Brownlee, a lady who has also gain- 
 ed quite a reputation as ji poet, and wiio is re- 
 presented on the following page of this work. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE SONG AND THE BROOK. 
 Among the joys that fade not with the dying 
 year 
 
 Will be the fond, sweet memory of your bright 
 
 face r' 
 So pure in thought, so chastely, softly,fair, so 
 
 near 
 My heart's ideal; that, when in smiles, I seem- 
 ed to trace 
 The long-shrined image of a face, than all 
 
 more dear 
 To manhood's happiest dreams. Life was then 
 
 to me 
 A world of hope, and hope a full, flowing river 
 Sunlit and silvery; wending to a far-off sea, 
 Whose mists, like the soft haze of rainbows, 
 
 take their flight. 
 Fading from sight, into an eternity of liglit. 
 And when you sang " The Brook "and sent 
 
 the melody 
 Of song on— «• on forever;" and looked with 
 
 those brown 
 Eyes so gently into mine, I felt that I would 
 
 be 
 A brook, to have the echo of your music 
 
 drown 
 My own sad murmurs; and while you stood 
 
 upon the brink 
 I would be calm, and let the stilling wavelets 
 
 drink 
 All your sheen of beauty; and as the kindly 
 
 sun 
 Mirrored you within mj'self, I would cease to 
 
 be 
 Inanimate; but every gently sipping wave 
 Would softly say — •• Come lave thy loveliness 
 
 in me! 
 I cannot be a brook, fair girl, nor can you be 
 The better part of my vmcertain destiny; 
 Yet here's my hope, my prayer, for now, for- 
 ever ! 
 May your bright life flow on as a full river: 
 May young love's fondest, purest joys know 
 
 no surcease; 
 But bear you hopeful as a soldier's dreams of 
 
 peace. 
 
 INCIDENTS OP PUT-IN-BAY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 And I was there among the fair 
 
 To wliile the twilight hour away; 
 And 'twas my fate, that gentle Kate, 
 Tlie radiant belle with streamuig hair, 
 
 Should row with me upon the Bay! 
 With rugged oar I hied to shore. 
 
 Past bold Gibraltar's rock we sped, 
 Tlie rough-faced moon oaine up too soon; 
 
 For where on earth was Katie's head? 
 Oh, pallid face; O, rumpled lace! 
 O, streaming hair; (), wliile arms bare! 
 
 • > Ht)w can you I'ow and hold me so'/" " 
 
 The dove-eyed Kate sui)inely said. 
 Loved Island Bay, the moonbeams play 
 
 Around no brighter gem than this. • • ■ 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OF A3IEUICA. 
 
 601 
 
 -m 
 
 MRS. K.M. B. SHERWOOD. 
 
 Born: Bedford Springs, Pa., Sept. 24, 1841. 
 
 Few women have entered more fully into the 
 life of our nation than Kate B. Sherwood. 
 She has been a prominent flg-ure in the social 
 life at the capitals of state and nation. As ed- 
 itor of the woman's department of the Wash- 
 ington National Tribune she really founded 
 the Woman's Relief Corps, a charitable insti- 
 tution that is known throughout the United 
 States. When but eighteen years of age she 
 
 MRS. K. M. B. SHERWOOD. 
 
 was married to Isaac K. Sherwood, an editor 
 and publisher, who has since become widely 
 known as Gen. I.R. Sherwood.and whose name 
 appears in this work. Many of Mrs. Sher- 
 wood's poems have been translated into Ger- 
 man, and have appeared in the leading publi- 
 cations of America. Mrs. Sherwood is a mem- 
 ber of numerous societies, and has held var- 
 ious offices. At her home in Toledo, Ohio, the 
 library of this lady is filled with the newest 
 and choicestof of literature, the perusal and 
 study of which she takes great delight. 
 
 ^■ 
 
 FALL IN. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers! 
 
 The reveille is heard. 
 And bivouac and picket 
 
 Are at the summons stirred; 
 
 Fall in, that you may answer 
 
 The roll-call sounding clear. 
 And when the sergeant calls your name 
 
 Prepare to answer " Here !" 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers. 
 
 And rub your sleepy eyes; 
 The mists of time are heavy 
 
 Around you as you rise; 
 The friendships on the musket sworn 
 
 Grow rustj' as its lock; 
 Fall in once more, touch elbows, 
 
 As in the battle's shock. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers. 
 
 By whatever name you bear,— 
 If you've made the march through Georgia, 
 
 If at Richmond you were there; 
 If on Lookout's lofty tablets 
 
 You've writ your names in blood. 
 You've stemmed the hosts at Franklin, 
 
 Pouring onward like a flood. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers,— 
 
 You who recall the daj- 
 At Corinth on the battlefield — 
 
 The dead around you lay. 
 When Rosecrans rode down the lines 
 
 To Fuller's old brigade: 
 " I take my hat off in the face 
 
 Of men like these," he said. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers. 
 
 You who from Red House Bridge 
 Moved on to Chickamauga 
 
 When Thomas held the ridge; 
 Moved on with gallant Steedmau 
 
 That day he broke away 
 Like a lion from his covert 
 
 When he heard the battle bray. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers; 
 
 Perchance you followed well 
 At Kenesaw with Harker 
 
 And caught him when he fell; 
 Perchance you joined the wild mad cry 
 
 That through the army ran: 
 " McPherson and revenge!" then smote 
 
 The foemen rear and van. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers; 
 
 A glory crowns jou still. 
 For marches under Sherman, 
 
 For raids with •> Little Pliil." 
 Though you swore by Grant or Thomas, 
 
 Or bj' Custer early dead. 
 There are roses for each bosom. 
 
 There are laurels for each dead. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers; 
 
 Each day the ranks grow small. 
 Each day a voice grows silent 
 
 Heard at the last roll-call ; 
 A comrade's voice makes answer 
 
 -* 
 
® 
 
 602 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Where was heard a manly shout: 
 "Disabled in the service, 
 And awaits his muster out!" 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers; 
 
 A few more flying- years. 
 And roses will be blooming 
 
 Above your lowly biers; 
 The roses and the ivy 
 
 And the lonely myrtle climb 
 Above the sleeping millions 
 
 Plumed and knighted in their time. 
 
 Fall in, fall in, old soldiers. 
 
 And fight your battles o'er. 
 Until above the last low bier 
 
 The wings of Freedom soar, 
 Stand hand to hand and heart to heart, 
 
 In Fame's eternal care. 
 Until the great reunion 
 
 Unites you over there. 
 
 MARGUERITE. 
 
 Like a glad bride asleep 
 
 In robes of white. 
 Earth smiles ; and yet I keep 
 
 Sad watch to-night,— 
 Saying, "Marguerite, 
 Ma petite Marguerite, 
 When in that fair, far country shall we meet, 
 Marguerite?" 
 
 I waken with the dawn 
 
 And say, " Her eyes 
 Look from wide windows on 
 
 The dear south-skies. 
 Where, calling, > Marguerite, 
 Ma petite Marguerite,' 
 She flung white oleanders at my feet. 
 Marguerite!" 
 
 O fair child of the sun. 
 
 Can I say. Come, 
 Where skies are chill and dun? 
 
 My heart grows dumb ! 
 Oh, speak, Marguerite, 
 Ma petite Marguerite, 
 Can love make all climes beautiful and sweet. 
 Marguerite? 
 
 ©- 
 
 ULRIC DAHLGREN. 
 A flasb of light across the night. 
 
 An eager face, an eye afire! 
 O lad so true, you may yet rue 
 
 The courage of your deep despair! 
 
 "Nay, tempt me not: the way is plain 
 'Tis but the coward checks his i-ein; 
 
 For tliere tliey lie 
 
 And there they cry 
 For whose dear sake 'twere joy to die !' 
 
 He bends unto his saddle bow. 
 
 The steeds they follow two and two; 
 Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat, 
 Tlieir ridei's' locks are damp with dew. 
 " O comrades, haste! the way is long. 
 The dirge it drowns the battle song; 
 The hunger preys. 
 The famine slays. 
 An awful horror veils our ways!" 
 Beneath the pall of prison wall 
 
 The rush of hoofs they seem to hear; 
 From loathsome guise they lift their eyes. 
 And beat their bars and bend their ear. 
 " Ah, God be thanked! our friends are nigh; 
 He wills it not that thus we die; 
 O fiends accurst 
 Of want and thirst!" 
 Our comrades gather,— do your worst!" 
 A sharp affright runs through the night. 
 
 An ambush stirred, a column reined; 
 The hurrying steed has checked his speed. 
 His smoking flanks are crimson stained. 
 O noble son of noble sire. 
 Thine ears are deaf to our desire! 
 O knightly grace 
 Of valiant race. 
 Thy grave is honor's trystiug-place! 
 O life so pure! O faith so sure! 
 
 O heart so brave, and true and strong! 
 With tips of flame is writ your name. 
 
 In annaled deed and storied song! 
 It flares across the solemn night. 
 It glitters in the radiant light; 
 A jewel set 
 Unnumbered yet. 
 In our repuljlic's coronet! 
 
 THE VETERANS AT LINCOLN S HOME- 
 STEAD. 
 Wrinkled and bronzed the battle-heroes stood 
 Where erst, retreading through tlie open door. 
 The sad apostle of high brotiierliood 
 Paced anguished hours across the humble 
 
 fioor. 
 With mighty prophecies absorbed, o'er- 
 
 wrought 
 With dark foreboding's and o'ei-inastering 
 
 thouglit. 
 The pangs of mouTiting from tlie (.'oiiunon 
 
 clod 
 To kingsliip, priesthood, fellow.sliip with (iod. 
 O heroes, brotliei's, in the same pure cause 
 Of holier living and godlier laws! 
 Tlie form is vanished and the footsteps still. 
 But from the silence Lincoln's answers thrill; 
 "Peace, cliarity and love!" In all the world's 
 
 best needs 
 The master stands transfigured in his deeds. 
 
 -® 
 
® 
 
 ® 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AM£KICA. 
 
 Go:{ 
 
 © 
 
 EDWARD BRECK ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Dokchestek, Mass., May 29, 1821. 
 At the age of tweuty-one Mr. Robinson adopt- 
 ed piano-teaching- as a profession, and went 
 to Portland in 1847 In that capacity. In 1851 
 he was orjranist at the First Parish ehnroli, 
 
 EDWARD BRECK ROBIN.SON. 
 
 but later lesigned to go on an European tour. 
 Mr. Robinson was partner in tlie Arm of An- 
 drews and Robinson, manufacturers of pianos 
 and orsrans at Port hind, but since 1858 lias been 
 engaged in teaching and dealing in pianos. 
 
 THE TRINITY OF TIME. 
 We throw our thouglits upon the past, 
 
 Reflecting on the things that were — 
 Then on the future tliey are east. 
 
 Divining what may there occur. 
 The Past and Future are but wings 
 
 That lift the present into view. 
 And sliow to man the drift of things,— 
 
 Tilings drifting from the old to new. 
 The Present is a fleeting day, 
 
 Tliat plunges headlong into night: 
 Arouiul the world it makes its way. 
 
 And on the Future throws its light. 
 
 ILL LUCK. 
 
 Most of us pound when the iron is cold; 
 
 When hot, comfoiind it, no anvil is here; 
 That found, we look, and the hammer is not, 
 
 And when all are ready, then no one is near. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 Sooner or later, more or less,— 
 And Time has no forgetfulness,— 
 Nature will pay us what we earn; 
 The good and evil shall return 
 To bless or curse — to curse or bless,— 
 For Time has no forgetfulness. 
 Should charm of manner and of speech 
 The hidden flres of passion reach. 
 And tempt some impulse to go wrong. 
 Ere plodding reason gets along; 
 Remember 'twixt the no and yes 
 That Time has no forgetfulness. 
 No good to pray, nor good is prayer. 
 When Nature's laws a working are; 
 But kneel before the deed is done. 
 And in your thoughts the evil shun! 
 Remember who will not do this. 
 That Time has no forgetfulness. 
 
 MY IDOL. 
 
 Sweet impulse of the air, my words attend 
 
 And tell me of thy presence, where thou art; 
 And of thy friendship dear — my loving friend 
 
 And of thy blissful state to me impart!— 
 For in the flowery land must many be 
 
 That center' round thy form to worship thee. 
 Do others look upon thy beauty fair [eyes, 
 And draw the radiance from those tender 
 And hear the melodies that fill the air 
 
 When wander thou the fields of paradise? 
 For in the flowery land there many be 
 That think of thee M-hen hearing melody. 
 And do they follow swift along thy path 
 
 To catch the spicy fragrance of thy Un-e, 
 And see the winsome step thy spirit hath 
 
 That thrills the fancy at each graceful 
 m(jve? 
 For in. the flowery land there many be 
 That feel a love when they thy beauty see. 
 My idol .sweet, dost thou my soul await 
 
 That we together may each joy pursue; 
 And walking hand in hand to each relate 
 
 The memories of earth as old friends do? 
 For iti the flowery land there many be 
 That seeing us alone would envy me. 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 Below the outline of an eastern sky 
 
 The Sun crowds on its tide of flooding light ; 
 But ere its gorgeous splendor reaches higli 
 The stars retire; then westward wings the 
 
 Night, 
 Alighting on the shadows in its flight. 
 Here lingering, it lurks behind the trees 
 And objects all where shadowed forms are 
 laid: [breeze 
 
 And when the hanging branches feel the 
 It«huns the light as if it were afraid Led. 
 And dodges to and fro when they are sway- 
 
 -« 
 
m- 
 
 -m 
 
 604 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. ARTHUR J. LOCKHART. 
 
 Born: Nova Scotia, May 5, 1850. 
 The poems of Rev. Arthur John Loekhart 
 
 have appcaivd ijuitt' cxteiisivfly in tlic Cau- 
 
 ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART. 
 
 adian publications. He is now a resident of 
 Cherryiield, Maine. Mr. Loekhart is the au- 
 thor of The Masque of Minstrels, The Heart in 
 the Sleeve, etc. 
 
 O OCEAN. 
 O Ocean ! restless, deep, and lone! 
 
 What tribute do.st thou crave! 
 Thou hast one fairest, favorite one — 
 
 The generous and the brave. 
 He faded from the yearning- shore 
 
 With bark fleet-winged and free; 
 Ho comes not — nor deserts thee more, 
 
 O solitary sea! 
 The feet of sorrow tread not wlice 
 
 Tliy winds and billows rave; 
 No flower that scents the summer air 
 
 Shall blossom on his grave. 
 But, 'neath the waves tumultuous stir. 
 
 And tempests' thunder sweep. 
 Low-rapt in weedy sepulcher. 
 
 He rests with thee, O deep! 
 
 8B- 
 
 THE MAIDEN EVE. 
 The maiden eve is a bride to-night. 
 And her brow is bound with a circlet bright, 
 
 And her robe of blue in every fold 
 
 Is sprinkled and starred with dust of gold. 
 
 And I at the holy altar stand. 
 
 And hold, sweet Mary, thy lily-white hand; 
 
 Fair thy face, and thine eye is bright. 
 
 And thou, meek maid, art a bride to-night! 
 
 THE LADY IN THE PICTURE. 
 
 In my room from the rude old wall. 
 
 Dinged with the dust of years, and bare. 
 Just where the day's last sunbeams fall. 
 
 The portrait hangs of a lady fair; 
 Pale and delicate, stately and tall. 
 
 Light as a shower of snow in the air; 
 Her eyes are stars, and they shine on all 
 From the billowy brown of her beauteous 
 hair. 
 No nymph of river or lilied lake. 
 
 No fairy figure on forest lea. 
 No creature of dreams that moves to make 
 The night-world beautiful, bright, is she; 
 These are gone when we start and wake; 
 
 Waking, her pictured face I see; 
 They the haunts of the heart forsake; 
 
 She is more, as a woman, to me. 
 Look in the wonderful deeps of her eyes! 
 
 See the calm smile on her face that reposes; 
 Watch the high spirit, benignantly wise. 
 The lofty courage her mien discloses;— 
 A breathing song, in the purest guise, 
 
 A silent poem her gaze supposes; 
 A bosom, birthplace of faintest sighs; 
 A poet's forehead, whiter than roses. 
 She hath homes in the land of thought. 
 
 She hath tarried in haunted spaces; 
 Folded in her sweet brain hath brought 
 
 Odors and .sounds of holy places; 
 And oft when I come with my heart o'er- 
 wrought. 
 Laden witli frowns of darker faces. 
 She drops her light on the shadowed spot. 
 
 And fills my spirit witli charms and graces. 
 Beautiful lights on the dim old wall. 
 
 Clasp her 'round with your soft embraces; 
 Lofty o'er her features fall. 
 
 And fondly cover the kindest of faces! 
 Sliiiie, my spirit to disentlu-all Ltra^^^s; 
 
 Of the shadows that linger,— the care-worn 
 Wliile the smiling welcome she gives to all 
 Each cold repulse of the world effaces. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 So beautiful, my darling! 
 
 Our lowly life's decline; 
 And softly 'round our parting hour. 
 
 The lights of evening sliine; 
 One life, with faith unl)roken. 
 
 One love, from falsehood free; 
 And, by God's grace in a holier place. 
 
 One Heaven for thee and me. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 605 
 
 -m 
 
 GEORGE W. SNOW. 
 
 Born: Bangok, Me., May 13, 1809. 
 At the ape of twenty-one Mr. Snow taught 
 school in North Carolina, but three years later 
 returned to his native city, where he has re- 
 sided ever since. He then was employed as a 
 copyist in tlieotlicecif t In' ci niniy i'(>;isier of 
 
 (ji.<JHUK W. SNUW. 
 
 deeds, and subsequently was elected clerk of 
 the common council. In 1845 he was chosen 
 city clerk and retained that position for 
 twenty-seven years. Mr. Snow next became 
 clerk in the bankrupt court; tlien chosen one 
 of the city assessors, and in 1877 was elected 
 clerk and collector of the city water depart- 
 ment, which position he still retains. 
 
 «• 
 
 MEMORY'S MAGIC SPELL. 
 
 With what strange, mysterious might 
 
 O'er the spirit steals — 
 Sudden as the lightning's flight. 
 
 Startling as its peals — 
 Wak'ning thoughts which long have slept 
 
 In the bosom's cell — 
 Scenes o'er wliich we've smiled or wept — 
 
 Memory's Magic Spell. 
 
 When the shade of twilight grows 
 
 Deeper o'er the scene — 
 And the star of evening glows 
 
 With the diamond's sheen- 
 
 In that sweet and stilly hour 
 
 On the heart will swell 
 Voices of the past— the power 
 
 Of mem'ry's Magic Spell. 
 
 'Mid the crowd in festal halls 
 
 As the joj-ous strain 
 On the 'raptured spirit falis 
 
 With its mystic chain. 
 Then some long forgotten tone 
 
 Thrills us like a knell,— 
 Then upon the heart is thrown 
 
 Memory's Magic Spell. 
 
 Cradled on the lonely seas. 
 
 At deep midnight's hour — 
 There will come, as if the breeze 
 
 From the far-off shore 
 W'afted thoughts of loved ones lost- 
 
 Scenes remembered well — 
 Visions of the happy past — 
 
 Memory's Magic Spell. 
 
 Time nor distance can control 
 
 Memory's wondrous power 
 Till life's currents cease to roll; 
 
 E'en in slumber's hour 
 Will the sleeper's ej-es be wet. 
 
 Or a smile will tell 
 That in dreams is potent yet 
 
 Memory's Magic Spell. 
 
 THE CRYSTAL STREAM. 
 
 For me no more the wine cup fill. 
 Dash down the tempting draught, 
 
 Henceforth its subtle venom will 
 No more by me be quaffed. 
 
 The limpid stream, the spark'ling brook 
 
 To me far sweeter seem. 
 And I've the madd'ning bowl forsook 
 To drink the crystal stream. 
 
 A serpent lurks beneath the vine 
 That wreathes the goblet round. 
 
 And in the ruddy, sparkling wine 
 A power the soul to wound. 
 
 Then turn ye from its wily lure — 
 With death its red drops teem — 
 
 The poison cup for aye abjure. 
 And drink the crystal stream. 
 
 List to the warning voice that comes 
 From out the drunkard's gravel 
 
 Look on the wretched, ruined homes 
 Where drunken maniacs rave; 
 
 And learn that grave— that fate to shun — 
 
 That wild, delirious dream. 
 Then dash that fatal chalice down 
 
 And drink the crystal stream. 
 
 m 
 
MRS.MOLLIE A.BOLING. 
 
 born: LAWRENCE Co., ALA., MAY 23, 1856. 
 This lady was married in 1874 to B. R. Boling, 
 I and resides with her family at Carrollton, 
 Kentucky. Herpoems have appeared in the 
 
 ' PalLMn Deninrrat. Xew All.any Ledgvr, Mad- 
 
 MRS. MOLLIE A. BOLING. 
 
 ison Herald and the local press generally. 
 The poems of Mrs. Boling have always been 
 well and favorably received. Personally she 
 is a little above the averag-e height, dark- 
 brown hair, dark-gray eyes, and of very fine 
 stature. 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 I sit in the twilight's quickening glow. 
 And watch the shadows come and go. 
 And think of the twilights long ago. 
 
 When boy and girl together 
 We climbed the hill-side hand in hand, 
 While coasting on the snowy strand, 
 And thought the work) a fairy land 
 
 In bright or cloudy weather. 
 
 But childhood's days too swiftly sped. 
 
 And all its joys too quickly fled. 
 
 And all our hopes seemed crushed and dead 
 
 When youth's bright day was done: 
 For relentless time with cruel spleen 
 Flung many years our lives between. 
 And you forgot for the time I ween 
 
 The childish heart you won. 
 
 ©— 
 
 But the destiny which sliapes our ends 
 And all our joys and sorrows lends, 
 (For lives both strong and weak she bends 
 
 And brinji-s them smiles or tearS) 
 Has now, like a promise from above. 
 Sent this hallowed gift of love. 
 As in the end good faith to prove 
 
 And bless our later years. 
 Nor brighter seemed the youthful glow 
 Of the guileless liearts of long ago. 
 While coasting on the frozen snow. 
 
 Than this to-day appears. 
 Which fills our lives with roseate hues. 
 With light and joy the soul imbues. 
 For naught but peace our glad hearts 
 choose. 
 
 And find no time for tears. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 I^cr what are you searching to-day sad Jieajt, 
 •Mid the mystic gloom of memory s haUs- 
 Art seeking a trace of a radiant face. 
 
 Which alingering dream of the past recalls? 
 Art seeking a bright, coquettish head. 
 
 Crowned with a wealth of chestnut curls. 
 Smiling with pride, a childish bride, 
 
 .Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
 girls?" 
 For a voice that is full of music. 
 
 For eyes that are dancing with hght. 
 For a face with a halo of beauty. 
 As crowns the queen of night? 
 Oh' face of exquisite beauty. 
 
 Come from the lethean night; 
 Come from the mystic realms once more. 
 
 With your erst sweet smile so bright. 
 Oh ! voice, come out of the shadows. 
 
 And whisper to us once more. 
 As the murmuring of tlie ocean 
 
 Ever breatlies of the long-lost shore. 
 But no, you are only a memory. 
 
 Sweet phantom of a vanished day. 
 And the voice of thrilling sweetness 
 
 Can only come in an airy way. 
 Like a sound that comes from dreamland - 
 
 B(n-ne on the wings of night. 
 To cheer with its magical sweeUiess 
 But is gone ere tlie coming ol light. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Dear friends greet me day i)y day. 
 
 In my new liome far away: 
 And the skies are just as bright :ind blue. 
 
 And the scenes are just as ga> . 
 As th<«e of my childhood's early home. 
 
 Where hope and joy were mine. 
 And love around my careless brow 
 
 A fairy wreath did twine. 
 
s 
 
 © 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 607 
 
 MRS. CLARA M. ALLANSON. 
 
 Born : Cherky Valley, N. Y., July 21, 1830. 
 This lady was married at tlie age of twenty- 
 two to Georfre Allansou. Her poems have ap- 
 peared ill various magazines and tlie local 
 press Kt'iH'rally. Mrs. Allauson is the mother 
 
 MRS. CLARA M. ALLANSON. 
 
 of a very interesting- family ; her son, Edward, 
 has gained quite a local reputation as a poet, 
 and lie is represented in this work. Mrs. 
 Alhmson will publish a volume of her poems 
 in the near future. She is now a resident of 
 Anita, Iowa. 
 
 A SILENT LESSON. 
 The sun was clouded, and my heart 
 
 Ketlefted back the shade; 
 The raindrops pattering on the roof 
 
 A mournful music made. 
 1 longed to solve the mist and doubts 
 
 That liemmed my spirit in. 
 And read tlie precious page of Truth. 
 
 Without a line of sin. 
 And thus, unsatisfied I fled 
 
 The cottage with "its noise — 
 The muffled music of the rain — 
 
 The merriment of boys. 
 And wandered through the rustic bow6r 
 
 To larches fresh and green. 
 Where, lo! a diamond drop reposed, 
 
 Pure, perfect and serene. 
 * 
 
 In glad surprise I, ling'riug, gazed 
 
 On Nature's rarest gem 
 Reposing on its emerald couch, 
 
 Meet for a diadem. 
 And while I mused in rapt delig-lit, 
 
 Tlie clouds that vailed the sun 
 Swept onward, and a thousand beams 
 
 Shot from the light of one. 
 Oh, radiant, siiiniiig drop of dew! 
 
 A lesson I would find 
 For every heaven-reflected soul, 
 
 And every deathless mind. 
 In this existence here below. 
 
 Amid eartli's emerald bowers, 
 A mission unto yearning hearts. 
 
 Like thine to slirubs and flowers. 
 Not beating out its feeble strength 
 
 Against the unyielding- bars 
 Of God's great wisdom ; but content 
 
 To shine 'neath sun or stars. 
 And lend with tender .sympathy 
 
 Its pure, unsullied ray. 
 To guide some weary wandering feet 
 
 To realms of perfect day. 
 
 THE THREAD OF GOLD. 
 
 Faded and worn, and out of date. 
 
 In fickle fashion's phrase. 
 Though once the pride of rich and great 
 
 In manhood's palmy days; 
 Now thrown aside in a ghostly place, 
 
 Te battle with moth and mold — 
 Yet tlirough the screen of dust I trace 
 
 The g-leaming threads of gold. 
 We may not keep the tattered part. 
 
 Revive the faded hue; 
 But with the treasures of the heart 
 
 This tliought were sacred, too; 
 That tlirough the mist of coming years, 
 
 When time grows sere and old, [cares, 
 Our deeds shall shine through strife and 
 
 Like gleaming threads of gold; 
 And whisper of a better day. 
 
 When truth, the shining tliread — 
 Wlien every cliarm lias passed away 
 
 And every sense is dead — 
 Will live — and like a cast-ofif vest, 
 
 Faded and worn and old. 
 We're laid in somber gloom to rest. 
 
 Will gleam like threads of gold. 
 And leave above the lonely spot. 
 
 Above death's silent steep, 
 Tlie tliought tiiat may not be forgot 
 
 Though friends forget to weep ; 
 Tliat though we faltered in the fight. 
 
 Where fiery billows rolled. 
 Our heart's frail vesture still was bright 
 
 With truths of gleaming gold. 
 
 -® 
 
^- 
 
 608 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 9 
 
 EDWARD G. ALLANSON. 
 
 Born: Elgin, 111., Nov. 11, 1863. 
 This writer is the sou of Mrs. Clara M. Allan- 
 son, a poetess who is elsewhere represented 
 in this work. He attended the Iowa business 
 
 EDWARD G. ALLA.Sm'N. 
 
 college of Des Moines and there received a 
 prize. His poems have appeared in the peri- 
 odical press generally, and he bids fair to be- 
 come well known in the literary world. 
 
 ©- 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 As we drift away on the waves of Time 
 Fond memory whispers a low sad rhyme. 
 For the days that once were bright and gay 
 Like the flowers of spring have faded away. 
 There's a bower of love, where a fountain 
 
 plays 
 In the liquid light of the moon's soft rays. 
 And music floats on the clear still air [er. 
 Like the low, sweet tones of an infant's pray- 
 There's a whispering grove on a Southern lea. 
 Where the mocking bird sings to the mur- 
 muring sea, [bliine 
 And the beauty of Nature so grand and su- 
 Thrills the aching heart like a mystical rhyme. 
 Bright days that have passed on this sum- 
 mer sea. 
 They will never, never come back to me. 
 For this beautiful .sea is the sea of Time, 
 And its waves sweep on with a surge sublime. 
 
 And we frail barques, drift to and fro 
 On the breakers of fate with the ebb and flow, 
 Till the twilight falls on the Gates Ajar 
 And we see the light of life's evening star. 
 'Tis the last grand finale; j-et, the bell's sol- 
 emn toil [soul. 
 Marks the break of eternity's dawn o'er the 
 
 LIFE. 
 This life, like a river, unceasingly flows 
 
 In many a winding way: 
 And the deeper the grief, the more calm the 
 
 repose. 
 Yet stronger the sweeps of its silent woes 
 
 On its troubled way out to the sea. 
 There arc ripples of mirth from the fair and 
 
 the gay. 
 But the whirlpools of sorrow and wrong 
 Will never cease, until Time fades away — 
 Till we wake in the dawn of eternity's daj-. 
 
 Our souls filled with rapture and song. 
 But 'tis not to compare the suffering here 
 
 With the glory to come by and bj'. 
 When our Father above shall dry every tear 
 And the threatening clouds of sorrow and fear 
 
 Will cease to drift o'er our sky. 
 And so we should struggle, for grief is a test 
 
 That chastens the soul's radiant glow. 
 Like a glistening gem in the river's breast, 
 
 That drifts to and fro, in ceaseless unrest, 
 
 Yet brightens with each turbid flow. 
 Oh, flowers of hope! that bloom by the waj-, 
 
 And springs of life-giving love. 
 Where flashes of truth from their fountains 
 
 play. 
 In the radiance that falls from day to day. 
 
 From the light of a world above. 
 
 GOD'S LANGUAGE. 
 I've climbed the Sierra Madres — 
 
 I've seen the big horn's leap — 
 I've fought the mighty silver-tip 
 
 In canyons wild and deep. 
 I've gone to rest at evening. 
 
 In lonely silent glens, 
 Wliere dark pines lift their towering crests, 
 
 And gray wolves seek tiieir dens. 
 Where light the perfumed zephyrs 
 
 Cool on my brow would play. 
 Until the sun came up at morn 
 
 And chased the dawn away. 
 The tall firs towered above me; 
 
 1 hear them whispering still;— 
 1 see the velvet lawn Vieneath 
 
 Laced with the mountain rill. 
 The grandeur of those grand old hills. 
 
 How infinite — how sublime! 
 'Tis God's own language to the soul — 
 
 The impress of the Divine ! 
 
 -V 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 609 
 
 -* 
 
 ROSE E. CLEVELAND. 
 
 Born: FAYETTeviDLE,N.Y.,1846. 
 When seven years of age, her family remo^■ed 
 to Hollaud Patent, New York state, where her 
 father, a miuister, died the same year. Rose 
 was educated at Houghton seminary, became 
 a teacher in tliat school, and two years later 
 assumed charge of the Collegiate Institute in 
 
 ^ 
 
 ROSE ELIZABETH CLEVELAND. 
 
 Lafayette, Indiana. In 1885 she published a 
 volume of lectures and essays under the title 
 of George Eliot's Poetry, and Other Studies, 
 and the year following a novel, entitled Long 
 Run. She constantly contributes both poetry 
 and prose to various periodicals. In person. 
 Miss Cleveland is of medium stature with a 
 shapely and highly intellectual face — good- 
 looliing. but not pretty. 
 
 THE DILEMMA OF THE NINETEENTH 
 CENTURY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Look around you 
 At Nature's bounty open to your choice; 
 Rise from the chains of custom which have 
 bound you 
 To slavish deference to Fashion's voice 
 And stale convention,— chains that must be 
 riven 
 
 By the same hands that forged and placed 
 
 them there,— [given 
 
 Those same soft hands that to you have been 
 
 For better use than always "doing hau-," 
 Or advertised by their jeweled glimmer 
 Your heart a bait for any golden swimmer. 
 
 Teach your proud will to make those nobler 
 choices [health; 
 
 Which bring to soul and heart enduring 
 Deafen your ears to these contending voices; 
 
 Look in your heart, learn your own being's 
 wealth. 
 Its resource vast, its undiscovered treasure 
 
 Waiting for these same idle hands to mine. 
 Dare not to sound its depth or take its measure 
 
 By any human gauge or finite line. 
 Learn that the grandest of Nature's creations 
 May not be bounded by man's limitations. 
 
 Choose work,— the work at hand. Nay, do not 
 hnger 
 Where others wrangle over what just suits 
 
 Choose Love, the marvel,— Love, the old magi- 
 cian 
 
 Whose alchemy divine transmutes our dross 
 To finest gold— Love, the unschooled phj-sician 
 
 Who, healing, takes no note of gain or loss. 
 Ay, choose thou Love: albeit In the choosmg 
 
 Thou choose a day's feast and a life-long 
 dearth. 
 Thou gainest still a greater gain in losing, 
 
 For Love and Pain are beings of one birth. 
 
 Choose Faith, the salt of work, the soul of Love, 
 whose laughter [Past, 
 
 Chimes through an arid Present, o'er a barren 
 With full sweet echoes from the great Here- 
 after, 
 Assuring work contenting Love, at last. 
 Faith in thyself, thy gi-eatness surely knowing: 
 Faith in thy work, undoubting of its worth; 
 Faith in thy Love, evermore trustful growing, 
 Faith in the Pain that came with thy Love's 
 birth. 
 Choose for thy soul such rich, sufficient diet. 
 And thou shalt find abounding health and 
 quiet,— 
 
 Such quiet as the sea knows where abideth 
 
 All moving Ufe, all treasures rich and rare. 
 Such quiet as the untrodden forest hideth 
 
 Albeit all the singing birds are there. 
 
 So steadfast bide, whilst 'midst man's dreary 
 chiding 
 
 Eternity is surging o'er the beach of Time, 
 And underneath thy feet its sands are sliding 
 
 Into that Ocean vast with sound sublime. 
 Its surf shall salt thy patient work's endeavor. 
 While Love and Faith echo its grand FoRE^^;R! 
 
 — fl8 
 
m- 
 
 610 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AJIERICA. 
 
 -S 
 
 EMMA LAZARUS. 
 
 Born: New York City, July 22, 1849. 
 Emma's first Poems and Translations were soon 
 followed by Admetus and Other Poems. She 
 has also written and edited several prose works. 
 The translations of Miss Lazarus were collect- 
 ed and published as Poems and Ballads of 
 Heine, and her miscellaneous poems under the 
 title of Songs of a Semite. This lady is a 
 Jewess, and has written several very striking- 
 essays on topics relating- to the condition of 
 her race. 
 
 Miss Lazarus is held in high esteem in New 
 York City, where she is well known, not only as 
 an eminent writer, but also by her high social 
 following. 
 
 THE WORLDS JUSTICE. 
 If the sudden tidings came 
 
 That on some far, foreign coast. 
 Buried ages long from fame. 
 
 Had been found a remnant lost 
 Of that hoary race who dwelt 
 
 By the golden Nile divine. 
 Spake the Pharaohs' tongue and knelt 
 
 At the moon-crowned Isis' shrine — 
 How at reverend Egypt's feet. 
 Pilgrims from all lands would meet! 
 
 If the sudden news were known. 
 
 That anigh the desert place 
 Where once blossomed Babylon, 
 
 Scions of a mighty race 
 Still survived, of giant build. 
 
 Huntsmen, warriors, priest and sage, 
 Whose ancestral fame had filled 
 
 Trumpet-tongued, the earlier age, 
 How at old Assyria's feet 
 Pilgrims from all lands would meet! 
 
 Yet when Egypt's self was young, 
 
 And Assyria's bloom unworn. 
 Ere the mythic Homer sung. 
 
 Ere the God's of Greece were born, 
 Lived the nation of one God, 
 
 Priests of freedom, sons of Shem, 
 Never quelled by yoke or rod. 
 
 Founders of Jerusalem — 
 Is there one abides, to-day. 
 Seeker of dead cities, say ' 
 
 Answer, now as then, they are; 
 
 Scattered broadcast o'er the lands. 
 Knit in spirit nigh and far. 
 
 With indissoluble bands. 
 Half the world adores their God, 
 
 They the living law proclaim, 
 And their guerdon is — the rod, 
 
 Stripes and scourgings, death and shame. 
 Still on Israel's head forlorn 
 Every nation heaps its scorn. 
 
 ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., Sept. 1.5, 1824. 
 This lady is the daughter of Enoch Train, 
 founder of a line of packet ships between Bos- 
 ton and Liverpool ; she is also the sister of the 
 noted George Francis Train. Mrs. Whitney 
 has patented a set of Alphabet Blocks, which 
 are now in general use. She has contributed 
 largely to magazines for the young. Among 
 the poetical works of Mrs. Whitney are Foot- 
 steps on the Seas, Pansies, Daffodils, and Bird- 
 Talk; her prose works are We Girls, Real Folks, 
 Homespun Yarns, and numerous others. 
 
 BEHIND THE MASK. 
 
 It was an old, distorted face,— 
 
 An uncouth visage, rough and wild,— 
 Yet, fi-om behind of laughing grace. 
 
 Peeped the fresh beauty of a child. 
 
 And so, contrasting strange to-day. 
 My heai-t of youth doth inly ask 
 
 If half earth's wi-iukled grimncss may 
 Be but the baby in the mask. 
 
 Behind gray hairs and furrowed brow 
 And Avithered look that life puts on, 
 
 Each as he wears it comes to know 
 How the child hides, and is not gone. 
 
 For while the inexorable years 
 
 To saddened features fit their mould. 
 
 Beneath the work of time and tears 
 
 Waits something that will not grow old! 
 
 The rifted pine upon the hill. 
 
 Scarred by the lightning and the wind, 
 Through bolt and blight doth nurture still 
 
 Young fibres underneath the rind; 
 
 And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent, 
 And wasted hope, and sinful staiu. 
 
 Roughen the strange integument 
 
 The struggling soul must wear in i)aiu; 
 
 Yet when she comes to claim her own. 
 Heaven's angels, happy, shall not ask 
 
 For that last look the world hatli known. 
 But for the face behind the mask! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I am not yoiuig, I am not old; 
 
 The flush of morn, the sunset calm. 
 Paling, and deepi'ning, each to each, 
 
 Meet midway with a solemn charm. 
 
 One side I sec the sinnmer fields 
 Not yet disrobed of all their green, 
 
 While westerly, along the hills. 
 
 Flame the first tints of frosty sheen, 
 
 «- 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, TOETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 61 i 
 
 -a^ 
 
 THOMAS E. WILSON. 
 
 Bokn; Kittery, Me., Sept. 6, 1839. 
 Since 1870 Mr. Wilson luis been engaged in 
 active business, but lias found time for lit- 
 erary work. Most of his poetry has appeared 
 in the Portland Transcript, Watclimnn and 
 
 THOMAS E. WILSON. 
 
 other publications. He is represented in the 
 Poets of Maine. Mr. Wilson contemplates 
 publishing- a volume of his poems at an early 
 date. He is at present eng-aged as a builder, 
 and resides in Boston, Mass. 
 
 s- 
 
 THE SOLDIERS GRAVE. 
 The early g^rass is springing 
 
 Above the soldiers grave ; 
 Tlie merry birds are singing 
 
 Above the true and brave. 
 My boyhood friend is sleeping: 
 
 Witliin this n-.irrow bed; 
 The years are softly creeping- 
 
 Above the honored dead. 
 O comrade, pure and tender, 
 
 O soldier, brave and strong-. 
 To thee we love to render 
 
 The tribute of our song-. 
 And, inm\e life eternal. 
 
 Beyond our toil and pain. 
 Where all is bright and vernal. 
 
 We hope to meet again 
 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 The winds were hushed on Zion's hill. 
 And Jordan's waves were calm and still. 
 The stars looked down ■nith tender liglit 
 W'hile shepherds kept their flocks by night, 
 When, lo: the shining- angels came 
 From worlds above on wings of flame. 
 And while the hills with glory shone. 
 They made their joyful message known. 
 " Fear not, behold to you we bring 
 Glad tidings of your heavenly king: 
 To you in David's town this morn, 
 A Savior, Christ the Lord, is born. 
 "And this .shall be a sign to all, 
 His bed shall be a manger stall. 
 The Son of God, tiie child divine. 
 Shall rest amid the lowing kine. 
 " Glory to God, who reigns on high, 
 O praise Him, all below the sky: 
 Glory to God in Heaven above. 
 Peace on Earth, good will and love." 
 The wmds were hushed on Zion's hill. 
 And Jordan's waves were calm and still. 
 When in the bright and peaceful morn 
 The Savior, Christ the Lord, was born. 
 
 WOMEN AT THE CROSS. 
 
 Upon that sad and awful day, 
 
 When in thine hour of sorest need 
 Thy loved disciples turned away. 
 
 And left the on the cross to bleed. 
 Woman, in her love drew near. 
 And shed for thee the silent tear. 
 When laid upon tljy sacred head 
 
 Was all our load of sin and shame. 
 While others from thy sorrows fled 
 
 And feared to own thy holy name. 
 Woman in her love we know 
 Felt the sharpness of thy woe. 
 When flowing from thy wounded side. 
 
 Thy precious blood rau slowly down 
 Till thou hadst in thy anguish died 
 
 To gain for us the victor's crown. 
 Woman in her love was lu'gli 
 And mourned to see thee bleed and die. 
 Upon that great and glorious day. 
 
 When from thy dark and dreary tomb 
 Bright angels rolled the stone away. 
 
 When thou hadst risen from its gloom. 
 Woman, in her love so rare. 
 Was first to meet her Savior there. 
 
 THE LEAVES. 
 The summer days, so fair, so brief. 
 
 Too soon have jiassed awa>'. 
 And left us in the changing leaf 
 
 The emblem of decav. 
 
 ■© 
 
-^ 
 
 POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 AL M. HENDEE. 
 
 Born: Wilmington, Ohio, Aug. 21, 1858. 
 In 1883 Mr. Hendee, in conjunction with Chas. 
 C Kichmond, published a small volume of 
 tlieir poems. He has been connected with 
 numerous newspapers, both as editor and 
 manager, and his poems and prose have ap- 
 peared in tlH- St. Lnuis Post Dispatch, Kansas 
 
 MAY 1 SO LIVE. 
 May I so live that when the summons comes 
 To quit this world so beautiful and bright. 
 To take a long farewell of all my friends so 
 
 dear. 
 The narrow grave will not forever hide 
 The memory of all I've tried to be. 
 May I so live that when that hour shall come 
 Both prince and pauper may in sorrow say, 
 .> In him I've lost indeed a noble friend." 
 
 AL, M. iiLNDLL 
 
 City Times, New York World, Topeka Lance, 
 writer. Journalist, and numerous other pub- 
 lications. Mr. Hendee lias in preparation a 
 volume on Literary Kansans, in wliich he will 
 treat both critically and biographically of the 
 leading writers of his adopted state. Mr. 
 Hendee is now located at Whitewater, Kansas, 
 and is editor of the Tribune of that city. 
 
 FORGIVEN. 
 A beaten path, :ui old-time lover 
 A ring that b(!ars a maiden's name: 
 A word, a quarrel, and all is over; 
 The little gems she long had worn 
 Were from her fair hand rudely torn 
 Were mine again. 
 
 A pall, a bier, a pale form shrouded; 
 Another precious soul in heaven; 
 
 With burning thoughts my brain was 
 crowded — 
 
 .. Forgive me, love," 1 wildly cried, 
 
 "Forgive me;" and the night wind sighed, 
 
 ..All, all forgiven." 
 
 ENDURE. 
 Of my misfortune I complained 
 Unto the fields and hills. 
 The forests and the shady lanes. 
 The merry, laughing rills 
 Whose waters flow so free and pure — 
 But each one said .. Endure, endure." 
 
 I sought the Bible for relief 
 
 But on its every page 
 
 In answer to my cry of grief, 
 
 ..Endure " was all it said: 
 
 I closed tlie book; I'll search no more; 
 
 I am content, God says: ..Endure." 
 
 THE EDITORIAL THREE. 
 pencil: 
 
 I'm the stub of a Faber 
 Well worn with lal)or 
 That lasts from sun to sun. 
 I toil like creation 
 W'ith ne'er a vacation; 
 I'm the all-important one. 
 
 paste: 
 O, I'm made of flour 
 And used every hour, 
 I'm so very important you see, 
 That no editor's table 
 Has ever been able 
 To ]irosper at all without me. 
 
 shears: 
 With a familiar clatter 
 I'vechpped the best matter 
 'I'hafs come to this office for years. 
 So when you have read it 
 Please give me tlie credit — 
 Tm the editorial .shears. 
 
 all: 
 
 O, We are three powers 
 So important, all liours — 
 We're the editorial three. 
 No one i.s inferior 
 But all are superior 
 To the editorial .. we." 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 613 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. HATTIE ELNORA HOAG. 
 
 Bona: Paw Paw, 111., July 26, 1850. 
 The poems of Mrs. Hoag- have appeared from 
 time to time in tlie local press. Slie was mar- 
 
 MBS. HATTIE ELNORA HOAG. 
 
 ried to her present husband in 1879, and is 
 still a resident of her native state at KoUo. 
 
 AT REST. 
 At rest — sweet rest prepared bj' God, 
 Calmly she sleeps beneath the sod; 
 Her worli all done, her trials o'er. 
 
 In perfect rest for evermore. 
 0, Mother dear, sweet be tliy rest. 
 No pains, no suffering- fills thy breast; 
 We have laid thee away, wliere grasses creep 
 O'er thy worn out fi)rni, in quiet sleep. 
 Sadly we miss thee. Mother, to-niglit. 
 Forever thou'rt hid from eartlily sig-ht; 
 In tears thou hast left us, thy absence we 
 
 mourn. 
 Savior, help us to say, ^.Thy will bo done." 
 Sad, sweet reminders of her who is gone. 
 Lie scattered around through our lonely 
 
 home ; 
 The bitter tears unbidden start. 
 And we lay them away with an aching lieart, 
 But the tired hands are idle now. 
 No suffering mars tlie i)ure white brow; 
 Why do we mourn? Why do we weep? 
 Thou'rt at rest in a dreamless sleep, 
 1^ 
 
 My motlier, truest eartlily friend. 
 When earthly trials are at an end. 
 May we meet again in a brighter home, 
 Where the parting- hour can never come. 
 
 WILLIAM H.COOK. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Cook are generally on pop- 
 ular subjects, and have consequently always 
 been well received. He is now a resident of 
 Hampton, New York, where he is well known 
 and admired for his many accomplishments. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 Sacred day of joy and sorrow. 
 
 Day of memory and of tears. 
 Time doth touch thee but to hallow 
 
 Througli the ever-rolling years. 
 Day of tears — for we lament thee. 
 
 Soldier —in thine honored g-rave: 
 Day of joy — we hail the nation. 
 
 Thou did'st give thy life to save. 
 Wliere the white peaks of New England 
 
 Greet the morning's dazzling- light; 
 Where the Golden Gate of Sunset 
 
 Bids the day a fond "good-night," 
 Half the world shall liear our bugles. 
 
 Half the world shall bow the knee, 
 Half the world thall swell the anthem. 
 
 Soldier — that we raise to thee. 
 In the beauteous land of sunshine. 
 
 Where the laurel ever blooms: 
 Where the birds, in nature's cliorus. 
 
 Chant a requiem o'er their tombs. 
 There our " Boys in Blue " are sleeping 
 
 In the sunshine and the rain; 
 While the murmuring pine-tree branches 
 
 Wail a dirge above our slain. 
 Ours, the mission of remembrance, 
 
 Tlieirs, the holier one to die; 
 Ours, the ransom of the nation, 
 
 Their's, the ransom of tlie sky : 
 Ours, from Beauty's lovely fingers 
 
 Flowers to scatter o'er their tombs: 
 Their's to walk the liills of glory. 
 
 Where eternal summer blooms. 
 Not alone earth's fairy fingers 
 
 Scatter flowers upon their biers. 
 Not alone earth's sweetest chorus. 
 
 Not alone earth's holiest tears; 
 Unseen forms are hovering o'er us. 
 
 Forms, tliat wear the martyr's crown, 
 All unseen, tlie hands of angels 
 
 Scatter Eden's roses down. 
 Teardrops wrung from weary bondsman, 
 
 Teardrops shed above our slain, 
 IJy the widow and the orphan. 
 
 Falling like the summer's rain; 
 
 -ee 
 
gB- 
 
 * 
 
 614 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ANNASARGENT HUNT. 
 
 Born:Fkankfort, Me., June 13, 1850. 
 After completing- lier education, this lady 
 taught school until 1873, when she was mar- 
 ried to Mr. Charles C. Hunt, of Hallowell. For 
 five years Mrs. Hunt was corresponding- secre- 
 t;iry of t)ie state \V. C. T. U., and later entered 
 u|.oii till' dutii-s of st:ite vici-pn-sidcnt of the 
 
 MRS. ANNA SARGENT HUNT. 
 
 Woman's American Baptist Home Missionary 
 Society, also serving as general vice-president 
 of that society. In 1886 Mrs Hunt became editor 
 and publislier of the Home Mission Echo, the 
 organ of th} Baptist women of New England, 
 which is still published by her at Augusta, 
 Maine. She has been a very prolific writer, 
 and her contributions of both pro.se and verse 
 have appeared quite extensively in the leading 
 periodcals of America. 
 
 ALPINE CALLS. 
 Do you know tlie charming custom. 
 Of tlie snow-clad Switzerland, 
 Just a simple ev'ning habit. 
 That tlio i)e()i)le underslandV 
 When, upon these; snowy summits. 
 Gleams the sunset's golden light, 
 When the valleys sit in sliadow. 
 Waiting for the coming niglit; 
 Then the herdsman wlio is dwelling 
 In the highest home of all, 
 
 Takes his Alpine horn, and loudly 
 Gives this clearly spoken call,— 
 "Praise-the-Lord-our-God," and listen, 
 How it cleaves tlie very air. 
 How it rouses all the herdsmen. 
 Watching in the twilight there! 
 
 Quickly on their horns they answer. 
 O'er and o'er the words repeat. 
 Restless night-winds catch tlie greeting. 
 Bear it on with wings so fleet; 
 Till from mount and cliff resounding, • 
 Kings the blessed clarion call. 
 Then it dies away, and silence 
 Settles gently over all. 
 
 Now with heads uncovered, kneeling. 
 All the herdsmen softly pray, 
 While the darkness, with its laantle, 
 Hideth all the light of day. 
 Then, at last, the higliest dweller 
 Calls" Good night," and answer comes 
 Frow the rocky cliffs and mountains. 
 From the horns of of Switzer homes. 
 
 As those distant mountain shepherds. 
 When the night is coming down. 
 Thank the Father for the mercies. 
 That their pathway thickly crown. 
 So should we in humble rev'rence 
 Daily look to Him above. 
 Who, through all the years, has given 
 Priceless tokens of His love. 
 
 Then, dear-heart, in glad thanksgiving, 
 Sound the message far and wide,— 
 'iPraise-the-Lord our-God," and always 
 In His love securely hide. 
 Some one waiting- in Life's shadows. 
 May perhaps your keynote hear. 
 And, unheeded hlessing counting. 
 Send abroad some note of cheer. 
 
 Like the call from Alpine summits. 
 Our "Good-nigiits" will soon be heard. 
 Friends with bated breath will listen 
 For the parting, whispered word. 
 Sometime in th' eternal dawning. 
 When Earth's night has passed away. 
 Sometime we shall .say •■ Good morning, 
 In the never-ending day. 
 
 GRANDMA. 
 
 Natight it matters that around her. 
 
 (iocs the world its rushing wa,y.s, 
 With her rocking comes the meni'ry 
 
 or the bygone happy days. 
 .Mniost lunety years she counteth. 
 
 With their changing hopes and fears. 
 Beam her eyes with old-time brightness, 
 
 Then are dimmed with sudden tears. 
 
 ©■ 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 Gi; 
 
 ^ 
 
 MRS. AUGUSTA WORTHEN. 
 
 Bokn: Sutton, N. H., Sept. 27, 1823. 
 
 After receiving- her education this lady be- 
 came a teacher in tlie Andover Academy. In 
 1855 she became the wife of Mr. Charles F. 
 Wurtheii, but is now a widow. Slie is the au- 
 
 MBS. AUGUSTA H. WORTHEN. 
 
 thor of a history of her native town, and has 
 contributed quite extensively both prose and 
 verse to numerous newspapers and maga- 
 zines. Mrs. Worthen is a daughter of Col. 
 John Harvey, and is now a resident of Lynn, 
 Mass. 
 
 THE LILY'S STORY. 
 Linger not within the shadow 
 
 Of the lonely forest pines; 
 See on yonder liill and meadow, 
 
 Briglit October sunliglit shines! 
 Come, for bright must fall its radiance, 
 
 On the pond wliere liMes grew. 
 Still, perchance some breath of fragrance 
 
 Hovers o'er its waters blue. 
 O'er the rocks the wild vines creeping, 
 
 Fhished with autumn's crimson glow. 
 Wondering, see the clouds lie sleeping 
 
 In tlie mirror depths below. 
 We, with such sweet fancies liaunted. 
 
 Seek tlie spot last year so fair. 
 Painfully are disenchanted. 
 
 For no pretty pond is there. 
 
 Coarse and rank the weeds are growing 
 
 O'er its dark and oozy bed. 
 But no murmuring brook is flowing 
 
 'Neath the alder-berries red. 
 Yet, in yon low quagmire gleaming. 
 
 Something pure and white I see! 
 But, I'm only fondly dreaming — 
 
 Can the flower a Lily be? 
 Yes, all fragrant, fresh and smiling 
 
 In October's mellow light, 
 Me of all sad thoughts beguiling, 
 
 'Twas a Lily met my sight. 
 None can tell my heart's deep pleasure. 
 
 Half the foolish things it said. 
 As ] sought the precious treasure — 
 
 Bent me o'er its beauteous head. 
 Had my loving admiration 
 
 Waked some sweet responsive thrill'/ 
 Saw I not a faint pulsation 
 
 All its slender stamens fill? 
 WHiy did every petal tremble 
 
 'Neath my warm admiring gaze? 
 Might it not Its joy dissemble 
 
 At mj' words of earnest praise? 
 Had It, like the human spirit. 
 
 Longed for recognition too? 
 Strong- desires did it inherit 
 
 For appreciation true! 
 Wilt thou credit this sweet marvel 
 
 That, within my spirit's ear. 
 Words of hopeful, earnest counsel 
 
 From the Lily I should hear? 
 Sweet the tale of joy and sorrow 
 
 Which the Lily told to me; 
 Would I might its accents borrow 
 
 While I tell it unto thee. 
 
 Spring was young, thus ran the story. 
 
 When the tiny bud had birth; 
 Came and went the summer's glory 
 
 Ere she bloomed in beauty forth. 
 Never, on the clear bright billow, 
 
 Lifted from her lowly bed. 
 Never on a wavelet pillow 
 
 Rested she her gentle head. 
 Still, the torturing, upward-yearnmg , 
 
 Instincts of her dainty race. 
 Bade her, from the dull earth turning. 
 
 Rise in purity and grace. 
 " Mockery every aspiration. 
 
 Prone and helpless liere I lie I" 
 This in hours of dark temptation 
 
 Was her spirit's anguish cry. 
 . I Vain the hopes, the longings endless, 
 
 For a freer, brighter life. 
 Making me more lone and friendless, 
 
 Wearying me with useless strife. 
 Let my better nature perish; 
 
 Nevermore will I aspire. 
 Nevermore will seek to cherish 
 
 Higher instinct, i>ure desire; 
 
 © 
 
©- 
 
 616 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -®^: 
 
 «• 
 
 On these weeds will g-aze admiring-, 
 
 Nodding- in tliis earth-born breeze, 
 Coarse, contented, unaspiring-. 
 
 Would I were like one of these." 
 But the sunbeams on her fulling-. 
 
 Roused from that despairing- chill, 
 And the voice within her calling-, 
 
 Bade her be a Lily still. 
 Wind-borne, from some purer region. 
 
 Came this testimony free : 
 " Fear not, for their name is Legion, 
 
 Who have hoped and toiled like thee. 
 Slowly, painfully, thou learnest 
 
 What thy desutiy must be: 
 AH thine inner promptings earnest 
 
 Are but glorious prophecy. 
 Faithful to thy hig-hest duty, 
 
 Hope, yet work with heart and will. 
 Thou Shalt yet arise in beauty. 
 
 Thou Shalt be a Lily still." 
 
 Then, as to some touch mysterious. 
 
 Every inmost heart-string- thrilled. 
 While her spirit, thoughtful, serious. 
 
 With a wondrous joy was filled. 
 Blessed hours of exaltation! 
 
 Memories of sucli rapture rare. 
 Saved her from her dark temptation. 
 
 Strengthened lier ag-ainst despair. 
 Tliougli no partial friends beholding 
 
 Cheered her with delicious praise. 
 All unmarked her slow unfolding- 
 
 Through the long, long- summer days; 
 Though half doubtful of her mission. 
 
 Dreading- lest her power mig-ht fail. 
 Musing on that dream Elysian, 
 
 Hopeful grew the Lily pale. 
 All its meaning scarce divining-. 
 
 Still new efforts she put forth; 
 For the vital moistures pining 
 
 Deeper struck her roots in earth. 
 Gratefully, her thirst allaying. 
 
 Every dewdrop gathered up; 
 Choice perfumes from zephyrs straying. 
 
 Hoarded in her pearly cup. 
 Once, to let the sunbeams enter. 
 
 Dared to ope that chalice white: 
 Instantly her heart's deep center 
 
 Caught their golden radiance bright 
 So she kept her pure corolla 
 
 Free from earthly soil or stain. 
 Till the autumn winds blew hollow- 
 Fell the welcome autumn rain. 
 Then a little pool collected — 
 
 Raised her on her slender stem. 
 Then a Lily was perfected 
 
 Fairer than the fairest gem. 
 Toiler, thinker, dreaming poet, 
 
 Doubtful of yo\ir highest powers. 
 Work in liope, for, ere you know it. 
 
 Help shall come like autumn showers. 
 
 JOHN EVANS SCUDDER. 
 
 Born: Brooklyn, N.Y., Sept 5, 1846. 
 The poems of this gentleman have appeared 
 from time to time quite extensively in the 
 periodical press. Mr. Scuddor is a resident of 
 
 .JOHN KVANS scnnif^R. 
 Walden, N.Y.. where iie is a journalist and 
 printer. Mr. Scudder was married in 1869 to 
 Miss Emma G. Armstrong. 
 
 THE PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 Sitting in the blessed twilight 
 
 Of a summer's day that's past. 
 How the tears that dim my eyesight. 
 
 Gather thick, and gather fast. 
 As the thoughts of maiij' a wrong. 
 
 Flash through tired and weary brain, 
 And the memories of many song. 
 
 Cause me to live life o'er again. 
 Let the dead past be dead and perished. 
 
 No more to haunt my wearied brain; 
 Yet the hoi)es that I have cherished 
 
 All spring- back to life again. 
 Is there no surcease of sorrow? 
 
 Why into future attempt to gaze. 
 Why live T, hoping for the morrow,— . 
 
 All of life seems but a, maze. 
 Yet there's one tliat still keeps luring. 
 
 Her to whom my heart goes out. 
 Ever anon my hopes assuring. 
 
 Cheering even as I doubt. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 G17 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. M ALEXANDER. 
 
 Born: Posey Co., Ind., June 14 , 184:i. 
 Mrs. Alexander married iu 186.3. and three 
 years later she was left a widow with one 
 child, .since that time she 
 
 de\(>ted her- 
 
 MRS. M. ALEXANDER. 
 
 self mainly to the education of lier daughter, 
 spending a part of her time in writing and 
 pursuing- a course of historical reading-. She 
 now resides in Mount Vernon, Indiana. 
 
 CALLING. 
 
 CaUing by flood and by fire, the voice 
 
 Echoes afar in its desolate woe; 
 Calling by pestilence, tempest and torrent. 
 
 Calling for many not ready to go. 
 In the dark night while the storm king is 
 brooding. 
 Fearful in might and awful in wrath, 
 Down from the mountain the torrent comes 
 flooding. 
 Strewing the valley with death in its path. 
 Wild shrieks of torture and sad cries come 
 thrilling 
 Souls in deep agony on every side. 
 Fond wife and husband; loved parents and 
 children. 
 Parted for aye, by death's rolling tide. 
 While in the bright sunny land of .sweet liv- 
 
 * 
 
 Falls the light sorrow we scarce understand. 
 
 Compared with the woes which arise and ap- 
 paling. 
 Scatter destruction abroad in our land. 
 
 Impotent man oft his reverence concealeth. 
 Seeking alone this world and its gain. 
 
 Till the Omnipotent i)ower revealeth 
 AH of his weakness, his terror, his pain. 
 
 Wasted by famine and stricken by fever ; 
 
 Lashed by the storms of disaster and woe, 
 Cast between friends the deadline sei)aration, 
 
 Now in our liearts bitter anguish doth flow. 
 
 Yet far above the bright stars are still shi n i ng 
 Steadfast and true, while death sweeps our 
 shore. 
 And lifting our hearts above grief and repin- 
 ing 
 We follow the Father, and trust evermore. 
 
 While down through the darkness, the valley, 
 the shadow, 
 Tlie bright ray of promise illumines our 
 night ; 
 Beyond death and flood and earth's awful 
 sorrow 
 There gleams in its radiance a heavenly 
 light. 
 
 WELCOME. 
 
 Welcome, yes welcome, to our shore, 
 
 AU ye, who have a freeman's home, 
 America calls out for more 
 
 And gladly bids the stranger come. 
 But ever bear within your minds, 
 
 No traitor horde or vandal mars 
 The civil rights our country gives. 
 
 Beneath its floating stripes and stars. 
 School house and church and college rear 
 
 Their lofty domes unto the sky. 
 And humble though the man may be, 
 
 His heart-throbs beat in liberty. 
 Our land is broad, our mountains high, 
 
 But height and breadth can measure not 
 The love of freedom in ouv hearts. 
 
 Of our own homes, earth's dearest spot 
 To ci\'ilize and Christianize, 
 
 We ojKMi wide our doors to-da.\-. 
 A welcome give to rich and poor. 
 
 To our loved land America. 
 Our prisons strong, our scafl'old high, 
 
 And where no Christian love can reach 
 It is a ti-aitor's doom to die, 
 
 Tho statutes of our law doth teach. 
 And twenty thousand glittering swords. 
 
 All sheathed and shining lie to-day. 
 Ready to defend our country's rights 
 
 From anarchists' unlawful sway. 
 No crimson horde or tyrant throng 
 
 Dare desecrate our sacred sod. 
 But liberty its peans strong 
 
 Lifts up its anthem to our God. 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 618 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 W. T. VANCE. 
 
 Born : Canada, July 12, 1826. 
 When eleven years of age the sutoject of this 
 sketch removed to Sturgis, Mich. After re- 
 ceiving his education he learned the wagon- 
 maliers' trade, and subsequently as a journey- 
 man meandered over the then railroadless re- 
 
 W. T. VANCE. 
 
 gions between Canada and Mexico. At the age 
 of thirty-two Mr. Vance married Miss Julia 
 Powers, a dear and kindred spirit, whom in 
 1885 he was deprived of by death. He has 
 written numerous poems, some of wliieh have 
 appeared in the Messenger and otlier local pa- 
 pers of South Haven, Michigan, where he now 
 resides. 
 
 «- 
 
 OUR BEAUTIFUL HAVEN. 
 
 South Haven, the fair, soon will receive 
 The beautiful robes the fates did weave. 
 And so very long was held in store 
 For the loveliest town on the eastern shore 
 
 Of that inland sea. 
 
 Whose pure winds free 
 Fan the pallid cheek to rosy liealth. 
 And fill the sails that bring the wealth 
 Of freight to factory, farm and stoi'O, 
 For the loveliest town on the eastern shore* 
 
 Of that inland sea, 
 
 Wliose pure winds free 
 Toss the waves on the pebbly strand. 
 
 Where laden with trains, the steamers land, 
 
 Or, swiftly gliding them o'er and o'er 
 
 To the loveliest town on the eastern shore. 
 
 Of that inland sea; 
 
 Whose pure winds free. 
 Scatter the blooms from myriad trees. 
 Whose odors exhaled, perfumes the breeze, 
 Tliat bear tlie sea-birds' song, as they soar 
 O'er the loveliest town on the eastern shore, 
 
 Of that inland sea. 
 
 Whose pure winds free. 
 All rippling witli laughter and song. 
 Rising from pleasure boats moving along, 
 As soft as the flight of tlie raven. 
 Gliding into our beautiful Haven. 
 
 A SIMPLE PLAN. 
 Deep in my soul a feeling 
 Comes o'er my senses stealing 
 
 All other thoughts away; 
 Of my brothers lowly toiling — 
 All their aspuations foiling. 
 
 Because of scanty pay. 
 Employers kind and just 
 Grieve because they must 
 
 Cut wages in self-defense. 
 Now here's a simple plan 
 Good alike to every man. 
 
 And appeals to common sense. 
 Let employers form a ring. 
 And large enough to bring- 
 All trades together banded, 
 To raise wages fifty per cent,— 
 Your goods to that extent 
 
 Will surely be demanded. 
 Labor millions more can buy 
 To maks the wheels of commerce fly, 
 
 Then happiness becomes the style; 
 Looms dance — spindles sing 
 Amid the anvil chorus ring — 
 
 Sad-ejed millions smile. 
 
 THE I>AND SHALL NOT BE SOLD. 
 
 Men of conscience, men of brains. 
 From the workshops and the ti'ains; 
 Men from Grangers' rural halls. 
 On you the sacred duty falls. 
 To say the land shall not be sold. 
 Men from puli>its and the bar. 
 Hurl Pi'oinetiiean brands afar. 
 To break the stu|)or of Ihe ages. 
 And prove yourselves the sages 
 Wlio say the land shall not be sold. 
 Wake ye giants of the mighty press. 
 Whose world-wide power to bless 
 Is crippled by the stupid lie. 
 The sordid nabob's right to buy 
 Land that shall not be sold. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 * 
 
 619 
 
 EDGAR POE ARCHBOLD. 
 
 Bohn: Chillicothe, Ohio, Feb. 13, 185T. 
 Mr. Archbold lias been employed as a news- 
 paper writer upon tlie principal dailies of the 
 west. In 1883 he went to Leadville, and there 
 became a gold miner and prospector. He has 
 contributed (luite extensively to the niininti- 
 
 © 
 
 EDGAH POE AHCHBOLD. 
 
 literature of Colorado, in which state he now 
 resides at Pueblo, although he expects to 
 make Kansas his permanent abode. The 
 poems of Mr. Archbold have appeared quite 
 extensively in the local press. 
 
 MASONRY. 
 The mystic lig-hts that wrap thy shrine 
 
 In antique vestments of the past. 
 Within our modern temple shine. 
 
 As rays from vanished ages cast. 
 The minds that gave thy mysteries birth. 
 
 With all that marked thy days of youth, 
 Have slowly withered from the earth. 
 
 And naught remains but light and truth. 
 The centuries which have o'er thee flown. 
 
 Have left us these to guide our way. 
 Through paths which masons tread alone. 
 
 To reach the light of perfect day. 
 And he who takes thy vows sublime. 
 
 And at thy modern altar kneels. 
 In whatsoever land or clime. 
 
 But seeks the light that truth reveals. 
 
 A BUOKEN COLUMN AND A SPKIG OF 
 ACACIA. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF ROB. .MORRIS. 
 
 By imagination's aid, we .stand ttKlay at the 
 
 grave of our most distinguished brother. 
 Upon his lips there rests a silence born of 
 
 death, and on his forehead lies the jeweled 
 
 crown of Fate. 
 For him, the acacia blooms no more. 
 For him, the dawn has faded from the sky. 
 From the weeping stars of Palestine, to the 
 
 moonlight of the Nile, the broken column 
 
 mutely mourns the dead. 
 Eternal night has come; and .somewhere on 
 
 its shoreless tide, Rob. Morris is at rest. 
 The purple of the twilight, and the beautj' of 
 
 the stars, softly blending, touch the face 
 
 of him that's dead. Touch and kiss the 
 
 pallid lips of him that's dead. 
 Across the midnight of the ages, he flashed a 
 
 a torch of Light, and in the sands of Egypt 
 
 sought for Truth. 
 At the cradle of the craft he bowed his head, 
 
 and in tradition's wondrous web he traced 
 
 our way. 
 In the dreamless sleep that wraps him now, we 
 
 consign him to the kind embrace of earth. 
 On the cofiin place the emblems of hiscraf*, 
 
 and in silence let him sleep among the 
 
 hills. 
 
 HYMN TO THE CREATOR. 
 The winds that career o'er the bosom of ocean. 
 The shadows that curtain the face of the 
 sky, [motion. 
 
 The stars in their beauty, the worlds in their 
 Proclaim their Creator — our Father on 
 high. 
 The mountains are Tliine in their mystical 
 splendor. [Thy hand. 
 
 The dawn of the morning springs fresh from 
 The night follows on, ever eager to render 
 
 Devotion and praise, at Thy holy command. 
 The lance of the storm, at Thy order is broken. 
 The lightnings are chained to their home in 
 the clouds, [token. 
 
 The phantoms of air, with the ills they be- 
 Return, at Thy word, to the mist of their 
 shrouds. 
 Tlie evening's soft beam, and ihe midnight's 
 deep beauty. 
 Awaken the soul from its slumber of death ; 
 All doubts disaiiijcar; I remembt'r but duty: 
 Conviction sweeps on like the hurricane's 
 breath. 
 
 O let me adore Thee, thou Gcxl of cre;ition I 
 Let me turn to Thy love like a star to the 
 sea, 
 
 O let me declare my eternal salvation I 
 And bow in devotion and homage to Thee. 
 
 -m 
 
s- 
 
 620 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 Bowdowu thine ear, O Lord, and hear; 
 
 For I am poor, and need Thee. 
 Preserv^e my soul from earthly dole. 
 
 And toward Thy mercy lead me. 
 And let my voice in praise rejoice, 
 
 Unite my heart to fear Thee; 
 Teach me Thy way, that night and day, 
 
 Thy mercy may be near me. 
 
 MRS. L.A. FOLSOM. 
 
 Born : Milford, Me., July 23, 1844 
 
 This lady is engaged as a local reporter for 
 various newspapers. But she loves to write 
 verse, and contrilmtes poems from time to 
 
 r 
 
 MliS. L. A. F()I.S()^r. 
 
 time to the Portland Transcript a!id other 
 publications. She was married in 1864 to 
 Frank W. Folsom, and still resides in her na- 
 tive state at Old Town. 
 
 51- 
 
 NATURE'S WARDROBE. 
 The loveliest vesture of exquisite hue, 
 Dainty of pattern and texture, too, 
 
 Dame Nature dons at will;' 
 Her garments are many, surpassingly fair; 
 And which most enhances her beauty rai'e, 
 
 I'm at a loss to tell. 
 Her robe of the springtime is delicate green, 
 'Broidered with dewdrops' silvery sheen. 
 
 And flecked witli violets blue; 
 
 Crocuses golden and snowdrops white. 
 Are caught in its folds, where primroses 
 bright 
 
 And sweet birds nestle, too. 
 Gorgeous and gay is her summer dress. 
 Replete in its own fair loveliness; 
 
 And heavy with odors sweet; 
 Roses whose petals blush crimson and red, 
 Lie on lier bosom and circle her head, 
 
 While blossoms spring up 'neath her feet. 
 Vividly bright her autumnal attire. 
 Flashing with color like tongues of fire. 
 
 Richer than princess e'er knew; 
 Her robes trail along with a rustling sound. 
 And bright is her pathwaj% scattered around 
 
 With leaves of rainbow hue. 
 Her dress of winter is purest white, 
 Bridal emblem, no colors bright 
 
 E'er mar its chastity rare; 
 'Tis wrought with filmy frost-lace white, 
 Intermingled with crystals that quiver with 
 light. 
 
 And diamonds gleam in her hair. 
 
 TWO HANDS. 
 
 One was rough, and scarred with toiling. 
 
 Brown and seared as with fierce heat; 
 Yet, the memory of its clasping. 
 
 Lingers like a perfume sweet. 
 Fair as rose-leaf tints, the other — 
 
 Or as sea-shells by the sea. 
 And its tender touch like snowflakes. 
 
 Comes In sweetness back to me. 
 One in helpfulness was mighty. 
 
 Shielding me from tempests wild; 
 But the other, in its weakness. 
 
 Nestled like a trusting child. 
 Which I loved the best, I know not; 
 
 But, through all life's ebb and flow, 
 One gave strength and hope — the other. 
 
 Sweetest comfort here below. 
 
 HEART REST. 
 Oh, heart, that since my natal day 
 
 Has ceaseless throbbed for long, long years, 
 Sometimes tumultuous with thy joy. 
 
 Then, keeping time to failing tears. 
 Ever in rhythmic measures fall 
 
 Thy tirni pulsations night and day. 
 And e'en when sleep my eyelids close, 
 
 Still thou dost hold thy gentle sway. 
 All things in nature find repose; 
 
 The birds fly home at set of sun. 
 All seek sweet rest wlien night comes on. 
 
 But, heart, thy work seems never done. 
 Sometime, somewhere, thou, too, shalt rest, 
 
 Yet not while life enthralls you fast; 
 Wait, heart, full soon 'neath daisies white 
 
 Thou shalt find sweetest rest — at last. 
 
*- 
 
 LOGAL, AN1> NATIONAL TOBTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 G21 
 
 -® 
 
 JOSEPH PEEPLES HART. 
 
 Bokn: Aukadelphia, Ark., May 9, 1847. 
 The poems of Mr. Hart have been publislied 
 extensively from time to time in the periodical 
 press. He was married to Miss Lizzie Bell, 
 
 and is still a resident of the place of his nativ- 
 ity. P(M'snn:iIlv Mr. Ihtrt i^^ a little liclow tlii> 
 
 *- 
 
 ' JdMU'Il l'EF,rij;S HAHT. 
 
 average heiglit, robust, with hair a deep black 
 and graj' eyes. He was admitted to the bar in 
 "1872. As a journalist he lias had much ex- 
 perience, having established the Arkadelphia 
 News, and edited the same prior to its sale 
 and change of name to the Herald, which is 
 still being successfully published. 
 
 THUS LIVE. 
 So live, that when the strife 
 Of this tempestuous life, 
 Like battle smoke has passed away — 
 When bugle call 
 Shall summon all 
 To the God of battle's reveille,— 
 Tiiou go not hence undone 
 As some dastard — craven one 
 Who. when the shock of battle came 
 Of standing firm, instead, 
 Recoik>d. ignobly fled 
 With infamy covered, and shame! 
 But go tliou then with tread 
 Of lofty heart and head. 
 All full of expectation. 
 
 As one who inly knows, 
 He to the general goes 
 To reap a decoration. 
 
 THE STAR OF MASONKY. 
 When first the gloomy monarcli, Niglit, 
 
 Put on his crown of sparkling liglit, 
 Before •• the star of Bethlehem" 
 
 Enriched his lustrous diadem. 
 Which jewel flashed most brilliantly! 
 
 It was the star of Masonry ! 
 What gem then sent its flery ray 
 
 To lighten up the dark highway 
 That leads from earth to Heaven? 
 
 What gem wiis then in mercy given 
 To slnne on till eternity? 
 
 It was the star of Masonry ! 
 Whilst groping on in night profound. 
 
 In selfish lolly's irksome round. 
 What beacon did I seek and find. 
 
 That ever after called to mind 
 Its grandeur and sublimity? 
 
 It was the star of Masonry ! 
 What sought I when departed day 
 
 Before me left a rugged way: 
 And when my heart did quake with fear; 
 
 And when the scythe of Death flashed 
 near; 
 And when I called on Deity? 
 
 It was the star of Masonry ! 
 What since the daj^s of Solomon, 
 
 Have been the good man's mighty sun, 
 Dispensing in his pathway light 
 
 That showed him how to walk aright. 
 And live in peace and harmony? 
 
 It was the star of Masonry ! 
 As it has beamed from Time's gray morn, 
 
 On all the nations yet unborn, 
 W'hat is it than shall ceaseless shine, 
 
 And shed on these its light divine. 
 Until appears eternity? 
 
 The star, the star of Masonry ! 
 
 ALL HAIL TO THE FLAG. 
 
 In great Columbia's name 
 
 Thou flag of deathless fame — 
 
 Ensign of liberty. 
 
 And of the valiant free, 
 
 AUliail, all hail to thee! 
 
 The red, the white and blue,— 
 
 These blended and there grew 
 
 On clouded horizon. 
 
 At rising of his sun. 
 
 Freedom's bow, brightest one! 
 
 On this our own •• new world" 
 
 To breezes first unf url'd — 
 
 Cynosure of all eyes — 
 
 That banner flaunts and flies, 
 
 A mistress in all skies! 
 
 -m 
 
®- 
 
 622 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL FOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -5 
 
 Flag- of our Washington — 
 And of our Jefferson — 
 Fliig- that our fatliers gave: 
 Eternal may it wave 
 O'er earth's last tyrant's grave. 
 Lord hear our fervid prayer! 
 Oh, may our fJag in air 
 Float till its home shall be 
 In ev'ry land and sea! 
 Sweet flag', all hail to thee! 
 
 JOHN WESLEY EVANS. 
 
 BoKN : England, May 8, 1848. 
 Emigrating to America in 1880 Mr. Evans 
 has since lived in many of the states, and flu- 
 ally in 1871 sfttlt'd down in Lonaconmg-, Md. 
 
 )11N \vi:si,K^ 
 
 Since 1879 he has contributed both prose and 
 verse to local and national papers, which 
 have been well received. He was married in 
 1874 to Miss M. A. .lohnson, and now follows 
 the occupation of an agent. 
 
 SB- 
 
 TIME. 
 As fond remembrances fade, 
 
 Keeping pace with Time, 
 So will the cloudy shade 
 
 Hover o'er each sunny clime. 
 Years may swiftly pass away, 
 
 And cherished hope forgot, 
 
 Erasing' many a happy daj' 
 Which is now remembered not. 
 
 By some of our kindred dear. 
 Who perchance have g'pne before, 
 
 Leaving us in dread and fear, 
 As their forms are now no more. 
 
 Then memory sweet forget me not. 
 Or cast thy mantle o'er my face, 
 
 And many fond remembrance blot, 
 Wandering from place to place. 
 
 The darkest day may yet unfurl 
 
 A banner of true light. 
 And not a sad remembrance hurl 
 
 As fond Time makes its flight. 
 
 LIFE. 
 Life is but a season 
 
 Fading with the Time, 
 Losing all its reason 
 
 In every land and clime. 
 
 Could we grasp it longer. 
 Or stay its onward march. 
 
 Ambition would be stronger 
 To soothe the lips of parch. 
 
 Its well that life's limited 
 By one who wields a power. 
 
 As rich and poor are benefited 
 In many a trying hour. 
 
 Then raise your hands heavenward. 
 And let your voice exclaim: 
 
 May God continue onward 
 His present course to aim. 
 
 A FASTIDIOUS SWELL. 
 The other day I chanced to meet 
 
 A feminine of slender form; 
 Whilst gazing at her tiny feet 
 
 She eyed me with a look of scorn. 
 
 Why should the f:iir sex man disdain, 
 Wlien a helpmate he sliall be. 
 
 In sunshine or in rain. 
 In sorrow or in glee. 
 
 I trust the day is not far hence 
 When nothing in your mind will be, 
 
 But courtesy and common sense. 
 Instead of pride and vanity. 
 
 And now, young girl, take my advice: 
 Let politeness be your aim, 
 
 Let not liarsh words or vice 
 Disturb your feeble brain. 
 
 — < 
 
ffi 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 H23 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. M. S. CURTISS. 
 
 Bokn: Oswego, N.Y., May27, 1823. 
 The poems of this lady luive received publica- 
 tion in some of the leadinjr periodicals of 
 
 MK.S. M. S. LLKTISS. 
 
 America. Mrs.Curiiss now resides in the pleas- 
 ant home of her son, E. A. Curtiss, on the 
 banks of the Passaic river, at Woodside, New- 
 ark, N. J. 
 
 * 
 
 THE LADY OF ELGIN. 
 Just yestormorn some strangers fair. 
 
 Came to me; how tliey knew my name 
 Or place, I know not — yet they're here. 
 
 These harbingers of western fame: 
 And such as I have now I g-ive. 
 
 Of greeting-, warm to those who tell. 
 In many a column crowded full. 
 
 Of truths I love — oh, passing well '. 
 Who would not? wealth of shining ore. 
 
 Delved for in many deeps of mind. 
 And earnest thoughts, each one as pearls, 
 
 In goodly .setting, safe enshrined; 
 Hail! .. Lady Elgin:" do you know 
 
 I deem you fortun.-ite as fair. 
 Uniting wealth of metal gold 
 
 Witli all the years that time may wear? 
 Life's sands are not for all, always. 
 
 Ticked off to any measured rhyme 
 Of watch or verse, and so I deem 
 
 This .. Lady Elgin," in good time. 
 
 And favored well by those who hold 
 In charge the counting of life's sands: 
 
 May tliese bring long j ears and succe.ss 
 To crown her earnest heart and liands. 
 
 WHAT IS A POEM? 
 
 Is it a richly wro't musical rhyme. 
 Wreathed with garlands from niauy a clime; 
 Woven in tissues of fairest dyes. 
 And bright as are cerulean skies? 
 Is it only an airy carol of song. 
 That like the rivulet dances along? 
 Time and step keeping witli breezes gay 
 Thro' the long hours of the bright summer 
 day? 
 
 Ever blessed and bright be the beautiful 
 
 wings. 
 That preside o'er all these beautiful things; 
 And long may rich madrigals from them all. 
 Enliven the heart homes of palace and hall. 
 But a real poem who shall define 
 In any song rhythm or measured line? 
 While all the earth, and the air and the skies. 
 Are abundant in poems of richest dyes. 
 Poems ever unwritten and unsung. 
 Are by life's wayside plenteous flung; 
 All beautiful too, and rich and grand, 
 As are pearl-freighted sea waves near the 
 
 strand. 
 The deep, dense wood is a poem divine 
 Bounded and full in its every line; 
 And all undulations of flowery fields. 
 Vast realms and whole realms of poems yield. 
 There are life aims reaching out far away. 
 As the seareling fires of summer's sunray; 
 Thence lives are enriched with poems divine. 
 Symmetrically woven — every line. 
 There are ripening harvests from the seeds 
 Of noble charities and kindlie.st deeds; 
 These in Heaven's own good way and time, 
 Will be fashioned in living poems sublime. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF SPRING AT EVENING. 
 Pale, pensive night with starry wing 
 
 And dewy robe again is near! 
 Sweet influence o'er the heart to fling 
 
 Weary and way-worn ones to cheer; 
 And yet night's shady, sable wing 
 
 Can scarcely hide the glow on high; 
 For 'tis the time of early spring. 
 
 When gorgeous colors drape the sky. 
 The he.'ivens now wear their loveliest tinge. 
 
 And clearer is their deep, deep blue. 
 And richi'r seems their golden fringe. 
 
 As iKiture's hand li;i(l rolled them near, 
 And burnished briglit those gems of night 
 
 That thus so brilliantly they glow; 
 While gladsome spring with tardy wing 
 
 And timid step, comes faltering slow. 
 
 -* 
 
©■ 
 
 624 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Now hardy flowers, iu woodland bowers, 
 
 Awaken from their wintry dreams ; 
 And haste to greet that form so sweet. 
 
 For while the stars so brightly gleam. 
 Soon lengthening days with milder rays. 
 
 Will waken all the wildwood flowers 
 To usher in the reign of spring. 
 
 And beautify the balmy hours. 
 Soon may be seen the velvet green, 
 
 Earth's soft attire for lovely May, 
 With here and there sweet violets rare 
 
 Of rich perfume and colors gay. 
 Then lovely spring, with roseate wing 
 
 Will pause awhile and with us stay, 
 Sadness and gloom make ample room. 
 
 For one so beauteous, bright and gay. 
 The evening's light, so placid, bright. 
 
 As from celestial worlds it shone. 
 Where spring supernal, ever vernal. 
 
 Blooms and glows around the Throne! 
 t~t^*~t 
 
 MRS. OPHELIA COOK JONES. 
 
 Born : Brownsville, Miss., Feb. 5, 1849. 
 This lady now follows the occupation of 
 teaching at Abbeville, Louisana. Her poems 
 have appeared in Godey's Lady's Book and 
 
 «- 
 
 MRS. OPHELIA Cf)<)K JONES. 
 
 the periodical press generally. Tlio poem. 
 What My Lover Said , has been attributed to 
 several poets of high standing, but Mrs. Jones 
 is without doubt the autlior of it. She has 
 written some beautiful poems. 
 
 WHAT MY LOVER SAID. 
 By tlie merest chance, in the twilight gloom. 
 
 In the orchard path he met me; 
 In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume. 
 And I tried to pass, but be made no room. 
 
 Oh I tried, but he would not let me. 
 So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, 
 
 Witli my face bent down above it. 
 While lie took my hand as he whistiering 
 said — [liead 
 
 (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet 
 To listen to all tliat my lover said; 
 
 Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!) 
 In the high, wet grass went the path to hide. 
 
 And the low, wet leaves hung over; 
 But I could not pass upon either side. 
 For I found myself, when I vainly tried. 
 
 In the arms of my steadfast lover. 
 And he held me there and he raised my head, 
 
 Wliile he closed the path before me. 
 And he looked down into my eyes and said — 
 (How tlie leaves bent down from the boughs 
 To listen to all that my lover said, [o'er head. 
 
 Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!) 
 Had lie moved aside but a little way, 
 
 I could surely then have passed him; 
 And he knew I never could wish to stay. 
 And would not have heard what he bad to say, 
 
 Could I only aside have cast him. 
 It was almost dark, and the moments sped, ; 
 
 And the searching night-wind found us. 
 But lie drew me nearer and softly said — 
 (How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead 
 To li>,ten to all that my lover said; 
 
 Oh, the whispering wind around us!) 
 I am sure he knew when he held me fast. 
 
 That I must be all unwilling; 
 For I tried to go, and I would liave passed. 
 As the night was come witli its dew, at last. 
 
 And tlie sky with its stars was fllHiig. [flett 
 But he clasped me close wlien I would hav.j 
 And lie made me hear his story, ; 
 
 And his soul came out from liis lips and said -^ 
 (How the stars crept out where the whit 
 To listen to all that my lover said ; [moon \v 
 
 Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!) 
 I know that the grass and the leaves will in. 
 tell. 
 And I'm sure that the wind, precious rove 
 Will carry my secrets so safely and well 
 
 Tliat no being sliall ever discover 
 One word of the many that rapidly fell 
 From the .«oiil-speaking lips of my lover; 
 And the moon ami the stars that looked cv. 
 Shall never reveal wliat, a fairy-like <pelUdi' 
 They wove 'round abont us th:it night in tl 
 In the path tlirough the dew-laden clover. 
 Nor echo the wiiispers that made my !«'» 
 swell 
 As they fell from the lips of my lover. 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 625 
 
 -m 
 
 MRS. MARGARET J. SWEAT. 
 
 Born: Poktland, Me., Nov.:i8, 182:3. 
 Commencing to write poetry at an early age 
 the productious of this lady have appeared in 
 the Galaxy, New Orleans Picayune aud other 
 publications of note. She is also represented 
 in Poets of Maine. In 1849 this lady was mar- 
 ried to the Hon. L. D. M. Sweat. She visited 
 
 MRS. MARGARET J. M. SWEAT. 
 
 Europe in 18.J9 and wrote letters to the Chris, 
 tian Register. In 18.59 she published her first 
 book, Etliel's Love Life, and a few months 
 later appeared Higrhways of Travel or a Sum- 
 mer in Europe. Mrs. Sweat traveled exten- 
 sively in Europe in 18734 and ag-ain in 1887. 
 Her writings include poems, essays, criticisms 
 and sketches of travel in Egypt, Europe and 
 America. 
 
 LOVE'S CALENDAR. 
 If time is measured by sensations. 
 
 And passions make us centuries old; 
 If sympathy creates relations, 
 
 To wliich the ties of blood are cold; 
 Then tliou and I, though lately meeting 
 
 Have made the moments fly so fast, 
 Tliat our two hearts, together beating. 
 
 Through years of love and life have passed. 
 Then do not wonder that I woo thee 
 
 With strangely rapid words and ways. 
 But let me, as a lover, sue thee 
 
 To count as years tliese few sweet days. 
 Each hour has proved a month of pleasure. 
 
 So, dearest, I have loved thee long; 
 
 Cease then by minutes life to measure. 
 Love's calendar will prove thee wrong. 
 
 SWEETS TO THE SWEET. 
 When blue eyes melt in liquid light 
 
 My bosom swells with languid pleasure; 
 When black eyes gleam like stars at night 
 
 My pulses throb with quickened measure; 
 And then, when gray ones flash and glow. 
 
 And shed their radiant beams upon me. 
 Why — on my word !— I scarcely know 
 
 Which of these lovely orbs have won me. 
 
 Redundant locks of raven hair 
 
 Befit a heroine of storj-; 
 While auburn tre.sses floating fair 
 
 Bewilder with their golden glory; 
 And simple bands of shining brown 
 
 Suggest a Raffaelle's Madonna; 
 Which of these heads should wear a crown 
 
 I cannot tell, upon my honor! 
 
 That sylphlike girl with fragile form 
 
 Seems like an artist's fairest dreaming; 
 This tropic beauty takes by storm. 
 
 And charms by being — not by seeming; 
 Etheral saints to rapture wake me. 
 
 And lift me to the upper regions; 
 But earthly hours quickly take me 
 
 Back to their own unholy legions. 
 One day I kneel before a shrine 
 
 And offer up a reverent duty; 
 The next — if all the world were mine 
 
 I'd give it to some naughty beauty. 
 And till one woman shall combine 
 
 The varying charms of all the others, 
 This changing fate must still be mine. 
 
 To be first yours and then another's. 
 
 MRS. SARAH S. W. BENNETT. 
 
 Born: Wilson's Mills, Me., July 12, 18.38. 
 The poems of Mrs. Bennett have occasionally 
 appeared in the Gorham Mountaineer, Ox- 
 ford Democrat and the local press generally. 
 She was married in 1869 and still resides in her 
 native plac& 
 
 HALCYON DAYS. 
 
 Oh ! halcyon days ! how brief in your bright- 
 ness. 
 That lights the departing year to its tomb. 
 The gleam of the snow-covered earth in its 
 whiteness. 
 Is a symbol of the glory beyond its gloom. 
 So ought the life that is rich in well doing, 
 Whose days of strength in labor were pass- 
 ed. 
 With toil-hardened hands its duties pursu- 
 ing. 
 Rest in sweet sunshine and peace at the 
 last. 
 
 -© 
 
« 
 
 626 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 JAMES DAVIS. 
 
 Born : Gloucester, Mass., Jan. 29, 1815. 
 FOR about five years Mr. Davis taught school. 
 Afterward he engaged iu building schooners 
 for the fishing fleet, and subsequently was 
 employed in clerical business. He has held 
 num.-rous positions of trust, and was ap- 
 
 JAMES DAVIS. 
 
 pointed judge of the police court of Glou- 
 cester in 1863. which position he lias ever 
 since held. His poems have appeared quite 
 extensively in the periodieal press, and in 18. . 
 he published a neat volume in verse, entitled 
 Pleasant Water, a song of th e sea and shore. 
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING SONG. 
 We sing a golden wedding song, 
 
 A song that should be sung. 
 When hand to hand and lieart to heart 
 
 For fifty years have clung. 
 We blame no single man cr maid 
 
 Who ne'er a mate could find. 
 But bless the happier lot of those 
 
 Whom Hymen's chain doth bind. 
 O Love! that half a hundred years 
 
 Has bound this worthy pair. 
 And helped them help each other well 
 
 Life's burdens all to bear! 
 An angel tliou, sent from above. 
 
 On errand blest to run. 
 And bring to souls their best estate 
 I By joining two in one. 
 
 m ■ 
 
 Sweet Wedded Love! Dear Household 
 Forbidding hearts to roam, [Queen! 
 
 And rearing as earth's fairest fane 
 
 The sanctuary home ! 
 These two that in the bond of bliss 
 
 Thy golden chain has bound, 
 Have in the chosen, sweet constraint 
 
 Their truest freedom found. 
 Indulgent Heaven, with kindly care. 
 
 Hath guarded well their ways. 
 And to a happy, green old age 
 
 Hath lengthened out their days. 
 For that of those He gave so dear 
 
 His love has left them one. 
 For that His love the others took, 
 They say: "Thy will be done." 
 And if their hearts could have a wish 
 
 For so much life below. 
 And he who metes might think it good 
 
 Such measure to bestow. 
 We would the Gracious Father pray 
 
 Their union to prolong. 
 Till other friends should meet to sing 
 Their diamond wedding song. 
 
 PLEASANT WATER. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 TTnon a gently rising ground, 
 Bvgrass-grown.windingroadwaysrcach'd 
 
 That lead from quiet hamlets round 
 Stands the old fane where Bradstreet 
 preached 
 The sacred word, and Leonard now. 
 
 Weekly, with Heavenly manna feeds 
 The souls that at its altar bow. 
 
 Till hearts grow strong for noble deeds. • 
 •Tis a rude structure, gray with Time, 
 
 Nor hath it show of art in aug-lit. 
 Save that which make, all art ^^' 
 
 When outward forms express the thougli 
 To highest sense of duty leal; 
 
 Built of the fathers' scanty store 
 It shows that Heaven commended zeal 
 
 Which makes the less appear the more. 
 Above it stands nor spire, nor tower. 
 Nor belfry with its brazen tongue. 
 
 Tt> tell the villagers the hour 
 When prayer is made and praises sung. 
 
 No soft upholstery within 
 Invites the drowsy head to sleep 
 
 When plain, but -l-'"";-'^-'^%"^;''''7 
 Their feet the Heavenly way t« keep. 
 Yet not without a pleasing grace. 
 
 And fitness reverent minds would use. 
 Is the arrangement of the place; 
 
 The neatly paneled, ^auare-bu. P^^^ 
 The galleries stretching three sides loum 
 "^The deacons' seats, the ,ullplt^.^J^. 
 W it 1> the quaint sounding-board hmh cro^^ 
 
 Might not offend a cultured c>e. 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMEIIICA. 
 
 ()27 
 
 * 
 
 WALTER ISIDORO DAVIS. 
 
 Born: Gorham, N. H., Aug. 7, 1848. 
 Mr. Davis secured liis education at the Colby 
 
 imi\ri'-it3', and he iimv follow; the profession 
 
 .it :i -fli. lol traclifr, IK' was iiiarrit-il ill 188(1 to 
 
 WALTER I. DAVIS, A. M. 
 
 Miss Leona M. Spencer, who died in 1888. In 
 1890 he married Ada M. Holbrook, :ind still re- 
 sides at Berlin, N. H. The poems of Mr. Davis 
 have appeared in the Waterville Mail, Zion's 
 Advocate, Berlin Independent and the local 
 press generally. 
 
 THREE LEGENDS. 
 Tlie learned Mohammedans relate, 
 That a mallow reared its head. 
 Where the prophet's journey led. 
 Close beside a brazen gate, 
 
 Jusc. a common mallow. 
 
 His robe but touched it as he neared. 
 
 When, instead of mallow base. 
 
 Standing in the self-same place, 
 
 A geranium appeared,— 
 
 At his garment's touch appeared. 
 Have you read the wondrous tale 
 Of a passing Nazarene, 
 When a woman there is seen 
 To touch his robe?— a woman pale,— 
 
 Only just his garment's hem. 
 But, oil! wondrous healing power! 
 As tlie woman in tlie press, 
 Touciied tliis lowly peasant's dress, 
 Slie was healed the very liour,— 
 Cured of her infirmity. 
 
 But a legend, stranger still. 
 
 Is related everywhere. 
 
 That a form divinely fair 
 Passeth wheresoe'r it will. 
 
 Clad In robes of dazzling white. 
 And while earth shall onward roll. 
 
 Whosoever drawetli nigh. 
 
 When the presence passeth by. 
 Is of Sin's disease made wliole. 
 
 If he toucli tlie garment's hem. 
 
 MY PEARL. 
 
 Only a darling 
 
 Sweet little girl. 
 
 Yet, what a treasure! 
 
 Ina, my Pearl. 
 
 Like antumn foliage, 
 
 All in a whirl. 
 
 Skipping and twirling, 
 
 Ina, my Pearl. 
 
 Hair blown in frizzles, 
 
 Beady to curl. 
 
 Color of amber, 
 
 Ina, my Pearl. 
 
 Cheeks like moss-rose buds 
 
 Ere they unfurl, 
 
 Cunnlngest dimples, 
 
 Ina, my Pearl. 
 
 Eyes like a gentian, 
 
 Voice like a merl. 
 
 Ready to chatter, 
 
 Ina, my Pearl. 
 
 Happy as su tishine. 
 
 Rich as an earl. 
 
 That is my baby, 
 
 Ina, my Pearl. 
 
 DR. GEORGE W. FUREY. 
 
 The poems of this gentleman have appeared 
 in some of the leading publications of Amer- 
 ica, from which they have been extensively 
 copied by the local press. Dr. Furey prac- 
 tices his profession at Sunbury, Pennsyl- 
 vania, where he is well known and highly 
 respected both as a scholar and gentleman. 
 
 SPARROWS. 
 You may sing of the glad happy springtime. 
 Its flowers, its fast budding trees I 
 Of the joy it brings to our north clime. 
 And of all its efforts to please; 
 Of the gambols of lambs on the hillside. 
 The rippling of brooks through the plain; 
 But a dirge I'll chant this eventide 
 For music we'll hear not again. 
 You may sit at your home in the city. 
 Or ride through the country's soft breeze. 
 And you'll notice the absence, with pity. 
 Of song birds among the old trees. 
 
 © 
 
© 
 
 ® 
 
 628 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Where tliere once was a medley — enchanting'. 
 From robin, and blue-bird, and thrush. 
 You will hear nothing now but a canting 
 From meadow, and woodland, and brush. 
 
 " Not a sparrow shall fall " saith the good book 
 Which spares them from carnal comment; 
 But, I modestly offer this outlook: 
 Was the English sparrow then meant? 
 With their numbers and mien-overbearing. 
 They've crowded our song-birds away; 
 And they're not even willing of sharing 
 A nest-rlght on eves, branch, or spiay. 
 
 What a type of heredity are they ! 
 What emblems of England, alone! 
 How they "press-g'ang- " our chippy, and blue 
 
 jay. 
 With their harsh rasping- rhythm and tone. 
 I opine, when the great book is shown us. 
 Of matters domestic and state, 
 'Twill appear they were sent here to tone us 
 For the Alabama's sad fate. 
 
 © 
 
 OLD SHOES. 
 Up in the garret, sprinkled and gray 
 With dust of the past and mold of to-day, 
 Cobwebs in plenty, rubbage supreme 
 Clinging about and everywhere seem 
 Straps of old harness, broken-down chairs. 
 Grandmother's spindle set free from its cares 
 Seed-corn and onions, flax, thyme and sage 
 Hang from the rafters beside an old cage. 
 
 Coiled round a stringer, up from the mice. 
 Serpentine sausages dappled and nice. 
 Bottoms of wash-tubs, hoops of old pails, 
 Grandfather's clock and quaint thrashing 
 
 flails, 
 Brass-headed "dogs," "dutch oven" and 
 
 " crane," 
 All tarnished and rusty, long there have lain, 
 Back in a corner, musty, profuse, 
 ReUct of the past — a pile of old shoes. 
 
 Gaiters and brogans, rubbers and kips, 
 Gumboots and stoggies, and wee copper tips, 
 Grandfather's sandals long been forgot, 
 Mother's old slippers — best known of the lot; 
 Once they were useful, once they were new, 
 Some were admired before they wore through; 
 All of them gave us naught to abuse, 
 Now they're forgotten a pile of old shoes. 
 
 How like the friendships back in our past 
 That fitted the form and length of our last. 
 Bent with our instep, wrinked at each corn. 
 Hid our torn stockings, faded and worn. 
 Kept off the dust and mud of the street. 
 Cold of the winter, or summer's great heat, 
 Wlien inconvenient for us to use 
 Up in the garret we sent the old shoes. 
 
 Where are ambitions of school-days gone. 
 What of the plans and our hopes pro and con? 
 
 Most of the precepts urging to strive 
 Promising riches or wherewith to thrive? 
 Back in the bygone — ghosts we revere. 
 Covered with cobwebs and dust, now, we fear 
 Once they betrayed us once did they loose, 
 And up the garret we sent the old shoes. 
 
 Our good intentions* and worthy pains 
 Must accrue unto us m present gains 
 Or we'll take them back, lament their fate 
 As a foregone bid on luck's made-up slate. 
 Yet, stand for the right, do what we can. 
 Aim not too high, nor too far to span, 
 Suflice with enough — wish what we choose 
 And life's best results will not be old shoes. 
 
 HARRIET S. BAKER. 
 
 Born: Norkidgewock, Me., Sept. 11, 1829. 
 For manj' years Miss Baker has been an in- 
 valid. The thoughts of this poet have gen- 
 erally been given on religious themes. Miss 
 Harriet Baker received representation in 
 Woman Workers and also in Poets of Maine. 
 She has also had great success in writing 
 prose. Miss Baker is still a resident of her 
 native town, where she is well known and sur- 
 rounded by a host of friends. 
 
 WALKING BY FAITH. 
 
 The sunshine kisseth the tall tree tops, 
 
 In the early morning light, 
 While the dew on the lofty mountain's peak, 
 
 Sparkles like diamonds bright. 
 
 But over the lowly valley.s. 
 
 Or down the mountains steep ; 
 Dark and gloamy shadows. 
 
 Continually creep. 
 
 As the king of day ariseth, 
 
 He sheds o'er all the earth 
 A sea of wondrous glory. 
 
 As at creation's birth ! 
 
 The rivulets right cheerily. 
 
 Go laughingly along; 
 While glad birds fill the perfumed air, 
 
 With sweetest praise and song. 
 
 Tho' clouds within us hide God's face. 
 
 He ever loves us still; 
 And sweet the peace when we can bow. 
 
 Submissive to his will! 
 
 His love shall turn to golden day 
 
 The spirit's darkest night:— 
 Triumphant then we rise to walk. 
 
 By faith — and not bj- sight. 
 
© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIIICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 629 
 
 ELIAS \VERDEN. 
 
 Born: New Marlbro, Mass., April 26, 1816. 
 A LITTLE volume entitled Sketclies iu Prose 
 and Verse from the pen of Mr. Elias Wcrden 
 has ret't'ivi'd hiy'i 
 
 iiiint'nil:iti(iii 
 
 ELIAS WEHDEN. 
 
 press and many literary people of prominence. 
 The poems of Mr. Werden occasionally ap- 
 pear in the periodical press. He still resides 
 in his native state at Pittsfield, where he 
 passes the time in reading and literary work. 
 
 SILVER LAKE. 
 On the borders of Pittsfield, Mass., 
 
 There is a treasure called Silver Lake: 
 It should be more admired. 
 
 And devoutly loved for conscience sake. 
 
 The precious gift, from Nature's hand. 
 
 At your door is freely laid: 
 The charm in patience waiting still, 
 
 A place of beauty it should be made. 
 
 The gem itself is bright and fair. 
 
 All it needs is proper care; 
 The time is not so far away 
 
 When you'll wonder at such delay. 
 
 When on my bosom you swiftly glide. 
 You'll sing my praise with joy and pride, 
 
 Then on my shore can walk or ride; 
 You'll have these things when you decide. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL GRASS. 
 I love the tiny bits of grass. 
 
 Bedecked with pearls of dew. 
 What a charm it would inspire 
 
 If 'twas only something new. 
 
 How can it be we fail to see 
 
 The precious gift from Nature's hand — 
 The lovely grass in colors bright. 
 
 And how it grows at God's command"? 
 
 The Lord he knows how many spires, 
 But we of this have little tliought. 
 
 Behold tiie field in bright array 
 And don't forget what God bath wrought. 
 
 Tlie grass at first is short and fine. 
 
 But later on it goes to seed. 
 The sons of toil secure the gift. 
 
 The useful grass we so much need. 
 
 The lawn, the lawn, oh what a charm! 
 
 The sight of which we never tire. 
 Nature's carpet, soft and bright. 
 
 Of all things else we most admire. 
 
 One lone spire would not be much, 
 Tho' far beyond the skill of man; 
 
 How great, how small, the ways of him. 
 Reflect and ponder all you can. 
 
 THE BICYCLE. 
 What on earth is that I see? 
 
 Something sailing near the ground. 
 It shines and glistens on the w;ij-. 
 
 In silence whirling round and round. 
 
 My motion is pleasant to the sight. 
 
 My tread is soft and light, 
 I have no wings, I cannot fly. 
 
 But like a phantom pass you bj'. 
 
 My main support is made of wire, 
 Then the rim and rubber tire; 
 
 I make no fuss, but some display, 
 I sail, and roll, and whirl away. 
 
 Was long in coming, as you see. 
 The world has waited long for me. 
 
 The boys rejoice that I am here. 
 All hail the day I did appear. 
 
 My way is straight or on the curve," 
 My riders have a steadj- nerve, 
 
 I never tire or stop to eat. 
 But whirl away a friend to meet. 
 
 I might be called a rolling horse. 
 But take no pride in such a name, 
 
 I only ask an even chance. 
 Can plainly see I'm sure of fame. 
 
 Can neither canter, trot, or pace. 
 But whirl awaj' with speed and grace; 
 
 I never balk nor run away. 
 But where you leave me I will stay. 
 
 -« 
 
®- 
 
 630 
 
 9 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 HENRY W.HOLLEY. 
 
 Born : Pierrepont Manor, N. Y., May 5, 1828. 
 
 From an early ag-e Henry W. HoUey has con- 
 tributed extensively to periodical literature. 
 He has published three works in rhyme en- 
 titled Moods and Emotions in Khyme, The 
 Politicians and Other Poems, and What I 
 Thinlj, a satire. Two works in prose have ap- 
 
 HENRY W. HOLLEY. 
 
 peared from the pen of this writer, entitled 
 the Hegg-ensvi lie's Papers, and Random Shots 
 at Living- Targets. As an autlior Mr. Holley 
 has achieved great success, and the press 
 speaks in glowing terms of both liis prose and 
 verse. He was married in 1855 to Miss Eliza 
 J. Christie, and is a r'Bsident of Winnebago 
 City, Minn. 
 
 «- 
 
 DREAMLAND. 
 Into the summer sky listlessly gazing: 
 
 Dreaming by daylight a beautiful dream; 
 Turreted castles from fleecy clouds raising. 
 
 Where I betake me, a monarch supreme; 
 
 On the rapt soul no trace of a sorrow- 
 Over the vision no shadows are flung; — 
 
 No gloomy fears of disaster to-morrow. 
 Linger these glories of dreamland among! 
 
 Hushed is tlie wild din of life's busy clan- 
 gor; — 
 
 Quiet is brooding o'er earth, air and sea; — 
 Life's dreary routine, work, restlessness, an- 
 ger, 
 Comes not to harass or disquiet me ; 
 
 Glorious to breathe the sweet breath of im- 
 mortals. 
 
 Freed of life's attributes, sorrow and pain; 
 Ah ! they who enter these ideal portals. 
 
 Never come back to the real again ! 
 
 Oh ! the great world in its wonderful splendor, 
 With these bright day dreams has naught to 
 compare; 
 
 Nothing to give like the ecstasy tender. 
 Which the rapt dreamers in fairyland share; 
 
 Fie! on the hunt for a name and its glory; 
 
 Fie! on success and its answering bliss; 
 You take the years which shape heroic story, 
 
 Give me the rapture of moments like this! 
 
 Here 'mong the clouds if you choose to deride 
 me, 
 
 Fool like I may be. but happy I sit; 
 Angels above me, below me, beside me. 
 
 In the warm love-light of memory flit; 
 
 Scoff if you choose, me thus listlessly dream- 
 ing. 
 Riding the sky in my chariot of gold ; — 
 To your lieart seared by life's every day 
 scheming. 
 Never has been such enchantment unroll- 
 ed! 
 
 Scoffer, forsooth! your sneer of derision, 
 Proudly accepted. I wear as a crown; 
 
 Scoffer, forsooth! when the joys of Elysian, 
 Lavishly on my day-dreamings come down; 
 
 Scorn, if you choose, me, with glance, lip and 
 finger, 
 
 Yet I must float down the beautiful stream; 
 Still 'mong its castles enchanted Minger, 
 
 Still, 'neath the blue sky delighted I dream! 
 
 Fie ! on the race for the gold-bearing moun- 
 tains; 
 The years of unrest for the glittering spoil: 
 The head's cruel schemes and the heart's 
 dried-up fountains. 
 The nights of unrest, and the long days of 
 toil; 
 The conscience all seared to the sweet call of 
 duty, 
 The usurers coffers, — the conqueror'.* 
 crown; — 
 Oh ! dreamland, one glimpse of thy wonderful 
 beauty. 
 Hath torn f loni my altars these base idols , 
 down! 
 
SB- 
 
 « 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 631 
 
 9 
 
 REV. ISAAC K. BROWNSON. 
 
 Born: Smithfield, N.Y., July 6, 1810. 
 This g-entlem:iii is a giaduate of Hamilton 
 Literary and Tlieolog-ieal Seminary. He still 
 follows the calliiijr of a Haptist iiunister in 
 
 REV. ISAAC K. BROWNSON. 
 
 his native st:ite at Fayetteville. Commencing- 
 towritever.se in his youth, the poems of the 
 Rev. Brownson have appeared more or less 
 for the past half century in the periodical 
 press. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 The reddening rays along the western sky, 
 And deepening- shadows tell the night draws 
 
 on, 
 Disporting- swallows to their chimneys fly 
 And home-bound laborers tell their work is 
 
 done. 
 If opening day is joyous, so its close 
 When weary toilers seek their sweet repose. 
 But brightest summer days and blooming 
 
 flowers 
 Can scarce allure me from my care and pnin, 
 Through starht night serene I count the 
 
 hours 
 And morning's blushing smiles seem almost 
 
 vain. 
 Ungrateful and profane were yet the sigh, 
 My waning days of life should thus go by. 
 A sentinel before death's iron gate. 
 
 In anxious vigils and uplifted prayer, 
 With weary partner of my life I wait 
 Seeking to stay while her entrance there; 
 I tread but softly as on holy ground 
 While unseen spirits seem to wait around. 
 We know not scenes which time may yet re- 
 veal, 
 Yet this we know,— that Providence is kind; 
 With steadfast hearts till Heaven shall break 
 
 the seal 
 We know 'tis merciful that we are blind; 
 We're nearing harbor of the unknown coast 
 With guiding pilot who cannot be lost. 
 It shall be well,— no ill can us betide; 
 He who led Israel's host in shining cloud 
 Appoints our way,— and walks with us be- 
 side. 
 To gain a heritage not here allowed; 
 Princes to be,— ours be the princely part 
 To know no doubt or feebleness of heart. 
 
 The day is mightier than the darksome night. 
 The summer's sun subdues cold winter's 
 
 reign. 
 So life shall conquer death,— and put to flight 
 Its kindred elements of ill and pain ; 
 We lift our heads in weakness thus bowed 
 
 down 
 And wait for healing and a fadeless crown. 
 
 WOMAN'S SMILES. 
 Before a maiden group I stood. 
 Whose varied features, dress and mien 
 ■Revealed the forms where graces brood 
 And only blush when they are seen. 
 Where all are lovely who of all 
 Attract and fix our restful eyes? 
 Not form symmetric,— short or tall 
 Nor dress, complexion quite suffice. 
 True,— well-formed lineaments of face 
 With speaking eyes and tasteful dress, 
 Where culture adds its magic grace. 
 Are powers to hold love's fond caress. 
 Yet smiles which from kind nature spring 
 Yield charms that else had been denied. 
 And like the sunbeams o'er us fling 
 A sweetness to the heart allied. 
 More winsome than adorning gold 
 Or gems that fancj'oft beguile,— 
 Subduing hearts to gentler mold 
 Is woman's native artless smile. 
 The lily's breath or dewy rose -- 
 The azure of the sky above. 
 Not more of pleasing beauty shows 
 Or more attracts the heart to love. 
 Who can its mystic power explahi? 
 Or sever 'twixt the false and true? 
 A smirk is false,— a giggle vain,— 
 Yet the heart smile like morning dew. 
 
 ee 
 
©■ 
 
 632 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 Smiles are love's garb in dress parade. 
 And much adorn a soul sincere; 
 When forced, as oft to masquerade, 
 Their fond encliantraents disappear. 
 
 ®- 
 
 LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET. 
 I see the evening- shadows lengthen fast 
 And dariiness will succeed with chill and 
 cold. 
 Yet day seems mightier when its strength is 
 past. 
 It paints the heavens with sheets of burn- 
 ished gold. 
 As one with friends reluctant, must needs 
 part. 
 Yet with his ardent blessing would dismiss. 
 The golden sun earth presses to his heart, 
 And like a lover leaves with all — a kiss. 
 If day be parable of man's estate, 
 Mark— it begins with eve and ends with 
 morn, 
 The night between is much annihilate. 
 
 Then we awake and rise as if new-born. 
 The primal day was from the twilight hour: 
 The night was tempered with some lesser 
 light; 
 Day shall he victor in exalted power 
 Wlien resurrection splendors bauisli night. 
 The sunset now is day's triumphant hour. 
 When down the vault of heaven his chariot 
 goes ; 
 Calling earth's weary toilers to his bower 
 He banquets all in slumbrous repose. 
 
 Tliis is indeed the King's prepared highway 
 
 Where myriad pilgrims ages past have trod, 
 Those golden tints suffusing closing daj' 
 
 Are but i-eflections from the gates of God. 
 Yet o'er the hills there lies a darksome vale. 
 
 Passing through which we reach a river 
 stream 
 Where sight, and sense and human vigor fail. 
 
 And glorious life subsides as if a dream. 
 This is but sense;— that vale has angel bands 
 
 Whose radiance seem reflections from 
 above ; 
 And through that tide, dispersed by cherub 
 hands. 
 
 Conduct tho pilgrims to the realm of love. 
 Why so reluctant quit our earthly state. 
 
 With Christ to tread sepulchral shadows dim? 
 From out tliose depths eternal honors wait — 
 
 In both alike we must be joined with him. 
 I dread not parting with what sense is fond. 
 
 Nor fear that slumber which my Savior 
 blest, 
 Since hope embraces life that lies beyond. 
 
 That life triumphant by the saints possessed. 
 There comes a loneliness with added years. 
 
 Through junior throngs are pressing hard 
 behind: 
 A buried world of friends, deeds, smiles and 
 tears, 
 Wiiere our hearts live, while those to these 
 are blind. 
 With love and pity toward all human born 
 
 I soon shall pass, alike to all unknown; 
 My day is blest both bj^ the flower and thorn ; 
 What if still more, I gain a fadeless crown. 
 Should fiery trials come ere life be past. 
 Lord, be my help, nor yet my prayer up- 
 braid — 
 My strength, a sparrow's wing amidst the blast 
 
 Be thou. Omnipotent! my present aid. 
 Lord, I have purposed keeping to the right. 
 
 Pardon wherein my feet have gone astray; 
 
 I yield to the my powers,— trusting thy might 
 
 Will safely lead beyond where shadows play. 
 
 IVER CLIFGARD. 
 
 Born: Blue Mounds, Wis., Oct. 20, 1869. 
 Mr.Clifgard follows the profession of school 
 teaching, aspires to become a lecturer,and has 
 already appeared on the platform. His poems 
 have appeared in the Mount Horeb Sun and 
 the local press generally. 
 
 THE STAIN. 
 There never was a man so great. 
 
 There never was a scene so grand; 
 But 'neath its garb of splendor laid 
 
 That which its face witli shame could brand. 
 There never was a youth so gay. 
 
 Nor ever a maiden so fair; 
 But upon their life's pathway lay 
 
 Of grief, and of sorrow their share. 
 There never was a state so strong. 
 
 Nor enlightened, wealthy or vain; 
 But witliin its dominion a wrong 
 
 Was found that brought it grief and shame. 
 
 So our union though strong and great. 
 
 Though full of freedom, wealth and fun; 
 The greatest curse of any state 
 
 In its very midst is found — rum. 
 Ought not the cries of bitter grief. 
 
 Ought not the oozing blood that calls 
 To God for revenge, mtike at least 
 
 Uncle Sam shiver behind his walls. 
 Ought not the agonizing shrieks, 
 
 Or the assassin's bloody deed 
 Persuade those who ruin's mansion seeks. 
 
 Never its attentions to heed. 
 Cease not to the world to proclaim. 
 
 That rum is its mightiest foe. 
 Blow the trumpet unceasingly 
 
 As onward to victory we go. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 G33 
 
 « 
 
 JAMES M. KERR. 
 
 Foil tlie past decade Mr. Kerr has been a law 
 editor and writer. Jones' Index of Legal Per- 
 iodicals g-ives Mr. Kerr credit witli Imving- 
 
 wiiilcii iiiorr ailiclcs for tliu \arious law 
 
 JAMES M. KERR. 
 
 magazines of tlie country, wiiicli were worthy 
 of preservation, than anj' living' writer, ex- 
 cept Irving Brown, editor of the Albany Law 
 Journal. He is a raeml)er of the law firm of 
 Chamberlain and Kerr, of Rocliester, N.Y., 
 where he stands high as an attorney and 
 journalist. 
 
 m 
 
 THE PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 A PARODY. 
 
 Tell us not in idle jingle, 
 "Life is but an empty dream," 
 
 For the girl is dead that's single. 
 And things are not wliat they seem. 
 
 Life is real, life is earnest. 
 Single-blessedness a fib; 
 
 Man thou art, to man returneth. 
 Has been spoken of the rib. 
 
 Not enjoyment and not sorrow 
 Is our destined end or way; 
 
 But act that each to-morrow 
 Finds ns nearer marriage-day. 
 
 Life is long and youth is fleeting-. 
 And our hearts though light and gay, 
 
 Still like pleasant drums are beating 
 Wedding-marches all the day. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle. 
 In the l)ivouac of life. 
 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle — 
 Be a heroine — a wife ! 
 
 Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; 
 Let the dead past bury its dead; 
 
 Act — act in the living present, 
 Hoping lor a spouse aliead. 
 
 Lives of married folks remind us 
 We can live our lives as well. 
 
 And departing leave behind us 
 Such examples as will tell — 
 
 Such example that another. 
 Wasting- time in idle sport. 
 
 A forlorn, uniiiarried brother 
 Seeing shall take heart and court. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart on triumph set; 
 
 Still contriving, still pursuing. 
 And each one a husband get. 
 
 JAMES W. JOHNSON. 
 
 Born: Muskingum Co., Ohio, June 31, 1849. 
 For several years Mr. Johnson was prominent 
 in public school work, and is now the well- 
 known editor of the Saturday Weekly Globe 
 of O.skaloosa, Iowa. As grade teaclier, high 
 school principal and city superintendent he 
 was alwaj's popular and successful. He was 
 married in 1873 to Delia Wilson. The poems 
 of Mr. Johnson have been widely published. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 In a quaint, old prairie town. 
 Where the road goes winding- down 
 'Mid woodlands and rich farms. 
 Where the school o'erlooks the hill. 
 And the folks two churches fill 
 Every Sunday morning. 
 Where busy people work or rest, 
 And wliatsoever is, is best. 
 To them there lives my mother. 
 Tlireads of gray are in her hair. 
 Flying years have brought her care. 
 And oft times false alarms. 
 Friends have gone to other lands. 
 Or have crossed the golden sands. 
 Some home there adorning. 
 Her own have sought new homes afar. 
 But that old gate stands yet ajar, 
 For us where lives my mother. 
 O do not " teach me to forget" 
 Her life and love, I cherisli yet, 
 Her goodness and her charms. 
 Sin and grief may thouglit dethrone. 
 Fortune flee and friends disown, 
 E'en my memory scorning-. 
 But not she, -n-hose love sublime 
 Follows me in every clime. 
 Not she, my angel mother. 
 
 -® 
 
*- 
 
 634 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. KATE S. KISNER. 
 
 Born: Whiteside Co., III,., April 26, 1858. 
 At the age of sixteen this hidy removed to 
 Pennsylvania, and four years later was mar- 
 ried to Yetman E. Kisner, with whom she now 
 resides at Hazleton. As an authoress and 
 newspaper correspondent she has gained 
 
 I\IKS. KATE S. KISNEIi. 
 
 quite a reputation, and lier poems have ap- 
 peared in some of the leading- publications. 
 Mrs. Kisner is the author of several novels: 
 Eve, or Lights and Shadows of a Girl's Life; 
 Me and Bijah, a humorous story, and Except 
 These Bonds. Her poems would fill a volume. 
 
 EIGHT STAGES OF A WOMAN'S LIFE. 
 At the caseinent plays a baby. 
 
 Laughing-, cooing- with delig:ht. 
 While dimples play at hide-and-seek 
 
 On lier flesh all pink and white. 
 At the casement sits a young- girl 
 
 With a sweet and modest air. 
 Weaving- g-arlands of wliite daisies 
 
 For her wealth of waving liair. 
 At the casement sits a maiden 
 
 Wondrous fair and wondrous wise; 
 A golden circlet on her finger 
 
 And a love-lig-ht in lier eyes. 
 At the casement sits a lady,— 
 
 She, the bride of yesterday; 
 Thinking of the vows she uttered 
 
 Which bound both heart and hand away. 
 
 ®- 
 
 At the casement sits a matron 
 
 With a babe upon her breast. 
 Which she, with tenderest loves caresses, 
 
 And proves herself a mother blest. 
 At the casement sits a mother, 
 
 Wliile a youth beside her stands, 
 Wliom she has nestled in her bosom — 
 
 Now he will shield her with his hands. 
 At the casement sits a woman 
 
 Ag-ed — feeble — wrinkled — bent. 
 With a hoar frost on her tresses 
 
 Waiting her last summons to be sent. 
 At the casement rests a casket — 
 
 A woman's cold clay rests within; 
 Her waiting- soul has fled its portals 
 
 And joined a throng all free from sin 
 
 THE MAN I LOVE. 
 The man of my heart's own choice. 
 Doth make my soul rejoice; 
 He is wondrous fair, 
 With gold-burnished hair. 
 And a kind and winsome voice. 
 He has the classic brow of a sage. 
 And his life is a clean, white page; 
 And naug-ht will he do, 
 To make him blush to 
 Keflecton it in old age. 
 His eyes are like Heaven's own blue, 
 And his heart is just as true; 
 And he loves me, oh, 
 And his children, so! 
 There is naught for us he would not do. 
 He is not very great in size. 
 But he is, oh, so very wise; 
 And there is naught to compare 
 Witli the light that shines there. 
 In those luminous soul-lit eyes. 
 
 PEN PICTURE OF THE GIRL I LOVE. 
 The girl I love has lips like cherries,— 
 Eyes as black as the blackest berries ; 
 Cheeks as red as the dewy rose. 
 And, oh, the sweetest, prettiest nose! 
 Ears like the shells of the ocean's hue. 
 And just as pink and as dainty, too; 
 A brow as fair as the white swan's breast, 
 Hair as black as the raven's crest. 
 Neck like a marble column grand. 
 Encircled about by a golden strand. 
 With a bust as round as Venis of old. 
 And a heart beneath it as pure as gold; 
 Arms and limbs so taper and fair. 
 As to rival the goddess of beauty there; 
 Hands so strong, and shiipely, too, 
 Which many an act of kindness do; 
 Feet that a sculptor mightenvy in vain,[rani 
 Which carries my darling tlirough sun :iii« 
 A soul free from stain as the angels above, 
 And this is the picture of the girl I love. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 635 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. EMMA M. ANDERSON. 
 
 Born: Ashe Co.,N. C, Oct. U, 1855. 
 
 When she was three years of ag-e her parents 
 removed to Beaufort, where she lived until 
 her father's death iu 1865. After receiving- her 
 education Emm;i was employed as govei-ness 
 until her marriage in 1881 to Mr. S. C.Anderson 
 
 MRS. EMMA MARY ANDERSON. 
 
 of Durliam, where she lias since resided with 
 her husband and children. From her g-irlhood 
 this lady has shown a decided fondness for 
 poetry, and many of her pieces have appeared 
 in the papers of her state. Mrs. Anderson has 
 for some time contemplated the publication of 
 her poems in booli-form. 
 
 91 
 
 THE FLOWER GARDEN. 
 "Once upon a time," little cliildren, 
 
 (For that's the way stories begin,) 
 There was a beautiful garden 
 
 With many flowers tlierein. 
 Rich and radiant blossoms. 
 
 Crimson colored and rare, 
 Blusliing roses, and lilies, 
 
 Tall, stately, and fair. 
 Beds of velvety pansies. 
 
 Purple and black, and gold; 
 Queenly tulips, bright and gay. 
 
 Too many to be told. 
 
 Vines of honeysuckles. 
 
 Making sweet tlie air. 
 And tlie pure white jasmine. 
 
 Fragrant and so fair. 
 
 Flaunting scarlet poppies. 
 
 Holding higli their heads. 
 Dainty little crocuses 
 
 Peeping from their beds. 
 
 I cati't begin to tell you. 
 
 Of all the flowers there. 
 But the sweetest little blossom 
 
 In all that garden fair, 
 
 Was a little bhie-cyed violet 
 
 Nestling in its bed, 
 While on all around 
 
 A sweet perfume it shed. 
 
 'Tis said one day a meeting 
 
 Of all the flowers was called. 
 And a prize was to be given 
 
 To the fairest of them all. 
 
 And then the flaunting poppies, 
 
 The lily fair and tall, 
 Tlie proud rose and the tulip, 
 
 Set forth, one and all. 
 
 Each thinking vainly to herself, 
 " The prize is mine, I'm sure;" 
 
 But alas ! for their silly pride. 
 It did not long endure. 
 
 For as they passed along their waj% 
 
 Close bj' the violet's bed. 
 That little flower, to see them pass. 
 
 Held up its tiny head. 
 
 And then the judge espied it, 
 'Mid leaves and grasses green. 
 
 And cried, "The ])rize is yours," for ne'er 
 Such beauty had lie seen. 
 
 So lovely and and so modest, 
 'Tis that that makes you fair, 
 
 And makes you lovelier far than these. 
 Though they be rich and rare. 
 
 Do you know little children. 
 
 This world's a garden fair? 
 And you are little blossoms. 
 
 Blooming everywhere? 
 
 And do you know some day 
 
 A blessed Judge will come. 
 To take the fairest blos.soms 
 
 Up to a brighter lionie? 
 
 And as the little violet. 
 
 Fulfilled its mission here. 
 And murmured not in sun or rain. 
 
 But counted both so dear. 
 
 So every flower that blooms aright 
 
 Then will receive a prize, 
 A home and be transplanted there 
 
 To bloom in Paradise. 
 
 -® 
 
®- 
 
 © 
 
 636 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 CLARA BELLE SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Bokn: Lima,N.Y., April 9, 1868. 
 From 1884 to 1888 Miss Southwell attended 
 Albion College. She takes a great interest in 
 literiturc, and now dt>votes niueh of her time 
 
 ri.ARA BKI.LE SOUTHWKM-. 
 
 to composition. Her poems have api'eared in 
 the Michigan Farmer, Marshall Statesman 
 and numerous other papers. She is now a 
 resident of Marshall, Michigan. 
 
 MY FOUR SHIPS. 
 T stood on the shore of a Iwundless main. 
 
 Which no seaman with com])ass and chart 
 Could ever explore, for so broad is the sea 
 
 Of desires of tlie human heart. 
 Many and long were the hours I spent 
 In gazing across the breast 
 1 Of this wildly sobbing- and throbbing main, 
 Which never has found its rest. 
 I waited to see four tall, gallant ships 
 
 Come sailing across the blue — 
 Four beautiful ships that were all my own, 
 
 So handsome, and gay and new. 
 One was wealth, who would bring me gold. 
 
 And satins and jewels fine; 
 ,0! a happy mortal would I be 
 When this brave ship was mine. 
 The next was fame — who was laden with 
 
 Great bales of praise, and I 
 Watched anxiously for fame, who'd sail 
 E'en after T should die. 
 
 m 
 
 Another, love, whose chief est load 
 
 Was happiness divine. 
 But love was frail, I almost feared 
 
 To make her wholly mine. 
 The last was hope, a gallant ship 
 
 On goodly mission sent, 
 Wliose freight was faith in that which lies 
 
 Beyond, and true content. 
 Many winds arose one day 
 
 And made a white-capped wave 
 Dash over wealth, and now she lies 
 
 Deep in a watery grave. 
 Fame was sailing bravely on — 
 
 Eager for home and me. 
 When winds of fate blew from the north 
 
 And she was lost at sea. 
 Suspicious cloud once came low down. 
 
 And love was frail, you know; 
 She struggled, but suspicious wind 
 Drove her to depths below. 
 ! One day the clouds of sorrow came 
 Low down upon the shore; 
 I gazed across the waves and thought 
 
 My ships sailed there no more. 
 When lo! a tall, white sail is seen 
 
 Far out upon the sea. 
 And there amidst the clouds and fog 
 
 My hope sailed back to me. 
 Tho' love, and fame and wealth were lost. 
 
 I look beyond and see 
 Visions of happiness and rest. 
 Which hope has brought to me. 
 
 ROSE MAXIM. 
 
 born: BUCKFIELD.ME., AUG. 30. 1850 
 AS a writer of both prose and verse this lady 
 hrblen quite successful. Her health is geo^ 
 er:ily ver'y poor, which has int-fe-l -mj 
 what with her literary pursuits. She is now 
 a resident of Nor th Cambrid ge, Mass. 
 
 BENEATH THE OAK. 
 
 How sweet it is in solitude to be 
 
 A little while away from ^vorklly caic. 
 Kcc-lining calmly 'neath the spreading tree 
 ^Vhere odors sweet are wafted on the lUr. 
 Now gentle breezes fan the glowing cluck. 
 "^ Anf stir the leaves that rustle ='"^ ' ' ; 
 
 The softly swaying ^-^"'^••f f^T"'* . ee 
 ..Herelwineverrestandshe.il e^^^ 
 
 No sound is heard save tlu^ l-nv. 
 The criclS'chirp, the song of whip-poo.- 
 
 Within this'beauteous, sequestered r.«>J 
 Wlu-re life is sweetest, let me \^^>^^ 
 
 Where Nature and the soul can he u. tune. 
 The creature and Creator still commune. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL FOETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 g:j: 
 
 MRS. MARTHA P. SMITH. 
 
 Born: North Conway, N. H., Sept. 29, 1KV>. 
 This lady is a stanch advocate of temperance, 
 and some of her productions are found iu the 
 temperance department of Woman in Sacred 
 Sonfj-. She lias written extensively furPotti'r's 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. MARTHA P, SMITH. 
 
 Monthly, Peterson's Magazine and tlie peri- 
 odical press generally. Slie was m;irried in 
 1859toEds()n Hollin Smith, and resides with 
 her family in Le Seuer, Minn. Both the prose 
 and verse from the pen of this lady have been 
 well received, and she has already gained a 
 national reputation in the world of literature. 
 
 MINNEHAHA. 
 Cease from laughter, Minnehalia, 
 
 Hold in check your gleeful flood. 
 Hear you not that bitter wailing? 
 
 Lo, the laud is soaked with blood. 
 Where is pretty little Jenny? 
 
 Laughing-eyed and sweet was she; 
 Like a robin, she was merry. 
 
 As the breeze, from care was free. 
 Where is little whistling Tommy? 
 
 Where is Freddy with his song? 
 0, they kept tlie prairies ringing 
 
 All the pleasant summer long. 
 Where is precious baby Lily 
 
 With lier smiles and dimples sweet? 
 Why so empty stands her cradle 
 
 In the cottage once so neat. 
 
 Wring your hands, O, Minnehaha! 
 
 Weep, and wail their dreadful fate; 
 Tiie land but yesterday so smiling 
 
 Lieth black and desolate. 
 Stand aghast in speechless sorrow 
 
 For your little playmates slain; 
 Lo, the children's tangled ringlets 
 
 Lie neglected on the i^lain. 
 
 STILL THE BIKDS SING. 
 Stout hearts break, are crushed and die, 
 
 Still, the birds sing; 
 On the sea rocks sad sliipwreeks lie. 
 
 Still, tlie birds sing. 
 Storms roll over the frothing main, 
 Hope's star fadeth in mist and rain. 
 Love goes seeking her own in vain; 
 
 Still, the birds sing. 
 Spring's sweet blossoms will fade away. 
 
 Still, the birds sing; 
 Surely night will follow the d.iy. 
 
 Still, the birds sing. 
 Birds liave troubles as well as I, 
 Wind and tempest their small hearts try. 
 Nests are scattered, and birdlings die; 
 
 Still, the birds sing. 
 To-morrow will bring both work and care. 
 
 Still, the birds sing; 
 To-morrow will bring each bird its share. 
 
 Still, the birds sing. 
 Days once vanished come not again. 
 Heaven may count my loss as gain, 
 O, to be cheerful even in pain. 
 
 And, as the birds, sing. 
 
 A CONVICTION. 
 The blood of kings flows in my veins, 
 I feel it coui'sing warm ; 
 
 'Tis pure and blue; 
 Who dares to doubt ii — oh blind dolt 
 Shall live to j'ield it homage due. 
 A throne awaits me— this I know 
 By signs unfailing, sure: 
 
 This inward sense 
 Of power is not a myth to cheat, 
 It is a living truth intetise. 
 
 A BOUQUET. 
 Violets blue,— blue as June's soft skies,— 
 Blue — just the blue of Ethel's eyes. 
 Roses red, — red with summer sunsets' bliss,- 
 Bed as the lips and cheeks I kiss. 
 Lilies white.— white as an angel's wing,— 
 White as the soul of Ethel King, 
 This beauteous trinity I wear 
 On my heart with this one prayer,— 
 'Though time will rose and violet Vilight, 
 God keep the lily always white.' 
 
 -® 
 
©- 
 
 638 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 MRS. ANNA E. MCFALL. 
 
 Born: Kentucky, Oct. 19, 1839. 
 
 Under the uom de plume of Rose Heath this 
 lady has written quite extensively for the 
 periodical press. She is a first-class musician, 
 
 MHS. ANNA E. M FALL. 
 
 and has for the greater part of her life taught 
 music. She is now a resident of Mayfleld, 
 Ky., where she is surrounded by a host of 
 friends. She was married to her present 
 husband in 1875. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 ® 
 
 The sky with clouds was overcast. 
 
 No gleam of sunlight there, 
 The wind sighed mournfully among 
 
 The leaves so brown and sere. 
 Long had the song of birds been hushed. 
 
 And pendant from the trees. 
 Congealed, the raindrops hung and swayed 
 
 To every passing breeze. 
 
 I saw tlie while a gentle child, 
 
 In sad and thoughtful mood. 
 Gaze earnestly above, around. 
 
 The prospect calmly viewed. 
 'I'hen sighing deeply, softly wept, 
 
 And sadly turned away. 
 Murmuring low, and soft, the while, 
 
 " I cannot play to-day." 
 
 I took the little hand in mine. 
 
 And bade her tell me all; 
 She asked, "Where are the flowers that 
 bloomed 
 
 Beside the gai-den wall. 
 And where the leaves that grew upon 
 
 The chestnut tree, so bare — 
 And where the sun that yesterday 
 
 Shone brilliantly up there? 
 And where the pretty birds that sung 
 
 So sweetly all the day? 
 If all are gone, I'm lonely now 
 
 And cannot, cannot play." 
 So beautiful, and yet so sad. 
 
 Thoughtful beyond her years, 
 Seldom had I gazed upon 
 
 A face so fair as her's. 
 I bade her wait, and hope, for soon 
 
 The winter would be o'er. 
 And trees, and flowers bloom again, 
 
 And from the far-off shore 
 The robin would return, and sing 
 
 Again as cheerily. 
 And build a tiny nest among 
 
 The leaves that greenest be. 
 Behind the clouds the sun still shines. 
 
 And other eyes can see 
 His glorious beams — in other lands 
 
 The birds sing merrily. 
 I'll wait, the little one replied, 
 
 I'm sure they'll come some day. 
 And from the roseate cheek she brushed 
 
 The pearly tears away. 
 I'll sing until I hear the birds. 
 
 Among my curls I'll twine 
 The evergreen, the clouds will break, 
 
 And soon the sun will shine. 
 Could we as meekly thus submit 
 
 Unto decrees of fate. 
 Contented be, with that we have 
 
 For blessings patient wait. 
 And feel that soon the glorious light 
 
 Of better days would gleam 
 Through sombre clouds, and unseen hands 
 
 Adowu life's troubled stream— 
 Our frail barks guide — and wipe away 
 
 Rebellious tears that fill 
 Our blinded eyes, and hopefully 
 
 Await til' All Father's will. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Oh home of my childhood, I love thee. 
 
 The remembrance of thee is as dear 
 As when 1 first wandered afar 
 
 From the roof-tree, to find a liome here. 
 The meadow, the sweet-scented orchard, 
 
 The stream, and the wild woodland flowers 
 I live in the sweet recollection 
 
 Of childhood's happiest hours. 
 
 ^ 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 639 
 
 -m 
 
 RYAL J. PHILLIPS. 
 
 Bokn: Georgia, 18(52. 
 At the age of twenty Kyal took up the study 
 of hiw. He then traveled several years, and 
 has been correspondent lor several newspa- 
 pers and magazines. From an early age he 
 
 RYAL J. PHILLIPS. 
 
 began writing verse, which easily found their 
 way in print. Although actively engaged in 
 the practice of law, he devotes his spare time 
 to literature, and will in all probability pub- 
 lish a volume of his works in the near future. 
 
 THE GRAND OLD PINE OF GEORGIA. 
 
 The grim old pines of Georgia, 
 
 So tall, and strong and grand. 
 Their beauty shades our pathway 
 
 As we march through the land. 
 Their only robe of verdure 
 
 Is never stripped from them at fall; 
 And yet of all our native trees 
 
 We love them best of all. 
 Upon her hills and in her vales 
 
 The pines were ever seen, 
 Till felled by some rough pioneer 
 
 Who wealth had come to glean. 
 Oh, cruel deed I oh, heartless man. 
 
 That comes for wealth alone. 
 Regardless of a country's pride. 
 
 Or her beauty thus adorned. 
 
 We love the pines still living 
 
 So noble, grand and gay ; 
 We also love the dead that are decaying. 
 
 On their cold and silent beds of clay. 
 We love them for the warmth they give us, 
 
 Which cheer our social hearth. 
 For their crimson flame make our girls the 
 fairest 
 
 Of any on the earth. 
 
 The grand old pine of Georgia — 
 
 The monarch of our land; 
 No one has ever gone unsheltered 
 
 Beneath thy outstretched hand. 
 Longfellow tried to sing thy praise 
 
 With Anderson, Pope and Gray, 
 And still you stand in all your splendor. 
 
 While they are sleeping in their beds of 
 clay. 
 
 Thou true and noble pine. 
 
 Thou art the poor man's dearest friend; 
 When others one by one have left him. 
 
 You a helping hand will lend. 
 The rich, too, will ne'er forget you. 
 
 And o'er their heads your watching eyes 
 will gaze ^ 
 
 When in their palace homes they gather — 
 
 In December's morn, you'll bless them with 
 your blaze. 
 
 Ah, stretch your arms, oh, noble pine. 
 
 All o'er our southern land. 
 And when my soul has left this sphere. 
 
 Come, 1 implore thee, and o'er my body 
 stand. 
 Again, majestic friend, this boon I only ask. 
 
 Show to the world where I may be. 
 My name inscribe on a wooden slab, — 
 
 The name of R. J. P. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 I once was young and happy, mother. 
 
 So true, so gay and bright. 
 That you thought that I would never do no 
 other 
 
 But that which was always right. 
 That was when you nursed me, mother. 
 
 And my feverish brow did kiss; 
 When I was young and tender, mother, 
 
 My lips you would so lovingly caress. 
 
 You would then, dear mother. 
 
 Step softly by my little bed, 
 I, kneeling down at your command. 
 
 My prayers I always said. 
 I said them slow and easy, mother. 
 
 All in my childish glee. 
 Not dreaming then I would ever live — 
 
 Alone and far from thee. 
 
 Time has come on, dear mother, 
 And I to manhood now have grown. 
 
 -« 
 
©■ 
 
 -* 
 
 640 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 While all the thoughts of childhood, 
 
 Like birds from me have flown ; 
 They have gone and left me, mother. 
 
 All in their onward flight. 
 And I, lilie them, have wandered 
 
 Far from thy careworn sight. 
 1 am away from thee, dear mother. 
 
 Far from thy tender hand. 
 But T have never betrayed thy love — 
 
 In this strange, sinful land. 
 I meet with those that want me, mother. 
 
 To " take in " all that's bad, 
 Yet I well remember when you said, 
 
 "Never make dear mother sad." 
 If I was to be seen, dear mother. 
 
 Bowing down in deepest sin. 
 Would you, when I returned, dear mother. 
 
 Refuse to take me in? 
 I know you would not chide me, mother 
 
 Or give me any blame. 
 But still it would be shameful, cruel. 
 
 To give your heart such pain. 
 You need not have a fear, dear mother. 
 
 That I will lose ray love, 
 For one so good and careful. 
 
 Even though she had gone above. 
 I feel your words, dear mother. 
 
 As when we last did part ; 
 They are precious now, dear mother. 
 
 I'll keep them ever in my heart. 
 
 GRIM DEATH. 
 
 Grim death 
 Depopulates the nation ; thousands fall 
 His victims; youths, and virgins, in their flow- 
 er. 
 Reluctant die, and sighing leave their loves 
 Unfinished, by infectious Heaven destroyed. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 When one has neither wealth nor wit, 
 Or beauty to improve them. 
 
 If they be good I'll show you yet 
 Good reason why I love them. 
 
 ^- 
 
 GEORGE W. SWARTHOUT. 
 
 Born: Laingsburg, Mich., 1850. 
 After leaving school Mr. Swarthout taught 
 for a number of terms, and has been superin- 
 tendent of schools. He now owns a farm, but 
 is engaged in the hardware business in his na- 
 tive town, where he also holds the olfice of 
 justice of the peace. Mr. Swarthout com- 
 menced to write for the local press at an early 
 age, and has been regular correspondent for 
 numerous newspapers. He has enough poems 
 to make a neat volume, which have generally 
 been published under the nom de plume of 
 
 Zisca. Mr. Swarthout was married in 187" to 
 Miss Mary A. Slocum. 
 
 THE THREE FROGS. 
 Three frogs, one time, lived in a pond. 
 
 Which thought themselves quite wise; 
 They wore green coats and vests of white; 
 
 Each blinked two shiny eyes. 
 They sat upon a mossy log 
 
 Down in a damp, cool place. 
 And gave a concert free to all. 
 
 Of tenor, alto and the bass. 
 A sly old turtle chanced that way — 
 
 He heard the singing gay; 
 And now, said he, I'll have a meal 
 
 Before the close of day. 
 This turtle he was fond of frogs — 
 
 Ah, very fond was he ; 
 And these three frogs were sleek and fat 
 
 As he could wish to see. 
 Said one frog, •• Listen to my voice 
 
 With every note complete; 
 I think you fellows must agree 
 
 That none slug hd,lf so sweet." 
 « Oh, flel" the other two frogs said, 
 
 4. How foolish you must be; 
 Your voice is harsh — you can not sing 
 
 One half so sweet as we." 
 The singing ceased and in dispute 
 
 Each frowned upon the rest; 
 For each was very sure, you know. 
 
 That he could sing the best. 
 And each had told the other. 
 
 In frog language, that he lied. 
 When the turtle showed his old brown nose 
 
 And said: "I will decide." 
 .. But I am very deaf, my friends 
 
 You needs must come quite near. 
 You know I cannot well mistake 
 
 When I can plainly hear." 
 And so they all sat very near. 
 
 And sang with all their might; 
 The turtle laughed; he never saw. 
 
 Three frogs in such a plight. 
 " A little nearer, if you please, 
 
 Then I shall hear each note. 
 And know which soft sweet strains 
 
 Are uttered by each throat." 
 Just then old turtle made a grab 
 And caught those foolisli frogs. 
 And swam away with all his might 
 
 Among the weeds and bogs. 
 Some foolish men, like these three frogs, 
 
 Invent some strange dispute. 
 And call a lawyer on each side 
 
 To carry on the suit; 
 But soon, alas! wiien all too late. 
 
 They plainly see and feel 
 That while they lost their dinners. 
 The lawyers made a meal. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 (i41 
 
 m 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTOX. 
 
 Bokn: Phil,\delphia, Pa., about 1825. 
 In 1M9-50 Miss Preston's first contributions 
 appeared in Sartain's Magazine. She subse- 
 quently published a novel, entitled Silverwood, 
 but has since devoted herself to poetical com- 
 position. She was an ardent sympathizer with 
 the south, and her most sustained volume of 
 verse, Beechenbrook, a poem of the civil war, 
 enjoyed a wide popularity. Her other works 
 include many fug'itive poems. Old Songs and 
 New, and For Love's Sake, which latter work 
 appeared in 1887. Her writing's are vigorous, 
 suggestive, and full of religious feeling. 
 
 WE TWO. 
 
 Ah, painful-sweet! how can I take it in! 
 That somewhere in the illimitable blue 
 Of God's pure space, which men call Heaven, 
 — we two 
 
 Again shall find each other, and begin 
 
 The infinite life of love, a life akin 
 To angels',— only angels never knew 
 The ecstasy of blessedness that drew 
 
 Us each to each, even in this wci'ld of sin. 
 
 —Yea, find each other! The remotest star 
 Of all the galaxies would hold in vain 
 
 Our souls apart, that have been heretofore 
 
 As closely interchangeable as are 
 One mind and spirit : Oh, joy that aches to 
 pain. 
 
 To be together— we two — forever more! 
 
 ALPENGLOW. 
 
 —Yes, that's what I said; 
 The grass has been greening above his head 
 Two summers and more, yet — I scarce know 
 
 why — 
 There was that in his smile that could not die. 
 For it has not died. In this autumn ray, 
 Ah me! the third since he went away! 
 'Tis palpable as the Alpenglow 
 That clings to the footless slopes of snow, 
 As if to lighten, through evengloam, 
 Some loitering mountain-climber home; 
 Or rather,— turn to the sunset hills 
 Yonder, and mark how the shadow fills 
 All of their sadden'd faces: one,— 
 The amber'd peak that is next to the sun. 
 Holds yet to its bi-east, as I to mine, 
 A glint of the still-remembered shine : 
 
 —Well, that is the way 
 With the smile I was telling you of to-day. 
 
 Have you watched a bird 
 1 Ever poise itself when something stirred 
 Its spirit to song'? A quiver of throat. 
 
 The croon of a tremulous, trial note, 
 
 The catch with a crowding rapture crowned. 
 
 Then,— floods, where the swooning soul was 
 
 drowned ! 
 Even so, I have often sat apart 
 And marked the flutter about his heart 
 Thrill to his lips, as with a hum 
 Of voiceless music it seemed to come 
 And ripple around his mouth, with shy, 
 Impassionate answer of the eye. 
 While an overflush of marvelous grace 
 Would master, a-sudden, all his face. 
 Till the delicate nostril curved and swelled. 
 And the glance an eloquent sparkle held. 
 And a sense of song would come and go, 
 Such as dreamers watched by Ariel know; 
 
 —Well, that was the way 
 With the smile I was telling you of to-day. 
 
 And because I said 
 The grass has been greening above his head 
 Two summers and o'er, shall I think, therefore 
 That smile can ne'er be kindled more? 
 
 — That the grave could hold it, that cannot 
 
 hold 
 Captive one straggling gleam of gold? 
 
 — That it's prisoned away in ashen'd clay, 
 As centuried sunbeams are to-day 
 'Neath fathoms of blacken'd strata? No! 
 Can essence immortal perish so? 
 
 When clouds have gathered betwixt the star 
 And the vision that watches it blazing far 
 In limitless ether, shall the eye 
 Drop earthward, and lips that are faithless, 
 
 sigh, 
 — » Ah me! for the mist, the murk, the rain! 
 I never shall find my star again :" 
 While to spirits that come and go its shine 
 Has never before seemed so divine? 
 
 —Well, that is the way 
 With the smile I was telling you of to-day. 
 
 ..SIT, JESSICA." 
 As there she stood —that sweet "S'enetian 
 night — 
 Her pure face lifted to the skies a-swim 
 With stars from zenith to horizon's rim— 
 I think Lorenzo scarcely saw the light 
 Asleep upon the bank, or felt how bright 
 The patines were : She filled the heavens for 
 
 him; 
 And in her low replies, the cherubim 
 Seemed softly quiring from some holy height. 
 And when he drew her down, and soothed her 
 tears 
 Stirred by the minstrelsy, with passionate 
 kiss, 
 Whose long, sweet iterations left her lips 
 Trembling, as roses tremble after sips 
 Of eager bees, the music of the spheres 
 Held not one rhythmic rapture like to this! 
 
 « 
 
©- 
 
 642 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS 
 
 Born: Akdover, Mass., Aug. 13, 1844. 
 
 This well-knowu author began to write for the 
 press at the age of thirteen. Her life has been 
 devoted to benevolent work and advancement 
 of women, temperance and kindred reforms. 
 She also delivered a course of lectures before 
 the students of Boston university in 1876. She 
 has written a score of novels. In 1875 she pub- 
 Ushed Poetic Studies, a volume of poems, which 
 has received a fair circulation. She has writ- 
 ten numerous poems and contributed largely 
 both prose and verse to the press. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Oh, to be sound to such an ear! 
 Songr, carol, vesper, comfort near. 
 Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low. 
 Or dearer silence, happiest so. 
 
 By little languag-es of love 
 Her finer aiidience to prove; 
 A tenderness untried, to fit 
 To soul and sense so exquisite; 
 
 The blessed Orpheus to be 
 At last, to such Eurydice! 
 
 GALATEA. 
 
 ©- 
 
 A moment's grace, Pygmalion ! Let me be 
 A breath's space longer on this hither hand 
 Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet. 
 Whether to be thy statue or thy bride — 
 An instant spare me ! Terrible the choice, 
 As no man knoweth, being only man; 
 Nor any, saving her who hath been stone 
 And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange 
 Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse? 
 Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart 1 
 Repose eternal for a woman's lot? 
 
 Forego God's quiet for the love of man? 
 To float on his uncertain tenderness, 
 A wave tossed up the sea of his desire. 
 To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him ; 
 Eemombei-ed at his leisure, and forgot. 
 Worshipped and worried, clasped and dropped 
 
 at mood. 
 Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will. 
 Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell; 
 And every single, several nerve that beats 
 In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust 
 In Arc at first, and then in frost, until 
 The fine, protesting flbra snaps? 
 
 Oh, who 
 Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this? 
 What woman out of all the breathing world 
 
 Would be a woman, could her heart select, 
 Or love her lover, could her life prevent? 
 Then let me be that oaly, only one; 
 Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme. 
 No other ever made, or can, or shall. 
 Behold, the future shall stand still to ask, 
 What man was worth a price so isolate? 
 And rate thee at its value for all time. 
 
 For I am driven by an awful law. 
 See ! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me. 
 And carves me like a chisel at my heart, 
 'Tis stronger than the woman or the man: 
 'Tis greater than all torment or delight : 
 'Tis mightier than the marble or the flesh. 
 Obedient be the sculptor and the stone! 
 Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all 
 The pangs that woman ever bore for man; 
 Thine I elect to be, denying them; 
 Thine I elect to be, defying them ; 
 Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them: 
 And being thine forever, bless I them ! 
 
 Pygmalion ! take me from my pedestal. 
 And set me lower— lower. Love'— that I 
 Maybe a woman, and look up to thee: 
 And looking, longing, losing, give and take 
 The human kisses worth the worst than thou 
 By thine own nature shalt inflict on me. 
 
 ELAINE AND ELAINE. 
 
 Dead, she drifted to his feet; 
 Tell us. Love, is Death so sweet? 
 
 Oh ! the river floweth deep; 
 Fathoms deeper is her sleep. 
 
 Oh ! the current driveth strong: 
 Wilder tides drive souls along. 
 
 Drifting, though he loved her not. 
 To the heart of Launcelot. 
 
 Let her pass ; it is her place. 
 Death hath given her this grace. 
 
 Let her pass ; she resteth well. 
 What her dreams are, who can tell? 
 
 Mute the steersman; why, if he 
 Speakcth nor a word, should we? 
 
 Dead, she driftcth to his feet. 
 Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet. 
 
 Li\nng, he had loved her well. 
 High as Heaven and deep as Hell. 
 
 Yet that voyage she staycth not. 
 Wait you for her, Launcelot? 
 
 Oh I the river floweth fast. 
 Who is justified at last? 
 
 Locked her lips are. Hush ! if she 
 Sayeth nothing, how should wc? 
 
m 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 (543 
 
 -® 
 
 MILTON TAILOR KENDALL. 
 
 Born: Meadow Run, Pa., 1851. 
 Gr.ujuating from tlie Monongahela college, 
 Jefferson, Pa., in 1877, he has since written 
 many poems of merit that have received pub- 
 
 MILTON tailor KENDALL. 
 
 lication in the Toledo Blade and other papers. 
 Mr. Kendall hopes to publish his poems in 
 book-form in the near future. 
 
 THE NEW SOUTH. 
 
 Come erring brother of the sunny land. 
 Fair land where icy storm winds rarely blow, 
 Let's bridge the gulf, once more united stand, 
 Forgetting all that made a northern foe. 
 Of horrid war and battles dream no more. 
 Let discontent, ill-will and hatred cease. 
 With one proud starry ensign waving o'er 
 Let's hail with joy the universal peace. 
 Beneath whose fostering care our common- 
 wealths increase. 
 Not as the humbled nation in whose breast 
 Tiiere dwells the memory of burning wrong, 
 Wiiosetale, as from a suffering land oppressed 
 Is heard in story and proclaimed in song, 
 Could'stthou the dread revenger's spirit liold. 
 At some far time to strike the fatal blow. 
 Like some fierce chieftain's warrior tribe of 
 
 old; 
 Thus heaven frowns and God doth will it so, 
 
 When he from chains would have His He- 
 brew children go. 
 
 Back tlirough tlie years, a dreamy century 
 
 gone. 
 Beheld, on sterile shores a loyal band 
 Long from the tragic scenes of life withdrawn 
 For freedom, fleeing from a tyrant's hand; 
 Here sought amid this wilderness a home. 
 Here planned its laws for loyal hearts and 
 
 just, 
 A Union for its miUions yet to come; 
 With us our sires have left the sacred trust; 
 That flag, tlieir joy and pride, ye trampled in 
 
 the dust. 
 
 Long- years ago, from ocean's farther side 
 Into tlie currents of thy gay young life. 
 There flowed a dusky stream, a dark still tide 
 From whence is born that dread, that fatal 
 
 strife. 
 Engendered in each proud and listless race. 
 Where man, like brutes, is fettered to the soil, 
 And all its varied actions kept apace 
 Supplied and nurtured by another's toil; 
 In Sumter's fall ye dealt its proudest blow. 
 In Appomattox felt its deepest, darkest woe. 
 
 And now since war's destructive dreaded art. 
 In battle's fiercest strife and blighting wave 
 Of death has swept our land, and many a 
 
 heart 
 Lies moldering in a far and lonely grave; 
 One common sorrow in our bosoms burn. 
 As back we call the tearful raem'ry o'er 
 Of those brave sons who never will return ; 
 This grief alike we bear, but ye have more; 
 The presence of those dusky millions to de- 
 plore. 
 
 But while 'tis yours the bitter fruits to bare 
 O'er all that bloody field of ended strife. 
 Kind heaven's blessing smiles and every- 
 where 
 Is heard the busy sounds of thrift and life; 
 A glorious era dawns; with joy for thee 
 We see thy shattered nation gathering 
 
 power; 
 From bonds released with equal rights and 
 
 free. 
 Now heavenward thy people's strength shall 
 
 tower. 
 And onward ever be the watchword of the 
 hour. 
 
 Oh ! Southland, these thy great reverses met 
 Shall not despel thy heroes' early dreams; 
 Thy sun of glory is but dimmed, not set. 
 Before thy view hope's radiant glory beams; 
 With Him who rules sometimes it seemeth 
 
 best. 
 His erring children shall bewail in tears, 
 'Tmay be with thee, the blessing yet may 
 
 rest. 
 
 -© 
 
©: 
 
 644 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHCIA. 
 
 MRS. HARRIET M.CONVERSE. 
 
 Born: Elmika, N.Y. 
 Left motherless wheu a child she was put to 
 school at Marion, Ohio. She has traveled ex- 
 tensively in Europe and the United States. 
 In 1883 Mrs. Converse published her first 
 volume of poems entitled Slieaves, which has 
 since passed through several editions. Mrs. 
 
 MltS. UARKIET M. CONVERSE. 
 
 Converse has been complimented on the 
 beauty of her verses by John G. Whittier, 
 Alfred Tennyson, and other eminent poets. 
 This beautiful writer possesses true poetic 
 genius — her poems are really exquisite in 
 thought, tone, and treatment; and hername 
 is already well and widely known. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THOU OR T. 
 
 Some day, dear, one of us— we twain 
 
 Will watch alone in tears, 
 And call the other one in vain. 
 
 In voice of hovieless fears. 
 As in death's silence one of us shall lie; 
 Which will it be, dear, thou or I? 
 Were one of us by death bereft 
 
 So of love's thought and speech. 
 What other word of hope is left 
 
 To utter each to each? 
 So one shall watch and one in death shall lie! 
 Which will it be, dear, thou or I? 
 Beside life's pathway as we go 
 
 One Avill grow faint and fail, 
 
 And seek another waj^ to know 
 
 Where death shall not prevail; 
 And one will wait alone as days go by 
 
 For yet a longer space, 
 
 God's pitying grace; 
 Which will it be, dear, thou or I? 
 1 may be first to understand 
 
 The life so far from thine; 
 Mine may be woe to fold thy hand — 
 
 Grown still and cold in mine — 
 As sign of death across thy breast to lie. 
 
 God chastens others so. 
 
 Thank him, we do not know 
 Which it will be, dear, thou or I! 
 
 TO A ROSE. 
 Faire, fragrant rose, to one I know 
 I bid ye on love's errand goe. 
 Though fearlesslie, be on thy guard, 
 Do not disclose the sweet reward 
 
 For which T sigh and die! 
 If in the daring of thy glee, 
 Within the blush and revelrie 
 Of her deare face, ye linger long, 
 Thou'lt heare the whisper of Love's song 
 
 For which I sigh and die! 
 Close to her breath, when ye shall be 
 The fairest of thy rosarie. 
 With all thy grace, rose, doe but this — 
 From her sweet lips snatch but one kisse 
 
 For which I sigh and die! 
 And should thy luscious floure be blest 
 To lie upon her downie breast. 
 Thy pouting leaves will swift unclose. 
 Thrilled with the secret love, sweet rose, 
 
 For which I sigh and die! 
 Faire fragrant rose, to one I know. 
 On Love's sweet errand faultless goe, 
 And be in haste, with feareless bliss — 
 Thou happy rose — to win the kisse 
 
 For which I sigh and die ! 
 
 MAY PEACE WITH THEE ABIDE. 
 
 May peace with thee abide I 
 
 Though dreary seems the way. 
 No staff, no scrip, no guide. 
 
 And all thy heart astray. 
 May peace with thee abide! 
 
 And when thy burdens grow. 
 Fear not, faint not; beside 
 
 The rock the waters flow! 
 May peace with thee abide! 
 
 With care and toil oppressed. 
 Submit; He will provide 
 
 For thee his grace and rest. 
 May peace with thee abide! 
 
 On thee may God's light glow! 
 His peace is not denied. 
 
 Although thou falter so. 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 645 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS.ZILPHA C.RICHTMYER. 
 
 Born: Broome, N.Y., Nov. 12, 1841. 
 
 As correspoiifleiit Mrs. Richtmyer has written 
 
 steadily since ISSt for several newspapers, in 
 
 MRS. ZILI'HA COUCH.MAN KlCllXMYEU. 
 
 which her poems have also received insertion 
 She is now organist of the Conesville M. E. 
 church for tlie sixth year. 
 
 51 
 
 MY DOLLS. 
 My first was a liorne-spun apron rolled; 
 
 And 'round a briglit-liued rilibon twined, 
 Wortli more to me than chain of g-old 
 
 From olden Opliir's precious mine. 
 And thougrh the cloth was patched and old, 
 
 I for awhile my prize did iiold. 
 From other liands a while 'twas held, 
 
 Safe as the miser holds his gold. 
 
 Sometimes I gave it wondrous care; 
 
 Sometimes — alas! my charge forg-ot; 
 And thougli I thought it 'yond compare, 
 
 I one day sought — but found it uot. 
 Had I that worn-out apron yet. 
 
 How far more dear its every fold! 
 For she whose hands each thread had met. 
 
 Lies slumbering in the valley s mold. 
 
 -•Vtiother doll, those same dear hands, 
 Of muslin, cotton, hair and dye. 
 
 Then fasliioned; and in all the land 
 Was there no happier cliild thau I. 
 
 But soon —ah mc, such liavoc made 
 
 A dirty, ill-conducting dog, 
 Tliat sadly my doll's tomb I madt? 
 
 Of a bare and iiollow, old pine log. 
 
 Then I, in chiidisli woe did send 
 
 A message, wliich was swift conveyed 
 To Santa Claus, the children's friend. 
 
 And he my earnest grief allayed. 
 To him my grave; request was told: 
 
 " Send me a lovely doll :ind new; 
 And wlietlier tlie liair be jet, or gold 
 
 O, let the eyes be bonuie blue!,, 
 
 It came. I loved it long and well. 
 
 And tiiat 'twas strange, I'll not deny — 
 Not one mishap tliatdoll befell! 
 
 And thus my cliiklliood fleeted I)y. 
 Now I have found anotlier home; 
 
 And Santa Claus (the generous one,) 
 To my new home has learned to come. 
 
 With gifts to liglit lilie life's rays of sun. 
 
 Dear, good old saint ! he's forgotten not 
 
 My message, through the years since rolled. 
 And to my welcoming arms has brought 
 
 A sweeter doll, with a living soul ! 
 To others it may not be fair; 
 
 But O!— so beauteous to my view. 
 That sparkling gems cannot compare 
 
 With those loved eyes of ' bonuie blue.' 
 
 But fear doth every bliss attend. 
 
 Along this darkened, earthly way; 
 My spirit quails — O Father I— Friend! 
 
 Grant me Tliy light— Tliy heavenly rays; 
 Help me to guide those tiny feet 
 
 In wisdom's patiis, all fair and bright. 
 That lead at last to golden streets. 
 
 Where 'tis e'er day — where is no night! 
 
 LAMENT OF KRISS KRINGLE. 
 Kriss Kringle leaned back in his wide arm- 
 chair, 
 Witli missives around him piled liigli; 
 The fire-liglit was rosy, the day was fair. 
 
 But gloom o'ersliiidowed his eye. 
 He'd read all the letters, both short and long; 
 
 He'd studied some characters quaint; 
 But in eacli message he'd found something 
 wrong; 
 And tlius he makes ku(jwn Ids complaint. 
 
 " Now I'm away on my mission with speed; 
 
 I give to tlie pamper'd and vain;— 
 Both blind and deaf to tho.se sadly in need, 
 
 Nor lieed I those moaning in pain' 
 Yes!— this inscrutable law 1 obey: 
 
 Nor grieve at these strange behests; 
 I've learned by the liglit of lieavenlj' rays, 
 
 'Tis ordered by Him wlio knows best." 
 
 © 
 
®- 
 
 646 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 HIRAM THAYER. 
 
 Born : Cayuga Co., N.Y., Dec. 23, 1818. 
 Locating in Briidford, la., in 1860, Mr. Thayer 
 er was elected justice of the peace the follow- 
 ing- year, which office he has held continuous 
 
 UlliA.M THAVEJt. 
 
 until the present time. He was also postmas- 
 ter for over twenty-two years. His songs 
 have been chiefly on political, patriotic and 
 temperance subjects. 
 
 BONNIE ANNIE. 
 Awake, O muse, inspire my lay, a truthful 
 
 tale I'll tell. 
 Upon the Turkey's bonnio banks a lovely 
 
 maid doth dwell, 
 Wlio trips as lightsome as the fawn uiioii its 
 
 native trail; 
 They call her Gentle Annie, Gentle Annie of 
 
 the vale. 
 Cho.— Bonnie Annie, Gentle Annie, 
 
 Lovelj' to behold. 
 
 Her liair so fair in ringlets rare. 
 
 Hangs down in chains of gold. 
 
 I loved lier for that gentle grace, 
 
 A charm that doth not fail ; 
 
 O, happy day, wlien first I met 
 
 Sweet Annie of tlie vale. 
 Her eyes are briglit as stars at night aliove 
 
 the summer sea, 
 Her voice so sweet and gentle, is like music 
 
 unto me; 
 
 The birds sing sweet in sylvian grove, and 
 down the floral dale. 
 
 But the sweetest bird in all the bower is An- 
 nie of the vale. 
 
 Her breath is like the morning, when wild 
 flowers deck the lea; 
 
 Her very thoughts are sweet and pure as gen- 
 tle zepliyrs be; [the passing gale. 
 
 The roses bloom in beauty bright, and scent 
 
 But the fairest flower in all tlie glen, is An- 
 nie of the vale. 
 
 TO MARCIA. 
 Amid the green bowers 
 And sweet-scented flowers. 
 She floats like a fan-y 
 To spend the gay houis. 
 While dewdrops are shining, 
 A rosy wreath twining. 
 And now with her singing 
 The wild wood is ringing, 
 As with a light heart 
 Quickly homeward she's springing, 
 Her rich treasures bringing 
 And jetty locks flinging. 
 With cheeks like the roses 
 She came to me smiling — 
 And gave me a garland 
 The moments beguiling. 
 And I loved the swe^t maiden 
 With rosy wreaths laden. 
 
 m- 
 
 ZTMENIA. 
 
 There's a wail upon the waters, on the gentle 
 breezes dying, [w'^'e- 
 
 For the beautiful Zinienia.sweet Zimcniaisno 
 From the hills the zepliyrs sighing 
 Echo back the plaint replying 
 To the vale where she is lying, 
 On the bright Jadagna shore. 
 Cho.— Oil Zimenia, dear Zimenia, thou hast 
 left us for a time. 
 But we hope ere long to meet thee in 
 that brighter, fairer clime. 
 In thy youth's enchanted morning, and when 
 
 sweet wild flowers were springing. 
 And the lilies spread a carpet of bright blos- 
 soms o'er the bay; 
 While the choral songs were singing. 
 Heavenly joy to mortals bringing, 
 Tliou hast left us and forever 
 For the islands far away. 
 Oh, Zimenia, dear Ziiiunia, may thy soiig l" 
 
 ever sweeter. 
 In that land of light and gladness, wheic th.v 
 tears are ever dry. 
 Where we hojic again to meet thee. 
 And witli joy again to greet thee 
 On the Elysian Fields o'er yonder 
 We will meet thee by and by. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMBUICA. 
 
 © 
 
 B4'; 
 
 MARTHA OWEN COLCORD. 
 
 Born: Hancock, N.H., Dec. 5, 1845. 
 The poems af this lady have appeared in the 
 Boston Pilot, Zion's Advocate, Christijin 
 Mirror and otliei- publications. She is also 
 
 M \lf I II V c )\\ I N COLI 'OHII. 
 
 rcpresentL-d in thu To'^ts of Maine. Ouu of 
 her poems. My Sailor Boy, has been set to 
 music and has become very popular. 
 
 MY GARDEN. 
 I goto my garden at night 
 
 When the dew is on the flowers, 
 And I liear, far ofif in the village 
 
 The church clock striking the hours. 
 Pale chamomile flowers are there. 
 
 White lilies scent the air. 
 And I offer up a prayer 
 
 For the loved ones dead and gone. 
 When I waken in the morning. 
 
 And the gray mists fill the skies, 
 Again I go down to my garden 
 
 To see the red sun arise 
 From his bed on ocean's breast; 
 
 But sea-gulls seek their nest, 
 For a cloud is in the West, 
 
 Which shadows the coming dawn. 
 Yet again, and the niglit is here. 
 
 And far away o'er the sea 
 The moonbeams glisten and glow 
 
 Where the waves roll peacefully. 
 
 Thus, weary and tempted soul, 
 Shunning each rock and shoal, 
 
 In peace thou siialt reach the goal 
 When the night of death comes on. 
 
 MY LOVE. 
 
 Long ago under distant pines, 
 
 I met my love in the sultry noon ; 
 But she, like summer's fairest flowers. 
 
 Has faded all too soon. 
 Sunlight played in her golden hair. 
 
 The cardinal flowers at her feet 
 Lit the weird place witli dusky gleams,- 
 
 My love was fair and sweet. 
 Stooping she plucked a dainty spray, 
 
 Glowing so redly beside the brook.— 
 But in the fragile, saintly face, 
 
 I hardly dared to look. 
 Just a year and a day had passed 
 
 Ere I had won her to be my bride; 
 Now, the cardinal flowers she loved 
 
 Are growing by her side. 
 So, long ago, beneath the pines 
 
 I met my love; but 1 he dreary knell 
 Of cherished hopes I seem to hear. 
 
 And never the wedding bell. 
 
 BENJAMIN SMITH RUSSELL. 
 
 Born: Bridgeport, N. J., Nov. 9, 18*1. 
 This gentleman is now a teacher in the high 
 school, and is still a resident of his native 
 town. He was married in 1868 to Miss Mell 
 Layton. 
 
 PEGGY AND PAT. 
 Peggy was up in the early morn 
 With hair disturbed and a look forlorn; 
 She scolded Pat till his wrathful ire 
 No longer had vent by poking the Arc. 
 Peggy, said he, it is strange that ye 
 Are always at variance with me. 
 While the cat and dog in the corner lay. 
 And no strife between day by day. 
 Ah ! said she, ye hateful Pat, 
 We used to be better friends nor tliat; 
 Tie them together and you will see 
 By jabers a scratch there'll be. 
 Now girls remember Peggy and Pat 
 When you arc about to tie the fatal knot 
 With your darling beau, whose purse is free. 
 You after marriage may never agree. 
 And boys when you're about to pass that 
 
 bourne 
 Whore no bachelor ever returns; 
 You're sweetest girl like T'oggy's cat — 
 Instead of kiss will give you a spat. 
 
 -m 
 
m- 
 
 648 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LEWIS ELLSWORTH RADER. 
 
 Born: Hazel Dell, 111., March 16, 1864. 
 
 In his youth Mr. Rader taught school, and 
 graduated from the Kansas uoi-mal college at. 
 Fort Scott in 1888. He is very devoted to 
 literature and i>olities, and has written num- 
 
 LEWIS EI.I.SWOliTII IfADEK. 
 
 erous political articles for the Chicago press 
 and other publications. 
 
 Mr. R;ider is the proprietor of the Washing- 
 ton Democrat, published a^ Montesano. Since 
 188.5 his poems have appeared constantly in 
 tlie periodical press. 
 
 m- 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 When the heart is weary and sad with the 
 toils and cares of the daj'. 
 
 And life seems a burden; 
 
 When all that the world can bring of confi- 
 dence, joy, or dismay 
 
 Is no longer a guerdon ; 
 
 When sorrow's surcease 
 
 Brings no longod-for peace 
 
 To the heart s(m>-triod with affliction; 
 
 Its streiiKth is renewed 
 
 By .sweet solitude, 
 
 Whicli acts like a fresh benediction. 
 
 The angels gatlier in throngs, they say, in 
 the l)oantiful realms above. 
 
 When they glorify God; 
 
 Their voices, attuned to the harmonic 
 
 spheres, sing songs of love 
 As the golden streets they plod; 
 So we on earth, 
 In spiritual dearth. 
 Collect, praying, confessing; 
 But the soul's renewed 
 In sweet solitude 
 Which acts like a heavenly blessing. 
 
 The lonely garret, the trackless wood are the 
 
 great man's truest friends 
 When he seeks to know: 
 Great thoughts come to him who retires from 
 
 the world's busy aims and ends 
 And what it can bestow ; 
 Then he rivets his view. 
 In his search for the new. 
 Upon what he seeks to prepare; 
 Thus the mind is renewed 
 By sweet solitude 
 Which acts likes a soul-stirring prayer. 
 
 As the mighty river in its onward sweep 
 through the valleys and plains of earth j 
 
 Must have a source; 
 
 So each stream of thought in a mental fount | 
 must have its first true birth, 
 
 Ere it starts in its course; 
 
 Tlie best to secure 
 
 Tliat birth must be pure, 
 
 Untainted by Policy's denizen; 
 
 Then the thought is renewed 
 
 In sweet solitude. 
 
 Which acts like an uplifting benison. 
 
 IT GOES AGAINST THE GKAIN. 
 You maj' search the world over from here t 
 
 Cathay, 
 You may ranseack the records of time. 
 You may carrj' your efl'orts wherever yo 
 
 may, 
 From the filthiest hut to the palace subliim' ; 
 
 Wherever you find a human heart bent, 
 Tiiough in words it does not complain. 
 Whatever the efforts to keep it from sight, 
 There is something which goes 'gainst tl 
 grain. 
 
 The humblest resolve oft meets its reproof 
 In ambition's discordant desire. 
 And envy enthrones a spirit of sin 
 In its mad attempt to rise higher; 
 
 But effort and truth are the aids in tl 
 
 work 
 Of seeking for goodness, and gain, 
 The good do evil, and t lie evil do good. 
 But it goes terribly 'gainst the grain. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAt, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 C49 
 
 « 
 
 NATHAN A.WOODWARD. 
 
 Born: Fairfax, Vt., March 9, 1818. 
 The piienis of this gentleman liiive received 
 publication in the Rochester Daily Democrat 
 Cincinnati Gazette, Buffalo Express and var- 
 ious other publications. In 1888 he published 
 
 NATHAN ARMSY WOODWARD. 
 
 King Cotton, a poem.whieh was well received. 
 Mr. Woodward is a graduate of Union CoIIeg-e 
 andamcmberof the Phi Beta Kappa society. 
 For some years he taught in Union Schools 
 and Academies, when he became a member 
 of the bar, which i)r()fession he has practised 
 for forty years. Mr. Nathan A.Woodward is a 
 polished scholar and gentleman; he resides 
 in Batavia, N. Y., where he is very popular 
 and highly esteemed. 
 
 MONEr IS KING. 
 Money is King — despotic its power — 
 It ruleth the world. Men tremblg and cower 
 At the beck of its nod 
 As if it were God ; 
 And many would rather lie under the sod 
 Than feel the displeasure, or meet with the 
 
 frown. 
 Of this terrible king men honor and crown. 
 It buildeth the palace, the temple and tower. 
 And fills them with pride and pomp by its 
 power; 
 It erecteth the fort 
 To guard a king's court. 
 And all the rich commerce that sails into 
 
 port; 
 It fashions the war-ships with armor of steel. 
 Their thunders cause rock-built cities to reel. 
 ^- 
 
 It bridgeth the river, though wide be its 
 
 stream. 
 It buildetli of iron a highway for steam 
 To draw fioni afar. 
 On tlie rumbling- car. 
 The products of peace, or sinews of war; 
 It casteth the cannon, makes powder and 
 
 ball. 
 And armeth the legions that come at its call. 
 
 It luieth the robber — burglar and thief. 
 As pirates, by false liglits, lure ships to the 
 reef; 
 It buildeth the jail. 
 Then furnislicth bail. 
 For culprits whose crimes are on a large 
 
 scale ; 
 It promptcth the traitor his country to sell. 
 Then payeih the sexton for tolling his knell. 
 
 It hireth the parson to herald reform. 
 Then payeth the skeptic to teach men to 
 scorn 
 
 What the parson may preach 
 
 And the gospel doth teacli. 
 As if it had equal regard for each; 
 Not caring if wheat, or if tares be sown. 
 Provided men bow at its kingly throne. 
 
 What form hath this king men serve and 
 
 obey. 
 And how doth it look, and dress, day by day? 
 
 Can any one tell 
 
 By what magic spell 
 It ruleth mankind wherever they dwell, 
 Regardless if peace, or war maj' prevail. 
 If widows do weep, or orphans may waill 
 
 Its body and head are finest of gold; 
 
 Two glittering diamonds its eye-sockets hold; 
 
 They glisten and shine 
 
 Like the sparkle of wine. 
 Or eyes of an adder — with light serpentine; 
 The rest of the form of silver is made. 
 And the king in bills and bonds is arrayed. 
 
 The form of the king no mortal doth know. 
 Whether angel above, or demon below; 
 
 But judged by its deeds. 
 
 And the people it leads. 
 An angel of liglit when relieving men's 
 
 needs; 
 A demon of hell when leading astray. 
 And luring to vice frail creatures of clay. 
 
 Men worship this king as they did of old. 
 The calf once molded, by Aaron of gold; 
 
 And some have tlieir price. 
 
 Like cotton or rice. 
 Or goods that are woven with cunning de- 
 vice; 
 They eagerlj- strive for increase of gain. 
 And barter for pelf, soul, body and brain. 
 
 -© 
 
© 
 
 650 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 For few can resist this king of the mine, 
 Who holdeth the world in coils serpentine, 
 This demon of night. 
 Or angel of light. 
 Who speedeth the wrong — or enforceth a 
 
 right; 
 This Janus- faced king — despotic in power, 
 At the beck of whose nod men tremble and 
 cower. 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 What careth the world for a man when dead, 
 When his breath is gone — his spirit hath 
 
 fled? 
 Though his form, before, was comely and 
 
 fair, 
 'Tis hurried away — lest it taint the air; 
 The vacancy left, another can fill, 
 And the world moves on — at the same pace 
 
 still. 
 
 The restless mass g'oes dashing- along. 
 And — who will miss him amid such a throng? 
 Though once the foremost of all in the race, 
 He had won for himself the loftiest place — 
 Though noble and grand was the work of his 
 
 hand, 
 Performed for his own or a foreign land; 
 
 Though his fame spread wide and his name 
 
 be great. 
 From ruling a realm or forming- a state — 
 What careth the crowd for his senseless clay? 
 The lion is dead ;- he hath had his day. 
 So they hasten to lay his corse away 
 From the sight of men — and the world is gay. 
 
 What careth his kinsman —daughter or son, 
 Provided they clutch the gold he hath won 
 From trade, or by toil, hath wrung from the 
 
 soil; 
 Which — since he is dead — is legitimate spoil 
 To be seized by his heirs, as their legal right 
 The moment the clods conceal him from sight. 
 
 Their grief at his loss — aside from pretense. 
 Can mainly be reckoned by dollars and cents; 
 They deeply regret he did not have more 
 Of silver and gold — for them laid in store. 
 Though mourners, they drape — in costliest 
 
 crape — 
 Have burial service — with plenty of tape — 
 
 Though h's fame spread wide — and his name 
 
 be great 
 From ruling- a realm — or founding a state — 
 Yet little care they for his worthless clay ! 
 The lion is dead;- lie hath had his day. 
 So they hasten to lay his corse away 
 From the sight of men — then laugh — and 
 
 are gaj-. 
 Yet men of the world will labor to win 
 Greast wealth for their heirs, and next of kin ; 
 
 From the dawn of day, to the set of sun. 
 And oft till the noon of night comes on — 
 They will toil, and drudge, and traffic and 
 
 trade. 
 Will blast in the mines, or delve with the 
 
 spade. 
 Will peril their health and lavish their time. 
 And worry and pinch - for a dollar, or dime. 
 And deem they have rendered their lives sub- 
 lime 
 By hoarding- up gold — if -when they are 
 
 old — 
 And their funeral knell is about being- tolled. 
 They have stocks and lands — by heirs to be 
 sold. 
 
 They will strive for place — and struggle for 
 fame. 
 
 That — when they are dead — they may leave 
 a name 
 
 Ennobling- their kinsmen — making them 
 great — 
 
 Fit persons to found — or govern a state. 
 
 But their kinsmen —they — are doomed to de- 
 cay;— 
 
 They soon pass away. Men laugh and are gay. 
 
 MRS.CAROLINEF.DOLE. 
 
 Born: Norridgewock, Me., July 22, 1817. 
 
 This lady -was married in 1842 to Rev. Nathan 
 Dole, who died in 1855. She then returned to 
 her early home, where she has since resided. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 Are angels hovering in the air 
 
 Each Christmas night; 
 And do they sing the wondrous song 
 
 Of our delight? 
 
 "Peace on the earth, good will to men!" 
 
 What music sweet! 
 " To you this day a Savi(n-'s born " 
 
 All needs to meet. 
 
 Oh listen 'mid the ringing;- Ijells, 
 
 And children's choirs; 
 Oh hear it loud! oh hear it low, 
 
 By Ch list mas tires! 
 
 See in the k)wly niiin.m'r rude 
 
 The Holy Child! 
 Who iievi-r !)>■ ;i unu-h ol' sin 
 
 Shall hiMlefiicd. 
 
 To God be highest glory given. 
 
 For this dear love; 
 Let every voice the angels' join 
 
 Here and above. 
 
8B- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -s 
 
 651 
 
 STEPHEN MARION WATSON. 
 
 Born: Saco, Me, Jan. 22, l>m. 
 Engaging iti business at Boston for several 
 years, Mr. Watson returned to his native 
 town in 1872. He was elected superintendent 
 and librarian at the York Institute of Saco, 
 which position he resigned in order to accept 
 
 STEPHEN MAIUON WATSON. 
 
 a similar one in the public library of Port- 
 land, which position he still holds. Mr. Wat- 
 son is the editor and publisher of the Maine 
 Historical and Genealogical Recorder. The 
 ptieras of this writer have appeared in the 
 leading publications of Maine and Mass., and 
 he is represented in the Poets of Maine. 
 
 GROWING GRAY. 
 Ah, silver threads are in my hair. 
 What business have they growing there. 
 
 It cannot yet l)e time 
 I tliought myself quite young and fair, 
 Do I not yet quite well compare 
 
 With others in their prime? 
 •• Ah, no!- says wife, •> T lately see 
 You stoop a little just like mo; 
 
 We must be growing old. 
 Our youthful days, how quick they flee, 
 I am surprised that I can be 
 
 The age that 1 am told. 
 " Crows feet, too, are on your face, 
 I can the crooked wrinkles trace,— 
 
 There's one for every care. 
 
 But husband, age is no disgrace, 
 I think 1 like the honored place, 
 
 And silver in my hair." 
 But see, dear wife, I don't expect 
 My youth prolonged, but I reflect 
 
 On time that I've misspent; 
 I've not much .saved through my neglect, 
 To us in our old age protect 
 
 'Gainst want of meat and rent. 
 And this is why I cannot bear 
 To see the silver in my hair. 
 
 Till I've made a fortune; 
 The time's so short I most despair 
 Of saving much I do declare. 
 
 Since we get old so soon. 
 It takes one life to learn to live. 
 How we should save, and when to give 
 
 To balance our account; 
 To start anew I do believe, 
 Two-fold in value I'd receive 
 
 For one in paying out. 
 " Oh, selfish you would be," says wife, 
 " To live so miserly a life. 
 
 And cheat your neighbors so; 
 Keep clear your mind from evil strife- 
 Let good works in your heart be rife. 
 
 Then let the silver show." 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 Though the spider breaks her tiny web 
 
 A dozen times a day. 
 How patiently she repairs each thre.id 
 
 And waits again for prey; 
 The thoughtless wind that around iier blew 
 
 Has torn the wliole away; 
 Again she constructs it all anew. 
 
 Resolved to make it stay. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 That good angels for yon may twine 
 Beautiful wreaths of love divine. 
 From which, as sparkling gems ma.v shine, 
 All the good deeds on earth of thine. 
 Is the sincerest wish of mine. 
 
 ROSE ETTA VIOLA CURTISS. 
 
 Born: H.\mpton, Va., March 25, 1870. 
 The poems of Miss Rose have appeared from 
 time to time in several of the local papers. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, "tis hard to part, 
 Whate'er fate, to thee befall. 
 Go where you will, you take my lieart 
 Farewell, my love, mj' all. 
 'Tis hard, to be torn asunder. 
 When again we retrace our feet. 
 Will our hearts be changed I wonder. 
 Will our .souls be glad again to meet. 
 
 -® 
 
SB- 
 
 652 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 CHARLES W.LOUX. 
 
 Bokn: Aluta, Penn Dec. 4, 1868. 
 Charles has received a good education, in 
 tlie meantime teaching school. His poems 
 
 WILLIAM Lorx. 
 
 have received extensive publicalioii in the 
 periodical press. 
 
 FALLING IN LOVE BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 WVien first tliey met, the lig-lit 
 Of bow-shaped Luna bright 
 
 Shone forth, and lo! 
 Eacli gleaming ray departs 
 Upon two beating hearts, 
 Like silver-pointed darts 
 
 From Cupid's bow. 
 Through eacli deceptive beam 
 Beauty alone would gleam 
 
 Upon her face; 
 What moonlight dim could hide 
 Fond fancy soon supplied; 
 And tlius he l)ut espied 
 
 A form of grace. 
 
 But light of sun revealed 
 The blemislies concealed 
 
 In moon-lit smiles; 
 So, lovers then beware 
 Of forms by moon-ligiit fair,— 
 But only, only there,— 
 
 And shun their wiles. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " Thou art so near and yet so far," 
 
 Tlius he was sadly musing. 
 While calmly in the palace car 
 
 Her book she was perusing. 
 Through opened window zephyrs stole 
 
 And tossed her beauteous tresses. 
 While he beneath love's strong control. 
 
 Scarce all his sighs suppresses. 
 The train still swiftly moves along 
 
 And brings him to his station; 
 Her heart remains as full of song. 
 
 His full of desolation. 
 
 Why thus within his bosom's core 
 Was he his love concealing? 
 
 Why did he not, as oft before, 
 Give utterance to his feeling? 
 
 O barrier huge as Alpine cliffs! ■ 
 
 His was a strong obstruction; 
 His was the worst of lover's >> if's " — 
 
 He had no introduction. 
 O, ill device I why give such pain 
 
 To some that should have mated. 
 By ever making them remain 
 
 Thus widelj' separated? 
 O, that we always have to list 
 
 To custom's stern instruction — 
 That half life's joys must oft be missed 
 
 For want of an introduction. 
 
 DIFFERENCE IN POLITICS. 
 
 ye melancholy 
 Memories of folly. 
 
 Why torment my soul once more? 
 
 Gladly would I bury 
 
 All imaginary 
 
 Thoughts of grief and worry. 
 But the real I deplore. 
 
 In the happy hours 
 
 When youth's dewy flowers 
 
 Freshly bloomed beside my way, 
 Life, as in some Aden, 
 With no grief was laden. 
 For I loved a maiden — 
 
 Yes, a maiden fair as day. 
 Let me but remember 
 Till my life's December, 
 
 Those blu(> eyes and flowing liair. 
 But, oh ! why did you sever 
 Her from me forever — 
 Yes, ah I yes, forever? 
 
 'Twas her father, I declare. 
 
 1 can not be to her 
 A delighted wooer 
 
 While he has me in this fix. 
 Dim became my vision 
 When that politician 
 Made the great condition, 
 
 " You must change your politics!" 
 
 -^J 
 
^• 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUIOA. 
 
 653 
 
 -© 
 
 JAMES S. KENNEFICK. 
 
 Bokn: Ikkland, Dec. 25, 1829. 
 The sul)jeutof this sketch is the brother of 
 the late Rev. Maurice Keiiiieflek, P. P., of the 
 united parishes of Raeormac Gortroe and St. 
 Bartliohnew, county Cork, Ireland. James S. 
 Kenneflck was a class-fellow of the late Rev. 
 John Qiiiiilan, R. C, bishop of Mobile, Ala- 
 bama, and other men of mark. Born within 
 birdseye view of the beautiful harbor of 
 QueenstowM, no wonder that James S. Kenne- 
 tirk WMs; insiiin^d to wi'ite liis beautiful poem 
 
 JAMES S. KENNEFICK. 
 
 of Recollections of Queenstown. At the age 
 of nineteen Mr. Kenneflck studied the hig-her 
 branches of geometry, trig:onometry, men- 
 suration, conic sections, land, lake and water 
 surveying-, mapping-, prospective and land- 
 scape drawing-, in whicli he g-raduated in 1847. 
 He then went to Scotland, and in 1851 he 
 crossed the Atlantic to Canada, where he en- 
 g-uffed in learning the practical part of civil 
 engineering on the Great Western and Grand 
 Trunk railroad, connnencing as tapeman, 
 then rodman, copying draftsman, etc., finally 
 reacliing tlie position of division engineering. 
 Since tliat time lie has filled important posi- 
 tions of draftsman and civil engineer in the 
 construction of public works. The ne-vt posi- 
 tion James S. Kennefick filled was as editor of 
 a liberal conservative paper, which lie filled 
 for four years. In 1864 we next find this great 
 
 engineer at Green Bay, Wisconsin, engaged in 
 topograpliical work. In 1864 Mr. Kennefick 
 ■was deputy county surveyor of St. Clair Co; 
 elected county surveyor the following year; 
 and was city engineer of Port Huron in 187.5. 
 In 1882 he removed to Sanilac county, Mich., 
 with headquarters at Sandusky, where he has 
 since pursued the avocation of survej'or of 
 state, county and township public drainage, 
 at which business he is now engaged. 
 
 INAUGURATION OF PRES. HARRISON. 
 Hail cliief tain, hail! Oh! freedom's son, 
 
 Thy hour of triumph came. 
 Hallowed and sweetly divine, 
 
 From out the vault of fame; 
 Steady and firm, with nature's gifts, 
 
 Thy powerful genius sway'd 
 A mighty nation's sufferage. 
 
 In brilliant train array'd. 
 
 Prom out tlie bright valhalla, 
 
 Of a nation's greatest choice. 
 Thy soaring flight to eminence. 
 
 Sealed by a nation's voice. 
 Soared high aloft serenely mild. 
 
 As Avith one loud acclaim. 
 Declared thee ruler of this land. 
 
 With a place on the scroll of fame. 
 Long years have passed with Ughtning speed 
 
 Through time's relentless space. 
 Since thou wert by nature's God destined 
 
 To fill this glorious space;— 
 This great Republic of the west, 
 
 And a mighty people free. 
 Proclaimed thee President of this land — 
 
 This land of liberty. 
 There stands the bloodless champion, 
 
 Unique in all that's great, 
 Before the nation's greatest men — 
 
 In the arms of power and state, 
 And 'neath the sacred canopy 
 
 Of heaven's supernal arcli. 
 He's crowned with, a nation's purest wreath 
 
 On the glorious fourth of March. 
 O, wear it. chieftain wear it. 
 
 Forever be its guard and guide. 
 Our father's blood lias bought it, 
 
 'Tis the nation's boast and pride; 
 Let traitors hang their heads for shame. 
 
 Let free men boldly stand 
 Througli life and death for liberty. 
 
 And for freedom's hallow'd land. 
 Tlien hail our nation's President, 
 
 Ohl may his rule be bright. 
 As Aurora's balmy, soft blue dawn, 
 
 'Neath heaven's blue vault of light ; 
 Long may his shield and .^Egis wave 
 
 O'er all this favor'd Land, 
 Where Lincoln ruled supremely wise. 
 
 And Grant held liigh command. 
 
 -© 
 
80- 
 
 654 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ©- 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF QUEENSTOWN. 
 By the Lee's winding river when daylight was 
 fading. 
 And the bright pohir star set a watcli o'er 
 tlie night, 
 I stay 'd by the banlis of its blue waters leading 
 To fair Queenstown harbor in their quick 
 rushing flight. 
 I sought not my liome 'till the cannon's loud 
 token. 
 From Camden's high turrets gave the signal 
 of day. 
 And the watchman's hallo! from the guard- 
 ship luibroken 
 Came rumbling along o'er the water's blue 
 spray. 
 Calm was the night and the scene sweetly 
 charming 
 Along the green margin of the loud weep- 
 ing tide. 
 And heard softly echo'd the fisherman's warn- 
 ing', 
 As lightly his swift craft o'er the waters did 
 glide. 
 The streamers full flaunting fi'om rampart 
 and penant. 
 And hyperian leaving his throne in the 
 east. 
 Gave lustre and grandeur and beauty resplen- 
 dant 
 All o'er the gay harbor with his bright gold- 
 en crest. 
 O, gay, lovely Queenstown with thy high 
 streets mean'dring. 
 Reflecting great splendor on the Lee's flow- 
 ing stream; 
 And thy broad matchless Beach where the 
 elite's ever wandering, 
 Is mirror'd most sweetly by the sun's gold- 
 en beam. 
 High soars the gray turrets on RosteUan 
 great mansion. 
 And boldly each cannon sets on Carlisle 
 Fort, 
 With broad stately island in the water's ex- 
 pansion. 
 To shelter the harbor from the winds of the 
 north. 
 'Tis there you would see native genius ex- 
 X)and'd, 
 And ships of alt countries with their flags 
 flaunting free, 
 'Tis there that the fair nymph of l)eauty first 
 land'd 
 And deck'd the sweet harbor with rare scen- 
 ery; 
 Yes, bless'd the sweet harbor, but crush'd the 
 brave people. 
 That languish and pine 'neath the usurper's 
 rod. 
 
 O, heaven look down from thy abode in the ' 
 highest, [nature and God. 
 
 With one ray of fair freedom bless'd by \ 
 I have been in many a city of splendor. 
 Where mirror'd a thousand phantomime ! 
 forms, ( 
 
 On the Ohio's sweet and fast-winding river, I 
 And down the Mississippi in wild raging ; 
 storms ; 
 I have seen the Niagara's Catarac foaming, , 
 
 Belching forth in its frenzi'd silverysheen, 
 
 But oh ! thou sweet Cove where in dreams I'm 
 
 oft roaming, 
 
 Its fairest and dearest of ekch lovely scene. 
 
 Farewell, O Queenstown, near the home of 
 
 my childhood. 
 
 Farewell to sweet Cloyne, the dear haunts of 
 
 my youth, [green wood. 
 
 Farewell to Aghada, each grot and each 
 
 And Monkstown and Passage on the Lee's 
 
 sunny south; [grand knell. 
 
 The loud Bells of Shandon that ring out each 
 
 Or funeral note with a sad mournful toll. 
 And each scene of my youth I now bid thee a 
 farewell, [in my soul. 
 
 O, long shall these recollections live green 
 
 DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 
 The bells are loudly tolling, 
 
 A requiem from shore to shore. 
 For our nation's greatest President, 
 
 That alas ! is now no more. 
 There's a wail of deepest anguish. 
 
 Throughout the stricken land. 
 For the soldier, statesman, scholar. 
 
 That fell by the assassin's hand. 
 Ah ! me what patient yearnings, 
 
 Had flll'd the world with joy. 
 When the bulletins each day announced, 
 
 A hope for the •> canal boy." 
 But fate decreed, reluctantly. 
 
 That death would have full sway. 
 And blanch'd the nation's brightest hopes,; 
 
 In death's dark, dismal way. 
 Through years of toil and labor,— 
 
 Through the ups and downs of life. 
 This brilliant child of nature, 
 
 Has breasfd tiiis world's false strife. 
 Through the fiery ordeal unflattering. 
 
 He braved the storms of time. 
 And trod t lie flowery paths of fame, 
 
 Pure, holy and sublime. 
 Born not in the lap of luxury. 
 
 Nor 'neath the gaudy roof of wealth. 
 This brilliiint son of Columbia — 
 
 Of stately mien and health; 
 March'd forth into the world's domain, 
 
 Ontraniniel'd, gay, serene. 
 To rule the greatest nation. 
 
 The world has e'er yet seen. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMElilCA. 
 
 * 
 
 600 
 
 EDWARD P. WOODWARD. 
 
 Boun: VVarsaw.N.Y., Junes, 1840. 
 At twenty Mr. Wood ward went to Providence, 
 R. I., ;uid Boston, Mass., where he remain- 
 ed twenty-four years, reporting-, and eoiiuect- 
 ed with newspaper, publishing- and otiier in- 
 terests. In 1880 lie was ordained as a minister 
 of the Christian connection, having- preached 
 
 REV. EDWARD P. WOODWARD. 
 
 Since J;ui. 1, 1878; and was pastor of a chureli 
 in the city of Maiden several years. In 1884 
 I.e removed to Harrison, Maine, and became 
 connected with the Advent Christian denomi- 
 nation; and since 1888 has been pastor of the 
 second Advent church of Portland, Maine 
 Where he is now vice-president of the Maine 
 Mate Advent Christian Conference, and pres- 
 ident of theVoung Ministers-Christian Union. 
 The poems of the Rev. Woodward have ap- 
 P'-ared in the leading religious and secular 
 l>uohcations. 
 
 THE BELLES. 
 I. 
 
 See the sledges with the belles,- 
 
 Laughiiifj- belles! 
 What a world of happiness their merriment 
 foretells! 
 How their beaming, black eyes twinkle 
 in the frosty air of niglit! 
 
 While th.' sleigh Ijells tinkle, tinkle 
 And thv Hakes tlieir heads besprinkle. 
 Filling with a strange deliglit; 
 Keeping time, merry time. 
 In the most unfettered rliyme. 
 To the merry, joyous laughter that so sweetly 
 richly swells 
 From tlie wildly-tlirobbing bosoms of the 
 belles: 
 
 Belles, belles, belles,- rbelles 
 
 From the happy, careless, laughter -loving 
 
 II. 
 
 See the stately, queenly belles,— 
 Wedded belles! 
 What a wealth of mother-love their quiet 
 manner tells! 
 In the silent hours of niglit, 
 To the little one's delight. 
 From the trembling, swan-like throats - 
 
 In broken tune — 
 What sweet, low, soothing music floats 
 To the little dove that nestles, gently borne 
 Around the room. 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
 What peaceful harmony continuously wells 
 Now it swells — 
 Anon it dwells 
 On the Past; then it tells 
 Of the Future that impels 
 To the toiling and the praying 
 
 Of the belles,- 
 Of the earnest-hearted belles: 
 
 Belles, belles, belles,— 
 To the watching and the waiting of the belles 
 
 See the anguish-stricken belles,— 
 Weeping belles I 
 What days of wasting sorrow their terror now 
 foretells! 
 And the gentle eye of Night 
 Looks upon them in their fright. 
 Crushed beyond the power to speak:— 
 Only now and then a sliriek — 
 Discords tune — 
 With despairing heart appealing to the mercy 
 
 of the Are,- 
 Struggling helplessly witii Rjipine's wither- 
 ing, wa.stiiig fire,— 
 Rising stronger, fiercer, higher. 
 With insatiable desire 
 Now to seize and blast forever 
 Virtue's bower and Beauty's l)loom ! 
 Oh. deceived and ruined belles! 
 With a wail their horror wells 
 
 From despair! 
 How they groan, and writhe, and pour 
 Sighs and tears so vainly o'er 
 LTnpitying earth, and trembling air! 
 And the car too plainly knows 
 
 -* 
 
© 
 
 656 
 
 -SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IBRICA. 
 
 By the sighing, 
 Aud the cryinp". 
 How their anguish ebbs and flows: 
 And to the ear it plainly tells 
 I u the groaning, 
 And the moaning', 
 How this nameless Horror swells, 
 By the mad, despairing accents of those hope- 
 less, helpless belles; 
 Of tlie belles,— 
 Of the belles, the weeping, sorrowing belles: 
 Belles, belles, belles,— 
 Of the broken-hearted, crushed, despairing 
 belles! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sad procession of the belles,— 
 Falleu belles! 
 What weird, solemn, awful thought their 
 passing by compels! 
 "Neath the flickering gaslight. 
 How the soul is filled with fright 
 At the hollow, ringing mockery of their tone! 
 Aud each sound and word that floats 
 From their brazen lips and throats, 
 
 Seems a groan ! 
 But the people!— they who dwell 
 On the dark confines of hell, 
 
 All alone. 
 Planning, plotting, darkly working, 
 
 Hating all, beloved by none,— 
 And who revel thus in turning 
 Tender, loving hearts to stone! 
 Are they eitlier man or woman? 
 Are they eitlier brute or human? 
 Unpityingghouls ! 
 And their King it is who rolls 
 Agony on human souls — 
 Tolls 
 The knell of fallen belles! 
 And his fiendish bosom swells 
 As he counts the ruined belles! 
 
 And in mad delight he yells. 
 Dances, wildly keeping time 
 (Paying little lieed to rliyniC) 
 To the sighing of the belles,— 
 Of the belles: 
 Keeping swift, unmeasured time 
 To the groaning- of the belles, 
 
 Of the bells, belles,— 
 To the sobbing of the belles:— 
 Keeping time — glad time — 
 As he knells, madly knells 
 In a proud, triunipliant rhyme. 
 To the curses of the belles; 
 Of the belles, shameless belles, — 
 
 To the wailing of the belles, 
 Of the belles, fallen, dying belles,— 
 Belles, belles, belles,— 
 To the silence and the darkness of Lost 
 Belles ! 
 
 gB- 
 
 VERE D. PALMER. 
 
 Born; North Star, Mich., June 8, 1867. 
 
 The poems of the subject of this sketch have 
 appeared quite extensively in the local press. 
 Mr. Palmer was married in 1885 to Miss Mina 
 Belding. He has generally followed the occu- 
 pation of school teacher, but is now engaged 
 in agriculture in his native place, and is cor- 
 respondent for several local papers. The 
 poems of Mr. Vere D. Palmer liave always 
 been well and favorably received by both 
 press and public, and he has become quite 
 popular in liis native county. 
 
 COMME IL TAUT. 
 
 We were standing in the twilight, 
 
 As the golden sunbeams fled. 
 On my shoulder, gently pillowed, 
 
 Lay her charming little head. 
 
 And her loving eyes uplifted. 
 Beamed on me their warmest light, 
 
 As the distant shadows lengthening. 
 Warned us of approaching night.. 
 
 On lier face upturned there lingered 
 
 Not one trace of pain or care. 
 For of sorrow she had known not. 
 
 But of pleasures had to spare. 
 
 For above us were the heavens, 
 'Neath our feet the grasses grew. 
 
 And her eyes like diamonds sparkled, 
 Soft as brightest morning dew. 
 
 I was thinking of that evening. 
 
 When I met her, long ago. 
 As she wandered on the hillside. 
 
 Where the mountain daisies grow. 
 
 She one moment gazed ii|)<)ii me. 
 Then as though bj- iusliuet led. 
 
 Turned and downward through tlie valley, 
 'Long the murmuring brooklet fled. 
 
 Not so now ; she loves to linger 
 
 By my side at set of sun. 
 When the day of toil is over 
 
 And the busy labors done. 
 
 But alas! the spell is broken: 
 Down the lane the nnlkman comes, 
 
 And from reverie I'm awakened, 
 By the noisy tune he hums. 
 
 My companion, too, is startled 
 liy the milkman's nois\- laugh; 
 
 With a bawl she rushes from me, 
 That confounded— Jersey calf. 
 
88- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEllICA. 
 
 657 
 
 ® 
 
 TRAVERSE EUGENE STOUT. 
 
 Born: PutnAiM Co., Ohio, April 12, 1858. 
 Mil. Stout has received a thorougli educa- 
 tion, and graduated in 1882 from tlie state un- 
 iversity of Wisconsni, and subsequently wrote 
 an elementary treati.se on evidence, desig:ned 
 for tiie use of students, wliicli lias had a large 
 sale. Mr. Stout has written Iwtli prose and 
 
 TltAVEUSE EUGENE STOUT. 
 
 poetry, which has been published at different 
 times in the Cincinnati Commercial Gazette, 
 The Army Herald of Des Moines, The Budget 
 of Knoxville, Des Moines Register, Wavcrly 
 Magazine, and the periodical press generally. 
 Mr. Stout is unmarried, and resides at Hunt- 
 ington, W.Va., where he is engaged in law. 
 
 © 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 Surely apart on Life's great sea. 
 Drift I from you — and you from me. 
 
 Though wind and sea are fnir, 
 I press my hand against my breast, 
 Alas ! for me there is no rest. 
 
 For oh ! my heart's not there. 
 But 'tis with you — sailing away. 
 Surely drifting— taking the day, 
 
 Leaving the night for mine: 
 Once side by side we sailed together. 
 Sailed through fair and stormy weather. 
 
 Over the mystic brine. 
 A jealous hand in the calm, blue sea. 
 Then turned your boat apart from me; 
 
 I struggled 'gainst its will, 
 Rut all in vain — a glimp.se of white; 
 You are drifting yet — just in sight; 
 
 Yes, drifting — drifting still. 
 To hope farewell — farewell to you. 
 Vanished yourself and boat from view. 
 
 Out on the distant bay. 
 In thoughtful hours, on meni'ry's sight. 
 Will often break your boat of white 
 
 Still drifting — drifting away. 
 
 MARY. 
 Brown-haired graceful Mary, 
 Blue-eyed little fairy. 
 
 When the dawn appears 
 Your words fall on my ears; 
 
 When the sun goes down 
 Unchecked your talk flows on, — 
 Now of this and then of that. 
 Of the grove, the bee, the bat, 
 Mocking now tlie river's song. 
 Wandering all the woods among. 
 Chirping like the sweet ground bird; 
 Was there like ihee ever heard, 
 Swain, or maid or flowing stream. 
 Talking, singing from the gleam 
 Of the dawn till far in night. 
 With such vim and such delight? 
 Pearl-toothed, graceful Mary, 
 Blithesome little fairy. 
 
 Dimpled cheeks are yours; 
 Your breath more sweet than flowers, 
 
 Tempting lips so red. 
 Bewitching molded head, 
 A thousand chai-ms to win. 
 The fair God Love within; 
 But when he'd kiss your cheeks. 
 Or dare approach your lips. 
 Before his love he speaks. 
 Your restless tongue outslips. 
 In its long accustomed way. 
 And so imicli 'twould have to say. 
 That your lover weary grown. 
 With his message all unknown. 
 From your side would haste away. 
 Neither come another day 1 
 Ever-talking Mary. 
 Self-will'd little fairy, 
 
 I'll a sermon preach; 
 When the dawn appears. 
 When fair love would woo. 
 When the evening nears. 
 This of all things dare to do. 
 Bridle you your speech. 
 O what a storm T brought 
 On me thus before I thought; 
 
 All her words ran riot 
 AA'hen 1 bade her tongue be quiet! 
 
 I'll remember all m.v days 
 Tlie dire tempest I did raise; 
 
 ■51 
 
g^- 
 
 '658 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 But the storm at last went by, 
 Teardrops trembled in lier eye. 
 Yet she would not deign to cry, 
 Queen-lilie there she passed me by. 
 Brown-haired graceful Mary, 
 Blue-eyed little fairj% 
 
 Humbly I entreat. 
 
 You will mercy mete 
 
 To my broken heart. 
 
 That to love did start. 
 When the tempest I awoke. 
 When your heart so freely spoke. 
 Then I knew I loved thee, Mary, 
 Brown-haired, blue-eyed, talking fairy! 
 
 MRS. HATTIE E. FURMAN. 
 
 Born: Delhi, Iowa, Feb. 8, 1853. 
 Since 1871 the poems of this lady have appear 
 cd in the Dubuque newspapers, the House- 
 
 MH.S. HAT'iiE ELIZABETH FUHMAN. 
 
 keeper, and the local press generally. She 
 was married in 1883 to Charles H. Furnian, and 
 still resides in her native place. 
 
 S- 
 
 TWO DREAMS. 
 
 Asleep in a sunny meadow. 
 
 When tlie J\ine winds soft and low. 
 Are swaying', swaying, swaying. 
 
 The tall grass to and fro. 
 He dreams a dream of the future. 
 
 With boyish abandon — sweet — 
 
 That a world of pomp and treasure 
 Is lying at his feet. 
 
 The ragged boy in the meadow, 
 
 'Neath the June skies soft ane blue, 
 Awakes from his care-free dreaming. 
 
 To find it all — untrue. 
 Asleep in his splendid chamber. 
 
 He dreams of the long ago. 
 Of winds in a meadow swaying 
 
 The tall grass to and fro. 
 The man of the world is dreaming; 
 
 Oh illusion fond and sweet — 
 That his life untried before him, 
 
 Lies at his boyish feet. 
 He 'wakens — the old, old story,— 
 
 As ever earth's dreamers do, 
 To find, outside of heaven. 
 
 Their brightest dreams — untrue. 
 
 SEEKING A SIGN. 
 Oh red, red rose! The warm glow in youi 
 
 heart 
 Is deep and rich to-day ; your perfume sweet 
 As when on Sharon's plains the Asian sun, 
 VVooed you to being when the world wa: 
 
 young. 
 
 « »h royal lilies! you are with us now, 
 
 Stainless and spotless in your purity. 
 
 As when you grew around Jerusalem, 
 
 An then in your pale splendor did out shin 
 
 'I'he glory of Judea's proudest king. 
 
 nil purple heartsease, with your bende 
 
 heads. 
 The shadow, resting on your faces sweet, 
 1 las never once been lifted since the day 
 Tlie gates were shut on Eden ; for you wear ; 
 'I'he patient look of one who always waits. 
 And though you never see the Presence thi- 
 Was wont to walk the garden at the hush ' 
 ( »f night-fall, yet I know you always watch 
 The dusky silence— faithful, fond and true. 
 
 Oh fair and fragile flowers, rvhose fleetii 
 
 bloom 
 Dies in an hour, but whose sweet history 
 Reaches behind the history of nations! 
 You, who are so peerless and so perfect, 
 And, who are, methinks, the only earth 
 
 thing 
 On which no curse has fallen, do you know 
 With what fond love, and brooding tend( 
 
 ness, 
 A troubled world has loved you? Let us l0( 
 I pray, deep in your tinted chalices, 
 Seeking therein a i>ledge divine, that when 
 The low, green grasses grow 'tween US u ; 
 
 you. 
 We shall find upon the unknown heavenly ' 
 Hills tlie deathless bloom of immortelles. 
 -5 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEIilCA. 
 
 C50 
 
 ^ 
 
 MRS. MARY A.THOMAS. 
 
 Bokn: La Vekgne, Tenn., Jan. 10, 184L 
 
 This lady w:is inairiod in 1872 to Archie 
 Tliomas, and now residosiii Springfleld, Tcnii. 
 She received a good education and has a fair 
 knowledge of Latin, Spanish and music. From 
 an early age she lias wi-itten quite extensively 
 for the periodical press, and in 1871 was elect- 
 ed honorary member of the Tennessee Press 
 Association. Mr. Thomas was a very popular 
 journalist, a free mason and knight of honor, 
 and his death in 1888 was deeply lamented. 
 Since her liusband's death, Mrs. Thomas has 
 continued the publication of tlie Springfield 
 Kecord.in wliich sliehas been very successful. 
 
 fS- 
 
 HEAL THYSELF. 
 •' As fickle as she's fair," man says 
 
 Of woman. " Sweet words, tender smiles 
 Arc bestowed on all men alike; 
 
 There's no end to her flattering- wiles. 
 " And this one, that one, and the other- 
 Poor, blind dupe, thinks he is loved best; 
 Tiiat, should he but please, she would gladly 
 
 Give the mitten to all of the rest." 
 Thus he looks, criticises, condemns; 
 
 Swears woman serves man very badly; 
 Wliile the beam is in his own eye 
 
 He has judged. And then reflects sadly: 
 " U'liat a heaven this world would be 
 
 If women were sincere and true; 
 \t tliey would as honestly act 
 
 lu such matters as we men do." 
 His elastic conscience ne'er whispers 
 
 Of falsehood the least suggestion. 
 Attend a few moments — I'll show you 
 
 Tiie opposite side of the question. 
 To her friend man praises one woman. 
 
 But says, .. you are more beautiful far "— 
 Directly murmurs to another, 
 
 "You are bright as a midnight star." 
 Sometimes his eyes will speak tender; 
 
 Ho breiithes fondly in one maiden's ear. 
 " 1 knew not wliat love is till now," 
 
 To some other >. My heart holds you dear." 
 He leans over a trustful young girl 
 
 And •• Sweet Alice with hair so brown," 
 Quotes softly; and royal she feels 
 
 As if wearing a golden crown — 
 
 Though whether or no he means aught 
 
 She knows not; and he cares much less: 
 What is it to him if tlie words 
 
 Are destined to bane or to bless? 
 Again he'll clasp warndy both hands 
 
 Of fair friends lie chances to meet. 
 And all think •• If for me he cares naught 
 
 Would he greet me with glances so sweet':*" 
 
 .. A word to the wise is sufficient;" 
 
 I shall instance no otlier cases — 
 Just advise a rigiit cultivation 
 
 Of three most rare christian graces. 
 But flirting is a time-honored custom. 
 
 Likely dates back to tlie fall 
 From Eden. And perhaps, it is only 
 
 " Diamond cut diamond " after all. 
 
 A POE.M. 
 
 A city fair, yet in her beauteous youth. 
 Sitting enthroned within her sovereign 
 State, 
 Clad in the royal robes of justice, truth. 
 
 And every attribute that makes lier great, 
 From her rejoicing Commonwealth receives. 
 
 On this Centennial of natal days. 
 Rich homage shown in rare and countless 
 
 sheaves 
 Of excellence, that all true men appraise — 
 Industry, Genius, Talent, and whatever tends 
 To grace the human brow, or make all man- 
 kind friends. 
 
 One hundred years ago this vernal time 
 
 The sun arose upon a forest wide. 
 
 Where wild game flourished in our genial 
 
 clime. 
 And basked upon our sparkling river's side. 
 The savage lurked within the wild-wood 
 
 shade. 
 His murd'rous tomahawk high raised in air; 
 But sturdy settlers, firm and undismayed. 
 Soon forced him back unto his green-wood 
 
 lair. 
 Where erst the Indian's wigwam smoke curl- 
 ed toward the skies, 
 He saw the pale-face habitations surely rise. 
 Then vengefully the vanquished warrior flew. 
 The sunset rays upon his dusky face — 
 The clustered cabins to a village grew — 
 The village to a town increased apace. 
 Her citizens in virtues oft excelled; 
 In peace and war alike were tliey renowned. 
 Dominion, lionor, in her precincts dwelled — 
 She regnant city of the State was crowned. 
 And stately, towering upward to the clouds 
 
 we see 
 The dome of the proud Capitol of Tennes.see. 
 Lawgivers, Statesmen, Generals she gave. 
 Who risked their all in danger's whelming 
 
 tide; 
 Wise, patriotic, honest, true and brave — 
 Well worthy of a nation's loving pride 
 Twice sent she fortli one of her sons to fill 
 Our glorious country's presidental chair; 
 A man of energy and iron will, [there. 
 
 Wlio served the people well that placed him 
 Let Nashville's cannon loud reverbenite to 
 
 tell [ry dwell. 
 
 The Hermitage that Jackson's deeds in mem'- 
 
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 660 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 Again our city, at tlie nation's call, 
 Glad yielded one of her most able men — 
 Whose enemies his graces held in thrall; 
 His praises spread afar o'er mount and glen. 
 When he had loyally fulfilled his part 
 He sought his home to rest beneath her sod — 
 For aye he lives within his country's Iieart — 
 And Nashville loves the places where he trod. 
 And her Centurial guns boom o'er Polk's hon- 
 ored dust, 
 And speak her pride of him, her own, her no- 
 ble, just. 
 Suppose the deep-mouthed cannon's roar has 
 
 broke 
 The fetters of decaj% which long have bound 
 The crumbled forms of those red men who 
 
 woke 
 The forest with their savage life, and found 
 For them a resurrection brief, that they 
 May view the progress the pale race has 
 
 wrought, 
 The while they in their rude graves quiet lay 
 A hundred years with mighty events fraught. 
 Behold them rise from many a long lost In- 
 dian mound, ['round. 
 Among us grimly stalk, and gaze bewildered 
 They note tlie tokens of the white man's 
 
 might; 
 The sounds of busj', joyous life they hear; 
 With low-bowed heads, and footsteps spirit- 
 light. 
 They from our presence wond'ring disappear. 
 The dark, weird woods receive the ghostly 
 
 throng — 
 Rekindle they their long extinguished fires. 
 Dance their death dance, and chant their fun 
 
 eral song-, 
 And then those phantom sons, sepulchral 
 sires, [glide 
 
 A painted, savage, specter crew, all silent 
 Back to their graves, again to wait a cen- 
 tury's tide. 
 
 A century's tide! What wondrous things are 
 
 hid 
 Among its stealthy, sure, swift-rolling waves? 
 What will evolve from intellects which bid 
 Defiance to deep nature's secrets — braves 
 All siicrifice for good of human kind? 
 What mysteries will science yet reveal. 
 Within that era, to still closer bind 
 Our race in deeper woe, or brighter weal? 
 From 'mid Time's teeming, hasting billows 
 
 shall be hurled [world. 
 
 Events that will amaze a startled, gazing 
 
 8B- 
 
 JOHN HOTCHKISS. 
 
 Bokn: Derby, Conn., November, 1830. 
 For three years the subject of this skelcli was 
 apprenticed to the drug business at Bridge- 
 port. In 1849 he removed to New York state, 
 
 where he learned the printing business at 
 Randolph. Mr. Hotchkiss served in the civil 
 
 JOHN HOTCHKISS. 
 
 war from the beginning until its close. In 
 1866 he started, in Wisconsin, the Fox Lake 
 Representative, in which city he still resides 
 with his wife, by whom he has two children 
 living. 
 
 GENEVEY LAIK. 
 
 Genevey Laik — magestick stream! 
 
 Thy buties can't be told; 
 They far surpass the poit's dream, 
 
 Or farey tails of old. 
 Benealh thy waters clear and brite, 
 
 Do eny farey murraades^well. 
 Or are the siskos all the go, 
 
 With now and then a pickurel? 
 Now is there not sum calm retreat, 
 
 Sum nook of mud in thy waters clear, 
 Where bullheds fat each uther greet 
 
 Beyond the reeeh of hook or speer? 
 And tell me, O murmerrin waves. 
 
 As prowdly you role on in glory. 
 Have j'ou no romanse of gone by dais, 
 
 No tail, tradishun or storj? 
 Did the red men of yore build huts on thy 
 sand. 
 
 And squas and pappooses lay around 1ih).«, 
 Or were the denizens of thy forist land 
 
 Only the Gofur, the Elk and the Moos? 
 Go it little billers — bust on the shore, 
 
 And all kei'tlummu.x and brake; 
 I cood ride on thy waves forevnr more, 
 
 And hark to the musiek you make. 
 O, laik of buty — vurdent spot. 
 
 The puttiest in creasion — 
 I mite rite more if twant so hot, 
 
 And the rest of the fellers would only Jest 
 quit their botherashuii. I 
 5 
 
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 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 — 98 
 661 
 
 WILLIAM V. LAWRANCE. 
 
 Born: Greene Co., O., Nov. 10, 18.34. 
 Mr. Lawrance was admitted to the bar in 
 1860, and the following- year enlisted as a 
 private, serving- until tlie close of the war, 
 with the exception of a short period in 1863 
 when he was obliged to return home to re- 
 gain his shattered healtli. In 1865 Mr. Law- 
 rance began the practice ol his profession at 
 
 WILLIAM VICKARS LAWRANCE. 
 
 Waverly, Ohio, and three years later settled 
 permanently in Chillicothe, wliere he now re- 
 sides with his wife, whom he married in 1864. 
 Mr. Lawrance has written verse from his 
 youth, and in 1874 published a volume of 
 poems entitled EUina. In 1889 appeared The 
 Story of Judith, a neat volume of poems that 
 has been well received. Mr. Lawrance is 
 well known as a successful lawyer and gentle- 
 man, and now occupies the position of assist- 
 ant quartermaster general of the depart- 
 ment of the Ohio G. A. R. 
 
 MUSIC THAT EVER IS NEW. 
 I have listened to-nigiit to music so sweet 
 
 It charmed all my sadness away. 
 In the rhythmical sound of merry young feet 
 
 Of children in innocent play. 
 Their laughter like ripples of water, flows 
 
 Enchanting upon the breeze; 
 '"'hile echo, repeating it, conies and goes, 
 ©• 
 
 Refining the notes which please. 
 I drink of the music as one does wine, 
 
 Athirst for the cheer it brings; 
 But sweeter to me this draught of mine, 
 
 Which comforts but never stings! 
 The voices come in at the open doors, 
 
 And float through each vacant room, 
 Like fragrance blown in from the bursting 
 flowers 
 
 Which under mj' windows l)loom. 
 And yet no feet o'er the threshold come. 
 
 And under my roof-tree rest; 
 No nestlings at eve to my gates fly home 
 
 To shelter upon my breast. 
 Yet a hand once touched the open door, 
 
 A foot at the threshold stayed; 
 And a shadow lies there forevermore, 
 
 A sorrow that will not fade! 
 
 SONG. 
 The stars are glowing in the skies. 
 
 The clouds have fled awaj% 
 The mist of night around me lies 
 
 In shadows dull andgraj". 
 
 Come stray with me, dearest. 
 
 While stars their watchings keep. 
 Come stray with me, come stray with me, 
 
 Let those that love not sleep. 
 The night grows deeper on the plain. 
 
 Our steps must homeward turn ; 
 The dew reflects from earth again 
 
 The heaveiilj- lights that burn. 
 
 Come, come with me, dearest. 
 
 We can no farther rove. 
 Come play for me, come play for me 
 
 Those melting notes of love. 
 Ah ! sing to me, for in my breast 
 
 AH tuneless are those strings 
 That vibrate when the heart is blest. 
 
 And rapture inly springs; 
 
 Yes, sing to me, dearest. 
 
 Thy voice is music sweet; , 
 The echoings, the echoings. 
 
 My lieart shall still repeat. 
 And when the last note dies away. 
 
 New strings shall catch the strain; 
 A viewless hand shall sweetly play 
 
 The song of love again. 
 
 Then list with me, dearest. 
 
 Love tunes the echoing song; 
 Within my breast, within my breast. 
 
 Those notes shall eclio long. 
 
 WHO KNOWS. 
 The liglits flash out along the street. 
 And merry feet still come and go. 
 While distant music soft and sweet 
 Floats up, and voices from below 
 Ring out in laughter; distant call 
 
 * 
 
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 662 
 
 fB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 ©- 
 
 And answer back come up to me ; 
 And yet like throbs of pain tliey fall, 
 And tlirill my heart and soul and all 
 
 With one fierce throe of misery. 
 I do not know why this to-night; 
 
 I love sweet music, and I love 
 To hear the merry voice and light 
 
 Which floats to where I sit, above 
 The crowd which hurries to and fro; 
 
 I close the sash and shut me in, 
 And press my heart, which flutters so— 
 
 I hear the muflBed roll within. 
 It may be that one voice is gone 
 
 Whose tones would harmonize all sound: 
 One footstep falling- on the stone 
 
 Might rhytlimic make each step around: 
 A touch of one fair hand might still 
 
 The tumult of tlie heart witiiin, 
 
 To joy the saddened thought yet win. 
 The heart with hope and sunshine flU, 
 
 Who knows? The secret yet unguessed 
 
 Is closed and locked within my breast. 
 
 THE ITINERANT. 
 He tried the problem of this life. 
 
 And found it hard and intricate. 
 Not in its toil and vexing- strife. 
 
 The heritage of rich and great; 
 Not in its greed for fame and place, 
 
 The world's chief aim, Ambitions's goal,— 
 But in that work, made sweet through 
 grace, 
 
 To win and save a dying soul. 
 Few were his needs,— an humble fare. 
 
 His bible with its tear-stained page; 
 A book of sacred song and prayer, 
 
 The comfort of his pilgrimage. 
 He had no home save with his flock. 
 
 Which took him in its fold a time,— 
 A refuge in that Rifted Rock 
 
 Made perfect through a faith sublime. 
 A wife gave comfort in those days 
 
 When labors pressed and sorrows pained. 
 And followed him in lowly ways 
 
 Where duty called and souls were gained. 
 What need was it her faith to prove? 
 
 The dullest eye her heart could read; 
 A Ruth was she in trust and love. 
 
 His people hers in faith and creed. 
 A year of sojourn here and there. 
 
 They pitch their tents and call it home; 
 The fallow for the seed prepare;. 
 
 And so for reapers yet to come. 
 They gather sheaves as tliose who glean 
 
 The harvest field , tlie reaping done. 
 The golden store, though small and leiin, 
 
 liy thrift despised, they make their own. 
 His life is one of ceasless toil. 
 
 With frugal board and humble bed. 
 
 And gleanings from a scanty soil 
 
 Repaying grudgingly in bread. 
 His Master gave the test for all. 
 
 Though clad in rags or purple gown. 
 By it adjudged we stand or fall; 
 
 "'Tis by your fruits ye shall be known." 
 So from these lowly fields of grain 
 
 His eager hands their trophies bring. 
 Well pleased if he at last may gain 
 
 The smile approving from his King. 
 
 His master taught, he followed him 
 
 In faitli and patience to the end; 
 And when he found his way grown dim 
 
 He counseled with him as a friend. 
 He faltered not, but went his way, 
 
 Nor questioned where the duty plain; 
 Few flowery vales inviting lay 
 
 Amid those steeps of toil and pain. 
 His seemed a lowly life to those 
 
 Who journeyed not upon his road; 
 And yet from height to height it rose. 
 
 And scaled th' Eternal Mount of God! 
 For him no grand cathedral rung 
 
 With organ-peal and chanting- choir; 
 No glittering throng- ecstatic hung- [fire. 
 
 On his chaste lips, though touched with 
 Yet his the broad and echoing halls 
 
 Of Nature, where her leafy shrine 
 She reared in arches vast, and walls 
 
 Wrought out and decked by hand divine! 
 There, templed in the fragrant wood. 
 
 Blue-arched and spanned by skies above, 
 Amid a weeping- multitude 
 
 He preached them Christ's redeeming love. 
 
 With cause so great, at shrine so grand, 
 
 God's curtained throne, its arch and dome, 
 Proclaimed his love on every hand, 
 
 Made perfect in a life to come! 
 His name a household word becomes 
 
 In all his circuits, far and near; 
 A benison in all tlieir homes 
 
 His face familiar grown and dear. 
 The grandsire, father, wife, and maid. 
 
 The babe upon its mother's knee. 
 On each his hand in blessing laid, 
 
 Baptized them in their infancy. 
 He liibors till life's eventidi; 
 
 Casts silvery gleams on locks of brown; 
 And she who journeyed by his side. 
 
 Aweary, lays life's burdens down. 
 Dark grows the way without lier hand 
 
 To clasp in his and guide his feet; 
 He wistful views tlie promised land 
 
 Where tliey across the flood shall meet. 
 The summons comes.heowns Death's power 
 
 Yet, victor crowned, he mounts the sky; 
 He lived each day to meet this liour. 
 
 And, living thus, learned how to die 
 
 « 
 
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 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIilCA. 
 
 GO 3 
 
 -15 
 
 WILLIAM M.GILLELAXD. 
 
 At the age of seventeen William began to 
 write verses. Eemoving- to Austin, Texas, 
 when a young' man, Mr. Gilleland i-emained 
 there over a quarter of a centurj-, during 
 whicli time he was employed in the state de- 
 partment, and for a niimlier of years was a 
 
 WILLIAM .M. GILLELAND. 
 
 clerk in the general land office; also was the 
 enrolling clerk of tlie senate for two terms, 
 and librarian of the supreme court. In 186-t 
 Mr. Gilleland wrote his greatest poem. The 
 Burial March ot General Tom Green. Of late 
 years Mr. Gilleland has suffered greatly from 
 wounds received in 1860. He is now a resident 
 of San Antonia, where lie has a large family. 
 
 THE BACHELORS NIGHT BEFORE THE 
 WEDDING. 
 
 I'm sitting all alone to-night. 
 
 And sad November 'round me grieves. 
 The sky is misty, dark and cold. 
 
 And sadly sound the falling leaves: 
 The cat is purring on tlie rug — 
 
 Tlie dog is dreaming of the chase'. 
 And starts and snaps at Tabby's tail. 
 
 Forgetful of the time and place. 
 The windows rattle to the blast. 
 
 Which moans like some deep heart in pain. 
 And like the strains of saddest song 
 
 Comes down tlie cold November rain I 
 The bells their funeral chimes have hushed. 
 
 Where late the burial rites were read. 
 
 And they who swelled the weeping train, 
 
 * 
 
 To music of tlie hanquet tread. 
 It is a night for rncm'ries wild — 
 
 Of golden dreams of diamond days,— 
 A night when ghosts the churchyards walk. 
 And minstrels con their tiagic lays; 
 . The fire is low upon the hearth. 
 
 My midnight lamp is burning low; 
 While tranquil sleep on couch and tomb, 
 
 The travelers of the world below; 
 It is the last of hjnely nights. 
 
 That I perchance sliall know for years. 
 And wine of joy will 1111 the cup. 
 
 That only brimmed before with tearsi 
 My books around me scattered lie. 
 
 Old tones of ancient days and men. 
 Where I have followed Ctesar's hosts, 
 
 Or watched the march of Zenophen. 
 But what to me is now romance, 
 
 Orhisfry's page, or burning song. 
 Since they but cloud the glowing hopes 
 
 That to an untried life belong. 
 To-morrow night I leave the shore, 
 
 Mj' barque Is waiting on the tide. 
 To bear me from this single state. 
 
 To scenes that I have never tried. 
 And will my days like music glide. 
 
 No clouds obscure my being's sky? 
 Will she who is to be my bride 
 
 Still love till the day 1 die? 
 And will s'lie soothe me when I'm sad. 
 
 And roam beside me hand in hand 
 Till one or both have passed the gate 
 
 That opens to the spirit land? 
 All pleasure must have some alloy. 
 
 And joy, and grief a kindred born. 
 There is no rose however fair. 
 
 That still does not conceal its thorn. 
 Comparison is beauty's test. 
 
 And love is measured by its scale. 
 For he who Alpine snows have felt. 
 
 Will best enjoy the genial vale. 
 My life has been a wild romance. 
 
 With pain, and grief and .sorrow rife. 
 And in my wintry yeiirs of youth, 
 
 I've seen few pleasant days of life! 
 But still I do not hate the world, 
 
 For many faithful friends I've known. 
 While 'round my heart their names are set 
 
 Like jewels in a kingly crown! 
 But life must change from old to new. 
 
 And 'tis a tale that soon is told; 
 I'll link tliem in the name of wife 
 
 And bind them with a ring of gold 
 The moon is rising in the east — 
 
 My taper fades in light of day. 
 So in the beams of wedded joy 
 
 My autumn shall be changed to May. 
 And will there be no sad regrets. 
 
 For human nature's ever frail. 
 Has sentiment and real life 
 
 Been weighed within a separate scale? 
 
 -® 
 
© 
 
 664 
 
 S I 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElilCA. 
 
 Will she to whom my heart is pledg-ed 
 
 Ne'er murmur at her wedded choice, 
 Aud will her words be always kind, 
 
 And uttered with a gentle voice? 
 Then will we banquet all our days. 
 
 And life will be a song- of love, 
 Harmonious as tlie spheral cbimes. 
 
 Within the universe above. 
 Then wedding bells ring out for joy. 
 
 And haste ye sluggard, weary hours! 
 Ye are the steeds tliat bear my life 
 
 From barren wastes to blooming bowers. 
 
 TREVOR GWYX BEVAN. 
 
 Born: Jefferson ville, Ind., March 27, '61. 
 The poems of Mr. Revan have appeared in 
 tlie Chica^;o Cui-reut and llie local press gen- 
 
 TKKVOK (). BKVAN. 
 
 erally. He follows tiie profession of a school 
 teacher, is unmarried, and still resides in his 
 native state at Martinsburg-. 
 
 ^- 
 
 THE PAST. 
 As T stand on the sand 
 
 By the rolling sea. 
 Fanned by the breeze's gentle flow, 
 
 From out the far-off strand 
 There are waft to me 
 
 Sweet mem'ries of long iigo. 
 Mem'ries tliough filled with lo\e 
 
 For that pebbled shore, 
 Lilse the wave-washed rock seem hidden, 
 
 While I gaze far above 
 
 / 
 
 'Mid the breakers' roar, 
 
 A voice seems to say " forbidden.' 
 And those murmuring waves. 
 
 As they ripple along. 
 With the drifting tide are sighing; 
 
 And weeping- o'er the graves 
 Where the great and strong 
 
 In watery tombs are lying. 
 The place where I'm standing 
 
 Is the shore of Time, 
 And the past the sea that's rolling; 
 
 Thoughts like tides — commanding 
 My spirit to cliime. 
 
 And feelings seem past controlling. 
 But those mingling- sounds 
 
 A lesson repeat : 
 'Tis " Future Improvement,"— be true; 
 
 But the sea now surrounds 
 Aud warns me retreat. 
 
 So I to the past bid adieu. 
 
 FALLEN STAES. 
 Bring out the flags, unfurled in waves. 
 
 And let the drums of veterans beat; 
 Bring on the flowers to deck the graves. 
 
 And crown each urn with roses sweet. 
 Tread lightly o'er j'our comrade's bed. 
 
 And sadly drop a tear 
 For one who lived, but now is dead. 
 
 Lies slumbering- in his coffin here. 
 Let not your acts your thoughts beguile. 
 
 Nor weave the wreaths with careless 
 hand; 
 But march in rank of funeral file 
 
 To deck the low, immortal band. 
 Perchance the one a year ago 
 
 Who wove a wreath for a comrade's bier. 
 Is now at rest and lying low. 
 
 Waiting- a flower or orphan's tear. 
 Perhiips there's one of Shiloh's band 
 
 Who marshals now, at beat of di-nni. 
 That may be borne by comrade's hand 
 
 To the place we deck, a year to conic. 
 Their feeble steps, ;ind tottering ranks 
 
 We view; and lines of veterans brave; 
 Our hearts are touched to grateful thanks. 
 
 But still they nuirch toward the grave. 
 Let each one act an humble part 
 
 To keep ilie star of freedom high; 
 May each one have a patriot's heart, 
 
 And feel he's not afraid to die. 
 And when you're laid away to rest 
 
 Within the dark and silent tomb. 
 May each one in his turn be blest 
 
 With heavenly flowers and endless bloom. 
 Then rest your arms and furl the bars, 
 
 And leave the heroes where they fell. 
 And doff yoiir cap to fallen stars. 
 
 And say to all a last farewell. 
 
£- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 665 
 
 © 
 
 MRS. MARY H. FAWCETT. 
 
 Bohn: Ohio, 1843. 
 This lady was married at the agre of twenty, 
 and now Las six children and a beautiful 
 rural home three miles south of Chester Hill, 
 Oliio. In 1880 appeared a neat volume of her 
 
 MRS. MARY HUESTIS FAWCETT. 
 
 poems; she hopes to publish in 1890 Ernestine 
 and Other Poems. Mrs. Fawcett has a most 
 clieerful disposition, and is well beloved by 
 her numerous friends and acquaintances. 
 
 * 
 
 THE DEATH OF A DAY. 
 Day is dying — slowly djing- — 
 
 West winds murmur soft and low, 
 As they'rs sig-hina-— lig-htly sig-hing 
 
 Through the trees and vale below. 
 Sighing — as if silent sorrow 
 
 Filled with mourning all the air, 
 And its freshness, it must borrow 
 
 From the wings of lone despair. 
 As if sadness were a duty. 
 
 When the shadows gather round. 
 That will veil the evening's beauty, 
 
 Which the great day-king has crowned. 
 From the east night's somber sable 
 
 Will o'er twiliglit's dreams unroll 
 Like some luring time-worn fable 
 
 Shrouding deep in doubt the soul. 
 Thus the sunset's lingering glory 
 
 Robes the earth in mystic sheen. 
 
 Tells a sweet, bewitching story. 
 Then grim darkness wraps the scene. 
 
 OH! DO NOT ASK ME WHY I WEEP. 
 
 You see this grand old mansion, dear. 
 
 Where balmy airs are playing 
 Among the trees and roses here. 
 
 And tlirough its boudoirs straying. 
 Tliey lift the filmy curtains now 
 
 In waves of silken splendor. 
 And fan with fragrant breath my brow. 
 
 Caressingly and tender. 
 Tliat gravel walk by yon retreat. 
 
 Through park and lawn is wending. 
 Where rare, rich flowers are blooming sweet. 
 
 Their odors softly blending. 
 You think me very happy here, 
 
 With all this grandeur round me; 
 You almost envy me, my dear. 
 
 The pleasures that surround me. 
 But ah 1 my life is lone and sad. 
 
 These rooms seem dull and dreary: 
 Their richness almost drives me mad, 
 
 And makes me faint and weary. 
 And, oh, I'd gladly give them all. 
 
 For smiles and fond caresses 
 From him who treads this stately hall. 
 
 But ne'er his love confesses. 
 With cold, dark brow he stands apart. 
 
 My tear-stained face unheeding; 
 Nor hears the sigh that rends my heart. 
 
 Till it is torn and bleeding. 
 Then do not ask me why I weep. 
 
 Or why I'm sad and lonely ; 
 The heart will starve, if we must reap 
 
 The grains of bright gold only. 
 
 AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 The hopes — bright hopes — of other years. 
 
 To-night are slowly dying; 
 My lips must chant 'mid sighs and tears 
 
 A requiem where they're lying. 
 My life must bid farewell to-night, 
 
 To fondest, sweetest pleasures. 
 For ere shall dawn the morning light, 
 
 I'll bury its dearest treasures. 
 A new-made grave must hide to-night, 
 
 My heart's deep grief and .sorrow. 
 Hide love, that made tliis world so bright. 
 
 And wreatliod witti joy the morrow. 
 I ne'er again must lift the lid 
 
 Of this dear, moldering coffin, 
 In which my early love lies hid, 
 
 Thougli I shall long to — often. 
 I ne'er again must speak the name 
 
 Of one so lo%'ed and cherished ; 
 I ne'er must breathe one thought of blame. 
 
 Though all my hopes liave perished. 
 But press with feverish hands my brow. 
 
 « 
 
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 666 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 ©- 
 
 And quit this weary fretting-; 
 For, ah, his heart's another's now! 
 
 And mine must cease regretting. 
 If in youth's fair and lovely bloom, 
 
 I could have seen him dying; 
 And in the damp and lonel3- tomb 
 
 Beheld his dear form lying — 
 Yes, if beneath the cold, cold sod. 
 
 His clay I'd been consigning. 
 And now could feel he's with his God, 
 
 I then could cease repining. 
 But the very thought — another now 
 
 Receives his warm caresses. 
 And that another fairer brow 
 
 His lip with ardor presses. 
 Has filled with anguish wild my brain. 
 
 Ne'er penned in history's ainials — 
 And my verj- life-blood feels the pain. 
 
 To course its feverish channels. 
 And oh the world seems cold and lone ! 
 
 And I've grown so sad and weary; 
 My pathway through the dark unknown 
 
 Looks gloomy, dull and dreary. 
 I know that I shall sadly miss 
 
 Affection's fond caresses. 
 And oft yearn for the loving kiss 
 
 Devotion softly presses. 
 Shall long for all past joys once more. 
 
 With heart now sadly beating. 
 Shall sigh for loving smiles of yore. 
 
 And twilight's wonted greeting. 
 I must go through the world alone — 
 
 Alone and broken-hearted. 
 Nor show by either look or tone. 
 
 Its brightness has departed. 
 Must teach my brow to wear a smile. 
 
 Must speak without complaining. 
 Though from my being all the while 
 
 This grief my hfe-blood's draining. 
 Must gayly smile when morning dawns. 
 
 And birds are singing o'er me; 
 Must smile at eve when wood and lawns 
 
 Spread all their charms before me. 
 Smile when the gay and heartless throng 
 
 Around my path is pressing. 
 As if my life were one glad song. 
 
 And every pang a blessing; 
 Must note the sweet and lovely flowers 
 
 Around me ever blooming; 
 Must speak as if the lonely liours 
 
 From golden founts were looming. 
 For, ah, the world must never know 
 
 A woman has been weeping. 
 Where joy and love are buried low. 
 
 And fondest hopes are sleeping. 
 A scornful smile 'twould oidy wear. 
 
 To see her vainly kneeling. 
 And pouring out her soul's dee]) prayer 
 
 O'er love that was unfeeling. 
 
 MRS. ANNA M. E. CUMMINS. 
 
 Born: Benton, Mich., 1852. 
 
 Mrs. Cummins is a great advocate of temper^ 
 ance, and many poems on that subject have 
 
 MRS. ANNA M. E. CUMMINS. 
 
 appeared from her pen in the local press. She 
 was married in 1872, and now resides in Ge- 
 neva, where she is well known and greatly ad- 
 mired by her numerous friends and acquaint- 
 ances. 
 
 SPEAK KINDLY. 
 
 Do not save your loving speeches 
 For your friends, till they are dead; 
 
 Do not write them on their tombstone, 
 Speak them rather now instead. 
 
 It would lighten many a burden. 
 It would chase away dull care. 
 
 If the kind words now were spoken 
 To the friends Avho are so dear. 
 
 Don't keep your flowers to strew their cof- 
 fins: 
 
 Brighten up their lives to-day; 
 Don't save your love to lavish 
 
 On a lifeless lump of clay. 
 
 When we see our friends before us. 
 
 Lying in tlieir narrow bed. 
 Will our memory bi'ing back to us. 
 
 Words we'll wish we had not said. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKllICA. 
 
 667 
 
 -® 
 
 ORLANDO ROLLIX BELLAMY. 
 
 Bo UN: Vf.vav, Ind., Aug. 10, 18r)6. 
 Mk. Bellamv attended Do Pauw universirj- 
 of Greencastle, and while there wrote an essay 
 in poetr.v. As a student he won the honors 
 of his class and received a "old medal as !i 
 
 ORLANDO KOLLIN BELLAMY. 
 
 prize in mathematics, t^ince leaving- college 
 Mr. Bellamy has been eng-aged in teaching-. 
 His poems have received publication from 
 time to time in the periodical press. Mr. Bel- 
 lamy expects to publish a volume of his poems. 
 
 OLD SONGS. 
 Sing me a song, my darling, 
 
 A song of the long ago, 
 I am so tired to-night, dear. 
 
 And the music will rest me so; 
 A song that we sang together. 
 
 As we stood in life's morning gleam, 
 When sorrow seemed dim and distant 
 
 Like the shadows in a dream. 
 Sing of the rest up in Heaven, 
 
 As you sang when tlie angels come. 
 And tenderly bore our darlings 
 
 To rest in that stainless home. 
 There are no songs like the old songs 
 
 That are crowned with memory's tears. 
 There are no friends like the old friends 
 
 Who have loved us all the years. 
 Dreaming sweet dreams of the past, dear. 
 
 To the music's ebb and flow. 
 
 Once more I shall see the faces 
 
 That sleep beneath tiic snow. 
 And the voices we loved the dearest 
 
 From their echoless silence will come. 
 And float with our own up to heaven 
 
 In the music of " Home, Sweet Home." 
 We'll know wliile we close our eyes, dear. 
 
 They're standing again by our side. 
 There'll be no more hopeless longing. 
 
 And we shall be satisfied. 
 And just as of old, my darling. 
 
 In the fitful embers shine. 
 We'll hear the footsteps of angels, 
 
 And clasp the Hand Divine. 
 And never again into silence 
 
 Shall our heavenly guests depart. 
 We will fold them away forever. 
 
 In each ciushed and bleeding heart. 
 To sleep 'till with radiant splendor. 
 
 O'er shining blue hills in the west. 
 We pass to that heavenly portal 
 
 And enter with them into rest. 
 
 GOLDEN LILIES. 
 I gathered lilies, royal golden lilies, 
 The dewdrops glittering in the sweet June 
 light 
 Within each chalice. One more fair and state- 
 ly 
 Will wear your bright heads o'er her heart 
 to-night, 
 I whispered, and the love I fain would tell 
 her 
 I'll hide with kisses in your hearts of gold. 
 Oh! bear them to her. On her lips with pas- 
 sion 
 Impart the message that your sweet depths 
 hold. 
 I gathered lilies. Ah ! the days were swifter 
 Than swallows darting through tlie summer 
 rain. 
 Or young fawns pLiying in the dim old forest. 
 For love had come with all his white-robed 
 train 
 Of happy hours, their sandals shod with fleet- 
 ness. 
 Into my life, for on her heart she wore 
 My golden lilies, from their depths escaping. 
 Love looked from out her brown eyes ever- 
 more. 
 I gathered lilies, broken, withered lilies. 
 The dull gray skies were grayer for my 
 pain. 
 While strains of music, words that she had 
 spoken. 
 Were echoed always through my weary 
 brain. 
 Tlie faded petals that for her I gathered 
 Were wet with other raiu than autumn's 
 cloud. 
 
 •« 
 
®- 
 
 668 
 
 LOCAL, ANB NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 Oh! dreamless rest! I knelt and slowly, gently 
 Placed her dear gxjlden lilies on her shroud. 
 
 O golden lilies, swaying low and bending 
 Above a grave at ev'ry passing breath, 
 
 A mound so low, and yet it shuts out heaven. 
 So shallow, yet it reaches unto death. 
 
 O snowy cloud of summer swaying, drifting. 
 Bear far above beyond your sea of blue, 
 
 As on her dead heart here I lay these lilies, 
 Tlie unforgotten love I send by you. 
 
 ISAAC COBB. 
 
 Born; Gorham, Me., April 28, 1825. 
 In 1851 Mr. Cobb went to Boston, where he at- 
 tended a commercial institute and published 
 Sylvan Poems. He then went to Hudson, 
 
 ISAAC COBB. 
 
 wliere he learned the printing business. The 
 same year he went to New York City, and in 
 18.")4 returned to his native state and settled in 
 Poi-tland. Tlie following year he was married 
 to Miss Louisa M. Ricliardson. Since 1865 he 
 lias been connected with tlie Portland Tran- 
 script. Mr. Cobb has contributed to the 
 leading magazines and newspapers of Amer- 
 ica, and is at iircsent engaged in compiling a 
 genealogy of the Cobb family. He has attain- 
 ed a national reputation in the world of liter- 
 ature. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE BIRDS. 
 There came to live, one flowery May, 
 
 Outside our window-pane. 
 Two little birds with plumage gay 
 
 And voice of sweetest strain. 
 
 They built their nest without a fear 
 
 That we could do them harm, 
 Or that there ever might come near 
 
 Aught to create alarm. 
 
 Perhaps the reason why they came. 
 
 If I may tell it thee. 
 Our garden has a pleasant name 
 
 From many a bird and bee. 
 
 They loved the flowers, and therefore wove, 
 
 As near them as thej' could. 
 Their curious nest, and fondly strove 
 
 To rear a tuneful brood. 
 
 No songsters of the grove or plain 
 
 More sweetly sang than they. 
 Nor ever birds beyond the main 
 
 More finely trilled their lay. 
 
 The flowers more beautiful appear. 
 
 And fonder love's control, 
 Than though the birds ne'er sought to cheer 
 
 And elevate the soul. 
 
 O northern winds! more kindly swell 
 
 From your ethereal dome. 
 So that the birds may longer dwell 
 
 About our happy home. 
 
 MY NAME. 
 If in the sand I write my name. 
 
 What profit shall it be to me? 
 Shall I thereby attain to fame. 
 
 Or gain in honor one degree? 
 So writes the warrior when he strives 
 For glory over others' lives. 
 
 What if I carve my name in wood. 
 In letters drawn with utmost care? 
 
 Time like a canker-worm may brood 
 And eat my autogiaph fioin there. 
 
 So writes the man who seeks for wealth, 
 
 And perils happiness and health. 
 
 No! let my name be cut in stone. 
 Each character inlaid with gold. 
 
 That I ill triumph, all alone. 
 May loudly laugh at heroes bold! 
 
 Alas! what is there that decay 
 
 May not attack and wear away? 
 
 But if I write my lowly came. 
 Or bid my Savior write it tliere. 
 
 On Heaven's eternal scroll of fame. 
 Time shall not mar the writing fair. 
 
 Nor storms lun- revolutionary strife 
 
 Ettace it from the Book of Life. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 669 
 
 © 
 
 MAURICE MCKENNA. 
 
 Born: Springfield, IVIass., May 31, 1845. 
 As a lawyer Mr. McKenna has gained quite a 
 reputation, and is well and prominently 
 known. He was married in 1875 and resides 
 with his family in Fond du Lac, Wis. From 
 18T0 to 1876 inclusive, Mr. McKenna was 
 elected clerk of tlie courts of record in Fond 
 
 .MAL KU i: .\1 Kt;.\.\A. 
 
 idu Lac county, and he has served three terms 
 jas supervisor of tlie first ward of tlie city of 
 jFond du Lac; and has also been chairman 
 pf the county board of supervisors. He has 
 neld various other positions of trust. During- 
 he war Mr. McKenna was a member of Co. I. 
 !9th Wis. vol. infantry. In 1868 he published 
 ji volume of poems, and a second volume has 
 jecently been issued by this noted author. 
 
 •5 
 
 THE PRIVATE SOLDIER. 
 iy Country! Remember thy chieftains who 
 
 bore 
 "he brunt of thy battles that thunder no 
 
 more; 
 temember the leaders and blazon each name 
 Ugh on tlie towers of thy limitless fame, 
 i'hey deserve that thou buildest the urn and 
 I the bust [dust: 
 
 Ibove the green sheet that encloses their 
 ut never, fair land, till thy g-lory decline, 
 orget the brave .soldier who fought in the 
 
 line. 
 
 While the high-titled warrior oxultingly led, 
 'Twas the plain private soldier that suffered 
 
 and bled; 
 'Twas he, where the torrent of slaughter was 
 
 poured. 
 That leveled the musket and wielded the 
 
 sword ; 
 That stood on no shallow or empty pretense, 
 But bared his brave breast in his country's 
 
 defense, 
 That the silk-woven stars of his nation might 
 
 shine 
 In the sky of the private that shot in the line. 
 The stout private soldier pursued his stern 
 
 trade. 
 He watched on the picket and rode on the 
 
 raid ; 
 He waded through streams in their pitiless 
 
 flow, 
 And he slept on the g^round in a -blanket of 
 
 snow; 
 Through Illness and health as his destiny 
 
 carved, 
 In the pestilent prison he suffered and starved; 
 He stood in the trenches, he delved in the 
 
 mine. 
 The plain private soldier that marched in the 
 
 line. 
 It was he that confronted the frown of dis- 
 ease. 
 The miasma of swamps, and the surf of the 
 
 seas. 
 The desolate marches o'er mountain and 
 
 plain. 
 In the red sultry sun and the cold sleety rain; 
 It was he that far off from the home of his 
 
 pride, 
 From the smile of his sweetheart, the kiss of 
 
 his bride, 
 Who could hear his sad comrade, all helpless 
 
 repine. 
 For the poor bleeding soldier that fell in the 
 
 line. 
 The strife and the shock of the onset he bore. 
 Far out on the ocean, and high on the shore;' 
 Where dangers descended in desolate flocks. 
 And the breakers of battle dashed liberty's 
 
 rocks ; 
 Where the black iron throats of artillery 
 
 roared. 
 Where the hot leaden tempest of carnage was 
 
 poured. 
 Along the low vale, or beside the dark pine, 
 'Twas the brave-hearted private that charged 
 
 in the line. 
 Triumphant Columbia! Time will engage 
 To honor thy captains on history's page: 
 But take to thy bosom that child of thine 
 
 own,— [known. 
 
 The poor private soldier, unnamed and un 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 -® 
 
 670 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 'Neath the rainbow of peace in prosperity's 
 
 liours 
 O'ercircle the valleys and gather the flowers, 
 The loftiest wreaths of thy love to entwine 
 For thy brave private soldier that died in the 
 
 line. 
 
 ©- 
 
 LAKE DE NEVEU. 
 
 Sweet lalie, in the shade of thy willow-edged 
 
 shore, 
 I love to look long on thy beauty once more. 
 For thou hast been dear in a summer of yore. 
 
 To a bosom whose fondness I knew. 
 Let me look on thy dimples, thou beautiful 
 
 lake. 
 Let no rash intruder my ecstasy break: 
 I would muse all alone for the memory's sake 
 Of the maid I have loved on thy banks, De 
 Neveu. 
 Ye gay little birds, come and help me to sing. 
 Lend me a plume from each frolicsome wing. 
 That I may soar far o'er the turrets of spring, 
 In j'our sky-cinctured playground of blue. 
 I would gather a wreath from each valley and 
 
 hill. 
 My heart with remembrances fondly to fill. 
 Of one whose affection was saintlier still 
 Than thy silver transparence, dear Lake De 
 
 Neveu. 
 Spangle, bright water! Say do thou yet know 
 How she gazed on thy waves with a raptur- 
 ous glow. 
 As she nestled beside me in days long ago 
 With a heart that was only too true? 
 Swinging far down in thy liquid embrace, 
 I saw the fond sun kiss thy silvery face; 
 I, too, slole a kiss from affectionate grace 
 That smiled at my side by thy shore, De 
 
 Neveu. 
 Kings maj' be happy in castles of gold. 
 Rhymers be glad for the songs they have 
 
 trolled. 
 And tyrants rejoice wlien laudingly told 
 Of those fountains that manhood renew. 
 No laurel for me of the king, or the bard; 
 Give me the green palace my soul can regard 
 Of thy soft mossj' shore and thy flower-jewel- 
 ed sward. 
 And the lady I wooed by the blue De Neveu. 
 Ah! the spell is long broken, the pleasure 
 
 long past; 
 A cloud o'er my present and future is cast. 
 All alone I am gazing upon thee at last 
 Where she and I gazed in tlie days I review. 
 My gauzy romance of existence is o'er; 
 I wander in dreamland and rapture no more, 
 As once I could roam on thy forest^fringed 
 
 shore. 
 When Heaven was so near thee, sweet Lake 
 De Neveu. 
 
 MOLLIE GRAHAM. 
 
 BoKN : Clav Centek, Neb., Nov. 30, 1873. 
 Since her childhood Miss Graham has taken 
 quite an interest in writing, and many of her 
 
 -Moi^Lli. C.UAU.-V-.M. 
 
 poems have received publication. 
 with her parents at Chapman, 111 
 
 She resides 
 
 MY MOTHERS RING. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 'Tis only a narrow shrod of gold. 
 But the pleasure it gives nie is untold — 
 When I gaze upon ir with anxious care- 
 It's the ring my mother used to wear: 
 It is not a jewel rich and rare. 
 And the hand that wore it was not so fair, 
 But in that treasure is a simple talc 
 Which I shall cherish until memory fail. 
 
 There is a picture In that ring, 
 A voice in nuisic it seems to bring — 
 A form that is ever by my side — 
 In years now gone it was my pride; 
 And as I view that narrow band, 
 I seem to feel tliat gentle hand. 
 Which now lies listless, cold and still 
 In a lonely tomb upon the liill. 
 
 Yet in that narrow band of gold 
 There lie the secrets yet untold — 
 There lies tlie present and the past. 
 Which will cling with memory to the lust; 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 671 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH SMITH. 
 
 Born: England, Oct. 5,1853. 
 For the past twenty years this lady has lived 
 iu the western states, and is now located at 
 Lead City, Dakota. She is a great worker in 
 
 MHS. ELIZABETH SMITH. 
 
 the cause of temperance. Site was married 
 in 1879 to S. R. Smith, who is engaged in the 
 furniture business. The poems of Mrs. Smith 
 have appeared extensively in the newspapers 
 of Dakota, Minnesota, and Kansas. 
 
 DISRAELI. 
 [ Thou art g'one, and in all thy greatness; 
 I Measures thy tomb no more in space 
 ! Than will the form of your poor churl, 
 I When laid in its last resting plaeeV 
 I Is it true that massive brain 
 j That wrought such power and will, 
 I Has ceased to work, and never again 
 j Shall prove its master skill? 
 
 It seems hard these truths to feel. 
 
 Well may we mourn thee, noble dead ! 
 I Not England's court alone ; 
 |But wherever the Hebrew foot hath trod, 
 , Will be heard in anguish a sigh, a moan ; 
 For as they watched, with kindred pride, 
 i Thy star in its glory ascend — 
 i?". in a kindred sorrow, 
 I They weep for a kindred friend. 
 
 Years roll on, but the world will miss 
 
 Thee more, as one by one we see 
 Men who may aim to reach thy height. 
 
 Sink into ob.scurity. 
 And from the stillness of the tomb 
 
 Shall speak thy voice in tones as grand, 
 A hundred years hence, 
 
 When other forms shall fill this land. 
 Sweet peace be thine, D'Israeli, 
 
 Thou hast nobly earned tliy rest 
 By hard won battles bravely fouglit — 
 
 And God knoweth what is best; 
 The grandest tribute earth can bear 
 
 For mortal man be thine, 
 And for thy soul, we ask in prayer, 
 
 A glory not measured by time. 
 
 MINNEHAHA. 
 1 oft had heard, but never dreamed 
 That half was true, for thus it seemed 
 That pictures of thj' beauty rare 
 Were over-drawn ; and so it were [ed. 
 
 With thoughts like these, my steps first stray- 
 To Minnehaha's quiet g'lade. 
 
 And now thy silvery laugh I hear, 
 
 Thy frost-like foam is very near; 
 
 I doubt the half was ever told. 
 
 For tongue could scarce the half unfold, 
 
 Nor pen, nor brain, nor artist's eye 
 
 Catch all thy beaut j- grand and high. 
 
 And now I walk where years ago 
 
 Dusky forms passed to and fro. 
 
 And dusky feet were wont to tread 
 
 All these paths around me spread 
 
 Soft and cool, thy shade to-day 
 
 Greets other faces — bright and gay. 
 
 Fear, if e'er it found a place 
 
 Hath vanished leaving not a trace 
 
 Within the heart, and children play 
 
 Upon thy banks, so glad to-day. 
 
 In thy foam I seem to see 
 
 Lives of living purity. 
 
 With under-currents strong and deep. 
 
 That never tire, yet never sleep. 
 
 That ruffled by some added stone, 
 
 Flows on like thee with whiter foam. 
 
 Again thy waters dark beneath. 
 
 Like troubled lives that groan and seethe 
 
 Flow on more still, and naught is heard. 
 
 Save low complaints from some lone bird. 
 
 Minnehaha, in years gone by, 
 
 Couldst thou speak of love and joy? 
 
 Couldst tell of gladness? ere the day 
 
 That saw tliy first-loved turned away? 
 
 I marvel not that tears and blood 
 
 Were shed in plenty, ere they stood 
 
 With faces turned to bid adieu 
 
 To these loved haunts but most to you. 
 
 For iu their liearts they love as we, 
 
 Tlie scenes of their nativity. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 672 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ft 
 
 MRS. JANE K. GANONG. 
 
 Born: Carmel, N.Y., Aug. 26, 1835. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared iu the 
 local press of her native state, where she stiU 
 resides at Crafts. Mrs. Jane Gauong- has two 
 
 S. JANE K. GANONG. 
 
 daughters and a son, and now resides on a 
 farm with her husband and son— her two 
 daughters having married and secured homes 
 of their own. 
 
 ©- 
 
 TO A DAISY. 
 
 Pretty little summer flower. 
 Growing wild by cot and tower. 
 Nestling, too, within my bower. 
 
 Dotting field and lane and way. 
 From early morn 'til evening gray. 
 Cheering yon traveler on his way. 
 
 Tall and slim and graceful, too; 
 With petals white as drifting snow. 
 You bend and nod when winds do blow. 
 
 You're growing, blooming everywhere, 
 Though no fragrance fills the air. 
 Like blusliing rose or lily fair. 
 
 Few leaves adorn thy slender stem. 
 Thy head of gold like monarch's gem. 
 Or royal princess' diadem. 
 
 O, thou'rt fair to look upon. 
 
 Tljy upturned face aye greets the sun. 
 Thy beauty man's praise oft hath won. 
 
 For weeks and months thou'lt blossom now. 
 And nod and bend when winds do blow. 
 With hue of gold and drifting snow. 
 
 Oft you're plucked and worn away 
 By handsome youth or lady gay; 
 And sometimes on a grave you lay. 
 
 Thus your mission you fulfill. 
 And grandly do your Makers wiU, 
 Mortals teaching lessons stiU. 
 
 Men in passing to and fro. 
 Wondering, ask what made you grow 
 So pretty, this, God made you so. 
 
 TO MY LITTLE GRANDSON. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Choicest treasures earth can give be laid at 
 
 thy young feet; 
 Heaven grant thy days on earth to be with 
 
 happiness replete. 
 All along life's rugged road may wisdom lead 
 
 the way. 
 Under shadow of God's wings may you se- 
 curely dwell each day ; 
 No evil thing thy pathway tread, thy mother's 
 
 faith be thine. 
 Contentment spread for thee her board, thy 
 
 heart to good incline; 
 Earth's fairest flowers be plucked by thee, 
 
 life's rose without a tliorn 
 Yield fragrance sweet to cheer thee on, till 
 
 dewy eve from morn. 
 
 Cheery, sunny little lad, thy blue eyes mildly 
 
 beaming, 
 O, what a world of light and love is in thy 
 
 pathway teeming. 
 Bursting manhood waits thy coming — let 
 
 angels bright have care. 
 Until you reach the heavenly portal, no sin 
 
 can enter there — \ 
 
 'Round thee evermore be thrown thy heavenly 
 
 Father's love. 
 Naught of earth or earthly joys can compare 
 
 with those above. 
 
 May life's day for thee on bright joyful wing 
 
 pass. 
 And you sing with the angels in heaven at 
 
 last. 
 Safely may your barque be landed on tin 
 
 bright eternal shore. 
 Songs of triumpli tliere be blended — sorni" 
 
 Cometh nevermore — 
 E'en a scat in God's own kingdom, by you ' ' 
 
 sought and won. 
 Yea, in tlie many mansioncd heaven, may yci' 
 
 rest when life is done. 
 : > 
 
-® 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 (i73 
 
 CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. 
 
 Born: Philauelphia, Pa., Aug. 15, 1834. 
 Before he was fifteen, this author beg'an to 
 contribute short poems to newspapers. His 
 educatioa has been complete, having been a 
 student in the uni\'ersities of Heidelberg and 
 Munich. Mr. Lelaud is the author of The 
 Poetry and Mj'stery of Dreams. Hans Breit- 
 mann Ballads is from his pen. He has also 
 written numerous other works In prose and 
 verse, which have made him very popular. 
 
 A SPARK IN THE ASHES. 
 I went to a gay reception. 
 
 Last winter in the West, 
 As the beau of the belle of the season. 
 
 Quite out of the season dressed. 
 For they told her no queen in story 
 
 Had a bust so blanche and fair; 
 And, like Samson, her strength and glorj- 
 
 Was all in her wondrous hair. 
 But I did not think of her tresses. 
 
 For dii-ectly vis-a-vis, 
 A dame in the simplest of dresses 
 
 Was flashing her eyes at me. 
 Eternal eyes of wonder ! 
 
 How gloriously they rolled. 
 Like two black storm-lakes under 
 
 An autumn forest of gold. 
 For as Lilith's in her splendor 
 
 Like an aureole gleamed her head. 
 And a magic, strange yet tender. 
 
 Seemed winding in every thread. 
 Wavy and dreamy in motion 
 
 I felt the old memory flow ; — 
 We had met by the sun-gold ocean 
 
 A thousand years ago ! 
 And the beaux and the belles wiih their 
 graces. 
 
 Where were they on the ancient shore? 
 Oh, the sea had blown forth in our faces 
 
 A thousand years before. 
 Sea-foam and weeds and clam-shells 
 
 Which slid in the waves' long rolls ! 
 Gay gentlemen — beautiful damsels I 
 
 Why, how did you come by those souls? 
 
 A THOUSAND YEARS AGO. 
 Thou and I in spirit-land, 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 Watched the waves beat on the strand. 
 
 Ceaseless ebb and flow; 
 Vowed to love and ever love — 
 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
 Thou and I in greenwood shade. 
 Nine hundred years ago. 
 
 Heard tht; wild dove in the glade 
 
 Murmuring soft and low; 
 Vowed to love for evermore, — 
 
 Nine hundred years ago. 
 Thou and I in yonder star. 
 
 Eight hundred years ago. 
 Saw strange forms of light afar 
 
 In wild beauty glow ; 
 All things change, but love endures 
 
 Now as long ago ! 
 Thou and I in Norman haUs, 
 
 Seven hundred years ago. 
 Heard the warder on the walls 
 
 Loud his trumpet bh)w,— 
 " Ton amors sera tojors," 
 
 Seven hundred years ago! 
 Thou and I in Germany, 
 
 Six hundred years ago — 
 Then I bound the red cross on; 
 
 " True love, I must go,— 
 But we part to meet again 
 
 In the endless flow! " 
 Thou and I in Syrian plains. 
 
 Five hundred years ago. 
 Felt the wild flre in our veins 
 
 To a fever glow ! 
 All things die, but love lives on 
 
 Now as long ago ! 
 Thou and I in shadow-land. 
 
 Four hundred years ago. 
 Saw strange flowers bloom on the strau J, 
 
 Heard strange breezes blow : 
 In the ideal love is real. 
 
 This alone I know. 
 Thou and I in Italy, 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 Lived in faith and died for God, 
 
 Felt the faggots glow : 
 Ever new and ever true. 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 Thou and I on Southern seas. 
 
 Two hundred years ago. 
 Felt the perfumed even-breeze. 
 Spoke in Spanish by the trees. 
 
 Had no care or woe : 
 Life went dreamily in song 
 
 Two hundred years ago. 
 Thou and I 'mid Northern snows, 
 
 One hiuidred years ago. 
 Led an iron, silent life. 
 
 And were glad to flow 
 Onwards into changing death 
 
 One hundred years ago. 
 Thou and I but yesterday 
 
 Met in Fashion's show. 
 Love, did you remember mo. 
 
 Love of long ago? 
 Yes; we keep the fond oath sworn 
 
 A thousand years ago ! 
 
 « 
 
ffl- 
 
 674 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 Born: Gloucester, Mass., July 15, 1836. 
 Mr. Winter graduated at the Haivard law 
 school, but begau his career as journalist and 
 literary aud dramatic reviewer. In 1886, in 
 commemoration of the death of his son, he 
 founded a library at the academy in Stapleton, 
 Staten Island, N. Y. Mr. Winter's writings in- 
 clude The Convent and Other Poems, The 
 Queen's Domain and Other Poems,My Witness— 
 a Book of Verse, and in 1881 appeared a Com- 
 plete Edition of his poems. He has also edited 
 various works. 
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 Mldaig'ht and Moonlight encircled her slum- 
 bers. 
 
 Pillowed afar on the wandering- deep; 
 Softly, ah softly, with tenderest numbers. 
 
 Echoes of Paradise, lull her to sleep ! 
 Stars in your lustre, and clouds in your fleet- 
 ness. 
 
 Mix round the gallant ship, breasting- the 
 gale! 
 Shed your sweet influence over her sweetness! 
 
 Guard every bulwark and bless every sail I 
 Billows, roll gently, that bear on your bosom 
 
 Treasure more precious than infinite gold — 
 Beauty in spring-time and love in its blossom, 
 
 All that my hungry heart longs to unfold. 
 Ocean, that breaks on the rocks where I lan- 
 guish. 
 
 Blessings, and prayer on your surges to pour, 
 Like in your might to my passionate anguish, 
 
 Shield her, and save her, and waft her to 
 shore ! 
 Angels that float in the heavenly spaces, 
 
 Ah, while you guide her through perils un- 
 known. 
 Still let the light of your beautiful faces 
 
 Shine on her face that is fair as your own ! 
 Violets, welcome her! roses, adore her — 
 
 Blushing with rapture from mountain to sea ! 
 Lilies, flash out on the meadows before her. 
 
 Sparkle in glory, and ripple in glee ! 
 
 Scattered o'er mountain, and forest and river, 
 Farthedark phantomsof trouble are hurled: 
 
 She will illuminate, she will deliver. 
 She will redeem and transfigure the world ! 
 
 8B- 
 
 ORGIA. 
 
 A SONG OF RUIN. 
 
 Who cares for nothing alone is free. 
 
 Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me I 
 
 With a careless heart and a merry eye. 
 
 He will laugh at the world as the world goes by. 
 
 He laughs at power aud wealth and fame; 
 He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame: 
 
 He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear, 
 And at memory's dead leaves crisp and sere: 
 
 He laughs at the future cold and dim,— 
 Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him. 
 
 that is the comrade fit for me: 
 
 He cares for nothing, his soul is free. 
 Free as the soul of the fragrant wine: 
 Sit down, good fellow — my heart is thine. 
 For I heed not custom, creed, nor law; 
 
 1 care for nothing that ever I saw. 
 In every citj- my cup I quaff. 
 
 And over my liquor 1 1'iot and laugh. 
 I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave: 
 I laugh at the church and I laugh at the grave. 
 I laugh at joy, and well I know 
 That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe. 
 I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer. 
 When I think that the hour of death draws 
 near. 
 
 For I know that Death is a guest divine. 
 Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine. 
 And he cares for nothing ! A king is he! 
 Come on, old fellow, and drink with me! 
 With you I will drink to the solemn Past, 
 Though the cup I drain should be my last. 
 I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth; 
 To ruined manhood aud wasted youth. 
 T will drink to the woman who brought my woe. 
 In the diamond morning of Long Ago: 
 To a heavenly face, in sweet repose; 
 To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose; 
 To the splendor, caught from orient skies. 
 That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes,— 
 Her large eyes wild with the fire of the south, 
 And the dewy wine of her warm red mouth. 
 I will drink to the thought of better time; 
 To innocence, gone like a death-bell chime. 
 I will drink to the shadow of coming doom; 
 To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb. 
 I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood, 
 Dimly aud solemnly und(U'sto(xl. 
 And, last of all, to the Monarch ot Sin, 
 Who has conquered that fortress and reigns 
 
 within. 
 My sight is fading,— it dies away,— 
 I cannot tell,— is it night or day? 
 My heart is biirnt and blackened willi pai". 
 And a horrible darkness crushed my braiu. 
 
 I cannot see you. The end is nigh, 
 But — we'll laugh logether before 1 die. 
 Through awful chasm I plunge aud fall! 
 Your hand, good fellow ! I die,— that's all 
 
 -* 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -© 
 
 675 
 
 MRS. LIZZIE L. VAN BURGH. 
 
 Born: Beknadotte, III., Sept. 29,1859. 
 Since a g'irl tliis lady lias written verse. She 
 
 war^ maiTie<l in ISSt to A. l'.A'iiiiIiin-.L:li,wliu re- 
 
 MRS. LIZZIE LILLIAN VAN BURGH. 
 
 presents the Home Insurance Company at 
 Filley, Nebraska. 
 
 CHANGED. 
 
 To-day I'm sitting all alone 
 
 And dreaming- of the past; 
 Those bright and %unny days did own 
 
 Too much of Heaven in them to last. 
 I will not say, my precious friend. 
 
 That all my joy has fled ; 
 While there is life there still is hope. 
 
 And where there's hope, joy is not dead; 
 Grief often is a blessing in disguise — 
 
 Tho' we cannot see it with our human ej'es. 
 jGenie, they say that I am changed, 
 I Yet how they scarcely know ; 
 jThe features surely are the same. 
 
 The smiles still come, but quickly go. 
 iThey say the merry, joyous laugh — 
 
 Once came so glad and tree, 
 Is but a mockery of true self. 
 
 And meant a blind for self to be; 
 We strive to hide our sorrow in our heart, 
 
 And find at last it is of us a part. 
 Sometimes I laugh at these remarks: 
 
 Sometimes I breathe a sigh. 
 
 To think of true and faithful hearts 
 
 Whose very lives are still a lie. 
 If we could see the inmost soul 
 
 For just a time laid bare. 
 How strange to see we little know 
 The secrets deeply hidden there ; 
 We'd find the oneswe thought we knew the 
 best 
 The very ones we really knew the least. 
 We could not say they were untrue 
 
 Because they are not what we thought; 
 The change, the scorn, if we but knew 
 
 Our very selves, into that heart have 
 brought. 
 'Twas not their fault; we could not see 
 
 The look of pain and care, 
 That 'round the tender mouth would cling 
 
 And seemed to nestle there. 
 The sweetest tones that ever lips did part. 
 Sprang from a broken, quivering heart. 
 Dear girl, if you were only here to-day, 
 I'd lay my tired head upon your knee; 
 Your hand upon my aching brow you'd lay, 
 And I should know one true friend felt for 
 me. 
 I am so glad you're coming soon; 
 
 Yet time seems long to me. 
 When memory casts its saddening gloom 
 
 With you I long to be; [great 
 
 Grander than the jeweled head of monarch 
 
 The heart that suffers for another's sake. 
 There are moments in our changeful lives 
 
 When passionate tears would be relief. 
 When we can only moan and sigh 
 
 In our bitter pain and grief; 
 When such dark moments come to you 
 
 Seeming greater than you can bear. 
 Remember one who tried, loved true, 
 
 Then smile upon your care. 
 " Smiles that cover a majestic woe. 
 Sadder are than wildest tears that flow." 
 
 MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Do you remember the happy days 
 
 When you and I were young; 
 How we went fishing in the brook. 
 
 And the happy songs we sung? 
 Those quiet days can come but once. 
 
 Enjoy them while you may; 
 For as our childhood days go by. 
 
 Mirth does not always staj'. 
 Alas ! too soon that singing voice 
 
 In sadness may be huslied; 
 And who of us can tell how soon 
 
 Those lips may mold to dust. 
 We cannot tell what may be ours 
 
 In future years to bear; 
 But let our childhood happiness 
 
 Cast sunshine every where. 
 
 -^ 
 
^ 
 
 67G 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAli POETS OF AMElllCA. 
 
 ■* 
 
 WILLIAM R. JACOBS. 
 
 Born: Elizabeth, Pa., Jan. 2, 1868. 
 Mr. Jacobs follows the occupation of a 
 printer, and is connected with the Observer 
 publishing house of Suffolk, Va. He publish- 
 
 WILLIAM R. JACOBS. 
 
 ed a monthly periodical, The Rosewood Lib- 
 rary, for about one year. The poems of Mr. 
 Jacobs have appeared quite extensively in 
 the periodical press of Virginia. 
 
 THE HUNTED FAWN. 
 O, why doth th' hunter so follow my trail 
 
 With liis murderous Beagle and gun; 
 An innocent being so tender and frail 
 
 That I cannot but stumble when run. 
 
 I have th' lone wood for my cumberless lair. 
 And my bed — it is cold and so damp,— 
 While Nimrod lias homes and luxuriant 
 
 fare. 
 And th' Shawnee a fire at his camp. 
 They slaughtered my mother but yestor' at 
 morn. 
 And have loft me with awe and no aid. 
 And now they are liunting thro' meadow and 
 corn 
 To lie-cripple her innocent babe. 
 
 The sea-gull has homes on th' fathomless sea, 
 And th' t!agle its nest in th' pine;— 
 
 The fish have th' fount — theflow'rs th' bee- 
 Then why notth' forest be mine? 
 
 *- 
 
 THE JAMES! THE NOBLE JAMES! 
 Oh, the Hudson! blue and bright. 
 As it flows with great delight. 
 Yet to me it ne'er could seem 
 Half so lovely — half so clean 
 As the James ! the noble James ! 
 
 It has its foam and azure wave. 
 Its coral and shells the waters lave; 
 Oh can ye find in southern land 
 Another rich and lovely strand 
 Like the James! the noble James! 
 
 See the gallant barks that glide 
 O'er its full and steady tide; 
 It's a stream from Cap. to sea. 
 That has beauties 'uough for me — 
 The James ! the noble James ! 
 
 Its shores are white with pearly shells- 
 Its banks are rich with marly cells, 
 And o'er this stream of liquid light 
 The sea-gull takes his morning flight — 
 O'er the James! the noble James! 
 
 Many an army o'er her waters crossed — 
 Many an ironclad or ram they've tossed; 
 The blazing guns once shook her main — 
 The Monitor-Merrimac fought for fame 
 On the James! the noble James! 
 
 THE SYLVAN ALTAR. 
 O summer winds and autumn sighs blow here, 
 And fan this sacred Oak, so meek and dear 
 To one who stood beneath its sylvan boughs, 
 And offered up to Him his solemn vows. 
 O heaven 'fresh its drooping leaves with dew, 
 And give the guerdon that to it is due: 
 Full twenty centuries of sun and rain. 
 With birds to sing unto the world its fame. 
 
 Plant pansies at its roots, and vines. 
 That o'er the Altar Oak may closely wind. 
 And form a beauty that, tho' mute and still, 
 Will make the yeoman say, '• I'll never kill." 
 And give the runlet that so swiftly glides 
 New vigor, that, wliile flowing to'ards th' 
 
 tides, 
 'Twill sing a louder song — much sweeter still, 
 When passing by this rustic altar hill. 
 
 This Oak hath kept th' dew from off the brow 
 Of one who stood full many a morn, I trow, 
 With feet l)t>wet by I'aiTi and dewy sod. 
 And offer'd ui>liis daily prayers to God. 
 The poet hath now reniov'd too faraway 
 To i)ay this Oak his visits day by day. 
 But let the chopper's axe go past with awe, 
 And never make upon this tree a flaw. 
 
 SB 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 677 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. ABBIE H. RICHARDS. 
 
 Born: East Unity, N. H., Sept. 18, 1851. 
 For nearly a quarter of a century this lady 
 has resided in south-eastern Nebraska, and 
 while there she has been connected with 
 newspaper work. She is a .stitiiifi- tfiiiperaiice 
 
 MltS. ABBIE HURD RICHARDS. 
 
 woman, and has done quite a little work in 
 the lecture field in the state of her adoption. 
 She was married in 1868 to Thomas Richards. 
 The poems of this journalist and poet have 
 appeared in the Woman's Tribune. Peterson's 
 Magazine, Godey's Lady's book, and the peri- 
 odical press generally. 
 
 TO BE. 
 
 We say to ourselves, " it might have been," 
 
 When all eternity is •' to be,"— 
 We say it over and over again. 
 
 For the truth is hard at first to see. 
 
 We say to ourselves, the past is gone. 
 Is gone forever adown life's sea; 
 
 But the "might have been" that haunt sour 
 hearts. 
 Will lose itself in the yet "to be." 
 
 Ah, many hearts that are crushed and sore, 
 Beneath the blow of the chast'ning rod; 
 
 Who can see no ray of shining light. 
 Beam down on them from a gracious God. 
 
 Who feels no hope for what yet may come. 
 And who no joys in the present see,— 
 
 The past is not all in tlie " miglit have been. 
 There is much to come in the yet " to be." 
 
 MOTHER. 
 I am weary, weary, mother. 
 
 Of this ceaseless, endless strife. 
 Of the bitter disappointments 
 
 I've been meeting all my life; 
 Yes, I'm weary of them, motlier. 
 
 So I'll give my fancy fliglit. 
 And go back in dreams, to childhood. 
 
 And be happy just to-night. 
 
 I'll go back to you, dear mother. 
 
 To the dear old " long ago," 
 Ere I had one thought of sorrow. 
 
 Or had felt tlie weight of woe; 
 I will dream of her, who loved me. 
 
 Ah ! no other love so true. 
 So unselfish, pure, and sacred. 
 
 As that I received from you. 
 
 I remember once you told me- 
 lt was just at twilight close — 
 
 That outside a mother's dwelling. 
 Lingered all the children's foes. 
 
 I have learned since then, dear mother. 
 Learned that all you said was true; 
 
 Tho' your words had such strange import. 
 Then, I scarce their meaning knew. 
 
 It is said our Heavenly Father, 
 
 Loveth those He chasteneth, best ! 
 That the .sorrowing ones are dearer 
 
 Unto him than all the rest. 
 Oft you have the words repeated 
 
 Unto me, and now they come — 
 Come like the whisperings from Heaven, 
 
 Come like words of love from home. 
 
 Mother, now I'll take ray Fancy, 
 
 Fold her tired wings to rest — 
 But I'll take your memory with me. 
 
 Mother, dearest, truest, best. 
 And whene'er temptations meet me, 
 
 God will keep me undeflled; 
 For your love will keep me purer, 
 
 And your prayers protect your child. 
 
 DREAM VISIONS. 
 
 To-day my mind is filled with recollections, 
 I thought would never come to me again; 
 My heart is throbbing fast with the old sor- 
 row. 
 And mocking visions seem to fill my brain. 
 Full well I know, why now I link together 
 
 The dead past, and the shadowy yet to be; 
 Because in dreams last night, you came back, 
 darling. 
 
 -^ 
 
678 
 
 -5' 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 And bridg-cd the gulf that separates you 
 and me. 
 
 Last night I dreamed you came and stood be- 
 fore me, 
 
 And on your face a look of anxious pain; 
 The words you said to me are not forgotten. 
 
 So fraught were they with hopes I know 
 are vain. 
 So full of tender hopes, and hopeless longing. 
 
 So full of memories of days long past; 
 Oh darling, did you think I had forgotten 
 
 One single blissful moment of the past? 
 
 Last night I dreamed your hand clasped mine 
 as warmly. 
 As ever in the days so long gone by, 
 Your lips pressed mine in tender loving 
 kisses, 
 Life held no terrors for me — you were nigh. 
 I felt again your lingering caresses. 
 Saw your dear face, your eyes with love- 
 light gleam ; 
 Heard your dear voice whisper fond words of 
 loving, 
 I woke to find all vanished — 'Twas a dream. 
 
 A dream! oh darling', just a tender vision 
 Brought to me on the wings of troubled 
 sleep; 
 A season with lost joys, a brief illusion. 
 That brings back memories o'er which I 
 weep. 
 For-bitter tears to-day will come unbidden. 
 And dim my eyes, as memories sad but 
 sweet 
 Come back across tlie years of lonely waiting. 
 And nearer bring tlie day when we shall 
 meet. 
 
 For we will meet, I know it, in the future, 
 
 I know not how, or where, or when 'twill be 
 That our divided paths again, my darling. 
 
 Will cross, and we each other then shall see. 
 It may be when the sun of life is setting. 
 
 And we are nearing close, the other shore; 
 But ere the summons comes to call me over, 
 
 I'll see your face, and clasp your hand once 
 more. 
 
 Though morning banished all my fond dreams, 
 darling. 
 And visions of tlie cherished long ago 
 Must give their place again, to life's stern 
 duty, 
 And years go on in ceaseless ebb and flow; 
 And though the days are filled with i)assion- 
 ate longings, 
 The night of mocking dreams, and bitter 
 tears ; 
 I wait the time when I shall meet you, darl- 
 ling, 
 And live again tlie love of buried years. 
 
 SB- 
 
 CHARLES N. WOOD. 
 
 Born: Broome, N.Y., July 1, 1839. 
 The poems of Mr. Wood have appeared in the 
 Waverly Magazine and other publications. 
 
 CHARLES N. WOOD. 
 
 He follows the profession of teaching, and is 
 still a resident of his, native county. 
 
 WHERE WE LIVE MATTERS LITTLE. 
 
 Where we live can matter little. 
 
 While sojourning here below; 
 But 'tis how we live determines 
 
 Our eternal weal or woe. 
 If we search the lowly valleys. 
 
 Faithful hearts we find beat there; 
 But alas! the oatiis of sinners 
 
 Break the stillness of the air. 
 If we search the hills or mountains. 
 
 Pleasant vales or praiiies wide, 
 'Tis the same in every nation — 
 
 Wheat and tares grow side by side. 
 Faithful millers only ask us 
 
 If the wheat we bring is good; 
 Not about the field it grew on. 
 
 Or if brouglit by public road. 
 Thus 'twill be at God's tribunal 
 
 Wlien we're judged at the Last Day; 
 Where we've lived we'll not bequestioued, 
 
 All that matters is the way. 
 If we've only <lone our duty. 
 
 All with us will then he well; 
 We sliall live in that briglit country. 
 
 Wliere tlie good alone can dwell. 
 
9- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 CTf) 
 
 -« 
 
 ALLEN R. DARROW. 
 
 Born: New London, Conn., April 20, 1826. 
 Allen R. Darrow, the author of Iphipenia 
 and Other Poeuis has gained quite a reputa- 
 tion as a poet. Although now and for many 
 years actively engaged iu business pursuits 
 
 ALLEN R. DARROW. 
 
 he has, nevertheless, found time to cultivate 
 a natural taste for autliorship, furnishing 
 from time to time acceptable contributions 
 to various journals and magazines. Mr. 
 Darrow is now a resident of Buffalo. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A DECORATION DAY INCIDENT. 
 
 Winter had gone with its storms and cold, 
 
 Again it was smiling May; 
 And the sun shone fair o'er field and wold. 
 
 On the Nation's holiday. 
 
 With muffled music, with speech and song. 
 And a wealth of flowers in bloom; 
 
 From their homes went forth the old and 
 young 
 To enwreath each hero's tomb. 
 
 With solemn mien and reverent tread. 
 
 And memory ail aglow ; 
 Garlands were strewn o'er the graves of their 
 dead 
 
 Amid voicings soft and low. 
 
 Not only for brothers and noble sons. 
 Were the tributes so lovingly paid ; 
 
 But over the graves of stranger ones. 
 
 The wreaths of flowers were laid. 
 A little child came wandering there, 
 
 And saw with a great surprise. 
 The floral offerings everywhere. 
 
 And the tears iu sorrowing eyes. 
 One year before — with his fond caress — 
 
 She sat on her father's knee; 
 No more from him comes a kiss to bless. 
 
 For he sleeps beneath the sea. 
 Within this little one's heart there came, 
 
 Sweet memories of his love; 
 At that shrine anew there burned a flame 
 
 Which a child's sweet faith could prove. 
 For with busy hands she labored there — 
 
 And a purpose pure and bra^e — 
 With many returning steps to bear 
 
 Earth and sod, to build a grave. 
 And then she gathered from lane and field. 
 
 Dandelions of golden hue; 
 Until her apron was more than filled. 
 
 And with starry daisies too. 
 Her flowers so bright into many a link 
 
 She wrought with many a tear; 
 And she said, "Maybe tliat God will think 
 
 My papa is buried here." 
 
 FEBRUARY GEMS. 
 
 To wandering children in the ages old, 
 I've often heard that mystic talcs were told 
 Of fairy lands, where oft on trees and bow- 
 ers 
 There fell from heaven pure crystal gems in 
 
 showers. 
 Well, I believe, and so I think must you 
 That myths are shadows sometimes of the 
 
 true; 
 For going forth upon a winter morn 
 A wondrous glory did the day adorn. 
 On every tree along the city street. 
 What matchless splendor did my vision greet. 
 Pendant from silver-coated branch and stem. 
 In argent beauty hung a brilliant gem; 
 Sparkling in candescent glory bright. 
 Shone myriad diamonds in the morning light. 
 Nature from its exliaustless wealth and store, 
 Tiirough every street and by-way o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 Prodigal alike to all the rich and poor 
 Had scattered rivals to the Khoinoor. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 O youth's first love, fresh, ardent, pure. 
 Whose vows must e'en all time endure. 
 That knows no shadowing specter fate 
 Tiiat can fond heart's ere separate — 
 But ah I the leaves so fresh in May, 
 By Autumn winds are blown away. 
 
 ■5B 
 
*- 
 
 680 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -8^ 
 
 MRS. EMMA F. CARPENTER. 
 
 Born : Halifax, Pa., Jan. 28, 1844. 
 The poems of Mrs. Carpenter have appeared 
 in the Harrisburg' Patriot, Telegram and oth- 
 
 MliS. EMMA F. CAKPENTEK. 
 
 er pul)lications. She was married in 1862 to 
 Thos. B. Carpenter, and resides at Benvenue. 
 
 m- 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 Oil, speak unto me kindly, 
 
 I'll worship ever blindly. 
 To forget is vain to try; 
 
 My soul will hover 'round thee 
 
 Though thou art far beyond me 
 As the stars in the azure sky. 
 
 I long to draw anear thee. 
 
 If I perhaps might cheer thee, 
 I blest indeed would be; 
 
 Forever thou hast blest me, 
 
 Thougli distance hath oppressed me, 
 When far ajvay from thee. 
 
 With power supreme you drew me, 
 
 Your glances piercing through me. 
 Immersed my soul in joy; 
 
 With ecstacy you bound me. 
 
 You threw a spell around me 
 Untouched by earth's alloy. 
 
 When niglit so gently closes. 
 
 And all in sleep reposes. 
 Oh ! then my soul is free; 
 
 In fervent prayer to heaven, 
 
 In the dewy liour of even, 
 
 My plea ascends for thee. 
 I pray the darkness 'round thee. 
 That like a pall hath bound thee. 
 
 May rent to atoms be. 
 That the sweet light of heaven 
 To guide thee may be given. 
 
 And I thy joy may see. 
 God bless thee now and ever. 
 And keep thee safe forevei'. 
 
 While I am far from thee; 
 May all thy grief and sadness 
 Be soon transformed to gladness, 
 
 Then I will happy be. 
 
 THE DAWNING. 
 
 One more beautiful dream 
 In which my soul doth seem 
 
 Very near to heaven; 
 My heart with fevered throbbing 
 Its life away is sobbing. 
 
 Amidst earth's dull leaven; 
 Peace is marred by passion's gleam, 
 Making all the bright earth seem 
 
 With quick lightning riven. 
 Yet one more passionate thrill 
 Let its bright fulfillment still 
 
 Temper this sad yearning; 
 Let me trace upon life's sand. 
 With a firm, unwavering hand. 
 
 Thoughts within me glowing; 
 Beauteous thoughts, fair and sweet, 
 From my pen flow full and fleet — 
 
 Shall I stop their flowing? 
 Let me pour my soul away. 
 While around me earth is gay 
 
 And the sun is shinuig; 
 True, my life is all alone. 
 And I oft with fevered moan 
 
 Seek the cloud's bright lining; 
 Clouds obscure the sunbeam's play. 
 Let me look where'er I may. 
 
 For more light I'm pining. 
 Do I pine witliout a hope. 
 While iu darkness thus I grope, 
 
 Or is dayliglit dawning — 
 Dawning on my weary brain. 
 Bringing balm for every pain. 
 
 With the cheer of morning? 
 Thus awaits my patient heart. 
 Acting out its humble jiart 
 
 With an untold yearning. 
 When earth's pleasures cease to draw, 
 And we find a hopeless flaw 
 
 In our own perfection; 
 Tlien we weep in dire dismay, 
 O'er our idols made of clay. 
 Bowed in deep dejection. 
 God can wipe our tears away. 
 Sending us a brighter day, 
 Kich with hope's inflection. 
 
Si 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'DETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 G81 
 
 © 
 
 NICHOLAS LESTER. 
 
 Born: Canada, March 29, 1842. 
 During the civil war Mr. Lester ser%ed lu tlie 
 110th N.Y. volunteers for over three yeai-s. 
 When quite youug- Mr. Lester wrote verse, 
 and hi^ iMit'ins ha\'e sltice iipiifuicd (luite ex- 
 
 NICHOLAS LESTER. 
 
 tensively in the local press of the state of 
 New York. He follows the occupation of a 
 painter, and is now a resident of Fulton. He 
 is well known and big-hly respected in his 
 native state. Mr. Lester was married in 1870 
 to Miss Ellen Fleming-. 
 
 ®- 
 
 FIRST OF MAY. 
 The winter's breath of snow and sleet 
 No long-er on our faces beat. 
 And loungers have resumed the street; 
 To work the house-wife quick will g-o 
 House cleaning', that the world may know 
 She is to dirt a deadly foe. 
 The house she'll rummage through 
 
 through. 
 The bed-rooms and the closets too ; 
 Mid-floor their contents she will pile. 
 And greet her lord with winning smile 
 While she demands a carpet new. 
 Each table, bedstead, stand and chair. 
 Of scrubbitig gets an ample share. 
 And soon the spouse becomes aware 
 The carpets from the floors are ripped. 
 
 and 
 
 And he must put them out to air; 
 (Let him remonstrate if he dare,) 
 And see that they are whipp'd. 
 The bureaus, brackets, stands and cases, 
 Mustoccupj' some new-found places 
 For the ensuing year; 
 The parlor stove removed must be. 
 The pipes from soot be .shaken free; 
 The pictures from the walls be taken; 
 The blankets, rugs and bed-quilts shaken; 
 And every nook with suds be drenched. 
 The kitchen Are remaining quench'd, 
 For dinner he in vain may look. 
 And should he grumble at the cook, 
 A flea gets in his ear. 
 
 CAMP-FIRE ADDRESS. 
 We bid you to-night to a soldiers' collation. 
 The hardtack and cofifee before you are 
 spread,— 
 The days when the rooster, aloft from his 
 
 station. 
 Sent down his shrill challenge for swift con- 
 fiscation 
 Are gone, or we'd ofl'er you pot-pie instead. 
 Time was when the voice of the chanticleer 
 crowing. 
 Was sweet to the soldier whose ears now are 
 dull; 
 The turkey's loud gobble would set his lieart 
 
 glowing; 
 The bleat of the lampkin to him was a show- 
 ing 
 That mutton was free — tho' thej" tariff'd 
 the wool. 
 The squawk of the goose and the quack of the 
 duckling 
 Were melody sweeter than timbrel or lute; 
 The motherly porker's low grutit to her suck- 
 ling. 
 Whose squeak reach'd his wlieii his knapsack 
 unbuckling 
 Has caused every gland of his mouth to di- 
 lute. 
 But gone are the days of our grub confisca- 
 tions; 
 No longer to forage we turn from the track; 
 Our marches have brought us to one of the 
 
 stations 
 Where we must content us with government 
 rations. 
 And swallow our coffee and nibble our tack. 
 Alas for those days — they are ever reminding 
 The soldier how swift from the mess-fire he 
 fled. 
 When the cook in a rage from the smoke that 
 
 was blinding, 
 Stopp'd stirring his beans or liis bacon un- 
 winding. 
 To fling Ijoth an oath and a club at his head. 
 
 -® 
 
© 
 
 682 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Our army experience has thoroughly taught 
 us 
 That no opportunity we should neglect 
 To dine on sucli fodder as circumstance 
 
 brought us — 
 Not wait 'till some feast epicurean sought 
 us — 
 Lest to go to bed hungry should be the 
 effect. 
 
 Yet we miss from the board many delicate 
 dishes. 
 The epicure soldier was wont to invent 
 When his thoughts wander'd back to the 
 
 loaves and the fishes, 
 Prepared by his ma, who consulted his wish- 
 es, 
 In all that to tickle the palate was meant. 
 
 For hoe cake in vain we have rummaged the 
 grub-sack ; 
 No mush nor molasses we find in the house; 
 We find but the every-day coffee and hard- 
 tack, 
 And O how we long for the grease diipping 
 flap-jack. 
 And dainty of dainties — we miss the lob- 
 scouse. 
 We miss too the cubical pieces of liver 
 
 In half a canteen on the end of a stick. 
 Well wash'd by the water from ditch or from 
 
 river. 
 And held to the flre with persistent endea- 
 vor, 
 'Til cook'd to the semblance of miniature 
 bricks. 
 Ah! oft in the light of the camp-fire's gleam- 
 ing. 
 Enwrapped in his blanket, a log for his 
 head. 
 While gray-backs were friskily over him 
 
 streaming. 
 In blissful oblivion the soldier lay dreaming 
 Of cookies and doughnuts and mother-made 
 bread. 
 But his dreamings of home and its knick- 
 nacks are ended, 
 Realities now are his staple in life; 
 No longer he sleeps in the fire-light extend- 
 ed, 
 His slumbei's, instead of by bad dreams at- 
 tended — 
 Are seasoned by lectures or snores from liis 
 wife. 
 
 m- 
 
 LINES ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF 
 
 A SOLDIER FRIEND. 
 Friend of my youthful days! 
 And art thou passed away. 
 Is that bright smile that cheer'd me with its 
 rays 
 
 Now dimn'd for aye? 
 Is that warm hand whicli erst 'twas mine to 
 
 clasp 
 Now seized by death's inexorable grasp? 
 Have those loved lips beenopcu'd in thy gasp, 
 Thou grim restorer of earth-borrow'd clay? 
 
 Comrade, when thoughtless boys! 
 And is thy heart now cold? 
 
 Are death's dark waves, submerging all 
 earth's joys 
 Now o'er thee roU'd? 
 
 Is thy great soul from earthly thralls un- 
 bound? 
 
 Has thy freed spirit gone where joys are 
 found 
 
 Of holier source— of depths still more pro- 
 found 
 
 Than those which have thy mortal life con- 
 troll'd? 
 
 And is it ours to weep? 
 To mourn thee gone from liere? 
 
 To murmui", while unrestf ullj' we sleep. 
 Of memories dear? 
 
 To bathe with tears the hallow'd shrine 
 
 Where we our cherish'd hopes resign; 
 
 To clasp in love the hand divine 
 
 Tliat deals the blow severe? 
 
 Yes, noble soul, thou'rt gone; 
 
 Thine earthly joys are past; 
 The dreaded bound, which mortals one by 
 one 
 
 Step o'er while earth shall last, 
 Has been by thee in confidence o'er stepped— \ 
 
 Well may thy parents weep— i 
 
 Their hearts with anguish torn, ! 
 
 As word of thee, in tliine unwaking sleep. 
 To them is borne, i 
 
 When I, a simple friend of thine, j 
 
 Am prompted, on receipt of mine, 
 
 To pour my grief upon the shrine [mourn. 
 
 Where all, who knowing loved thee, come to | 
 
 Author of life — of love! \ 
 
 In justice thou dost deal;— i 
 
 Direct our hopes to thy bright realms above 
 
 For all our weal! j 
 
 Give us we pray, the strength to bear our ' 
 
 woes ; 
 Mingle with love the terror of thy blows! 
 Teach smitten mortals, wliile in atiguisli 
 
 throes, 
 Thy spirit's calm to feel! | 
 
 Each burst of contrite grief. 
 
 Beneath the chastening rod, i 
 
 Gives to the soul a blest relief, i 
 
 And brings it nearer God! 
 Each tearful h(>ur that here we spend; 
 Each i)aiig that doth the heart-strings rend; . 
 Eacli anguisli cry to Heaven wc send. 
 Prepares for us tlie road ! 
 -g 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 683 
 
 -« 
 
 HELEN MARK HURD. 
 
 Born: Harmony, Me. 
 As a teacher Miss Hurd has been very suc- 
 cessful. When a mere child she composed 
 stanzas, and from an early age lier beautiful 
 poems re;idily found tlieir waj- iulo llie prii- 
 
 HELEN MARR HURD. 
 
 odical press. In 188" ai>peared a large volume 
 of the poems of this lady containing- over four 
 hundred pages, which has had a large circula- 
 tion. Miss Hurd is at present engaged in pre- 
 paring for the press a second volume of 
 poems and a prose story entitled The Three 
 Orators; and she is also employed in tlie com- 
 pilation of the history of Hallowell, Maine. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 Little brooklet, in tliy song 
 
 All of joy partaking. 
 Hush thy babbling all day long. 
 
 For my heart is breaking! 
 Every sound in earth and air. 
 
 All thy shouted surges. 
 All the voices everjwhere 
 
 Seem like lonesome dirges! 
 Sad as waitings o'er the grave. 
 
 Is thy joyous sweeping; 
 Let the north wind still thy wave 
 
 To a silent weeping. 
 Let the west wind from his sheath 
 
 Fling an icy quiver. 
 
 Till thy waters underneath 
 
 Silent meet the river. 
 Little brooklet, clear and strong. 
 
 Laughing, tumbling, siuikiug 
 Hushed to silence be thy song 
 
 While my heart is breaking! 
 
 SOMETHING RARE. 
 
 Low, sweet sounds are stealing, stealing. 
 
 Through the air. 
 While the Christmas bells are pealing. 
 
 Something rare; 
 Is It echo from the hillside 
 
 Or the fen? 
 Is it murmurs from tlie brookside 
 
 In the gleny 
 Something lovely, something bright, 
 
 Something rare 
 Fills my vision in the moonlight; 
 
 Something fair 
 Hangs rich drapery on the willows 
 
 Over me. 
 Spreads the lawn with sheeny billows 
 
 Like the sea; 
 Spread with delicate white netting 
 
 Hedge and tree — 
 Sparkling drops in silvery setting. 
 
 Hangs o'er me. 
 Underneath the lamps of even 
 
 Lit anew 
 And hung upon the arch of lieaven. 
 
 Silver dew 
 Seems to fill the space between me 
 
 And the sky ; 
 And rare faces which have seen me. 
 
 Seem to hie 
 Forth and back behind the curtain. 
 
 Looking through 
 Oft; until my heart is certain 
 
 That the blue 
 Far beyond these silver tissues. 
 
 And above. 
 Is the heaven, and its issues 
 
 All are lo%e. 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 Within the hollow tree to-night 
 
 In silence gra\ e the great owl sits, 
 Wliich yesterday boded a storm 
 
 With its ..tu-whoos " and its » tu-hits!" 
 Adown the mountain's sloping side 
 
 The brooklet dashes! frowns the sky! 
 Darkness is dense! clouds crowd the west! 
 
 Among the lichens dead shapes lie! 
 The great frame of the giani oak 
 
 Rocks madly 'iieath the hurricane! 
 And by fm-ked tongues of lurid Hre 
 
 Huge rocks arc swift smitten in twain! 
 The angry billows, mountain high. 
 
 Sullen, and dark, and capped with foam. 
 Roll upward, until sea and cloud 
 
 Seem to be surging sea alone! 
 
 -m 
 
i3<- 
 
 684 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GRACE HOLMES. 
 
 Born: Wayne, Mich., July 18, 1866. 
 THE poems of Miss Grace Holmes have ap- 
 peared in Arthur's Home Magazine, St. Louis 
 Mag-azine, and the local press generally. She 
 
 O brilliant are the flowers soon to feel the 
 
 touch of frost, 
 And glorious the sunset sky that the full 
 
 noon-day lost: 
 And beautiful each countenance of the aged 
 
 man and wife, I 
 
 Who sit within the doorway near the tranquil _ 
 
 close ot life. j 
 
 GRACE HOLMES, 
 
 is studying shorthand and typewriting at St. 
 Louis. Miss Holmes is very fond of litera- 
 ture, and her poems have already received 
 favorable mention. 
 
 A SUNSET. 
 The fair day closes, calm and still. 
 The red sun sinks behind the hill; 
 Above the hill, in varied hue. 
 The red cloud quivers through the blue. 
 Through fields of corn, through crowds of 
 
 trees. 
 One breeze doth chase another breeze; 
 They twirl the leaves and stir the grass. 
 And bend the flowers as they pass; 
 They shake the vines that clamber o'er 
 And round about a farm liouse door. 
 And fan the cheeks and brush the hair. 
 Of an old couple sitting there. 
 O, ripened arc the cornfields, and flaming are 
 
 the leaves. 
 And the breeze that stirs the mellow land is 
 not ii languid breeze; 
 
 SUMMER. 
 Summer, crowned with skies of azure. 
 
 Summer, gracious with thy music. 
 Summer, fresh in ripened beauty 
 
 Why so call thee. Queen of Season? 
 
 For thy glorious sky at sunset. 
 For the nights fair, starlit heavens, 
 
 For the fresh and dewy mornings. 
 So we term thee Queen of Seasons. 
 
 Summer, robed in all thy glory. 
 Summer, wrapped in all thy splendor, 
 
 Summer, bathed in all thy brightness. 
 Why so call thee Queen of Season? 
 
 For the meadows green with clover. 
 For the hill tops touclied with sunshine 
 
 For the woodlands decked with blossoms, 
 So we term thee Queen of Seasons. 
 
 NATURE'S SECRETS. 
 There's a secret with tliese rugged hills, whos. 
 
 slender tops are gray ; 
 There's a secret with the wild flowers thai 
 
 bloom along the way; 
 
 There's a secret with the roaming clouds tlia 
 
 change the changeful sky; ■ 
 
 A secret have the busy winds, that chant am ^ 
 
 moan and sigh. : 
 
 A secret has the moonlight, that touches Im 
 
 and sea, 
 
 A secret is between the stars that blink a^ 
 
 you and me. i 
 
 Ah the secrets! can you count them? so nun ' 
 
 erous are tliey ! ' 
 
 Ah the secrets! can you find them out? ca 
 
 you find them out, 1 say? 
 I knew that some sweet secret 'twixt my ga; . 
 
 den flowers grew. 
 But T said, " I know, 1 feel, it is not for me, c 
 
 you." 
 I felt there was a secret with the wond'rou 
 
 cliarming sea. 
 But again I shook my head and said, "TUI 
 
 secret's not for me." 
 Yea, every where I turn my eyes on nature 
 
 living show, 
 1 feel there is a secret that 'tis not for me 
 know. 
 
 ©■ 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMKHICA. 
 
 685 I 
 
 JOHN C. ROGERS, M. D. 
 
 Bokn: Perky, Me., Makch »'6, 18*5. 
 Thi.s gentleman gracluated at Harvard in 
 18ti3-4, receiving- liis liiploma as a pliysician. 
 Durinjr the civil war he served as assistant 
 surgeon in one of the Massachusetts regi- 
 meuts. At the close of the war he commenced 
 
 JOHN C. ROGERS. M. n. 
 
 the practice of medicine in Brooklyn, !)ut in 
 1866 he returned to Pembroke, where he has 
 since resided practicing liis profession. Dr. 
 Rogers can read Latin, Greek, French and 
 German, and is a great lover of poetry. His 
 poems liave appeared quite extensively in the 
 periodical press. Dr. Rogers is well known 
 and very popular in his native state. 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 Direful visions crowd my soul! 
 
 Darkness slirovids my aching sight! 
 Horror every sense control 
 
 And bar me out from hope and light. 
 Bathed in an unhallowed Are, 
 
 See tlie Prince of Darkness stand; 
 Routid him builds the funeral pyre. 
 
 That by sin and death is fanned. 
 Lurid lightning jiieree the gloom. 
 
 Awful thunders loudly peal;— 
 Demons sound the general doom,— 
 
 From my soul the senses steal. 
 51 
 
 Death, the tyrant, reigns supreme; 
 
 Time, the avenger, spurs liis steed 
 To reach earth's bounds, the most extreme; 
 
 And harvests life with mi.ser's greed. 
 Hope and life afar have fled,— 
 
 Dismal cries from wn-cking pain 
 Come tumultuous from the dead. 
 
 That by time and death are slain. 
 Fear with horror's crouching form. 
 
 Shrinks in awe with bated breath; 
 Whilst the elements of storm 
 
 Rush in madness o'er the earth. 
 Sheets of lurid lightnings glow. 
 
 Blast the shrinking, cowering form 1 
 Thunders peal; whilst fierce winds blow,— 
 
 And onward sweeps the maddening storm. 
 All is darkness, deep, profound. 
 
 Silence reigns through every sphere;— 
 Life is dead; no mortal sound 
 
 Shall wake in death the startled ear. 
 Lol a light from out the gloom 
 
 Bursts in glorj- on my sight; 
 Thunders in the distance boom, — 
 
 Morning breaks in love and light. 
 On a bright ethereal throne 
 
 Borne through Heaven on angels' wings, 
 Stands the Prince of Light, alone 
 
 Save the choir that round Him sings. 
 Death appalled before Him flies. 
 
 Darkness shrinks in utter night; — 
 And the dead in myriads rise. 
 
 Quickened by the effulgent light. 
 Clothed in an eternal spring. 
 
 Earth all radiant now appear; 
 Through the groves the angels sing. 
 
 Music soothes the raptured ear. 
 Sorrow, care, disease and pain. 
 
 Wan despair and sin have fled; 
 They o'er earth no longi r reign, — 
 
 They have perished, death is deadl 
 "God, the Omnipotent, shall reign," 
 
 Floats upon the ambient air; 
 •' Here His kingdom shall remain. 
 
 Eternal as the ages are." 
 Honor, adorat ion, praise, 
 
 Sound triumphant through tlie skies; 
 Cherubim sweet anthems raise, — 
 The song of glory never dies. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I still enjoy the sounding lyre, 
 Althougli my youth has lost its fire; 
 And sometimes tempt a simple lay 
 To while the lonely hours away. 
 .\nd though my harp has not the skill 
 Or art to soar away at will, 
 T can compose a rhyme with ease. 
 If not sublime, at least will please. 
 
 ■^ 
 
©- 
 
 686 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 M. I. STEWART. 
 
 Bohn: July 14, 1858. 
 Mr. Stewart is a printer by trade, — a jour- 
 nalist and lawjer bj* profession. He is now 
 one of the proprietors of the largest printing 
 house in western North Carolina, at Winston. 
 
 ee- 
 
 M. I. STEWART. 
 
 Mr. Stewart has written extensively under 
 the nom de plume of Jesse Fry, and has be- 
 come well known as the laureate of West- 
 haven. In 1889 he published a small volume 
 of verse, and hopes at an early date to issue a 
 large volume of his selected poems. 
 
 CEDAR HILLS MINNIE. 
 
 Dear to my lieart, old rickety mill. 
 
 With screaking-, wet, oversliot wheel, 
 As of yore, adown the rough hill. 
 
 At home witli loved Minnie I feel. 
 In my dreams 1 frequently hear 
 
 The song of thy clear, limpid brook; 
 And awake to find that a tear 
 
 Has stolen what fancy had took ! 
 No house, with a latch, like the one 
 
 Where my brown-eyed Kinder resides: 
 And no sport to me like the fun 
 
 Indulged in our mill-pond rides! 
 Tlio days seem so lonely and drear. 
 
 Away from the scenes of my youth: 
 When shall I be with you, my dear. 
 
 And drink from thy fountains of truth? 
 I know you will never forg-et 
 
 The heart tliat now throbs for j-our love; 
 
 And ere the suns of this sum'r have set, 
 I'll meet you, my darling, my dove. 
 
 You'll greet me, I know, as of old. 
 When adown by the mill you stood. 
 
 All ready my arms to enfold 
 Thy beauty's wild ravishing flood. 
 
 WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? 
 
 Where did you come from. 
 
 Little mountain skipper? 
 With your straight-cut robe 
 
 And black leather slipper. 
 How did you get here. 
 
 You fleeting little clipper? 
 With your bright, keen ej'e. 
 
 Sweet sparrow tripper. 
 Your neat little foot. 
 
 Swift as any topper; 
 Witching little elf. 
 
 Light as any hopper. 
 Why are you so straight. 
 
 Little arrow cutter? 
 Leaving all our hearts 
 
 Whirling- in a flutter. 
 Why don't you stay here. 
 
 You little heart tranper? 
 For a home in our lialls 
 
 Would suit such a snapper. 
 When will you come back, 
 
 You proud little raider? 
 With independent look — 
 
 Snappish thoug-ht invader. 
 For tilting- pleasure, 
 
 You trim little lancer. 
 With movement so easy, 
 
 The best of any dancer. 
 What graceful tipping! 
 
 Light as any spider — 
 Lips that seldom speak — 
 
 Wavy little tider. 
 Of all birds, the Jay 
 
 Is hard'st for the gunner 
 To shoot on the wing- 
 Puzzling- little stunner. 
 
 " JODIE." 
 Jodie's a sunflower, 
 
 Jodie's a daisy ; 
 Jodie's a dear, good boy, 
 
 Jodie's run me crazy. 
 Jodie seems to be sad — 
 
 Jodie's heart is broken; 
 Jodie, my dearest lad, 
 
 Rena thus hath spoken. 
 I will love you, Jodie; 
 
 I will be your charmer; 
 And with me, dear Jodie, 
 
 You can be a farmer. 
 
 —i 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 687 
 
 -« 
 
 FABIUS M. RAY. 
 
 Born: Windham, Me., Makch 30, 1837. 
 After graduating at Bowdoiu colleg-e in 1861, 
 Mr. Ray tlien spent a j'ear abroad, studying- 
 German and French iauguag-es at Heidelberg 
 and Geneva, under private instructors. Re- 
 turning home he read law in Portland, was 
 soon admitted to the bar, and at once began 
 to practice liis profession at Saccarappa. 
 where lie h;is since resid(v1: ho lias ;ilso inaiu- 
 
 FABIUS M. RAY. 
 
 tained a law office in Portland since 1871. In 
 1874 a volume of poems appeared from his 
 pen. Mr. Ray has represented the town of 
 Westbroolc two terms in the state legislature, 
 and has served one term in the state senate- 
 declining a re-election. As a lawyer Mr. Ray 
 has been unusually successful, and his liter- 
 ary work has been a matter of diversion. Be- 
 sides Ins poetical writings this gentleman has 
 accomplished much historical work, and he is 
 connected with the Maine Genealogical So- 
 ciety, of which he is president and one of its 
 founders. 
 
 THE SEA. 
 0. ceaseless, surging sea. 
 Pathless, impressionless, type of eternity! 
 Nor time, nor change has left a trace, 
 A single furrow on thy face. 
 
 The solid earth is seamed with scars. 
 Deep-graven records of her wars; 
 And tells in fissured rock and chasm 
 How many a f e:irful shock and spasm 
 The ancient sphere has shaken! 
 
 But thou, oh sea. 
 When awful memories waken. 
 In solemn stillness of the night, 
 Canst slumber child-like in the light 
 Of the desolate moon and silent stars! 
 Hadst thou a brooding soul, oh sea. 
 Then wert thou of remorse ne'er free; 
 Were souls remorseless half, as thou art, 
 How many a pang were saved and bleeding 
 heart! 
 
 EVENING IN THE PAYS DE VAUD. 
 O'er Jura's craggy peaks aglow. 
 
 The gorgeous sunlight lingers; 
 In deep crevasse 'mid Alpine snow 
 
 It dips its rosy fingers. 
 
 Along Lake Leman's vine-girt shore 
 
 Is mild and balmy weather. 
 While overhead on ledges hoar 
 
 Eternal icebergs gather. 
 
 And where the avalanches creep 
 From 00" the cloud-touch'd mountains, 
 
 The azure Rhone, o'er rock and steep. 
 Comes dashing from its fountains. 
 
 But now the ebon veil descends. 
 And night enshrouds the valley. 
 
 Save where its light the glow worm lends 
 In wall or trellised alley. 
 
 I hear the plover's plaintive note. 
 
 The murmur of the billows; 
 And Philomel's sweet ditties float 
 
 From out the sighing willows. 
 
 Anon sweet music fills the air 
 
 From many a garden bower. 
 Where rustic swains and maids repair 
 
 To spend this charmed hour. 
 
 How like a vision all things seem 
 
 Beyond this vale of sliadows; 
 E'en as I muse, the young day's beam 
 
 Lights up my native meadows. 
 
 And thus, alas, it is with all, 
 
 'Tis distant and uncertain 
 If once or time, or space let fall 
 
 Twixt us and it the curtain. 
 
 The home that's left, the life that's o'er. 
 The friend that death has taken. 
 
 In dreamy hours return once more. 
 But never if we waken. 
 
 -© 
 
SB 
 
 688 
 
 LOCAL, AND XATIONAIi POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FRANCIS ANSON EVANS. 
 
 Born: Gkandview, Ind., Aug. 4, 1853. 
 In 1884-5 Mr. Evans was southern editor of the 
 St. Louis Medical Journal; and he has been a 
 regular contributor to several other medical 
 journals. He was offered the German consu- 
 Jiiti" to Colotine by Pivsidi-iit Cai'tirld, l)Ut de- 
 
 <s- 
 
 FKANCIS ANSON EVANS. 
 
 clined it. Mr. Evans has contributed to the 
 Waverly Magazine, Indianapolis Sun and tlie 
 periodical press generally, and has written 
 numerous humorous articles; he is also the 
 author of several musical pieces. By pro- 
 fession this gentleman is a physician, and was 
 a hospital physician during the yellow fever 
 epidemic of 18T8, having gone there voluntar- 
 ily to aid suffering humanity. Dr. Evans was 
 married in 1876 and is now a resident of his 
 native state at Tell City. 
 
 THE MAID OF BELLVIDERE. 
 O'er the distant peaks of splendor 
 Fell the twilight soft and tender. 
 And the gloaming hung In purple shadows on 
 tlie hazy mere. 
 While above the dim blue arches 
 Stars took up their silent marches, 
 Lightly shedding rays of amber on the walls 
 of Bellvidere. 
 Down the valleys half surrounded 
 Hy wild hazels gayly bounded. 
 Myriad streams all moss embroider'd singing 
 
 soft their mystic cheer, 
 While up the path where dangled over 
 Heads of pink and purple clover. 
 Homeward driving lowing cattle tript the 
 maid of Bellvidere. 
 Eyes — ah me, how bright their beaming I 
 Dew on grass not half so gleaming! 
 Chloe's not darker, hare's not shyer than to 
 me did they appear; 
 And her cheeks all dimpled over 
 Sure was red 'most as the clover 
 That toyed and kissed the pretty ankles ol 
 this maid of Bellvidere. 
 
 O, so sweet the cowbells jingled, 
 With the maiden's voice commingled, 
 Making strains of music grander than thi 
 birds in brake or brere ; 
 Keeping time to her sweet singing. 
 She a gipsy hat was swinging 
 From a hand not none so dimpled in thetowi 
 of Bellvidere. 
 From across the distant mountain 
 Like some tinkling silvery fountain ! 
 Come the low melodious winding of the hunts , 
 man's horn so clear. 
 Scarcely stopt we for a greeting. 
 Shy and coylike was our meeting. 
 But I left my heart close clinging to thos 
 lips at Bellvidere. 
 That was in the dim, gray distance 
 Of the past of my existence 
 Ere the chilling frosts of Time had left mi 
 leatietssear; 
 Yet among my memory's pages 
 Dimmed, as 'twere, by dust of ages, ^ 
 I find a deep, fond love recorded for the ma. 
 of Bellvidere. 
 
 CUMBERLAND GAP. 
 O I will tell you a curious story, 
 
 A curious story I'll tell to you. 
 If you'll agree to keep perfectly quiet. 
 
 And hold your tongue till I get through. 
 'Twas on Easter-tide, of years gone many - 
 
 A score and five, or nearly so. 
 And red war smote the sloping mountains, 
 
 Tlie rugged steeps and valleys low. 
 Down where lingers tlie southern breezes, 
 
 Where I first learned the sad mishap, 
 A brown-eyed mother and two little ehildre 
 
 Lived and loved at Cumberland Gap. 
 Their little field, tho' che(>rf ully tended. 
 
 Yielded them only a scanty store. 
 And yet they lived contented and happy, 
 
 And the birds sang gayly about their doo 
 How often at the day's declining 
 
 They'd heard the lowing herds' low bell. 
 As down the mountain home returning — 
 They'd stood entranced, for tlicy loved it wc 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 G89 
 
 ^ 
 
 MRS. ELIZA J. \V. TIRRILL. 
 
 Born: Huntington, Mass., Oct. 6, 1836. 
 Prior to her niariiiige tliis l:idy taugrln scIrx)1. 
 In 1860 slie was married to Kodiiey W. Tirrill. 
 who is now oiisjafjt'd in tlie real estate business 
 
 .MKS. i:i>l/.A .J. W. TIliKlLL. 
 
 In Manchester, Iowa. Tlie poems of Mrs.Tirrill 
 have been widely published in tlie Manchester 
 press and other prominent papers of her 
 adopted state. 
 
 'i 
 
 THE OLD PARSONAGE. 
 
 Where sunbeams seem to gild the roof and 
 wall. 
 
 And evening: shadows from the church tower 
 fall. 
 
 There midst a grassy lawn, marking- the spot. 
 
 Is seen weather-staitied, old-fasliioned cot; 
 
 The shing-les brown, and moss-grown here 
 and there. 
 
 The slirunken windows, free admit the air; 
 
 The blinds, that lielped subdue the wintry- 
 blast, 
 
 Are very nearly counted with the past. 
 
 The tall trees, bordering the yard, appear 
 
 Like sentinels, forever watching near; 
 
 And in their shade we see the violet's face. 
 
 And lilac l)ush, in keeping with the place. 
 
 The broken walk, the steps so worn away. 
 
 Lead to the porcii, where cliildren used to 
 play, 
 
 And happy mothei-s, when their tasks were 
 
 made. 
 Rested at eve, and held the smiling babe. 
 The open door, admitting friend and foe. 
 Swings on its creaking hinges, to and fro; 
 The empty rooms, so desolate, and drear, 
 Re-echo now no greetings of good ciieer. 
 Yet hero all came, of yore, with full belief 
 Here could they tell their sorrows and their 
 
 grief; 
 Here brouglit their disappointments, wrong 
 
 and right. 
 And homeward went with heart and step 
 
 more light. 
 
 And in the past, when twilight lingered near. 
 Came bashful lover and tlie maiden dear; 
 The pastor spake, and lo! the knot was lied — 
 Another bridegroom and his happy bride. 
 
 And where the children passed the gate, slow- 
 paced. 
 
 To get a glimpse of the kind pastor's face. 
 
 Or his dear wife, who knew each one by 
 name 
 
 And cordially made welcome, all who came. 
 
 Now silence reigns: no step upon the floor. 
 Or willing hand to opeti wide the door; 
 From window looks no face of old or young, 
 No lullaby — no evenmg song is sung. 
 Yet here, oh Lord, was read the book of thine, 
 At early morning and day's decline; 
 Prayers offered while all bowed before Thy 
 
 face, ' 
 
 And benedictions sanctified the place. 
 Memory will picture tliis a pleasant spot. 
 Where stood the weather-stained old-fashioned 
 
 cot — 
 The parsonage, that we so long have known. 
 Now tenantless, deserted, silent, grown. 
 
 W.P.ARNOLD. 
 
 Mr. Arnold is a well-educated man, a minister 
 of the gospel, and also principal of Grayson 
 Seminary, Litchfield, Ky. 
 
 A WITHERED ROSE. 
 
 The pleasures of our friendship p;ist 
 Were all too rose-bud-like to last: 
 Theyope'd as soon, and full as well. 
 Too brightly for me now to toll. 
 Like roses in the sweet of May, 
 They blessed a better, better day; 
 But like a rose in winter's strife. 
 They closed their little, little life. 
 My life is like the flower-stem 
 Divested of its rosy gem ; 
 And, like the petals on tlie ground. 
 My hopes lie with'ring all around. 
 
 -m 
 
05; 
 
 '690 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 —8 
 
 MRS. L. E. BRANNOCK. 
 
 Born: England, March 33, 1833. 
 This lady was married in 1858 to J. P. Bran- 
 uock, college president at Marionsville, Mo. 
 Mrs. Brauuock is a teacher of music, paint- 
 lug- and elocution, in which she has always 
 
 MRS. L,. E. BRANNOCK. 
 
 met with great success. Her poems have ap- 
 peared in the Ladies' Repository, AVaverly 
 Magazine, and the periodical press generally. 
 Mrs. Brannock is the mother of six children, 
 Ave of whom have grown to manhood and 
 womanhood. 
 
 ©- 
 
 BE NOT WEARY. 
 »' Be not weary in well-doing," 
 
 Words of toil and sorrow horn 
 In the sacred pulpit standing, 
 
 Siiake the pastor Sabbath morn. 
 And he gave for our example, 
 
 Christ the holy we adore. 
 Weary, toiling, burdened, fainting- 
 
 'Neath the heavy cross he bore. 
 Then he spake of Paul, enduring- 
 Scourge and prison, want and scorn. 
 Still not wearied in well-doing, 
 
 Tlunigh his flesh concealed a thorn. 
 .Tohii, the patient, well beloved; 
 
 'Prisoned on lone Patmos' isle. 
 Yet what wondrous visions thronging- 
 
 Came his darkness to beguile. 
 
 Tlien of holy blessed martyrs. 
 
 Who fell bleeding- bj- the way; 
 Yet their path illumined, brightened 
 
 With the light of g-lorj's ray. 
 What are we that we should tremble 
 
 'Neath the ci-ush of fortune's wheel? 
 What are we that we should murmur 
 
 At the crosses all must feel? 
 Are we faint and heavy laden, 
 
 Are we bui-dened by the way — 
 Seems our scourging- past enduring — 
 
 Do deep shadows cloud our way? 
 Are we weary in well-doing. 
 
 Is our Patmos dark with storm? 
 Has hope left our gloomy pi-ison — 
 
 Do our hearts conceal a thorn? 
 Glorious visions beaming 'round us, 
 
 Light the path in which we stray; 
 Wearj- wanderers, all life's burdens 
 
 Soon forever fall away: 
 Courage! Christian toller, courage! 
 
 Brave endure, nor weaklj- yield. 
 Faithful, hopeful — trusting ever, 
 
 God your strength and Clu-ist 
 shield. 
 
 your 
 
 GOD HELP US. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 We bring you scentless, 'broidercd flowers 
 
 With hues more grave than gay. 
 Wrought in the faneies of the brain. 
 
 For these, your flowers of May. 
 God helping- us the while we try. 
 
 To darn this well-worn theme. 
 With threads if not of fltiest g-old, 
 
 Or poet's loftiest dream. 
 At least with words whose strength may aid 
 
 To bear the tide along. 
 Till all shall join this army true 
 
 And swell the victor's song. 
 • ' God help us" is our battle prayer; 
 
 How like a clarion shrill 
 Its pleading tones seem echoing far 
 
 O'er every vale and hill. 
 The words resound now low, now loud. 
 
 From mountains to the sea. 
 In east and west, in north and south, 
 
 Bound millions to free. 
 And hark! the strain with soft refrain, 
 
 Borne on the wind's low sigh. 
 Is rising from our grassy plain 
 
 And pealing through the sky. 
 Till angel tongues take up, renew 
 
 The pleading sweet refrain, 
 And send it through the vaults of heaven 
 
 Down to the earth again. 
 " God help us," is the widow's prayer 
 
 For humble daily bread. 
 The lonely orphans, 'round whose steps 
 
 Are treacherous pit-falls spread. • 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 691 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARY L. HALL. 
 
 Born: St. Helena, N.Y., May 26, 1839. 
 
 Makhied at twenty, this lady later taught 
 school, and for many j-ears was a teacher of 
 penmanship. Mrs. Hall lias ■writlcn niaiiy 
 
 MRS. MAHV L 
 
 stories. Live Coal, a book of poems, appear- 
 ed from her pen in 18:9. She has become 
 quite popular in her native state, where she 
 now resides at Attica, although Mrs. Hall has 
 since her marriag-e lived in various parts of 
 the Union. 
 
 GOLD OF OPHIR. 
 
 From the temple-time of David 
 Comes a legend —sweet as old. 
 
 Matchless, peerless, sacred ever. 
 Treasured tale of Ophir's gold. 
 
 Finest of the yellow metal. 
 Fitted where the gold must go 
 
 Tn the niciies of the palace. 
 Arabesque that quaintly show. 
 
 Oh if in the soul Immortal 
 We can build a house as fair 
 
 Not for man but for the Father 
 And can place our treasures there! 
 
 Gold of Ophir, Gold of Ophir! 
 
 David loved thy shimmering glow. 
 Shall we build a palace for thee. 
 
 Build a palace, white as snow? 
 
 None but He the Master-builder — 
 
 He wiio gave His only Son- 
 Can support the one foundation 
 That is safe to build upon. 
 
 Worldly potenUites may flatter 
 And around us suavely lay. 
 
 Corner stones that look immobile 
 And imposing every way. 
 
 They are only fragile structures, 
 
 Thougli substantial they may seem- 
 Quite as fleeting and uncertain 
 As the castles of a dream. 
 
 Out of heaven comes the succor 
 Full of love and guidance sweet 
 
 That can always mold and fashion 
 Strongholds never incomplete. 
 
 Not for wood, or hay, or stubble. 
 Though we have them thrible-fold. 
 
 Not for precious stones or silver. 
 But for Ophir's finest gold. 
 
 AUNT BETSY'S OPINION. 
 Mebbe you think I'm foolin', 
 
 Mebbe you think I aint. 
 But I don't hold't airy human 
 
 On earth, can be a saint. 
 
 There's deacon Andrew Parsons, 
 He claims, so they tell me, 
 
 Sanctiflcation, bless us! 
 That air's hypocrisy. 
 
 Why he's the selflshest critter 
 Ther' is for miles around. 
 
 He can't talk nothin' week days 
 But all about his ground. 
 
 His farm, his barn, an medder. 
 His trees, that he set out. 
 
 His huckleberry bushes. 
 An' keepin' introodersout. 
 
 It don't work that way naber, 
 
 Ift ever works at all. 
 His talk wu'd be 'bout heaven; 
 
 This world dwindle small. 
 
 I won't say notliin's in it, 
 I'm old an' poor an' weak. 
 
 But sanctiflcation's sumpthin' 
 I heven't faith to seek. 
 
 I hold, we're alius faulty, 
 
 Nothin' like the Lord, 
 Poor weak, failin' critters 
 
 A seekin' through His word. 
 
 Mebbe you think I'm fool'n, 
 Mebbe you think I ain't. 
 
 But I don't liold't airy human 
 On earth, can be a saini. 
 
 -* 
 
® 
 
 -s 
 
 692 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DAVID PAUL ZIEGLER. 
 
 Born : Owensville, Ind., Oct. 7, 1867. 
 The poems of Mr. Ziegler have appeared in 
 
 DAVID PAUL ZIEGLER. 
 
 the religious press. He resides in Manchester, 
 Kansas, and is a preaclier of the gospel. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Mother! how sweet and loving the name 
 
 To us it's a joy untold. 
 Its a dear name divinely given. 
 
 Worth more than the purest of gold; 
 It is frequently heard by the listening ear 
 In tones both soft and mild. 
 By a darling infant child. 
 
 How oft it comes to the mother's ear 
 
 From the one she loves the best. 
 While she holds the sweet babe on her knee, 
 
 As she stops a moment for rest. 
 While weary of toiling all day 
 
 With naught of rest in view ! 
 She'll stop and smile on her child as it says: 
 
 Oh Mother can't I help you, 
 All through the years of childhood and youth 
 
 The loving mother is dear 
 To her child cast down with sorrow and grief, 
 
 As it tells of its grief in tear.s. 
 And wlien on the bed of affliction — 
 
 Though otlier kind fiictids are near — 
 The weary and fainting one speaks forth : 
 Where's mother, tell her to come here I 
 
 As over the bed she bendeth 
 
 That loving, trusting one. 
 You behold her smiling and say: 
 
 O Mother, I'm glad you have come. 
 For there's no other dear mother 
 
 Can soothe this pain like you; [mother. 
 
 When my heart doth ache with grief, dear 
 
 Thou canst quell my sorrow too; 
 When the holy child, our Savior, 
 
 Lisped the darling Mother's name. 
 Don't you think He thought it sacred — 
 
 For from holy lips it came? 
 
 Had it not been just and holy 
 
 Christ would not that word have said; 
 Lol his darling Mother, 
 
 When the thorns did crown his head. 
 Oh, then never grow weary, mothers. 
 
 Think of the sacred name you bear, 
 'Tis a title of great honor. 
 
 Which the angels cannot wear. 
 
 FRANCES A.SHAW. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass. 
 This lady commenced her literary career 
 translating works of history, biography and 
 fiction, which have appeared in book-form 
 from Boston and New York publishing 
 houses. She is a close student of German 
 poetry, and has done much original work on 
 magazines and newspapers. Her home is 
 now with her family in Minneapolis, where 
 she devotes her time principally to literature. 
 
 GOD'S POEM. 
 I sat and read one summer night, 
 
 A poem grand and old. 
 Whose every thought, a diamond bright. 
 
 Was set in words of gold. 
 My lamp went out. the poet-page 
 
 Grew dim before my eyes. 
 But lamps that know no change nor age. 
 
 Shone from the azure skies. 
 The golden stars, the silver moon 
 
 Flooded the world with light. 
 And Nature stood at night's high noon. 
 
 Transfigured to my sight. 
 Bird, flower and bee slept 'neath the spell 
 
 Of the Great River's song, 
 A perfumed breath from hill and dell 
 
 Swept tlie hushed air along. 
 How poor, thought I, my lamp's pale shine 
 
 To Nature's fadeless rays; 
 What to iier harmonies divine 
 
 Are loftiest poet-lays? 
 WIi:it matt<>r though man's finite lore 
 
 Is hidden from my sight? 
 God's book stands open evermore. 
 
 And every line is light. 
 
 ©- 
 
SB 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 G93 
 
 S 
 
 JOHN W. OVERALL. 
 
 Born: Shenandoah, Va. 
 At an early age John W. Overall went to the 
 southwest, where he was educated; studied 
 law uuder Governor Tucker, of Mississippi; 
 practiced in Mississippi, Alabama and Louisi- 
 ana, —part of the time being engaged in jour- 
 nalistic work. He became editor of the New 
 Orleans Daily Creole, Daily Delta, Daily True 
 Delta, prior to the war; was connected as a 
 writer with the Kichniond Examiner, and 
 was editor of thti SoiitlK^ni Punch and Army 
 
 r 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^^^Hk% 
 
 i 
 
 a^^^^^R^"*-' '' 
 
 fl! 
 
 ^KT^ip 
 
 £^. 
 
 l^-W 
 
 ^ 
 
 IHN W ()\ l.li \[A. 
 
 Argus ami ('i-isis (iuiiiig a part of the war 
 period; editor of the New Orleans South after 
 the war; editor of the Galveston. (Tex.) Com- 
 mercial, and literary editor of the St. Louis 
 Globe-Democrat. Going to New York he be- 
 came the literary editor and leading writer, 
 political and miscellaneous, on the Sunday 
 Mercury, of which over a hundred thousand 
 copies are now circulated and which dates 
 to the year m39 as tlie commencement of its 
 e.xisteuce. He has held tliis position for over 
 fourteen years. Mr. Overall is a typical jour- 
 nalist — his political editorials are strong, log- 
 ical and incisive, and on other subjects he be- 
 comes brilliiuit. tender and poetical. The best 
 of critics give him the palm for originality 
 and comprehensiveness. His first poetic effu- 
 sions appeared in the Mobile Tribune, Gra- 
 ham's Magazine, and the New York Home 
 Journal, and met with marked success. 
 
 UNDER THE ELMS. 
 
 Under the giant elms we walked 
 
 In the cool of each summer day, 
 Under the breezy elms we talked 
 
 Of a grove in tlie Far Away. 
 In the Far Away of the Glory Land 
 
 Where the love-wave rolls and wliilms; 
 Ah ! I almost see a beckoning hand 
 
 While pausing under the elms. 
 Oh, brother, gone to the world adored. 
 
 Yours was the blood of France, 
 Mine of the clime of the Douglas sword 
 
 And the Percy's quivering lance, [yours. 
 Your soul sought mine and mine sought 
 
 Though our lineage differed so! 
 You of the land of the Troubadours 
 
 And I of the land of the snow. 
 'Tis the soothing Iiands that come and go 
 
 Through the tangled skeins of hair; 
 'Tis the tender look when we crave it so 
 
 In the hours of grim despair! 
 'Tis a soul we need as a fellow soul. 
 
 As the thirsty earth the flood. 
 That makes men brotliers from pole to pole. 
 
 And not their birtli or blood! 
 Brother now blest with the glory of God, 
 
 Forever to dwell in His realms. 
 All of your mortal is under the sod 
 
 And I am still under the elms! 
 Under the grand old robust trees 
 
 Watching the splendor of light 
 As it dies away with the autumn breeze 
 
 And lights the lamps of the night. 
 
 THE SPRING DOWN IN THE DELL. 
 Though years have glided like a dream 
 
 Since I stood by thy side, 
 Yet still, thou little rippling stream, 
 
 I've thought of thee with pride. 
 And bless thee, as I bless thee now — 
 
 Oh ! I remember well 
 How thou didst cool my fevered brow. 
 
 Dear spring down in the dell ! 
 On many a golden summer hour 
 
 I laid me down to rest. 
 Where everj- wind would throw a shower 
 
 Of blossoms on my breast. 
 The spangled flowers grew around — 
 
 Oh ! I remember well 
 The mossy rocks, tlje velvet ground. 
 
 The spring down in the dell I 
 Thy waters sparkled in my cup. 
 
 And flashed along the ritii, 
 And when I raised it gl.ully up. 
 
 And broke its dimiiled brim. 
 Far sweeter than tlie Sainian wine — 
 
 Oh! I remember well! 
 Was that bright crystal wave of thine. 
 
 Dear spring down in the dell! 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 69J: 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A31EU1CA. 
 
 * 
 
 And, mirrored in thy mimic glass, 
 
 I've watclied tlie artless grace 
 Of many a dark-eyed village lass. 
 
 As she did kiss thy face; 
 And I have envied thee- thy lot — 
 
 Oh ! I remember well ! 
 Thou wilt not, canst not, be forgot. 
 
 Sweet spring down in the dell ! 
 
 GONE TO THE SUMMERLAND. 
 A bird is but a beauteous thought 
 
 Outflowing from supernal love, 
 A wing'd affection, bright and warm, 
 
 That flies down from above; 
 And reaching here its mural goal, 
 
 A world of sunshine and of storm. 
 The thought of God becomes encased 
 
 And fixed in lovely form. 
 Ah ! yes; it dwells in flesh and blood 
 
 That we may hear its sugary song-. 
 And learn by all its innocence 
 
 To hate the human wrong; 
 And guardian to this tiny thing 
 
 Is One the angels love to name — 
 He hung the planets in yon space 
 
 And set the suns aflame. 
 One day its brilliant plumage paled, 
 
 Its wings no more did flow and float. 
 An orchestra of opera songs 
 
 Died ill its little throat. 
 Tlie cage was empty, lone and still. 
 
 The nest was there, the nestling fled. 
 And all the mourning household said: 
 
 " Birdie, our pet is dead!" 
 The bird had only flown away, 
 
 And left for aye its prison bars. 
 And winged its flight through amber light. 
 
 Beyond the farthest stars! 
 To-day, within the glorious bowers 
 
 That angels see with dreamful eyes, 
 A rapture-song trills strong and sweet 
 
 From a bird of paradise! 
 
 BALLAD OF THE PRESS. 
 In other days witli flery hands, 
 
 The Troubadours of story 
 O'er the Lyre's wild throbliing bosom 
 
 Poured lieroic strains of glor.v; 
 They tell us how the knights of old 
 
 Braved tempest, sea and breaker. 
 And met the scoffing Saracen 
 
 At Ascalon and Acre. 
 How the Stuart fought at Flodden, 
 
 How the Douglas rode away 
 With Harry Percy's pennon 
 
 From the English border fray; 
 How Roland's paladins and peers, 
 
 Before Iberian sallies. 
 Fell like the leaves of Pyrenees, 
 
 At fatal Roncesvalles. 
 
 There's music in the olden song 
 
 That tells the tale of duty. 
 Of lances poised for glorious eyes 
 
 And crimson lips of beauty; 
 And romance for the belted knights 
 
 That feared the face of no man. 
 Who on the field of Crecy fell 
 
 With faces to the foeman. 
 
 We sing a song of modern days — 
 
 Of something far diviner, 
 The Ballad of the giant Press, 
 
 Creator and refiner! 
 We toast old Guttenburg and Faust, 
 
 In champagne, port and sherry, 
 And in the goblet see the smile 
 
 On Franklin's face grow merry. 
 
 vVMthin its dungeon palace works. 
 
 As some gigantic beaver, 
 The very thing Archimedes 
 
 AVould call the long-sought lever, 
 Obedient to the will of Thought 
 
 It moves its steel phalanges. 
 And nations bend to catch its breath 
 
 From Golden Gate to Ganges. 
 
 It orders war and forces peace, 
 
 And drowns the voice of faction, 
 And moves the men the world calls great 
 
 To automatic action! 
 It proves, when wills its Titan soul 
 
 To philosopliic tinkers. 
 That on this planet there are kings — 
 
 And these the silent thinkers! 
 
 It calls from chaos into life 
 
 New nations as men need 'em, 
 And wraps around their infant forms 
 
 The sacred robes of freedom ! 
 It flays the shrinking back of Crime, 
 
 Tlie Tarquins who pollute us. 
 And tells the tyrants everywhere 
 
 That tiiey have still a Brutus! 
 
 It woos the lightning from the sky 
 
 In all its moods and tenses, 
 And the monarch of the clouds stoops 
 down 
 
 And plays amanuensis! 
 Since it controls the bolts of Jove, 
 
 Prepare for any antic — 
 Build rapid transit to the moon! 
 
 And tunnel tlic Atlantic! 
 
 Room for the coiKiucior of tlie world! 
 
 The steel-clad .Alexander! 
 Room for the Pen, the Sword of mind 
 
 Which sweeps from grand to grander! 
 Room for the Teachers of their kind. 
 
 Who scorn the Wrong's defiance, 
 And proudly bear upon their crest 
 
 The motto: .. Self-Reliance!" 
 
^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 69.5 
 
 -® 
 
 IDA FRIES. 
 
 Born: Brooklyn, N.Y., April 21, 1867. 
 At the age of fifteen stories appeared from the 
 pen of this young writer, and since that time 
 she has hrnn a regular contrihntor to the 
 
 IDA FRIES. 
 
 papers of lier native state. Although she 
 occasionally writes poems she is at her best 
 in prose. Miss Fries resides with her father 
 in St. Nicholas, a beautiful suburb of Jack- 
 sonville, Florida. 
 
 BABY ASTRAY. 
 Where did you come from, baby dear. 
 With your laughing eyes and sunny hair? 
 What brought you in this world of pain? 
 Perhaps j-ou come on the fast mail train. 
 
 And why did mother leave the child. 
 To wander in the woods so wild? 
 Where's mother, sweet, is she not here? 
 Surely she must be somewhere near. 
 
 There — do not cry my little love. 
 Mamma will come to her little dove; 
 Lay your liead on my shoulder, sweet; 
 There — the darling is fast asleep. 
 
 Sleep, little angel, seraphs draw near. 
 
 In garments so filmy, and airy and cheer; 
 
 They invoke the sweet blessings, then flutter 
 
 away. 
 And leave baby sleeping the livelong dav. 
 
 s : — 
 
 A REQUIEM. 
 The hand that swept the sounding Lyre, 
 
 With more than mortal skill; 
 The tender eyes, the heart of fire. 
 
 The gentle lips are still. 
 For her no more the flowers bloom 
 
 With beauty sweet and rare; 
 They fade in yonder moss-grown tomb. 
 
 Upon her form so fair. 
 The birds that sang in yonder lane, 
 
 In sweet and gentle tones; 
 Now sing — alas ! a requiem hymn. 
 
 Their faithful friend is gone. 
 
 AN AUTUMN REVERIE. 
 The shadows stole across the wall. 
 
 The sun was sinking low; 
 And in the lurid western sky. 
 
 The world was all aglow. 
 The roses grew along the ledge, 
 
 The purple pansies nodded there. 
 And Thyme and fragrant summer sage, 
 
 Made sweet the evening air. 
 
 The Golden-Rod lier banner furled. 
 
 Of vivid gold so bright; 
 In sandy loam and richest soil. 
 
 She doth our heart delight. 
 
 My noble Lion, at my feet. 
 
 Lay snoozing in the grass, 
 I wandered to my cool retreat 
 
 And watched the vessels pass. 
 They speed across the shining sea. 
 
 Their white sails fluttering wide; 
 The breezes stir the verdant trees — 
 
 And calm the flowing tide. 
 And all is sweet and calm. 
 
 This perfect day of days. 
 No strife nor fear of harm. 
 
 Doth mar its smiling ways. 
 So ought this life to be. 
 
 Calm, undeflled ;ind pure; 
 Our faith in God its fee. 
 
 Our merits slow but sure. 
 Then what a world of bliss. 
 
 This realm below would be; 
 Tlio tears and trials we'd miss. 
 
 And all be joy and glee. 
 Hut hark! there goes the bell I 
 
 ("oini", Lion, we nnist go: 
 Return to Mother Earth as well. 
 
 And fancy it was so. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 The gallant ship is leaving port. 
 
 Her sails are flying wide; 
 People of every kind and sort. 
 
 Are leaning o'er her side. 
 
 -© 
 
©- 
 
 696 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. INEZ M. POLLARD. 
 
 Born: Hodgdon, Me., Dec. 33, 1866. 
 At the age of twelve two of the poems of this 
 lady appeared in the Yankee Blade. Since 
 that time her poems have appeared from time 
 
 to time in the Aroostook Times and other 
 publications. She was married in 1889 to 
 George Pollard, with whom she resides in her 
 native place. In person Mrs. Pollard is very 
 petite, with light-brown hair and blue eyes. 
 
 UNDER THE STARS. 
 Under the stars of heaven 
 
 We stood, long years ago, 
 The dreamland stars so tender. 
 
 That smile upon life's woe. 
 
 Only one happy moment 
 
 Under the star-lit skies. 
 The night-bird flying heavenward, 
 
 Tlie love-light in her eyes. 
 
 Under the stars of heaven, 
 
 The sky a desert seems ; 
 What is a world of beauty 
 
 To one who lives in dreams! 
 
 Gone is the radiant glory. 
 
 Lost is the hallowed liglit; 
 My star went out in darkness 
 
 Oiu'(> on a summer's night. 
 
 MY SISTER. 
 She went away to the heavenly land 
 
 Many long years ago. 
 She went to dwell with the holy band 
 
 Beyond the reach of woe. 
 We used to wander beside the rills 
 
 Once in the happy days. 
 Now she has gained the sunset hills 
 
 And walks in heaven's waj's. 
 By the fireside there's a vacant place, 
 
 A brightness lost to earth. 
 And I miss a form of youth and grace 
 
 Amid the world's glad mirth. 
 Many a summer has come and fled, 
 
 Roses have bloomed and died. 
 Friends have stood weeping around their dead, 
 
 Since she went from my side. 
 Would 1 call her back from heaven's bliss, 
 
 I, who have known life's pain? 
 When I think of home and happiness 
 
 Where the dear Savior reigns? 
 No, in the beautiful Eden above 
 
 She is so safe from care^ 
 And I shall go to those realms of love 
 Some day and meet her there. 
 
 LOVE'S BURIAL. 
 Here is the beautiful casket, • 
 
 So frail, so wondrously fair. 
 Where love lies quietly sleeping. 
 
 Enshrouded in blossoms rare. 
 Here are the beauteous snowdrops 
 
 To clasp in the cold white hand; 
 Here are the first spring violets. 
 
 Emblems of love's fair land. 
 Afar are memory's angels. 
 
 They are coming swiftly now. 
 To press one kiss of remembrance 
 
 On lips, and cheek, and brow. 
 Dear angels, touch very gently 
 
 The silken cords that you hold. 
 As you lower your precious burden 
 
 Far down in the grassy mold. 
 At last we have seen love buried. 
 
 And some one is left alone, 
 But up in the heavenly city. 
 We shall know, as we are known. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Listen ; do 1 hear a footstep? 
 
 Ah ! a face with beauty rare 
 Bends above me, lightly touching 
 
 Flower wreathes amid my hair. 
 All the weary years are gone, now 
 
 Can it be my hair is white? 
 1 am free a while from sorrow, 
 
 1 am young again to-night. 
 
 ©- 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 G!>7 
 
 © 
 
 LIZZIE MAY TURK. 
 
 Born: Allamakee Co., Iowa, Nov. 11, 1873. 
 The pooni'; of Mis^^ Turk have oe-L-asioiially 
 
 LIZZIE MAY TURK. 
 
 appeared in the local press. She resides in 
 Burr Oak, Iowa, where slie is attending school. 
 
 YESTERDAY. 
 
 An infant tenderly cradled beside its mother's 
 knee. 
 
 Loved, fondled, caressed and petted to its in- 
 nocent baby glee. 
 
 A father proud of his treasure 'twas all that 
 it could be; 
 
 A mother's joy and pleasure to care it beside 
 her knee. 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 A. fair young girl in orange-flowers and bridal 
 
 suit arrayed. 
 Led to the altar has promised her lord from 
 
 henceforth 
 To love, honor and obey. 
 She has done her duty faitlifull.v. 
 Been loved and honored in return. 
 But the best of oil in the costliest lamp 
 Has but one short hour to burn. 
 
 ©- 
 
 TO-MORRONY. 
 We never knew her, she belonged to the dis- 
 tant past. 
 
 The world of her grew weary and tired of her 
 at last; 
 
 Others as bright and merry will her task re- 
 sume. 
 
 The world of her grew weary, so we leave her 
 In the tomb. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 This world is a tremendous ocean. 
 
 Filled with fairy-floating isles; 
 
 Its isles are thronged with people 
 
 Ot all the various stj'les. 
 
 Some live in lofty palaces and in the balls of 
 mirth. 
 
 And some in rude cabins built of nothing but 
 the earth. 
 
 And some o: the great people class them- 
 selves as next to God, 
 
 And some are classed as equal to the poorest 
 of the sod. 
 
 And if the meek people of this nauseous vice- 
 ful world, 
 
 Should cross the path of the palace bird. 
 
 Into the street they are hurled. 
 
 So let us all consider which path we should 
 take. 
 
 Before we have to reconsider 
 
 That our choosing is too late. 
 
 SALLIE EFFIE TERRY. 
 
 BORX: White Mills, Kv., Oct. 19, 186-3. 
 The poems of Miss Terry have appeared in the 
 local press from time to time. She follows 
 the occupation of school teaching, and resides 
 in her native state at Big Clifty. 
 
 BE UNDERSTOOD. 
 If but one single thought of good 
 
 I'd have to give my friend.s. 
 It would be this — be understood. 
 
 Or else you'll have to make amends. 
 Our sad and bloody civil war. 
 
 Which scattered grief o'er all the land. 
 Had causes great, but greater far. 
 
 Than any other on the strand. 
 Was this the people north and south. 
 
 Each other's plans with envy viewed, 
 They could not learn their separate worth. 
 
 And so were thus misunderstood. 
 There, too, is war in social life. 
 
 By friends and kindred near by blood. 
 Who yield to passion, yield to strife. 
 
 Who can not be undei-stood. 
 How oft a laugh, a sigh, a tear. 
 
 Or e'en a movement of the hanrl. 
 Brings sorrow to some friend tliat's dear. 
 
 Because they do not understand. 
 ^ 
 
Sf 
 
 698 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 EZRA BOWERS. 
 
 Born : Bowersville, Ga., Sept. 20, 1863. 
 The poems of Mr. Bowers have appeared in 
 
 tlie Ideal prt's;-; of his state At the afie of 
 
 -H.,. 
 
 EZRA BOWERS. 
 
 twenty-two lie commenced the publication of 
 the American Union, a Aveekly paper which 
 has become very popular in the south. Mr. 
 Bowers is engaged in the railway mail ser- 
 vice, and is also interested in the publishing 
 business. 
 
 OUR FADED FLOWER. 
 
 Lovely hands once fair and tender. 
 
 Now lie folded in the tomb; 
 And thy cradle by the window 
 
 Stands forsaken mid the gloom. 
 
 Bright, sparkling eyes once so charming. 
 Now lie closed within the ground: 
 
 And thy tender body's lying 
 All beneath a little mound. 
 
 Here no longer we behold thee, — 
 Our hearts in sadness mourn; 
 
 But again we hope to meet thee 
 In the resurrection morn! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 The glor'ous Fourth is here again; 
 
 We hail it with gladsome glee,— 
 The day on which our fathers said: 
 
 No more bound are we — but free! 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 My days and years pass sweetly on 
 When I can think of thee alone;— 
 But seems more lov^ely they would be, 
 If I could ever be with thee. 
 
 In times gone by, what happy days! 
 We've seen in childhood's lovely ways;— 
 In memory they return as dreams, 
 And melt my heart with love's bright beams 
 
 Those days and mem'ries — Oh! how sweet 
 They come again, new thoughts to meet,— 
 All serve to bind my soul with thine 
 As in a bond of love divine. 
 
 But the future! What will it bring? 
 Will it still be as lovely Spring? 
 Ah ! a mystery it seems to be. 
 And we can only wait and see! 
 
 «■ 
 
 F. W. LIVINGSTON. 
 
 Born: Jericho, Vt., Sept. 12, 1833. 
 The poems of this gentleman have appeal 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. 
 was married in 1869 to Miss Mary E. Eva 
 and now resides in San Jacinto, Cal., wht 
 he follows the profession of teaching. B 
 Livingston served three years in the ci 
 war. and for four years was superintendt 
 of schools in Mercer County. 111. The poe 
 of this writer have been well received by t 
 press and public, and he has been the rec 
 lent of many congratulatory letters. 
 
 WHAT IS FRIENDSHIP. 
 Is Friendship's band a rope of sand, 
 
 That breaks as soon as felt? 
 Or, if not so, a wreath of snow, 
 
 A ray of warmth may melt? 
 
 Oh, who could think, so weak a link 
 In friendship's chain existed? 
 
 As to be broke, with feather stroke, 
 By nothing else assisted? 
 
 Must friendship live and never give 
 
 By word or deed a token? 
 Lest it ott'end our dearest friend. 
 
 And thus be wholly broken? 
 
 Must it lie cold, and ne'er unfold 
 Its blossoms to tlie heart? 
 
 The soul says. No! that it shall grow, 
 And beauty e'er impai't. 
 
 Tlius may it be 'twixt nie and thee. 
 As long as life shall last,— 
 
 May friends be true tho' ever so few. 
 Where'er our lots be cast. 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 Ultlt 
 
 * 
 
 PATRICK S. CASSIDY. 
 
 BOHN : Ireland, Oct. 31, 1850. 
 Mr. C.\Ssidy came to New York in 1868, and 
 bi'Ciime coiiiici'U'd with the Associated Press, 
 reuiaininjj: witli that Association for about 
 ten years. He successively edited the New 
 York Sunday Democrat, Illustrated Times 
 and the Celtic Magazine, of whicli latter per- 
 iodical he was part owner. Independent of 
 his editorial work, Mr. Cassidj- has written 
 both pro.«e and verse for various leading- 
 AintTicaii liti'r;iry jonrnals. When but six- 
 
 P.\TRICK S. CASSIDY. 
 
 I'-iu years of age he began to court the muse, 
 and his first productions were published in the 
 Ixmdonderry Journal and the Dublin Irish 
 Clironicle. At the ag-e of eighteen he wrote 
 Glenough or the Victims of Vengeance, a 
 scrialstory of Irish life, which appeared in 
 tlie Boston Pilot, and was subsequently pub- 
 lished in book-form and dramatized. Since 
 1H81 he has been regrularly conticcted with the 
 Sunday Mercury. Mr. Cassidy has written 
 nieliKlious song verse, but usually his poems 
 have a heroic ring and metal, and show 
 strength, individuality and boldness, which 
 features are characteristic of the man him- 
 self. Mr. Cassidy still remains unmarried. 
 
 A LONGING. 
 How throbs the city's iron lieart! 
 What noise its beating- tells. 
 
 As through the surging- thoroughfares 
 
 The roar of commerce swells! 
 This ceaseless noise, these grinding throbs, 
 
 They strike the very core. 
 As through its thousand arteries 
 
 Trade's feverish life-streams jtour. 
 How longs the heart lor quiet's balm! 
 
 How weary grows the ear! 
 At all this tumult-war for gain 
 
 Tliat fills the atmosphere. 
 And speaks of man's ambitious mind; 
 
 'Tis death or in the van. 
 For each has entered in the lists 
 
 To head his fellow man. 
 How sick the soul will sometimes grow 
 
 At all this endless strife. 
 Where Mammon is the woi-shiped god. 
 
 And gold is more than life; 
 Where in the flint treadmill of trade 
 
 Men fall before their years. 
 And in the contest o'er the will 
 
 Is centered all the tears ! 
 Dear mellow sounds of rural life, 
 
 How soft your memory fltiats 
 In on me here and soothes my soul 
 
 Like weird .(Eolian notes! 
 How like the wind-harp's viewless chords. 
 
 The chords of memory be! 
 They thrill but to a spirit's song. 
 
 From all earth's discord free. 
 In hour like this how sweetly rise 
 
 Dear scenes of peaceful days. 
 And thoughts of men — the truly great — 
 
 Who walked in simple ways; 
 Who shunned the roar of selfish strife 
 
 And .sought the songs of birds: 
 Who listetied in the breathing groves 
 
 For wi.sdom's whispered words! 
 Oh, solitude— divine retreat! 
 
 What bliss you round us cast. 
 Where we can chose for company 
 
 The great ones of the past ; 
 Far from the jabbering rabble crowd. 
 
 As Moses— Chris.t— retired 
 To groves for wisdom, prayer and thought. 
 
 By spirit tongues inspire<l. 
 Oh, Druid sage, I'll take your hand 
 
 And wander where you lead. 
 By singing streams, o'er plain and hill. 
 
 And vale and Howerj- mead. 
 And in the groves — God's temples they — 
 
 I'll cast me at thy feet. 
 And soothe my wearied soul in thine 
 
 And nature's converse sweet. 
 
 SONG OF LAUGHTER. 
 The ringing laugh, in sonorous note. 
 
 Is a cheering sound to hear, [throat 
 
 When it bubbles up from the heart to the 
 
 Like a stream from a fountain clear. 
 
 © 
 
*^ 
 
 00 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF A3IE1UCA. 
 
 I'll trust the man with a whole-souled laugh 
 
 And count him among- my friends, 
 And the social class I'll clink and quaff 
 With him till the evening ends. 
 For the full free laugh, 
 As our wine we quaff, 
 Is a good heart's jubilant prayer. 
 To the heart I'll say 
 That can laugh that way. 
 There is something- good in there! 
 O, the generous laugh, unreserved and 
 whole. 
 Is the music of the heart — 
 'Tis the anthem grand of a good big- soul, . 
 
 And of heavenly choirs a part. 
 I'll g-rasp the hand of the man or maid. 
 
 Who with laughter Alls my ears; 
 'Tis the only sound that can never fade 
 In the valley of vanished years. 
 O, the thrilling shout 
 As the laugh rings out 
 From a stout heart firm and true, 
 'Tis the robust sound 
 The wide world round 
 As it thrills you through and through ! 
 A pitiful pipe is the hollow laugh. 
 Or the simper or snicker so cold; 
 They tell of a friendship as light as chaff, 
 
 And a heart of the selfish mold. 
 Deceit and cunning- are written thereon 
 
 With " stratagems, treasons and spoils,"— 
 That man's greatest triumph in life is won 
 By getting men in his toils. 
 A traitor to truth. 
 To all love and ruth, 
 Is he of the simper and sneer. 
 And we'll trust him not 
 With our comfort's lot. 
 Nor invite him to share our cheer! 
 Then ha! ha! ha! let us laugh our fill — 
 
 'Tis good for the heart and health ; 
 The generous laugh is the fountain rill 
 
 Of the river of life's best wealth ! 
 Sympathy, loyalty, friendsliip and love. 
 And a hand for the man oppressed,— 
 Such motto as this gives a credit above 
 When we drop to our last long rest. 
 Then let us laugh 
 Till our spirits quaff 
 Of the nectar distilled by mirth; 
 'Tis the token of men 
 Vouchsafed to them when 
 The Creator launched forth the earth! 
 
 ©- 
 
 WOMAN'S HAND. 
 Peering 'mid the flower pots 
 
 Upon the window sill. 
 In and out and round about, 
 
 Hanging round at will. 
 Gleaming white and small and swift 
 
 And timid as a mouse; 
 A woman's liand among- the plants — 
 
 The mistress of the house! 
 No flashing- jewels deck that hand. 
 
 And yet it is not bare: 
 A golden circlet shows thereon 
 
 Which only wives may wear — 
 The honored crown of womanhood 
 
 No true man will assail. 
 That giveth more protection far 
 
 Than baron's coat of mail. 
 A hand that pets the flowei-s must be 
 
 A hand of tender touch, 
 A hand to cool the fevered brow 
 
 And throw away a crutch. 
 A hand to cheer the husband on 
 
 And beautify the home — 
 Ah, did all the husbands have such -wives 
 
 How much less would they roam! 
 
 A hand to lead with silken thread. 
 
 More strong- because unseen. 
 And she, so modest in her love. 
 
 Yet all the more his queen — 
 A queen that reigns within his heart 
 
 With despot power unfelt. 
 Because her hand keeps fresh the shrine 
 
 Where courtship's love hath knelt. 
 But see ! there passeth forth a face, 
 
 A vision fresh and fair, 
 A look of brightness and of cheer 
 
 That daily conquers care; 
 And though the flush of exercise 
 
 Upon her red cheek glows, 
 'Tis the staining- of the lily 
 
 With the crimson of the rose. 
 Such women are the links that bind 
 
 Men to the pure and good, 
 Bright rainbow arches lig-hting up 
 
 From earthly things and rude. 
 Around her breathes an atmosphere 
 
 Fresh born of heaven's own skies; 
 She walks the earth to purify — 
 
 An angel in disguise ! 
 If man hath love within his heart 
 
 And goodness in his soul. 
 Her influence will lead him on 
 
 To life's most perfect goal, 
 Tliough delicate that hand may bo 
 
 It shields from roughest storms. 
 It- routs tlie legions of despair 
 
 And evil fates transforms. 
 Nor nature's forge has ever shaped 
 
 Anotlier force so strong 
 As it in lifting up the good 
 
 And crusliing out the wrong. 
 Talk not of marshaled armies vast. 
 
 Nor of magician's wand,— 
 The greatest power tiiat earth can know 
 
 Ts woman's little hand ! 
 
«■ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 701 
 
 m 
 
 AUGUSTUS CURRF.Y. 
 
 Born: Detroit, Mich., Dec. 17, 1836. 
 Since the age of twelve Mr. Currey has writ- 
 ten verses as a means of recreation and for 
 the pleasure of liis friends on .special occa- 
 sions. Ills poems liave appeared mainly 
 tliroug:h tlie columns of the Chicago Tribune, 
 Detroit Free Press and the Living- Cliurch, 
 from which they have been extensively copied 
 by the periodical press. In isK4 Mr. Ciiiicx 
 
 SB- 
 
 AUGUSTUS CURREV. 
 
 published The Sower, an illustrated book of 
 poems that received a large sale and met with 
 the highest praise from both press and pub- 
 lic. Mr. Currey was married in 1860 to Eliza- 
 beth Clark; two children were born to them, 
 but he had the double misfortune of their 
 loss — one died when but fifteen months old, 
 and the other at tlie age of eight years. Mr. 
 Currey moved from Detroit to Chicago in the 
 year 1863, and remained in that city nearly 
 twenty years, being connected with the Wes- 
 tern Union Telegraph Company and with tlie 
 Chicago, Burlington and Quincy railroad, un- 
 til compelled by Illness to resign his position; 
 and lie tlien returned to Detroit, and still re- 
 sides tliere. Having regained his liealth, Mr. 
 Currey is again actively engaged in business, 
 and is manager of the Detroit Car Service 
 Association. In the near future a volume of 
 the collected poems of Mr. Currey will be is- 
 sued from the press. 
 
 TOIL ON AND WAIT. 
 Toil on and wait. 
 Oh soul insatiate 1 
 God's time-locks on his gate 
 Fulfill your hour of fate; 
 Be not disconsolate. 
 Toil on and wait. 
 Toil on and wait. 
 Nor let your zeal abate; 
 You do not know 
 If they be fast or slow. 
 There is no point to show 
 The hour for you to go 
 Through, and beyond, the gate: 
 Toil ou and wait. 
 
 Toil on and wait. 
 
 You can not delegate 
 
 Your task to any mate. 
 
 And he alone is great 
 
 Who plows his furrows straight 
 
 Himself, to Heaven's gate: 
 
 Toil on and wait. 
 
 Toil on and wait 
 
 With God most Intimate, 
 
 Your years are few. 
 
 Do what you have to do 
 
 Well, and when conies to you 
 
 Summons, and life is through. 
 
 Then it will not be late: 
 
 Toil on and wait. 
 
 WHICH WILL IT BE. 
 
 Which will it be? As the day declines. 
 
 And two souls walk together. 
 And look at the spot where the sun still 
 shines. 
 
 In the beautiful autumn weather. 
 They talk of their lives since love began, 
 
 And the two walk on together: 
 A tender woman; a robust man; 
 
 In the beautiful autumn weather. 
 Alone they wander as night shuts down. 
 
 And held by a mystic tether; 
 One path they walk, as they leave the town. 
 
 In the beautiful autumn weather. 
 And the morning dawns on a new grave, 
 cleft 
 
 In the sand, on the witlicred heather. 
 And one is away and one is bereft ; 
 
 In the beautiful autumn weather. 
 And the bright sun glows, as his face looks 
 down. 
 
 And the cold world cares not wliether 
 It be two, or one, that returns to town. 
 
 In the beautiful autumn weather. 
 But the lonely soul that is left, well knows. 
 
 Of the unseen mystic tether. 
 That holds its gaze where the love-light glows. 
 
 In the beautiful autumn weather. 
 
 -® 
 
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 702 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 5!- 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 Two lonesome souls, at set of sun. 
 Sit where life's turbid waters run. 
 
 And, looking west, 
 Saj', as they see the sun go down 
 Behind two graves beyond the town, 
 
 .1 What is, is best." 
 About them liordes of children play 
 Beneath the sun's departing ray. 
 
 Yet do not bear 
 To these two lonesome souls a tone 
 Of comfort, for they sit and moan: 
 
 " Ours are not there." 
 They were, but now their noiseless feet, 
 Tread, in their play, some far retreat — 
 
 Yet one so pure 
 There is no need to call them in 
 Each night, through fears of liurt or sin 
 
 And keep secure. 
 For where they wander brightest eyes 
 Keep watch and ward, while love supplies 
 
 All wants, and yet. 
 If they be ours, in spite of faith, 
 These hearts, rememb'ring it Is death 
 
 Cannot forget. 
 We are two lonesome souls, decreed 
 To lonesome lives, with liearts that bleed. 
 
 Though Woodmere's crest 
 Holds only underneath its sod 
 The casket, and the children's God 
 
 Knew what was best. 
 And we say not, "They are no more;" 
 But. "Only living gone before:" 
 
 And calmly wait 
 The time when we shall, one by one, 
 Go down some evening with the sun 
 
 Through Woodmere's gate. 
 And feel we are not going where 
 There are no loving ones to care, 
 
 No lips to press. 
 Since, long. ago, our children went 
 Beyond this world of discontent 
 
 And this distress. 
 That leads two lonesome, tearful souls, 
 To sit where life's dull river rolls. 
 
 And, looking west. 
 Say, as they see the sun go down 
 Behind two graves beyond the town, 
 "What is, is best." 
 
 WHO DOES NOT SERVE. 
 Who does not serve? Who stands aloof. 
 Strong-willed and free and fashion proof? 
 In a degree, I think we all 
 Are held to answer some one's call. 
 The richest bends his lordly neck. 
 And interests holds his will in check; 
 If none there were his gold to use. 
 He died amid his wealth profuse. 
 
 The vilest beggar could no more 
 Than he, who rich, must still implore 
 The willing hand to help him through 
 The thousand deeds he wills to do. 
 There are some evils, it is true, 
 I wish were bettered — so do you; 
 But is it not often, honest friend. 
 Our hopes but for some selfish end? 
 If you were rich, as you are poor. 
 Would you feel called to give or cure. 
 Or would you serve your altered lot 
 As now, by keeping all you got? 
 Is not full half our hue and cry 
 The selfishness of you and I? 
 If all men on a level stood 
 Who then would gain the utmost good? 
 Why he who worked while others slept, 
 Lived frugal, saved and closely kept. 
 Until at last — you must allow. 
 The world stood then as it does now. 
 Who does not serve? Why he who best 
 Has saved and served above the rest. 
 Finds with his gains as cares appall. 
 The wealthj' serves the most of all. 
 Who does not serve? My serving friend. 
 Take heart and learn that labors lend 
 Great peace in this laborious lot — 
 To those who serve and murmur not. 
 For envy makes this life a hell 
 Beyond the power of tongue to tell, 
 And he who serves and envies, he 
 It is that sups with misery. 
 
 WHAT IS FOURTH OF JULY? 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 What is the fourth of July I wonder? 
 When the crackers pop and the cannon: 
 
 thunder; 
 When fair-faced girls and rollicking boys 
 Unite in making such terrible noise; 
 And old and young, in their best clothe ] 
 
 dressed. 
 Go out to celebrate with such zest. 
 When grandma smiles as grandpa says: 
 "It was just the same in our youthful days, 
 And there seems no change in the good ol 
 
 way. 
 Of holding in lienor our natal day." 
 And yet to a young child looking down 
 On the crazy crowd and the noisy town, 
 A wee little wonder comes peeping in. 
 As to what folks mean by the deafening din 
 And so I have read of tlic reason why 
 We all are so glad on tlie fourth of July; 
 And I speak of the time in the far-off past. 
 When out of tlie darkness, overcast. 
 Came creeping a spirit which made men lre< 
 With the toiicli she gave them of liberty. 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 7o:{ 
 
 JACOB SMITH BARXHART. 
 
 Bokn: Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. in, 1H28. 
 
 In 1849 the subject of this skt'teh became a 
 dafruerreari artist, and subseiiiieiitly a photo- 
 grapher. Ten years later he piircliased an in- 
 terest in the Democratic Watelinian of Penn- 
 sylvania, which paper lie sul)se<iuently pur- 
 chased and became sole editor and ])roprielor. 
 
 JACOB SMITH BARNHART. 
 
 Mr. Barnhart was married m 1860 to Miss 
 Margery G. Durst, and they have three inter- 
 esting- daughters. Mr. Barnhart was admit- 
 ted to the bar in 1871, and soon after opened 
 an oflBce; and in 18i7 removed with his family 
 to Charles City, Iowa, where he has ever since 
 resided, eng:aged in the practice of law. Mr. 
 Barnhart is a stenographer and a teacher of 
 that art; he is also a natural musician, and is 
 a lively performer on the tlute and violin. 
 The poems of this g-enileman have appeared 
 quite extensively in the leading periodicals. 
 
 PETER FUNK, THE BANKER. 
 I. 
 Down east within a valley 
 Where the sky was very blue. 
 The people iiave a story 
 Which 1 will relate to you. 
 Of Peter Funk, a peddler, 
 Who had come, he said, to stay. 
 
 And did an active business 
 Largely in a business way. 
 
 He borrowed lots of money 
 And the traders had no doubt. 
 His wealtii would reach a million, 
 Till he broke and scampered out. 
 Now, Peter Funk, the peddler. 
 Is a banker in the west; 
 In slirewdness of his measures 
 He is one among tlie best. 
 
 "Come walk into my bank, Jolm," 
 As Peter Funk would say, 
 "And see us loan our money 
 Out, at ten i)er cent to-day. 
 We sell exchange and discount, 
 W'e buy mortgages for cash. 
 And other things we see clieap 
 When tilings break all to smash. 
 
 " Now don't you want a loan, John? 
 Exercise your mind in tliouglit. 
 And borrow twenty thousand 
 On the treasures you have got. 
 Tliink well the subject over. 
 You have credit good in banks, 
 I will give you all I have 
 For two hundred thousand francs. 
 
 And j-ou have got a farm, John, 
 Tliat is very large and good — 
 Sell it for twenty thousand — 
 I surely think you could; 
 Then j-ou have got a grist mill. 
 Grinding wheat and corn to meal, 
 And making dollais dailj' 
 By the turning of the wiieel. 
 
 And you have got some lots, .John, 
 Lying all around the town. 
 And they will bring the cash, too. 
 Quick and ready money down; 
 I know j'ou want a large loan. 
 And I know you slu)uld liegin. 
 So borrow twenty thousand. 
 Do your very best to win." 
 
 III. 
 "I kindly thank you, Peter, 
 That you will so much advance; 
 I want that sum of money 
 As I see a goodly chance. 
 Some others made their fortunes, 
 Wliat I surely want to do. 
 So you may write the papers, 
 I will mortgage unto you." 
 
 " Your thoughts are very wise. John, 
 There are farm, and lots and mill 
 
 -^ 
 
a<- 
 
 704 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 «- 
 
 Worth full a hundred thousaud, 
 And I rather guess I will. 
 To loan you twenty thousand. 
 Get an abstract strictly true, 
 This loan must be first mortgage. 
 Or I wont loan out to you. 
 
 The interest to me, John, 
 When accrued and overdue 
 Will bear per cent no greater 
 Than the mortgage made by you : 
 And then I want commission. 
 You must pay the lawyer's fee. 
 And when to sue the mortgage 
 All that right belongs to me. 
 
 And you must pay the tax, John, 
 Take your money from the till 
 And pay them up quite promptly. 
 To do that we think you will; 
 Now here 1 have the mortgage. 
 You may take it to your wife. 
 And sign me all the homestead, 
 That is strictly business life. 
 
 And, after that, come back, John, 
 I will meet you here to-night 
 And will pay you all the cash 
 Down to which you have a right; 
 At ten per cent, for discount. 
 The recorder's fee to pay. 
 Is not so bad a job I 
 Think, for Peter Funk to-day." 
 
 "Truly, you are back, John."— 
 Now the gold and silver rings. 
 Nothing greater in the world 
 Than the great of money kings — 
 " And as you liave the loan made. 
 Years of interest to pay. 
 Watch the coupons on the note, 
 • Due to Peter Funk in May.' " 
 
 John took away the money. 
 Went to farming as he ought. 
 And kept the mill a running. 
 And improved upon his lots. 
 Sly Peter kept a watching 
 With his mind on knavish tricks. 
 To find a chance to break John, 
 When things were rightly fixed. 
 
 As John had spent some money 
 In improving lots and lands. 
 All things were moving smoothly. 
 He laid up some golden sand. 
 He saw the scheme quite early. 
 By the twinkle of his oyu 
 Bead Peter Funk so slyly 
 That his arts he could defy. 
 
 Times got a little pressing, 
 Peter thought just now and then. 
 It only was a question 
 As to how, and why and when. 
 The money was so surely 
 All put out upon the land 
 That the glitter of the diamonds 
 Shone upon the golden sand. 
 
 The financiering banker 
 
 Watched the money flow of tides. 
 
 The time to get his treasures back 
 
 And all the land beside. 
 
 But John forgot the tax trick. 
 
 And when nothing else was due, 
 
 Skinflint, a buzzard lawyer, 
 
 Tried to press the mortgage through. 
 
 Peter smiled -he often would — 
 And a smile would always play 
 Like gentle beams of summer. 
 When the dollars came his way. 
 The lawyer and the demon 
 Were at work with equal vim. 
 The lawyer's thieving fee bill 
 Made the Devil fancy him. 
 
 The demon thought of Skinflint, 
 
 That in works of hellish sin. 
 
 Of all infernal spirits, 
 
 There was not one up to him; 
 
 So he overlooked the record 
 
 For the power to overwhelm, 
 
 And gave at once the order 
 
 That Skinflint should boss the realm. 
 
 VII. 
 
 They sued for twenty thousand 
 And with interest from date. 
 Attorney's fees and taxes. 
 Both of which were Aery great. 
 John read the claim demurely 
 And he filed a counter plea 
 That "Peter Funk, the banker. 
 Is now largely owing me." 
 
 Good, honest John, the farmer. 
 Had once lived away down east. 
 Where Peter Funk, insolvent, 
 Had the people badly fleeced; 
 John bought old claims against him, 
 Very low, but large to win. 
 And he got by twenty thousand 
 More than balanced up with him. 
 
 The crafty buzzard lawyer 
 And the demon, I declare. 
 Felt keenly John's adventure 
 For the best of this affair. 
 So now the artful schemers 
 See a trick the other way, 
 And Peter Funk, the banker, 
 Says, " The devil is to pay." 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 705 
 
 * 
 
 MINNIE ADELLA HAUSEN, 
 
 Born: Franklin Grove, III., April 3418t)7 
 >fiNNiE Hausen has written poetry from an 
 early agr, aiul tlii' press has extonded to her 
 many marks of appreciation. Her poems are 
 sympathetic, tiue and earnest. She has is- 
 sued her longest poem in pamphlet form, and 
 
 MINNIE ADELLA HAUSEN. 
 
 hopes to have a volume of poems ready for 
 I'ublication iu 1890. In person she is tall and 
 interesting, with brown hair and eyes. 
 Throug-h the kindness of friends she has laid 
 a foundation of a g-eolog-ical collection. 
 
 AT CANDLE-LIGHT. 
 A mellow glint of golden liglit 
 
 Pales in the westeiii sky; 
 The banners of the gentle niglit 
 O'erwave each distant, purple heiglit 
 
 Lone where the wild winds sigh 
 As sweeping o'er the winter white 
 
 Echoing long they die. 
 Witlnn the depths of ambered blue 
 
 Bright is tl>e ev'ning star; 
 A ladder lit with love's sweet hue 
 To tender tlinuglits of myrtled rue 
 
 Dear from the years afar; 
 And, Jacob-like, I looking, too, 
 
 Fathom the mortal bar. 
 And on the distant, reacliiiig rounds 
 
 Angels of liglit and fair 
 Are bringing back old sights and .sounds 
 
 From childhood's rosied, vanished bounds 
 
 Robed ill their vesture fair: 
 Wliile, shining gems and cypress mounds 
 
 Wliispers of love and pi'ai'er. 
 The long, dead yea is, tlie silent years. 
 
 White witli tlie buds of May, 
 Empeark'd in sih'ry Hoods of leais. 
 Knsliiined in love tliat long endears 
 
 Seem in their old array. 
 And voices tliat once scarcely hears 
 
 Speak in the fading day. 
 The twiligiit comes with silence sweet. 
 
 Gray are tlie liillsand cold; 
 My dreamy tiiouglits in concord meet 
 And tender tales of love repeat, 
 
 Talesthat are nevei- old. 
 And candle-light with elfln feet 
 
 Flits from the clouds of gold. 
 
 THK ISLES OF SHOALS. 
 
 TO CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 A grey-tinged sky above the mist and sea : 
 Bare, shoreward rocks and tangled weeds in 
 
 drifts; 
 Lone, sea-lost shells repeating on the clifts 
 The ceaseless sound of ocean's euphony: 
 A fresli sea-breeze; low voices calling me; 
 The long, dim light, in sli-ange and shifts 
 'Twixt dark and light, which altei'ii i)ales 
 and lifts « 
 
 And shades the sea in half-felt mystery; 
 So close thy songs to chords of sea and sky 
 I can not part the wild, sweet place from 
 
 thee 
 Nor tear the tendrils from thy casement 
 panes. 
 The loons send fortli their almost human crj-, 
 Tlie lamps shine out on waters far from me. 
 The winds are low— I liear them In thy 
 strains. 
 
 MUNICH. 
 Afar thrcnigh airj- vails of ametliyst 
 The Alps of Tyrol weai' their lioods of snoTr, 
 Above tlie plain where Isar's waters flow 
 And vanished in the cloud-white waves of 
 
 mist. 
 There where the rays of sunliglit gleam and 
 glist 
 The German music wakes its weal and woe 
 In chords of grandeur that .so thrill and glow 
 Methinks the mountains almo.st stoop to list. 
 From out the west where golden sunsets 
 burn 
 Their lighted candles at the death of day 
 The breaths of forest scent the breeze 
 and gale. 
 And far away the eye can clear discern 
 The towers and spires of FrauenKirche gray 
 Aloft o'er Munich, Munifli of the \:ile. 
 
 -31 
 
^ 
 
 706 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN BLAKEMORE TULLIS. 
 
 Born: Marshall, Texas, Dec. 31. 1866. 
 Since 1883 the poems of Mr. TuUis have 
 appeared in tlie loeal ]y.i\n'v: 
 
 Geori 
 
 JOHN BLAKEMORE TULLIS. 
 
 Texas and Louisiana. Ho follows the occupa- 
 tion of a dr uggist at the place of his birth. 
 
 FOND OF MUSIC. 
 Fond of music, fond of singing. 
 
 Music, music, everywhere. 
 Time's on moment pinions winging. 
 
 Downy music all the year. 
 Trees are preachers, leaves are sermons, 
 
 Buds are texts of richest kind; 
 Dew is dropping- sweet as Hermon's, 
 
 From them to enrich the mind. 
 Plants can sing, and sing so sweetly. 
 
 Half a mimic 1 can stand; 
 Listen, listen — won completely. 
 With the music of the strand. 
 Ocean lifts its hollow thunder. 
 
 Diapasons swell and die; 
 I can liearken, pause, and wonder. 
 
 Music's loving child am I. 
 Islands sing,— on coral seated, 
 
 Continents accompany;— 
 Harmony is thus completed. 
 
 Swelling, thrilling totlie sky. 
 Brooklets sing to rivers chanting. 
 Bounding to them night and day; 
 
 B — 
 
 Blest in blessing — both are panting 
 
 For the ocean far away. 
 Rest and cadence — journey ended, 
 
 (For hereafter is their aim;) 
 Anxious ever to be blended. 
 
 With the source from whence they came. 
 
 Plants are musicians nightly. 
 
 Requiems they sing of day ; 
 Time and tune they picture brightly. 
 
 Cue incessant sparkling lay. 
 
 Seasons warble in their courses. 
 
 Dissonance they never try; 
 Light and air and heat their forces 
 
 Which on passive earth they ply. 
 Air is music — made of gasses, 
 
 Dreadful, separate in lay: 
 Blended, though of diverse classes, 
 
 Life-inspiring is their sway. 
 
 Providence is music ever. 
 Intervals are incidents; 
 Chords and conchords — erring - never, 
 
 Well resolv'd are all events. 
 Nature is a school of singing, 
 
 Creatures are impell'd with joy; 
 Walking, swimming, creeping, winging. 
 
 Harmony is their employ. 
 
 TO A ROSE. 
 Pair emblem of beauty and health. 
 
 Alluring and pleasing the eye; 
 Deceptive, like riches and wealth , 
 
 That makes themselves pinions to fly. 
 To-day, thou art luxury's self; 
 
 To-morrow, the hand of decay. 
 As ruthless robber of self. 
 
 Will spoil thee or snatch thee away. 
 I yesterday, saw thee peep out 
 
 Thy prison-bud, bristled with green; 
 I answered, a rose, witliout doubt. 
 
 The color of those I have seen. 
 Then thou was promise display'd, 
 
 With sweetness commingl'd and blent , 
 Did'st glisten with hope in thesliade, 
 
 Witliout either blemish or rent. 
 But thou hast a thorn I discover. 
 
 Wlioever dare touch thee, beware; 
 Or friend or acquaintance or lover, 
 
 •Neaih beauty and sweetness a snare. 
 Fair emblem of beauty and health, 
 So blooming and dulcet and gay. 
 The spoiler will take thee by stealth. 
 
 Life's luxury is but a day. 
 Man's life is in flowers portrayed. 
 
 For vouth is the bud, full of scent; 
 And manhood the flower display d. 
 With thorns and with sorrows all rent 
 
® 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 ® 
 
 707 
 
 EDWARD JOHN COLCORD. 
 
 Born: Paksonsfield, Me., July 28, 1849. 
 For three years Mr. Colcord taught scliool. 
 He Ki'iiduated in 1881 at the Newton theologi- 
 cal somin:iry, and for two years preaehed in 
 Amherst, X. H. In 1SS5 the Kev. Kdwanl Col- 
 
 KIMV \l!ri .I( III ,\ l-( )I,C()KI). 
 
 cord bei-anie a teacher of ancient lang'uag'es 
 and general history in Vermont academy. 
 Since 1889 Mr. Colcord has been professor in a 
 college at Columbia, Sf. C. The poems and 
 other productions of tliis writer have appear- 
 ed quite extensively in the periodical press, 
 and his name appears in the Poets of Maine. 
 
 ®- 
 
 PRINCES DREAM SONG. 
 Far o'er the crystal sea 
 Shadows float dreamily, 
 
 Dayliglit is ending; 
 Launched on tlie azure tide 
 Slowly the pale stars glide. 
 
 Night is descending. 
 Fair as the day that flies beauty bends o'er 
 
 thee, [thee; 
 
 Radiant as stars that rise soft eyes adore 
 Prince of the peerless line. 
 Hither from worlds divine 
 
 Love is before thee. 
 Fleetly from realms afar. 
 Wafted through sun and star 
 
 Dayliglit is glowing; 
 
 Billowing o'er ether waves 
 
 All the blue arch it laves 
 Night overflowing. 
 Light as the sunbeam lies fond arms shall 
 
 hold thee; 
 Deep as the night that dies love bath controll- 
 ed thee; 
 
 Hither from viewless lands. 
 
 Gift of inunt)rtal hands 
 Love shall enfold thee. 
 
 Ever while morns arise 
 
 Glorious o'er all the skies 
 Daj-light is streaming; 
 
 Ever as twilight wanes 
 
 Strewn o'er the violet plains 
 Night stars are dreaming. 
 Wide as the morning gleams swells life's en- 
 deavor; 
 Dear as a night of dreams Hope fadeth never; 
 
 Prince of a royal line. 
 
 Sweeter than life of thine 
 Love is forever. 
 
 JENNIE SAYRE. 
 
 The poems of Mi.ss Sayre have appeared ex- 
 tensively in the newspapers of Nebraska, 
 In which state she now resides at Waco. 
 
 of 
 
 THE DODGING CHURCHMAN. 
 I'm a temperance man. 1 will do what T can ; 
 
 I will earnestly talk and pray ; 
 I will labor with might for the cause 
 right. 
 
 But 1 cannot vote that way. 
 With eloquence warm I will urge reform. 
 
 Let all the world take note, 
 I never shirk from temperance work 
 
 Excepting when 1 vote. 
 I will labor so tluit the world may know 
 
 I'm a zealous temperance man; 
 I will talk of laws that will aid the cause. 
 
 But 1 cannot vote the plan. 
 >ry tongue .shall delight to talk of right, 
 
 I will speak its pi'aise each d;iy; 
 I will urge it strong on the listening throng. 
 
 But I cannot vote that way. 
 A vote for the right is lost from sight. 
 
 For the cause is weak ttxlay ; 
 It might grow strong if helped along. 
 
 But 1 cannot vote tliat way. 
 With the party strong, though the cause be 
 wrong. 
 
 My vote will still be Ciist. 
 TlK)ugh want and woe in streams may How 
 
 And whisky rule at last. 
 The widow's groan, the orphan's moan. 
 
 Shall not etiect my will, 
 I will pity them though and tell them so. 
 
 lint vote for whisky still. 
 
 •© 
 
*- 
 
 70S 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 COL. SAM P. THOMAS. 
 
 Born : Hawesville, Ky., Dec. 3, 1856. 
 The poems of Mr. Thomas have appeared in 
 the Louisville Post, and numerous Kentucky 
 publications. In person Col. Thomas is of the 
 average height, with black hair and brown 
 eyes, is unmarried and still resides in his na- 
 tive town. 
 
 A CONVICT'S SLEEPLESS NIGHT. 
 As I Jay me down on this rough, rude bed 
 
 To rest my limbs so weary. 
 Not a ray of hope is shed 
 
 Within these walls so dreary. 
 I think of days long since past 
 
 When 1 breathed God's pure air. 
 Ere my reckless steps were fast 
 
 Toward Fate's cruel snare. 
 Just twenty years ago to-night 
 
 The huge door closed behind me — 
 And ere another takes its flight 
 
 May God's Death-Angel find me. 
 Twenty weary years have llown 
 
 Upon Time's current rife. 
 Since I heard my mother's piteous moan 
 
 As my sentence read " for life." 
 'Twas then her hair in silvery strands 
 
 Was pillowed on my breast, 
 'Twas then I clasped her wrinkled hands. 
 
 And her lips to mine were pressed. 
 I bid her there a sad farewell 
 
 The piercing pain of pains — 
 I left her for this gloomy cell 
 
 Bound in my clanking chains. 
 How fondly does my memory roam 
 
 Beyond this lock and guard. 
 To linger in my dear old home 
 
 Within the flower-strewn yard. 
 Who dwells to-night beneath that roof? 
 
 Ah ! stranger's form and face — 
 My mother has been born aloof 
 
 In Angel's fond embrace. 
 Long ago the warden called me 
 
 To the latticed iron door. 
 The words he uttered there appalled me — 
 
 '. Your mother is no more! " 
 I know she's gone where all is well, 
 
 O! God, thy will be done- 
 She's looking down within this cell 
 
 Upon her convict son. 
 Now memories float to the mansion grand 
 
 In the city far away. 
 Where gentle zephyrs oft have fanned 
 
 Tlie brow of Clotille Gray. 
 Methinks I see the parlor bright. 
 
 Its richly garnished walls, 
 The gilded chandelier's light — 
 Within the gorgeous halls. 
 * 
 
 Away, away has memory sped 
 'Till I hear the silken rustle, 
 I see her there in noiseless tread 
 
 Upon the costly brussel. 
 The snowy throat, the dimpled chin. 
 
 The waving raven hair, 
 A brigand chief's brave heart would win — 
 
 He'd fall and worship there. 
 'Neath the exquisite arching brows, 
 
 Which artistic skill defies, 
 I see the orbs which my soul arouse — 
 
 Her soft and dreamy eyes. 
 I've often watched the lily fingers 
 
 Glide o'er ivory keys, 
 And that voice still with me lingers — 
 
 It lives upon the breeze. 
 'Twas that fair hand that once did clasp 
 
 A flowing cup of wine, ] 
 
 She tendered me the stinging asp — I 
 
 I delicately declined. | 
 
 She threw erect her stately form. 
 
 And fixed a startled gaze. 
 Her cheeks were mantled in blushing warm 
 
 Like sun in autumn haze. 
 From the beauty I moved apace — 
 My heart ne'er ceased its beating. 
 Then a sweet smile leaped her face — 
 
 The smile was half entreating. 
 Then my resolution fled, 
 
 The future all unheeding. 
 My vows had snapped their tender thread, 
 
 I yielded to her pleading. 
 It was my first but not my last. 
 
 And at a single quaft 
 My moistened lips the liquid passed - 
 
 It was a fatal draught. 
 That glass was my young life's blight, 
 
 It was indeed my curse; 
 From that starry summer night 
 
 I stepped to bad — to worse. 
 The key that locks this dungeon door 
 
 Where I lor life must stay, 
 Is the glass I took in days of yore 
 From the hand of Clotille Gray. 
 
 Sunbeams fall through leafy boughs 
 
 And kiss the marble shaft: 
 They bring to mind the broken vows - 
 Tlie curs'd and fatal draught. 
 Hark! I hoar the prison bell — 
 
 The night has passed away; 
 Now I leave this narrow cell 
 
 For my labors of the day. 
 Would to God that life was done - 
 
 In Death's dark river sunk; 
 I long to take the place of one 
 
 1 killed while I was drunk. 
 
©^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA, 
 
 709 
 
 -® 
 
 T. G. C. DAVIS. 
 
 The poems i)f Mr. D:i\-is havo rocfixt-d cxton 
 sivepiibliciitiou iusome of the k-ailiiig perio- 
 dicals of Americ-a, from wliieh tliey liave been 
 extensively copied by the loeal press. Mr. 
 Davis is :i man of cxteiisiNc Icai'iiinf;', and 
 
 T. G. C. I)AVI.S. 
 
 while practicing- liis profession of tlie law in 
 former years, was well known both in Missou- 
 ri and Illinois. The productions of Mr. Davis 
 have always been favorably received by press 
 and public, and they certainly are meritorious. 
 
 A NEW LINE OF THOUGHT. 
 
 " The spirit of man has perpetual youtii I " 
 Some might be cited to prove tliis gre;it truth. 
 The body decays and weakens each limb, 
 The teetli fall out and e.vesig-ht grows dim, 
 Yet tiie mind or the spirit blazes within. 
 Would any know why? to God 'tis akin, 
 1 would strike out a new vein of tliouglit, 
 A very rich mine in wliieh few have wroup-ht. 
 Old men in thoug-ht soar hig:her and higher. 
 Until they mingle with God"s chosen choir. 
 There they may pause to sing the sweetest 
 
 song. 
 With the celestial pure angelic tlu'ong. 
 Then <lcsc-cnd to eartli in fleshly geai- 
 And shuffle it off it may be with fear: 
 Wiien all clogs are removed — no weight to 
 
 carry. 
 The mind is sure it cannot miscarry. 
 So mounting at once on God-given wings. 
 The soul in her flight soars upward and sings; 
 ® 
 
 In sorrow she looks back on the flesh dead. 
 Lying below her on its cartliy bed. 
 The day for rising, O, wlien sh:ill it couieV 
 How long sliall the body lie cold and dumb? 
 O, God shall it soon arise and stand up? 
 And must all men drink of this slumb'rous 
 
 cup? 
 Will long ages of the quietest rest. 
 Prove at the last for mankind the best? 
 Have some men been Ijurned and their ashes 
 
 thrown out. 
 And trampled upon by the vulgar rout? 
 And shall one stand erect in the last day 
 To questions then propounded answer and 
 
 say: 
 Yes, I am the Herod who took ofl' Joiin's head, 
 And I wish I were a million times dead. 
 
 A WHISPEK FKOM THE GKAVE. 
 A soldier gazed and wept — 
 
 No tears ran down his cheek. 
 There where his angel slept 
 
 His heart was sad but meek; 
 His soul her whiteness kept 
 
 Although he could not speak. 
 The soldier gazed and wept. 
 
 No tears ran down his cheek. 
 The soul a language knows; 
 
 In silence only speaks. 
 And slow the volume grows. 
 
 Yet ne'er by starts and freaks. 
 Still truly happy glows. 
 
 Through years and months and weeks. 
 At last the soldier knows. 
 
 Then like a hero speaks. 
 There in the grave she lay: 
 
 He stood and gazed on it. 
 And Whisper seemed to sa.v: 
 
 I. Weep not thou o'er this pit, 
 For here is naught but clay; 
 
 The spirit gone from it. 
 My body here must stay 
 
 Till the spirit come for it." 
 
 TO THE REV. FELSTNG. 
 
 OF DENTON, TEX.\S. 
 
 No man should lose himself in a world of light. 
 
 No one without care should his own thoughts 
 indite: 
 
 Small things grow fast in Nature's great ex- 
 pansive realm; 
 
 The large require time and space; made for 
 the helm. 
 
 They rise by slow degrees, until they reach 
 the i-ound; 
 
 The last degree of the sublime; the profound. 
 
 Lies far below the depth of the deepest hill. 
 
 And the foulest brimstone's suffocating smell. 
 
 The wise nevergmpe and stagger in the night. 
 
 Never lose themselves in a pure world of 
 light. 
 
 ® 
 
©- 
 
 -® 
 
 710 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMElllCA. 
 
 MRS. EMELINE A. WILSON. 
 
 Born : Babylon, L. I., Nov 35, 1835. 
 This lady received lier education at a public 
 school in Brooklyn. 81ie has written occa- 
 
 MKS. EMEHNE A. WILSON. 
 
 sionally since 1881, and her poems have been 
 very favorably received. Mrs. Wilson at pres- 
 ent resides in Norwich, Conn. 
 
 WITHIN OURSELVES. 
 
 Hope is the eye through which we look, 
 
 Faith is the sight by which we see, 
 And life, the running- rippling- brook 
 
 That flows into eternity. 
 In youth our eyes are opened wide. 
 
 The pupils rounded, large and full; 
 We throw our.selves upon life's tide. 
 
 Our barques with eagerness we pull. 
 When age and time come on apace. 
 
 Our barques, we slowly let them drift; 
 With sight contraction's taken place. 
 
 Our weary lids we scarcely lift. 
 And verging on the great broad .sea. 
 
 We hold our battered barques aback, 
 Our eyes have dimmed most feaifully. 
 
 Out sight doth something surely lack. 
 
 O WHKKE HAVE THEY GONE? 
 
 O, where have t he zephyi-s gone'^ Ah, me I 
 I watched for them far o'er the lea, 
 And at the side of waters deej). 
 Where murmurs lull one unto sleep. 
 
 I've wandered through the woods in vain. 
 And called for them far o'er the plain; 
 But yet no answering voice I hear. 
 Can they be far? or are they near? 
 
 I pant, I languish and I pine 
 For breezes soft that do incline, 
 To hold the leaves in dalliance sweet, 
 And not forever seek retreat. 
 
 if ^olus I could reach, 
 
 1 readily would him beseech 
 To let the gentle west wind out. 
 To roam the fields with us about; 
 
 And fan our cheeks, while sweet perfumes 
 Are wafted from the fragrant blooms 
 That now with drooping heads do stand 
 Within their beds, on every hand. 
 
 AT THE TOP OF THE MAST. 
 
 Go at the top of the mast, my boy. 
 
 Go at the top of the mast; 
 If you would have the bright sunshine. 
 
 Go where the glow is cast. 
 
 Go at the top of the mast, my boy, 
 
 . Above the misty cloud: 
 
 There you may see the beaming morn. 
 
 Without a dismal shroud. 
 Though rope, by rope, one must ascend. 
 
 The top will soon be gained. 
 And then above the sea of mist, 
 
 Bright views will be obtained. 
 
 Thus step by step, through life my boy. 
 
 If you would overcome 
 The sea of trials that arise 
 
 And would have victory won. 
 
 You must, as years roll ever on. 
 
 So take, and upward climb; 
 Ah, then, you'll see joy's hai)py day. 
 
 And light for you will shine. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O, come, O come, to-night, love. 
 
 Upon the lake so fair. 
 While fragrance of the rose, love. 
 
 Doth pei-meate the air. 
 While Luna's beaming face, love, 
 
 At zenith's height looks down, 
 And planetary gems, love, 
 
 Night's noble brow doth crown. 
 O come, where dipping oars, love. 
 
 Shall Sliced a bonnie boat. 
 Upon the ripi)ling sea, love. 
 
 Where sparking rays do float ; 
 And where the murm'ring sea, love, 
 
 In rhythms soft shall sing, 
 A lullal)y to cai-e, love. 
 
 As wo the deft oars fling. • • • 
 
 g&- 
 
 -» 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 711 
 
 ■« 
 
 HERBERT M. SYLVESTER. 
 
 Boun: Lowell, Mass., Feb. 20, 1840. 
 After practicing successfully the legal pro- 
 fession for thirteen years in Portland, Mr. 
 Sylvester then removed his office to Boston. 
 It was here he wrote his Prose Pastorals, 
 which have been called by competent critics 
 poems in prose. Although Mr. Sylvester has 
 written numerous poems of beauty, he is best 
 known as a prose writer. 
 
 RAIN MUSIC. 
 Hear the welcome of the rain ! 
 
 Patter, patter. 
 
 Tuneful chatter, 
 On the flashing fire-lit pane. 
 Hear the lioneysuckle creak 
 As the winds its secrets seek. 
 
 Twisting through its matted vines. 
 And tlie windows how they rattle, bang, and 
 batter! 
 
 Pitter, patter. 
 
 Dripping chatter. 
 Tripping down the shingled roof. 
 Filling up its liquid woof; 
 How the notes each other throng. 
 Making up their slumber-soiig. 
 
 Full of .softly drowsy lines. 
 With their drip, and rusli, and gush and clat- 
 ter! 
 
 Pitter, patter. 
 
 Dripping chatter. 
 Hear the niglit-tide of the rain ! 
 
 A LARK SONG. 
 A monkish group in sober garb. 
 
 The pasture maples stand 
 
 Against the soft, gray sky. 
 The weatlier-cock wakes with the wind; 
 
 The meadow mists, like fleets 
 
 Of ghostly ships sail by. 
 Seaward, the ripples grow apace; 
 
 Morn, blushing like a girl. 
 
 Betrays with rosy grace 
 Her sun-god lover by her face. 
 From dewy nest and meadow bloom, 
 
 Tlie brown lark upward soars; 
 
 His dusky-tliroated song 
 Falls, sparkling down, now faint, now clear- 
 
 A shower of liquid tones. 
 
 Strewn wood and field along. 
 Like drops of .slanting, sunlit rain — 
 
 And breathless lies the earth 
 
 To catcli the wondrous strain, 
 Tliat woos the bieaking day again. 
 
 A MUTE PROPHECY. 
 Aslant the threshold of the West 
 Stretclies a sombre reef 
 
 Of gray; its low, uneven scarp. 
 
 Outlined in sharp relief 
 Against the sky, is roughly set 
 
 With pinnacles that glow 
 Like Norombega's mystery 
 
 Of centuries ago. 
 The hills, with ragged, rock-set domes. 
 
 Wind-blown and bare, uprear 
 Their brightly polished topaz walls. 
 
 In the clear atmosphere; 
 While o'er the cloud's thin, ragged rift 
 
 Burst the deep golden floods 
 Of Nature's alcliemy, that sift 
 
 Their glory through the woods. 
 Night comes; the Spirit of the Frost 
 
 His shuttle swifter plies 
 'Twixt Nature's warp, and swifter weaves 
 
 For Earth Its subtle guise; 
 And down the river-path the pines 
 
 Echo the dreary cry 
 Of winds whose dying cadences 
 
 Are Nature's lullaby. 
 In the crisp air of growing dusk 
 
 Night sets her cordon-line 
 Thick with groups of glittering stars, 
 
 That weirdly burn and shine. 
 And come and go, as silently 
 
 As lights that far at sea 
 Are sailed o'er restless tides, by hands 
 
 We cannot know or see. 
 
 THE GREAT SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 Life fluds its meaning in its scope. 
 As broad or na rrow as its aim, — 
 A poor, frail jest, if only hope 
 
 Or untaught hand may feed its flame. 
 Dame Nature's school keeps open door,— 
 Her novice needs no less, no more,— 
 Where long apprenticeship of thought is gain 
 Of stouter brawn and larger thrift of brain. 
 
 MRS. MARY C. KELSEY 
 
 Born: Logansport, Ind. 
 This lady is the wife of J. S. Kelsey, M. D., 
 and resides in Xenia, Ind. Mrs. Kelsey has 
 a poetic style of her own. and has written 
 poems occasionally from liergirlliood. wiiich 
 have appeared from time to time in the local 
 press. Mrs. Kelsey is the oldest daughter of 
 Mrs. Julia M. Kautz of Cutler, Ind., who is re- 
 presented elsewhere in this work. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 In the sunny days of childhood. 
 In the years that are gone by. 
 
 Swiftly sped the golden hours 
 'Neath the blue and laughing sky. 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 712 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. EMMA H. NASON. 
 
 Born: Hallowell, Me., Aug. 6, 1845. 
 When a school g-irl Emma was class poet at 
 graduation. She gave the commencemeut 
 poem before the literary societies of Maine 
 Wesleyan seminary in 1875, and also read an 
 original poem at the dedication of Hallowell 
 library in 1880. She was married in 1870 to 
 Charles H. Nasou, and now resides in Augusta. 
 Since her marriage Mrs. Nasou has devoted 
 much of her time to writing, study of art and 
 German literature. She has published several 
 works, chiefly of poems, short stories, art pa- 
 pers and household sketches; and also White- 
 Sails, a book of verses and ballads for young 
 people, beautifully illustrated. 
 
 88 
 
 OFF FOR BOY-LAND. 
 
 Ho ! All aboard ! A traveler, 
 
 Sets sail from Babyland ! 
 Before my eyes tliere comes a blur; 
 
 But still I kiss my hand. 
 And try to smile as off he goes. 
 
 My bonny, winsome boy ! 
 Yes, bon voyage! God only knows 
 
 How much I wish thee joy. 
 Oh, tell me, have you heard of him? 
 
 He wore a sailor's hat 
 All silver-corded 'round the brim. 
 
 And —stranger e'en than that — 
 A wondrous suit of navy blue. 
 
 With pockets deep and wide; 
 Oil, tell me, sailors, tell me true. 
 
 How fares he on the tide? 
 
 We've now no babj' in the house; 
 
 'Twas but this very morn 
 He doffed his dainty, 'broidered blouse, 
 
 With skirts of snowy lawn ; 
 And shook a mass of silken curls 
 
 From off his sunny brow. 
 They fretted liim — so like a girl's. 
 
 Mamma can have them now. 
 He owned a bran-new pocket-book. 
 
 But tliat he could hot find; 
 A knife and string was all he took. 
 
 What did he leave behind? 
 A heap of blocks, with letters gay. 
 
 And here and there a toy; 
 I cannot pick them up to-day. 
 
 My heart is with my boy. 
 Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood's town 
 
 Cast anchor .strong and deep. 
 What ! Tears upon his little gown. 
 
 Left for mamma to keep? 
 Weei> not, but smile; for through the air 
 
 A merry message rings — 
 "Just sell it to tlie rag man tiiere; 
 
 I've done with baby things! " 
 
 FRANK E. HERN. 
 
 Born: Highland Co., Va., Jan. :3, 1859. 
 After receiving his education Mr. Hern 
 followed school teaching for several years. He 
 then went to Texas in 1877, then to Indiana, 
 and finally located in his native state at 
 Huntington, where he is now engaged in the 
 hotel business. The poems of Mr. Hern have 
 been published in the Waverly Magazine, 
 New York News and other papers. He is now 
 engaged on a novel. 
 
 A MERCENARY MARRIAGE. 
 Am I married, Ned? Yes, 'tis all over. 
 
 The gay guests have all gone away, 
 And Neddie, old boy, I'm in clover — 
 
 My fortune has changed in a day. 
 For her wealth, did you say? Well, 'tis funny 
 
 That the gossips all have it that way, 
 But if a fellow has plenty of money. 
 
 What matters what people may say? 
 Were j'ou speaking of Nell? Ah, that's over, 
 
 It was only a silly boy's passion; 
 I was then but a jolly young rover- 
 
 Such things are now quite out of fashion. 
 'Tis true, when the evenings were mellow 
 
 We sometimes strolled down by the sea; 
 And no doubt now, with some other fellow 
 
 She is talking the same as with me. 
 But don't fail to be with us next season — 
 
 I will then show you something of life; 
 And perhaps you will then know the reason 
 
 Why I made such a choice of a wife. 
 With her friend in our mansion so ton}-, 
 
 You see mine's an innocent game — 
 We can leave her and run down to Coney, 
 
 And flirt with the girls just the same. 
 
 IF THOU WERT HERE. 
 
 If thou wert here to-night. 
 The deep, funereal gloom, 
 Which makes tliis narrow room 
 Seem like a living tomb. 
 
 Would turn to light. 
 
 If thou wert only near. 
 The moaning of this sea. 
 Which sounds so sad to me. 
 Would seem sweet melody 
 
 Unto my ear. 
 
 If thou wert only here to-night 
 I know thy presence dear 
 Would dry each bitter tear. 
 And ev'ry foolish fear 
 
 Would put to flight. 
 
 If thou wert only nigh. 
 As in the days of yore. 
 This heart, now faint and sore. 
 Would beat forevermore 
 
 Without a sigh. 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AXD >fATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 713 
 
 -^ 
 
 W. BEAUMONT COXE. 
 
 Born: Philadelphia, Pa., Feb. 9, 185.5. 
 Since 1877 ilie poems of Mr. Coxe have ap- 
 
 peareil ill many i«l' ihr li^ailiiiu- piililicat i<iiis 
 
 W. BEAUMONT COXE. 
 
 of America. He was married in 1878 to Miss 
 Lillie Daniels, and is now eng-aged in tiie pro- 
 fession of pharmacist at San Francisco, Cal. 
 
 m~ 
 
 A DREAM. 
 Hark! They wliisper to me now; 
 
 Who? The angels from above, 
 Asmj' mind in fancy roams, 
 
 Onward to the maid I love. 
 I picture her in elfin home 
 
 Close beside a shady brook. 
 The glow above, the radiance around. 
 
 The form on which I love to look. 
 How sweet the vision to my sight 
 
 Of rounded form and face so fair. 
 Eyes so blue, so Heavenly blue. 
 
 Shaded by her golden hair. 
 Robed in white, in spotless white. 
 
 Fleecy as the northern snow; 
 As she reclines in elflu nook. 
 
 Chanting- to me, so sweet and low. 
 As she chants, the birds above 
 
 Join in one melodious strain; 
 And all the virgin flowers around 
 
 Their sweetness to my Goddess drain. 
 The beams of Sol in prism.atic ray. 
 
 Are filter'd through the loliag-e green ; 
 
 Like beads of dew upon the brow. 
 
 To lend enchantment to the scene. 
 O heart of hearts !— joy of joys ! 
 
 Let us love and ling-er on 
 In love's embrace, with plighted hearts 
 
 That knows no breaking- duwu. 
 But no!— life is one g-rand dream 
 
 Of love, with sweetness rife; 
 Until we awake by the fairy hand; 
 
 Then —'tis bitterness and strife. 
 
 BLIGHTED LOVE. 
 
 Let us take a mystic journey. 
 
 With fond memory, hand in hand. 
 And g-o back a sea.son only. 
 
 To the grand poetic land. 
 Ah! 'twas there you loved me dearly, 
 
 Lov'd to read ray thoug-hts so true, 
 That my life's eternal sunshine. 
 
 Always rose and set in you. 
 Yes, you lov'd then, as you told me. 
 
 And your life 'twas of mine a part, 
 That the chord of intense affection, 
 Link'd, cover'd my soul, thy heart. 
 Who can tell the joyous raptures. 
 
 The heaven that was beneath the sky? 
 Who can tell that love is lasting-, 
 
 Althoug-h the vows are l5orn on high? 
 Ah ! 'twas true love, not of passion, 
 
 But the thrilling- love from me. 
 As the angel might have given 
 
 In my thoughts to only thee. 
 All day long- in tones so dulcent. 
 
 All the night in visions so sweet. 
 Until the roseate hues of morning-, 
 
 Glow'd upon us as we'd g-reet. 
 'Twas summer then, 'tis over now, 
 
 Blanch "d bj' the wintery frost. 
 The season and the love were born 
 
 To be gay, joyous, and then lost. 
 Blighted by the shadow feared by man 
 
 Must all things earthly be. 
 It has taken before, it has taken now. 
 The lo%'e, love that was dear to me. 
 
 YAVAPAI NAIADS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 'Twas the blending- of the graces. 
 
 In a purity divine: 
 'Mid the showering- of g-lances 
 
 Where the branches iuterwine; 
 While the daintiest of blushes 
 
 On the snowiest of cheeks. 
 Gave no whisperings of warninp 
 
 To the merriest of freaks. 
 As the beaming- and the g-leaming 
 
 Of these " tiny things " of white, 
 LTshered into vision plainly 
 
 Fancies of an endless light. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 714 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLEN F.PRATT. 
 
 Born : Zanesville, Ohio, 1842. 
 This lady was married in 1865 to G. N. Pratt. 
 Her poems have appeared in the Chicago Cur- 
 rent, Union Signal and the periodical press 
 g'enerally. She is tlie author of a volume en- 
 titled Jerry. Mrs. Pratt is at present engaged 
 in literary pursuits and is at work on a novel. 
 
 MOTHERHOOD. 
 I hold within my arms to-day 
 A priceless bit of mortal clay: 
 Divinely fashioned, and so fair 
 The angels well may kinship share. 
 My soul with gratitude is filled; 
 My heart with mother-love is thrilled; 
 My eyes brim o'er with new-born joy, 
 Wliile gazing on my cherub boy. 
 O, precious one! through tears I see 
 A mighty tusk awaiting me; 
 My happy sky grows overcast- 
 Life's duties loom so grand, so vast. 
 To shield from wrong, to right incline 
 This little life now linked to mine. 
 Divine the gift. Oh, may the mold 
 A heart of truth and honor hold. 
 Help me, kind Heaven, to know the way 
 From out the tangles of each day, 
 To guide him safe to manhood's prime, 
 And all the glory shall be Thine. 
 
 HEART ECHOES. 
 Out from his home, to the arrogant world. 
 Its dazzling- allurements, vice banners un- 
 furled, 
 To wreck, or exalt his own life and mine. 
 To level with brutes, or manfully shine, 
 
 My boy has gone. 
 Closer our hearts have been knitting for 
 
 years. 
 My baby, my boy. now my man — O, ye tears; 
 No wonder ye fall, for in tlie wide earth 
 So cruel and cold, where all evil has birth. 
 
 My boy is alone. 
 My laddie! so lielpful, warm-hearted and true; 
 O, men of the world, I am pleading with you. 
 My sapplingr will readily mold to your will. 
 Remember your sons, and treat him not ill. 
 
 My innocent boy. 
 Help him to shun the base and impure. 
 Lead him away when temptations allure, 
 O, teach him this truth, wlio will and who 
 
 can. 
 That justice and purity make the true man. 
 
 Be a friend to my boy. 
 Ye who the semblance of womanhood bear, 
 Who once were as pure as the angels, be- 
 ware ! 
 
 Lest ye dash your foot against a stone. 
 A righteous God hears a mother's moan — 
 
 For her boy betrayed. 
 Some day a fair maiden, with heart pure and 
 
 free. 
 Will wait for the coming of him who shall be 
 Friend, lover and husband. May she yield 
 
 her name 
 To him who has lived a life without stain — 
 
 My unsullied boy. 
 My counsels, my prayers, O, will they avail? 
 Will he learn to say no, and flinch not, nor 
 
 quail? 
 Will he remember my love and my care? 
 O, Father of mercy ! give ear to this prayer, 
 " Save, save my boy!" 
 
 PEBBLES. 
 
 'Tis little things that fret us 
 
 And make us quail 
 Before life's every dayness, 
 
 We are so frail. 
 The word that's fitly spoken, 
 
 Alas ! is rare ; 
 For soft reply to anger 
 
 Make daily prayer. 
 Not vain will be the efifort. 
 
 For peace will come. 
 And happiness await us 
 
 Abroad and home. 
 
 PROF.E.L. PATTON. 
 
 This gentleman is prof essor of Greek at the 
 University of South Carolina at Columbia. 
 His poems have appeared quite extensively 
 in the newspapers and literary magazines of 
 the south. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Mary, my own, 1 bless the guiding hand j 
 
 That led the wanderer to thy father's door, i 
 
 And fixed his choice; the same that led of^ 
 
 yore ' 
 
 The Hebrew exile to the distant land 
 
 Of Padan Aram, where th' Assyrian maid, 
 In virgin beauty with her fleecy c;nr. 
 Met his enraptured gaze, a vision fair. 
 
 And to the stranger modest welcome bade , 
 Yet not so fair as thou, I fondly deem. 
 That summer eve, when, ch.d m ."^inipl' 
 white. 
 Thy timid beauty blushed upon my signt. 
 And thrilled me like the magic of a dream, 
 When fancy to the ravished sen.se P<^';*f 5' 
 Some bright ethereal form, too bright 
 mortal gaze ! 
 
 ©- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 "15 
 
 EMILY W. PEAKES. 
 
 Born: harmony. Me., Dec. 1, 1847. 
 This lady graduated in 1874 from Westbrook 
 seminary. Slie follows the prol'essiou of 
 icliool teaeliinfr, in wliieli slie has always been 
 
 KMIF.V W. I'K.\KE8 
 
 ry successful. Personally Miss Peakes is 
 f a verj' amiable and pleasing disposition, 
 lie is now a teacher of literature in the high 
 ^hools of Terre Haute. 
 
 « 
 
 IN SCHOOL — A PERFUME, 
 close my eyes, and the lilac's perfume 
 las borne me away from this crowded room. 
 Tiider northern skies where the flowers are 
 
 late 
 nd this plumy branch for the June must 
 
 wait. 
 
 I farm-house stands from the road aloof, 
 ^ith themountaiti-ash against its roof, 
 here's bridge in front tliat crosses a brook 
 '^here tlie spotted trout hides awa> from the 
 hook ; 
 
 nd a winding road, with a double ridge 
 fgniss, comes down the liill to the bridge, 
 ose by the door twine lilac-trees 
 reathea sweet good-niorningto every breeze, 
 group of children with happy look 
 re lingering here with basket and book. 
 
 Why do they wait? There's one little creature 
 Wants a lilac-flower to give to the teacher; 
 She must have the very highest one 
 That no one can reach — and what's to be 
 
 done'? 
 For the longest arm comes short of the prize 
 That bends and beckons before lier eyes; 
 But she saw papa coming up through the 
 
 clover, 
 A strong, tall man; see! he lifts her over 
 The heads of the group that round him .stand 
 And she breaks the branch with her chubby 
 
 hand. 
 
 What was I saying?— I open my eyes; 
 Why, I am the teacher supposed to be wise; 
 One instant ago 'twas a six-year-old 
 Who smelled of the lilac, and my father's 
 hold 
 
 Was strong around me; the years and death 
 Were swept away by the lilac's breath. 
 
 MRS.N. ELVIRA KELSON. 
 
 Born about 1848. 
 In 1883 Mrs. Nelson published in conjunction 
 with her sister, Mrs. Sarah King-Marine, The 
 Garland, a little volume of poems of superior 
 merit and talent. At the age of twenty-f)ne 
 this lady was married to George Nelson, 
 who served in the un'oii army; and with 
 whom she now resides, with a splendid family 
 of two sons and one daughter. 
 
 AFTER THE WEDDING —A REPLY. 
 
 Be still my heart — be still and think. 
 
 And hush this fruitless sighing; 
 While from the past of life I drink. 
 
 The present is replying; 
 Ten weary \ ears have swept away 
 
 Since on thai fatal morning 
 The sunshine seemed to pause and play. 
 
 Without a shade of warning. 
 Ten years! alas, those weary years 
 
 Were full of love's repining! 
 Full of the anguish and the tears 
 
 That through my heart are twining. 
 What w^ere the orange blossoms sweet 
 
 Around tlie bridal altar? 
 What the gay tiappings all replete, 
 
 That bade my spirit falter? 
 Then the tall and handsome man — 
 
 My graceful, grand ideal — 
 My hero could my heart command. 
 
 But now the sad, sad real ! 
 Alas! things are not what they seem. 
 
 Despite their golden glimmer; 
 All my fancies were a dre.am, 
 
 I've seen their dying shimmer. 
 
 -* 
 
©- 
 
 716 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY ERWIN HOBBS. 
 
 Born: Bethany, N.Y., June 21, 1841. 
 For sometime this lady was :t meniber of the 
 editorial stafif of Wood's Household Magaziue, 
 published at Newburg-, N. Y. In 1878 she was 
 married to Josiab Howard Hobbs, a lawyer 
 of Mndis;on. N. H,. wlifTi^ she still i-osides. 
 
 .MltS. .MAKV E. KKW 1 .N lllljill^. 
 
 Few writers so exquisitely realizes the wealth 
 and worth there is in wordsliading, as does 
 this lady. Altliough her late poems have 
 been penned amid the pressure of liousehold 
 duties, they exhibit a carefulness of expres- 
 sion and a daitity choice of language, indeed, 
 as the most artistic taste could asli. 
 
 5(- 
 
 DOLORES. 
 
 No arms are stretclied to me from out the dark 
 
 No pitying palms enfold my fevered own. 
 My sea-sent dove has never found its arlt — 
 
 From life's bleak out-look all the way is 
 One is no more than all the rest to me, [lone. 
 
 My ear knows not the magic of a name, 
 I hear no voice tliat holds me thrillingly, 
 
 I pass each face as calmly as I came. 
 At first T looked upon eacli lifted brow, 
 
 Into each life, into each lofty soul 
 For recognition, but am learning now 
 
 To curb the quest I cannot quite control. 
 I liave no past particularly sweet, 
 
 No buried hopes enshrined in memory; 
 No fiir-ofl' Mecca to wliicli V)hH>ding feet 
 
 Go back tt) tind some heait-held yesterday. 
 
 I know not what it is for which I yearn, [yea 
 
 For which I've liungered all these heaii 
 When from the outlook, to the in — I turu. 
 
 I find mj' spirit drenched with unshed tear 
 I find a hearthstone white with ashes cold, ' 
 
 A taper sunken in a socket low, j 
 
 An open volume, prey to moth and mold — 
 
 A dusty chain, deserted long ago. i 
 
 I miss a something I have never known: i 
 
 Too vague, too undeflnable to name; i 
 A something seeming to have been my owi i 
 
 In climes from which I uncompanied eamt ; 
 I miss, yet find it seeming everywhere, ; 
 
 In opening flower, or in falling leaf. 
 Amid the whispers of the autumn air 
 
 The thunders of the distant ocean reef. ■ 
 I liave a hint of it in jonder blue, I 
 
 The glint of morning, and the gold of noc 
 I tind its fervor in the falling dew, [dkk : 
 
 I feel its presence 'neath the midni^i 
 I drink its spirit from a gush ot song, [t: ! 
 
 I breatlie its breath when music's wildccj 
 Creeps quiveringly my raptured chords alo 
 
 And breaks in glory round my sobbing so 
 Oh, it is mine, by rock, and brook, and treej 
 
 At wayside wells my palms to dip and dm: 
 My fevered spirit craves an open sea, ; 
 
 But finds a stint of everything but pain. 
 My life has crept so long on broken wing, 
 
 So long has fluttered, faltered on alone, 
 I marvel much if it could soar and sing. 
 
 Poor birdling, should it ever find its own. 
 
 GRACE E. PICKERING. 
 
 Born near Portsmouth, N. H. 
 The poems of this lady have occasionally 
 peared in the periodical press. She still i 
 sides in her native place, where she hasm»| 
 friends and ardent admirers. ] 
 
 A SKY PICTURE. ; 
 
 " Come quick," said they, and into the si 
 
 light led the way; 
 In the quiet skies stretching overhead 
 A banner of snow was softly spread: , 
 
 " Are you sure," said tliey, " sure that it is ) 
 
 the Milky Way?" 
 Oh the Milky Way is a film on the blue. 
 Letting stars look thi'ough, as through o;'- 
 
 less delicate, open lace; 
 AndtheWay holds her court in anotherpli ■ 
 But this train of white lay in -a wediockf 
 
 silence and light;" ' 
 
 A downy strip, on its background blue, : 
 While from lip to lip the wonder flew. 
 And within, the immortal questions grew. 
 Sacred and still -slept the pure fleece n - 
 
 ped on the heavenly iiiU, 
 Keeping its own sweet secrets well. 
 And liedged about by a nameless spoil 
 
 $ 
 
LOCAT^ AND NATION AL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ROBERT DUKE WEAR. 
 
 Bokn: Verona, Miss.. Feb. 26, 1854. 
 iY profession Mr. Wear is ;i hiwyer, and re- 
 .iiies in Givuibury, Texas. He was married 
 n 18T6 to Miss Cora Leeper. The poems of 
 Jr. Wear have appeared quite extensively in 
 Jie periodical press, and in 1885 publislied a 
 olumeof verse entitled Beauty, a romance 
 rem real life, tog-ether with other poems. 
 
 UNDER AN APPLE TREE, 
 list! listen! Hear the rolling', rumbling- 
 boom 
 ^ow sounding- forth a nation's dreadful 
 
 doom. 
 There comes from Sumpter"s fiery mouth 
 
 A belching stream with lurid glare 
 That heats tlie land from north to south, 
 And heating, makes the nations stare. 
 Tlieri four weary years 
 Of blood and of tears 
 Are spoilt in vain; 
 Our sons are slain. 
 'Mid sobs and cries 
 A nation dies. 
 
 lark! listen! Hear the rolling, rumbling 
 
 boom 
 
 iluw lifting forth a nation from its gloom. 
 The storm has swept the nation wide; 
 
 And now the sun is shining bright 
 Beholds our heroes side by side. 
 And peace is sending foi-th her light. 
 Then two mighty men 
 Met with grand amen. 
 In meeting sad. 
 But greeting glad; 
 Tlien Grant met Lee 
 'Neath liist'ry's tree. 
 
 ALL ALONE. 
 Vhen from life's dark, dreary patliway 
 All the light of hope has flown, 
 ^nd we stumble on the stairway 
 With a sad and plaintiff moan — 
 
 'Tis worse when left alone. 
 Lnd the soul is filled witli sadness 
 As we reacli the silent door, 
 Ind we miss the cliildisli gladness 
 Of the liappy days of yore — 
 
 'Tis liard when left alone, 
 n the evening, will we gather 
 With the little ones ai-ound 
 P^here the sacred name of father 
 Is tiie all-enchanting sound? 
 
 Ah, no, we're left alone, 
 low we miss the childish prattle 
 And the infant's gentle tone; 
 'ea, the constant tattle, tattle 
 
 Of the children now is gone — 
 How sad to be alone. 
 Wlie n the soul is bowed in sorrow 
 
 After many toiling year.s, 
 Wlien no sheen is on the morrow, 
 Then the soul is spent in tears. 
 O, God! we're all ak)n('. 
 An<l the spirit sounding hollow 
 With its emptiness and (lain. 
 Seems about inclined to follow 
 On the first departing train; 
 For now, we're all alone. 
 If the dark and silent reaper, 
 
 Seekfng for a flower fair, 
 Sliould a sweet and tender creeper 
 Fi-t)m my very spirit tear, 
 
 "Twould leave me all alone. 
 If I knew w'd meet forever 
 
 In another world than this. 
 Then I could thus bear to sever. 
 And their sacred presence miss; 
 But, 'tis sad to be alone. 
 
 717 
 
 -« 
 
 HOME. 
 
 As the twilight lingers softly 
 
 On the fading- rims of day. 
 Hear the toiling- whisper gladly. 
 
 Plodding- homeward on their way. 
 Home, sweet home! I'm going home. 
 As the noonday's sun is sinking 
 
 Like a bird with weary wing. 
 Seems to me the world is thinking 
 
 As the birdies sweetly sing. 
 Home, sweet home I I'm going home. 
 Wlieii the evening's blusliiiig beauty 
 
 Crimsons all the earth around. 
 Then we hear the man of duty 
 
 Witli his weary echoes sound. 
 Home, sweet home! I'm going- home. 
 Wlien the brain is tired and weary 
 
 With the busy cares of life. 
 And the world is dark and dreary, 
 
 Man will sing in ev'ry strife. 
 Home, sweet home! I'm going home. 
 When the heart is sad with failing. 
 
 And the soul with anguish burns; 
 When the liglit of hope is paling. 
 
 Then the spirit always turns 
 Home, sweet home, uo place like home. 
 And the children in their gladness, 
 
 Loit'ringon the verge of night. 
 Never feel a pang- of sadness 
 
 As a vision comes in sight — 
 Home, sweet home, they are going liome. 
 Oh, the sweet and facred treasure 
 
 Of our own domestic vine. 
 And its holy thoughts and pleasure 
 
 We will sing through coming time — 
 Home, sweet liome, no place like home. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 718 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 MRS. BENNIE A. COLLINS. 
 
 BOBN : Livingston, Tenn., Oct. 20, 1863. 
 At an early age this lady support ed herself 
 and widowed mother by teaching school. She 
 was married in 1888 to James O. Collins, the 
 sheriff of Overton county, Tenn. Her poems 
 have appeared in the Livingston Post and the 
 local press generally. Personally Mrs. Collins 
 is slightly above the average size, with light 
 hair and blue eyes, and resides with her hus- 
 band in her native city. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The twilight's misty shadows 
 
 Come stealing o'er the plain. 
 And tell of the coming darkness 
 
 As a cloud foreshadows rain. 
 
 Earth's mingled sounds die slowly 
 
 And fall on the tired heart, 
 Like beautiful dream-music 
 
 On the breaking of waves apart. 
 
 The glittering lamps of Heaven 
 
 Are lighted one by one, 
 Their fitful gleam betok'ning 
 
 That the cares of the day are done. 
 
 The moon glides up so gently 
 
 On her silvery, cloud-wreathed throne. 
 And wraps the earth in halo 
 
 Of light that is not her own. 
 
 Fit hour for retrospection 
 
 Of the life that lies beyond — 
 The joys and cares in contrast. 
 
 And the thoughts that crowd the mind. 
 
 The soul drinks in the nectar 
 
 Distilled by unseen hands. 
 And memory wanders backward 
 
 O'er life's receded sands. 
 
 Sometimes there's a rift in the music 
 As these memories come and go. 
 
 And a cloud passes over the sunshine 
 Like a shadow falls on the snow. 
 
 But the heart takes up the echo 
 
 Of the rifted music low. 
 And treasures the cloud which darkens 
 
 Like the shadow does the snow. 
 
 Oh, sacred hour of twilight ! 
 
 How like the hour of death. 
 When the after life and this one 
 
 Are divided by a breath. 
 
 'Tis the bridge 'tween light and darkness, 
 'Tis the hour of softest light. 
 
 'Tis the daughter of the day time, 
 The mother of the night. 
 
 IF WE KNEW. 
 
 If we knew the voice whose cadence 
 
 Falls upon our ears to-day. 
 Like soft strains of angel music 
 
 From the bright world far away,— 
 
 Ne'er again would speak unto us 
 Words of love and hopes and olicer. 
 
 We would prize the slightest tremor 
 Every tone we'd strive to hear. 
 
 If we knew hands whose pressure 
 Thrills us with the sweetest bliss. 
 
 Ne'er again would gently touch us. 
 Ne'er caress us after this,— 
 
 Oh, how warmly we would clasp them, 
 Press them to our throbbing heart, 
 
 Kiss them with a wild devotion 
 While hot tears of grief would start. 
 
 If we knew the love-light beaming 
 
 From the eyes whose slightest glance 
 Fills us with a spell-bound rapture, 1 
 
 Vast as Heaven's broad expanse- 
 Would be faded e'er the morrow. 
 
 Never more to shine again. 
 We would linger in their sunlight. 
 
 We would weep our tears like rain. 
 
 If we knew the paths would sever. 
 Which now lie so close and sweet. 
 
 We would often stop and linger 
 We would walk with slower feet. 
 
 If we knew the joys we're tasting 
 Would be changed to bitterest woe, 
 
 We would fill life's empty goblet 
 With their sweetness ere they go. 
 
 .'Strange we never prize the music " 
 Till the harp lies all unstrung, 
 
 Strange that we should slight the carols 
 By the sweetest songsters sung. 
 
 Strange the sweetest, fairest flowerets 
 That we've found along the way. 
 
 Waft their waves of richest perfume 
 From the regions of decay. 
 
 Ah I too late we scent the roses 
 That have siied their nectared sweet, 
 
 Thick as raindrops on the pathway 
 We have trod with hurrying feet. 
 
 Yes, too late, our hearts re-echo 
 
 With a throb of keenest pain. 
 For the flowers that once have blossomed 
 
 Ne'er for us will again. 
 
 «■ 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMEKIOA. 
 
 719 
 
 -* 
 
 CHARLOTTE M. PALMER. 
 
 That common, wayside blossoms 
 
 
 Are with much sweetness fraught. 
 
 Bokn: Dover, N. H. 
 
 
 The poems of Miss Palmer have occasionally 
 appeared in the Boston Traveler, Christian at 
 Work, and otlier periodicals. She is a writer 
 
 Take thankfully the treasures 
 Heaven daily sendeth tliee; 
 
 Illusive future pleasures 
 
 of both prose and verse, and still resides in 
 
 Are Hope's fond fantasy. 
 
 lier native place. 
 
 
 
 
 WAYSIDE LESSONS. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 I sauntered bj- the roadside,— 
 
 Our God gives perfect p?ace to those 
 
 A rural, grass -grown way; 
 
 Whose minds are stayed on Him; 
 
 On cither liaiid green meadows 
 
 Believing, trusting, they repose 
 
 And f ragrant woodlands lay. 
 
 In Faith, though Hope grow dim. 
 
 Along- g-ray, mossy fences 
 
 Faith can endure all present ill 
 
 Wild roses blushing- bright; 
 
 As seeming Him unseen. 
 
 Fields glowed with golden buttercups 
 
 Wlio gives us strength to do his will. 
 
 And daisies snowy white. 
 
 Or bear, with soul serene 
 
 The distant dark, pine forests 
 
 Faith owns a charm which none may scorn. 
 
 Seemed quite to touch the sky, 
 
 A precious secret knows; 
 
 Or nearer hills fell shadows 
 
 Where worldly minds bewail tiie tiiorn 
 
 As light clouds floated by. 
 
 Faith sees the budding rose. 
 
 I thought I was pursuing 
 
 Faith hears God's fond .assuring voice 
 
 My humble quest alone. 
 
 Above the thunder's loud. 
 
 The sky, trees, flowers, smiling 
 
 Sees his benignant, smiling face 
 
 A welcome all my own. 
 
 Through the dark, threatening clou.d. 
 
 Anon piped up a bobolink,— 
 
 Faith like the lark, mounts heavenward. 
 
 Thus ran his charming lay: 
 
 Soaring on noiseless wings. 
 
 "So grateful and so happy 
 
 Till, distant from earth's mists and jurs 
 
 This gladsome sunny day!" 
 
 In calm, pure air she sings. 
 
 T stopped to cull a nose-gay. 
 
 Faith views this life as pilgrimage. 
 
 And chanced to find a bee 
 
 We tent on foreign strand. 
 
 In a cluster of pinkkalmia. 
 
 Still toiling on to reach, at length. 
 
 Gathering its booty free. 
 
 Our home, the promised land. 
 
 A butterfly was sporting, 
 
 Faith's torch the dangerous road illumes. 
 
 Frail child of summer hours. 
 
 Which leads us to the tomb; 
 
 And dainty nectar seeking 
 
 Through shadowy vistas we discern 
 
 Tn fair untended flowers. 
 
 Bright shores beyond the gloom. 
 
 As I walked on I pondered — 
 
 Though tossed on Time's tempestuous zone, 
 
 Not failing to observe 
 
 A realm of rest outlies; 
 
 How Providence is careful 
 
 Faith, foiling Death, convoys the soul 
 
 All creatures' needs to serve. 
 
 To gates of Paradise. 
 
 I saw that Nature's cliildren 
 
 
 
 Wait not for ample feast. 
 
 
 Take the crumbs our Father gives them. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Supplied in his way best. 
 
 A grassy bank with blooms aglow, 
 
 
 All green and gold 'neath waving trees; 
 
 I mused upon this folly,— 
 
 A fairer carpet none can show. 
 
 Disdainful passing by 
 
 Be it Turkish, French, or Japanese. 
 
 Life's present good and comforts. 
 
 
 Which close about us lie. 
 
 Not tinted walls, nor paintings rare. 
 
 
 Uutgray rocksclad with clematis: 
 
 'Twas thus I learned the lesson 
 
 Tiien meadows, pastures, woods appear. 
 
 By Nature's pupils taught. 
 
 And far-off hills the west clouds kiss. 
 
 ■® 
 
«- 
 
 720 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. ELEANORA FINDLAY. 
 
 Born: Dickson Co., Tenn. 
 This lady was married to Sylvester L. Find- 
 lay. uIinVi.M-iir.'.l l;iw ]irinr in thi' war. The 
 
 All ~ 111 \ N' IRA M \ 111 \ V 
 
 poems of this writer have appeared quite ex- 
 tensively in the periodical press. She is now 
 a resident of Oakland Springs, Tenn. 
 
 EDNA CORA. 
 A pleading- voice steals on mine ear 
 
 In cadence soft and low; 
 Those silv'ry tones to me as dear 
 
 As fond affection's glow. 
 That gentle voice I seem to hear. 
 
 And as it floats along, 
 '• Forget me not, my Nora dear," 
 
 The burthen of its song. 
 Oh ! would that now the gift were mine. 
 
 To 'wake with skillful liand, 
 The harp that erst the " tuneful Nine," 
 
 Concealed among their hand; 
 I'd sweep its chords witli magic art. 
 
 Till ev'ry string should tell 
 Of her who dwells within my heart 
 
 And wliom I love so well. 
 In tuneful measures I'd inii)ai't 
 
 To my sweet sister dear. 
 The inmost feelings of my heart 
 
 That .softly nestle there; 
 And wliere for :iye they will remain 
 As fresh as morning dew; 
 
 Their bloom :md beauty still retain, 
 My sister sweet, for you. 
 
 Thou kuow'st that mine's a happy fate, 
 
 A fondly cherish 'd wife — 
 Deep joy upon my footsteps wait — 
 
 Each hour with hap'ness rife; 
 And when my cup with joy runs o'er 
 
 I fondly will recall 
 The f liends I'll cherish ever more. 
 
 Dear father, mother, all I 
 
 Some ties there are, and ours is one. 
 
 That time can ne'er undo; 
 Dark grief may come, the world may shun. 
 
 That knot remains still true. 
 Content thee then, my sister dear, 
 
 Whate'er my future lot, 
 I will enshrine thy image here,— 
 
 Thou wilt not be forgot. 
 
 LETITIA M. ADAMS. 
 
 This lady has been a constant contributor of 
 verse to the Farmers' Cabinet and numerous 
 other periodicals. Miss Adams formerly lived 
 in New Boston, but is now a resident of Gofls- 
 (own, N. H. 
 
 INFLUENCE. 
 
 Not to itself alone 
 
 Tlie little violet blooms. 
 
 Deep-shaded in its mossy bed 
 
 It meekly lifts its head, 
 
 And speaks a lesson full and free,- 
 
 A lesson of humanity. 
 
 Not to itself alone 
 
 The spring-bird's earliest song 
 
 Above the frost and snow is given. 
 
 Its richest notes ascend to Heaven, 
 
 And birdies join in words of love. 
 
 The praise of Him who reigns above. 
 
 Not to themselves alone. 
 
 The stars in von bright zone 
 
 Send forth their lustre clear and bright; 
 
 Athwart the gloom and shade of night. 
 
 They teach a nobler lesson still: 
 
 Obedience to a higher will. 
 
 Not to itself alone 
 
 The voice of nature comes, 
 
 Tlie wild winds murmur, careless, free, 
 
 Tlie swelling earth, the sounding sea. 
 
 Proclaim the wisdom, power and might 
 
 Of God, the source of lite and light. 
 
 Not to liimself alone 
 Man seeks an influence not Ids own. 
 We live iu words, we live in deeds, 
 And sow on earth immortal seeds 
 Of good or b:id, of peace or strife. 
 The germ of death or endless life. 
 
 *- 
 
0&- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 L'l 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS.LOUISEP.W.PALMITER. 
 
 Born: Victor, N. Y., April 5, 1833. 
 Commencing to write verse at an early ag-e, 
 the poems of this lady have appeared in many 
 prominent publications, such as the Weekly 
 Wisconsin, Western Rural, Chicago Inter- 
 Ocean, and numerous other publications of 
 equal prominence, from which they have been 
 extensively copied by the local press. 
 
 SONG OF THE REAPER. 
 I sing a song. 
 As I roll along, 
 Behind my " four-in-hand," 
 A ptean of hope lor weary souls, 
 Throughout this beauteous land. 
 I sing a song. 
 The whole day long. 
 To the fall of the golden grain. 
 From Minnesota's prairies broad, 
 To the hills of far-off Maine. 
 I sing a song. 
 To the hungry throng. 
 That is sweet to the listening ear. 
 For I sing of plenty and peace to come, 
 When the wintry storms draw near. 
 I sing my song. 
 The hills among, 
 I sing in the valley fair, 
 From rosy morn till set of sun. 
 My song floats on the air. 
 Oh ! I sing a song, 
 A jolly song. 
 As I reap the golden grain. 
 And roll behind my four-in-hand. 
 Sole monarch of the plain. 
 
 SUMMER NIGHT SOUNDS. 
 
 'Tis sweet to sit. 
 
 Ere the lamps are lit. 
 By the vine-wreathed casement, listening 
 
 When the winds are still. 
 
 And the cricket's trill 
 Is heard where the dew is glistening: 
 
 "Cheereet; cheereet." 
 
 'Tis a summer night. 
 
 With a moon so bright. 
 That the flre-fly lamps are pale. 
 
 And all nightlong. 
 
 Comes a mournful song 
 [ From a lone bird in the vale: 
 
 " Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will." 
 
 In a shady nook. 
 
 By the side of the brook. 
 Hid away from the prying moon. 
 
 On a moss-grown log. 
 
 Some love-lorn frog 
 Is singing this mellow tune: 
 
 " Ker-chug, ker-chug." 
 
 And a little beyond. 
 
 Just over the i)ond. 
 From a tall tree on the l)ank. 
 
 Comes faint, l)ut clear 
 
 To my listening ear. 
 The song of a feathered crank: 
 
 "Too-whoo, too-whoo." 
 
 Then a gossip unseen. 
 
 In the ivy green. 
 Repeats to a drowsy bird, 
 
 A scandalous tale. 
 
 Of some mortal frail. 
 And these are the word I heard: 
 
 " Katy-tlid, katy did." 
 
 And across the way. 
 
 By the moon's bright ray 
 A youth and maiden are seen. 
 
 And I hear a repeat 
 
 Of the old words, sweet. 
 As the gate swings to, between : 
 
 " Good-night, good-night." 
 
 BELDEN CRANE HOYT. 
 
 Born : Richland, Mich., Dec. 15, 1856. 
 As teacher, printer, farmer and book agent, 
 Mr. Hoyt has experienced fair success; he now 
 has aspirations toward the pulpit. The poems 
 of Mr. Hoyt have appeared in the county pa- 
 pers, from which they have been extensively 
 copied. He now resides in Paola, Kansas, di- 
 viding his time between school teaching and 
 the book business. 
 
 WHO ARE WISE. 
 
 Is it they who soar in air — 
 
 Soar in thought beyond the blue; 
 
 Up to Heaven's plains so fair. 
 
 And celestial glory view — 
 
 They who soar above, below. 
 
 To the bounds of everywhere. 
 
 Downward to the world of woe 
 
 And its depths of dark despair; 
 
 They who through the mists of time. 
 
 Dimly see eternity. 
 
 Who contrast the lofty rhyme 
 
 Thrilling in its majesty,— 
 
 With its music-laden flow 
 
 Beautifying mystic themes 
 
 Of the wonders forests know. 
 
 And the racing, shining streams. 
 
 Of the roaring of the wave 
 
 As it leaps upon the strand. 
 
 As it doth the ledges lave. 
 
 As it raises hills of sand? 
 
 Is it they who arc the wise — 
 
 They to whom is wi.<dom given? 
 
 Ask the Ruler of tlic Skies, 
 
 Ask the mighty King of Heaven. 
 
 Hark? A deep-toned voice replies — 
 
 "They who fear the Lord are wisel" 
 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 722 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WELCOME OTWAY SPENSER. 
 
 Born: Lakeport, N.Y., April 31, 1838. 
 
 For the past twenty years the poems of Mr. 
 Spenser liave appeared in the New York Sun, 
 World, and tlie periodical press generally. He 
 
 WELCOME OTWAY SPENSER. 
 
 was married in 1864 to Miss Anna E. Jones, 
 and still resides in his native place. Mr. 
 Spenser is an agriculturalist, and has filled 
 several positions of public trust. 
 
 WHAT THE POET SEES. 
 O, ask him not what he shall see, 
 Dreamer and gazer on the stars, 
 His soul may woo infinity. 
 And mount and leap the golden bars 
 Tliat fence the secrets of the spheres. 
 And dalliance hold with love or tears. 
 
 The sunny skies may g"ild his thoufrht, 
 And cloudlets m:ike him golden robes, 
 Bi-ig-hter than silk with gold all wrought; 
 And grander far than starry globes. 
 May be his trysting- place of rest, 
 Where Hope is always to be blest. 
 With wing-s of flame his soul may fly. 
 Higher than all the Alpine heig:hts. 
 No fane of beauty is too high. 
 No joy too great for his delights; 
 No nook shall hold him in its fold; 
 Nor years shall grimly make him old. 
 
 O, tell me what his high desire. 
 And what the dream his musing soul! 
 Whither his flight on wings of fire. 
 Beyond the reach of earth control! 
 Ah, seeks he youth and love divine, 
 And holy place to build a shrine? 
 What is the glory he would know? 
 What fancies sweet so fill his brain? 
 What sounds are wafted him below, 
 The fates so often waft in vain? 
 O, ask him not what he shall see. 
 For never, never can it be. 
 
 Could love be what he Idly dreams. 
 And hope an argosy of gold. 
 And love as loving as it seems. 
 And life still brighter as it rolled, 
 Ah, then his prayer would answered be, 
 And those the things that he would see. 
 He still may wander 'mid the spheres 
 Where stars their sweet efi'ulgence shed, 
 He still may pray that hate and tears. 
 Be banished from the world and dead; 
 But ah, his dreams, they cannot be. 
 And vain to ask what he shall see. 
 
 JOHN B. L. SOULE. ■ 
 
 Born: Freeport, Me., April 4, 1815. 
 Although Mr. Soule completed a courseof 
 law studies, be never entered upon the prac- 
 tice of that profession. After ten years en- 
 gaged in teaching in Maine and Indiana, he 
 spent several years as a journalist. He next 
 was a minister of the gospel For eleven 
 years he was professor of ancient languages 
 in Illinois at Blackburn university; at the end 
 of which time he became pastor of the Presby- 
 terian church in Highland Park, a suburb of 
 Chicago. He filled that position for seven 
 years, and has now retired from active 
 public duties. 
 
 MY ESTATE. 
 When comes the flushing dawn of day, 
 
 I go forth quiet and alone 
 To meet the morning, and survey 
 
 The lands and houses that I own. 
 The town is still, all life is mute; 
 
 For death and slumber are the same; 
 I am the heir, and none dispute 
 
 The justice of my lordly claim. 
 And as I walk the silent street. 
 
 My steps resound from wall to wall. 
 And wakened birds in whispers greet 
 
 The coming landlord's early call. 
 When day comes on, and noise abounds, 
 
 And dust, and heat, retiring then. 
 My large estate of roofs and grounds 
 
 1 leave in care of other men. 
 
 ©■ 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 723 
 
 * 
 
 W. n WITT -WAIA-At'E. 
 
 New Albany, Intl. He was in tlu- army for 
 two years, serving in the fortieth Indiana reg- 
 
 6 
 
 No taxes vex my wide domain, 
 
 Nu irksome load of debt it bears; 
 My mid-day tenantry sustain 
 
 All due expenses and repairs. 
 My income — not the rents and tolls 
 
 That greed extorts from want and scorn. 
 But the rich commerce of the soul, 
 
 Communion with the golden morn. 
 
 I wonder whether manj- other deeds 
 
 Were not in fact a satii-e or a blunder. 
 Great stories grown from ver.v little seeds. 
 
 And told to make us wonder. 
 I wonder if Lycurgus, Pope and Penn, 
 
 Ben Jouson, Pompey, Massasoit and Moses, 
 Were what they were, or were some other 
 men, 
 
 By some metempsychosis. 
 And if this thing is false, and that thing true 
 is. 
 
 When every thing seems falling fast asun- 
 der, 
 I cannot tell — and all that I can do is 
 
 To wonder, and to wonder 1 
 
 W. D^WITT WALLACE. 
 
 Born: LaFayette, Ind., Nov. 19, 1838. 
 Mr. Wallace graduated In 1861 and was mar- 
 ried the same year to Miss Anna M. Shields, of 
 
 iment, and was wounded at Stone river. Mr. 
 Wallace has achieved success in tlie profession 
 of law, in his native city, wliere he has a large; 
 and lucrative practice. He has a lovely family 
 of four daughters, two of them young ladies 
 whohave just graduated. In 1886Mr. Wallace 
 published a novel entitled Loves Ladder, 
 which went through several editions. He is 
 now engaged on another novel, and occasion- 
 ally contributes to the leading periodicals of 
 America. 
 
 LOST. 
 I had a friend. Our souls clasp'd hands; 
 Our heart-stiings, like two vines, about 
 Each other twined till twain seemed one 
 For time and for Eternity. 
 One stormy night, lo, while I slept, 
 I know not how, or whj-, my friend 
 Unloosed the cords and faithless fled. 
 Speak not of deatli, nor count that loss 
 Which plucks from earth a flower to plant 
 In Heaven. He only sounds the depth 
 Of woe, and drinks the gale of life 
 Who mourns a living friend that's lost. 
 
 ACROSS THE STREET. 
 At open window across the street. 
 Each morn soft eyes my eyes do meet — 
 Eyes large and blue and sad and sweet. 
 'Tis not for me her curtains slide, 
 'Tis not for me she looks outside; 
 She welcomes every thing beside. 
 The blithe canaries win her love. 
 That in gold cages swing above. 
 To them she's tender as a dove. 
 She greet her flowers with look divine 
 That 'neath her glances bloom so fine. 
 And with soft fingers trains the vine. 
 The free-born sparrows of the air. 
 That flit about her windows fair 
 Knjoy her smile and have her care. 
 To boot-black, beggar, passing uear. 
 She throws a coin or drops a tear; 
 .Me only doth she seem to fear. 
 Ah, maiden! pure assnowflake's wing, 
 Did'st thou but know the heart I bring, 
 What chaste desires within it spring. 
 Toward thee at least, thou'dst not deny 
 One kindly look, nor question why 
 Across the street 1 turn my eye. 
 
 FROM VELVET LIDS. 
 
 From velvet lids Love wings the dart 
 
 That deepest thrills the human heart. 
 
 The purest joy. the fiercest woe. 
 
 That mortals here may ever know. 
 
 From Love's sweet wound unfailing start. 
 
© 
 
 724 
 
 LOCAL AMD MATIONAL FOETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 WARREN W. AMES. 
 
 Bokn: De Ruyter, N.Y., Feb. 25, 1850. 
 IN 1873 young Ames founded the Cape Vin- 
 cent Eagle, and in 1876 he bought the CU.ytou 
 ludevendent. Having- sold both the papers 
 mentioned he returned in 1878 to h.sname 
 town and established The Gleaner. Six years 
 
 ^\ AKIiEN W. AMK>. 
 
 later Mr. Ames purchased the De Ruyter New 
 Era consolidated the two offices, and built a 
 handsome three-story block. He was married 
 in 1873 to Miss Ella M. Wilcox. In liis early 
 days Mr. Ames taught in the common schools 
 of Tennessee, Illinois, and New York. The 
 verse of this journalist and poet have appear- 
 ed quite extehsively in the periodical press. 
 
 FANCIES. 
 I've risen early this morn-do tlie same if 
 
 you'd thrive — 
 Filled with earnest intentions my goose-quUl 
 
 to drive. 
 To inscribe on this sheet a few lines for your 
 
 eyes — . 
 
 A few transient thoughts, either simple or 
 
 wise— , 
 
 And, as Morpheus but late from my eyelids 
 
 has flown. 
 My thoughts may be dull or to drowsiness 
 
 prone. 
 I sit by the table with goose-quill in hand. 
 Before me a lamp in its beauty doth stand. 
 
 And its calm, brilliant light spreads abroad 
 
 through the room. 
 Dispelling the darkness, and changing the 
 
 gloom 
 That reigned e'er its rays had appeared on the 
 
 scene. 
 To a light almost dazzling— to splendor se- 
 rene. 
 How calm and how quiet are things 'round 
 
 about! 
 The streets are all free frofn loud clamor and 
 
 shout ; 
 Yet the chanticleer's note, rising full on the 
 
 ear. 
 Gives me warning that day and its turmoils !| 
 draw near; L^^^' | 
 
 And the timepiece proclaiming to all that 'tis . 
 Impels me the faster my goose-quill to drive, j 
 My muse seems o'er glad to assist me this ! 
 
 morn. 
 And swiftly these thoughts of my fancy are ^ 
 
 born ; 
 Yet how slow seems my quill to inscribe them • 
 in ink— i 
 
 To assemble in lines and each word inter- 
 link, tvein. 
 And to spread through each stanza a similar 
 Uniting the whole in harmonious strain. 
 But my muse, as you witness, has wandered 
 
 quite wide. 
 And seems disinclined to one thing to be tied; 
 But I've humored its flights in their wild aim-. 
 
 less glee — 
 Loosed the reins of my fancy and let both go 
 
 free. 
 Still my th.iughts have roamed wide througli 
 
 the limits of time. 
 
 And my muse, following on, has arranged. 
 
 them in rhyme. ; 
 
 But this strain is quite aimless, howe'creasil>j 
 
 it flows, ! 
 
 And 'tis time that its contents were drawn U.^ 
 
 ;i close, , ; 
 
 For if fancy be nursed in its wanderings wide 
 
 It may never consent to one thing to he tied • 
 
 So I'll lay down my quill, wiih a sigh it i., 
 
 true, ,. ' 
 
 And at present to fanciful flights bid adieu. 
 
 ALBUM VERSE. 
 
 I fain would search the Avhole vast field o, 
 
 song , 
 
 And glean from ov'iy tongue and ev ry age 
 That 1 niighr And a gem in all the throng. 
 
 To dedicate to thee, on this fair page. 
 Some thought that would most gntcefnll 
 convey , 
 
 The deepest wishes for your f"*"""*^^,^," ',,,' 
 Which would express.as full as pen could sa.< 
 The admiration of a friend most leal; 
 
 *- 
 
8&- 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF A^IKKIOA. 
 
 ^•J..^ 
 
 REV. NATHAN F.CARTER. 
 
 Born: Hennikek, N. H., Jan. 6, lam 
 In 18f)5 Mr. Ciirtor snuliiated at the tliook)- 
 gical seminary in Bangor, and in 18ti9 became 
 pastor of a cliurL'li in Orford, N. H., wliicli 
 position he lield for five years. He tlien 
 went to Bellows Falls, Vt., and in 1879 to 
 
 ®- 
 
 REV. NATHAN FRANKLIN CARTER. 
 
 Quechee in the same state, wliere he still lab- 
 ors. For several years Mr. Carter has been 
 one of the editors of the New Hampslure 
 Journal of Education. He has just complet- 
 ed a work entitled The Native Ministry of 
 New Hampshire, and lias also a volume of 
 poems ready for publication. 
 
 GREAT THOUGHTS. 
 
 Great thoughts in mig'hty souls born into 
 life, [sky. 
 
 Like towering mountains, lean against the 
 Their radiant summits far at)ove all strife, 
 
 Fi.xing with wonder many a gazing eye. 
 So far above the common level rise, [soul 
 
 Their morn-empurpled heights, they fill the 
 Witli awe and reverence, till in mute surprise, 
 
 It deems them altars near tlie Eden goal. 
 Whereon the incense of a great life burns, 
 
 DilTusing sweetest fragrance evermore; 
 Or glow like watch-flres, blessing him who 
 yearns 
 
 For trusty guidance on Time's pilgrim 
 shore ! 
 
 The lowly one toils earnestly and long 
 
 To cfimb their steep but ever verdant sides, 
 Yet, rising higher, he feels the heart grow 
 strong. 
 
 To mount where everlasting spring abides. 
 To gather holier sweets distilling there. 
 
 To see screner prospects yet unknown. 
 To breathe a purer life-awakening air. 
 
 And find himself a nobler being grown. 
 And thus ho presses on, till victor-crowned. 
 
 Upon the heights, he, with enraiifured ken. 
 Drinks in the vastness of the scene around, 
 
 A better man among earth's worthy men! 
 And those great thoughts of mighy souls are 
 ours. 
 
 Stamped with a time-long immortality, 
 A gift ne'er growing old, whose greatness 
 towers 
 
 Above all gifts by gold or fame made free. 
 We feast upon them, as on viands rare. 
 
 And feel a newer life spring up within; 
 They give the longing spirit wings to dare 
 
 A lofl ier tlight for good we fain would win. 
 Tluur influence wakes a hynm of blessedness. 
 
 Sounding a victor's psean in our cars. 
 Whose sweet refrains, ensiM-ined in good deeds 
 liless 
 
 A plodding wt):k'l, as stars a night of years! 
 
 IN THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 In the battle of life do the best that is in 
 thee, 
 Climl) up with a will and an eye on the 
 stars, 
 The noblest of names aspiring to win thee. 
 
 At the price, if need be, of perils and scars! 
 There is room in the radiant spaces above 
 thee; 
 On the tops of the mountains are comiuer- 
 ors'- palms; 
 Live grandly for God,— make the great world 
 love thee. 
 For the sowing of sunshine and giving of 
 alms ! 
 Grow virtues and graces to ripen for glory; 
 
 Seek riches and honors that pass not away; 
 With manifold blessings make golden life's 
 story ; 
 For the good of luinianity labor and pray! 
 Be a peer and a prince in the grace of for- 
 giving; 
 Keep ever to pathways the saintly have 
 trod; 
 In love with the good, be the best of tlie liv- 
 ing; 
 Do the best for the world by the favor of 
 God ! 
 With a bold, brave heart, and a holy endeav- 
 or. 
 Girt surely and well with an armor divine, 
 _ ffl 
 
©- 
 
 726 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARTHA K. COLBURN. 
 
 Born: Garrettsville, O., Oct. 4, 1846. 
 The poetical productions of Mrs. Colburn 
 have already received recognition in Harper's 
 
 MRS. MARTHA K. COLBURN. 
 
 Weekly, although she has but recently com- 
 menced to court the muse. She is a very 
 pleasant lady, and now lives in Waterford, Pa. 
 
 3<- 
 
 THE HERO'S LAST RIDE. 
 Through the valley with the paleness of death 
 
 on his brow. 
 Dashed a rider— unmindful of where, or how 
 He could best escape the torrent wide. 
 Which was bearing- destruction on every side. 
 His only thoughts were of those below. 
 Who, in the valley, the danger did not know ; 
 And through the air, his clear voice thrills, 
 " Run for your lives, to the hills, to the hills." 
 Madly the noble steed plunged along. 
 The rider, unheeding the gathering throng. 
 Flew by. While the vale eclioed back the 
 thrills,— [the hills." 
 
 "To the hills, to the hills, for your lives, to 
 With the speed of the wind, he hurried down 
 The valley to warn the ill-fated Johnstown; 
 For tht! miglity dam, had, at last, given 'way. 
 And the water was eagerly seizing its prey. 
 Sweeping everything clean tliat lay in its 
 
 track. 
 It came like a demon, all grim and bhick; 
 
 And the town, which lay peaceful, at break 
 
 of day. 
 Was, in a few moments, all swept away. 
 And thousands of souls, borne down by the 
 Shall lie foi-ever in nameless graves; [waves, 
 Among them the rider, who thought in the 
 
 morning. 
 To the valley below, he'd carry the warning. 
 He thought for a time to outride the wave, 
 But alas I too soon it would be his grave, [tide, 
 As he gained the bridge, he was struck by the 
 And e'er he could reach the other side 
 The structure, with a crash, was seen to fall. 
 And bridge, and rider, steed and all 
 Were plunged, in the seething mass below! 
 Alas ! alas ! that it should be so. 
 A nameless "Paul Revere " he dies — 
 Somewhere, with the nameless dead he lies; 
 Though no marble slab shall mark the spot. 
 Yet his daring deed will be ne'er forgot. 
 As ages roll, and the pen shall tell, 
 Of hero's who, with laurels fell. 
 No name shall shine with a brighter hue. 
 Than that of the rider, so brave and true. 
 
 ELMER OSBORN LAUGHLIN. 
 
 Born : Paris, III., Aug. 2, 1867. 
 Although a young man, Elmer has written 
 quite extensively for the Toledo Blade, Cin- 
 cinnati Gazette, Chicago Tribune and other 
 equally prominent journals. He is now study- 
 ing medicine, and resides in Paris, 111. 
 
 AN AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 But yesterday 
 
 Bright flowers of May, 
 Smiled in the sunshine everywhere! 
 
 And joyous notes. 
 
 From tuneful throats 
 Of countless songsters filled the air. 
 
 But yesterday 
 
 Eartli, young and gay. 
 Tripped lightly 'neath the bluest skies. 
 
 While sunbeams kissed' 
 
 Away the mist 
 Of morning, from her dewy eyes. 
 
 Oh, yesterday. 
 
 How far away; 
 How distant from the bleak to-day 
 
 Thy niem'ries fade 
 
 Into a shade, 
 A dream of liirds and flowers and May. 
 
 For ah, to-day 
 
 Skies cold and gray 
 Hang heavy o'er the Eartli's patiiway; 
 
 And naked trees 
 
 Mourn in tlie breeze 
 For yesterday,— sweet yesterday. 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -® 
 
 JOSIAH GIBERTON ENGLISH. 
 
 Bohn: Camden Co., N. J., Nov., 1833. 
 The poems of Mr. English liave appeared 
 (juite extensively in tlic pci'iociical press. Ho 
 published in 1888 a volume of poems, which 
 
 JOSIAH GIBERTON ENGLISH. 
 
 has had quite an extensive sale. Mr. Eng-lish 
 is a resident of Xenia, Ohio, where he is well 
 known for his integrity and literary standing-. 
 Mr. English served in the civil war, and he has 
 since tasted of joys and experienced sorrows 
 by the deatli o( loved ones. 
 
 GAMRLING DISPATCHES. 
 
 Tattle! tattle! tattle! 
 Ship-sheep, hogs and cattle! 
 Send the money Oy express, 
 Not a sing-le dollar less; 
 
 No other time will do as well. 
 Or I would not the cattle sell. 
 John will see the cattle tlirough. 
 After whicli will talk with you. 
 
 Z. to C. L. 
 ANSWER. 
 
 Cattle, sheep and hogrs ari'ivc. 
 Glad to find them all alive; 
 Send your price for all the cattle. 
 Glad to make the wire rattle. 
 All the talk I had with John 
 Was 'bout a silver watch to pawn ; 
 
 Enter the price of hog-s and sheep - 
 1 leave with you tlie books to keep. 
 
 To look at stock, 
 I'll come next fall; 
 Don't think to sell, 
 I'll take them all. 
 
 Bless me! here's old ZinI 
 For all you shipped 
 Have got the tin. 
 Am ready now 
 To g-o with John 
 And see for what 
 The watch will pawn 
 
 Love in short. 
 Life is sport. 
 
 C. LIUHTFOOT. 
 
 LATER. 
 TO CHIEF OF POLICE. 
 
 Arrest a worse than thief, 
 
 A counterfeiter in brief; 
 
 Seize my cattle, sheep and hogs; 
 
 Hunt up my John, 
 
 My watch and dogs. 
 
 I'm ready to cleave the air, 
 
 On swiftest train — 
 
 I'll soon be there. 
 
 All he's got is sure my money. 
 
 His tongue is sweeter 
 
 Than butter and honey. 
 
 PETER ZOL.MAN. 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 America's vast, continual source. 
 Guides the world's great business force; 
 Her wealth in minerals, and stores of grain. 
 Excites the weak, and strong, of brain. 
 
 The picture, under eye of heaven. 
 Adds .source to God, for what he's given; 
 As multiply the millions seen. 
 So multiplj' the things to glean. 
 
 Earth's reaping time of golden grain. 
 Renews the love of God again ; 
 And thankful heart rejoices day. 
 And gladness feels the sown way. 
 
 From bread of wheat to bread of life. 
 Calls he the reaper from the strife; 
 And welcome hand extends a boon. 
 Before the man has reached liis noon. 
 
 The scene, resulting from tlie soil. 
 Rewards the heart for all its moil. 
 Happy American ; Thy loved of lot 
 Has found, of earth, the sunny spot. 
 
 -« 
 
©; 
 
 728 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THE GRADITE'S FLIGHT. 
 The Gradite trembled with terror. 
 When he looked out ou the plain. 
 And saw the host a coming 
 
 Was the friends of one he'd slain. 
 And he felt himself so lonely 
 In a far off-land from home, 
 As he thought of a city of refuge. 
 
 As death- like on they come. 
 His gaze was loosing a moment 
 To the coming wheel of time; 
 And following like the shadows. 
 
 Was lengthing- out the line; 
 As the swifter of pursuers. 
 
 Were leaving some behind. 
 And why their tread was deadly. 
 
 Was torture to his mind; 
 Poor trembling mortal sought then. 
 
 Away his life to find. 
 And prayer was in his mind then; 
 
 O! Lord, to me be given. 
 The power to reach the refuge; 
 
 For thou hast made the heaven. 
 Just then there came a warning, 
 
 4. A fool has time to spare. 
 Shake thyself, Gradite 
 
 Prepare to cleave the air. 
 .. The crush of the sand neath foot-sole. 
 
 Will cease for the harder ground; 
 Nothing but flight will save you. 
 
 Flee if you would be crowned. 
 " Flee from this country 
 
 The home of the stranger; 
 Flee from the plain 
 And hill of danger; 
 Flee from the Reubenite 
 
 Or blood avenger. 
 .'Flee past thy own home 
 And the coming to meet. 
 The wife of thy bosom. 
 
 Or child of thy feet. 
 Flee like the Hitite. 
 Flee like the fleet. 
 " Flee by tlie grain fields 
 
 And haunts when a boy; 
 The nature and sunshine. 
 
 Serving decoy. 
 " Though summer of love 
 
 Be banished for snow; 
 Better thou flee. 
 
 While's thine to go." 
 Catching sight of his life 
 
 Weighed in the scales. 
 Of the all-lost hope. 
 
 Of the dismal wails. 
 He sped for the refuge. 
 
 Scarce leaving a trace; ' 
 For he flew as he ran. 
 From the very earth's face. 
 
 ALBERTS. HAWKINS. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Hawkins have appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. Mr. 
 
 Hawkins is a resident of Midlaiul. Texa^ 
 where he has already gained great populanlyr 
 and respect as a jo urnalist an d lawyer. 
 
 A LOVER'S LAMENT. ] 
 
 I a the love of a maiden I once took delight. ; 
 But where is the love 1 once knew? i 
 
 Tt has gone! It has gone! For alas, the fan j 
 maid, ; 
 
 Like all of her kind, proved untrne. | 
 
 She said that her love for me would G"dum | 
 That love like her love would reman.. Lname j 
 But memory of falsehoods that sullen hei 
 My heart will forever retain. 
 Her words were spoke in jest I suppose, 
 Mv words were in earnest I know. 
 My gift was pure love, not much you will sa> 
 •Twas all that I had to bestow. 
 
 She accepted a heart, an "'^^f <;"* *''"''''!' j,, I 
 A heart that was trusting and t rue . ta^'" , 
 Having gained this, her end. she turned the. , 
 To conquests more daring and new. 
 But fair maiden I'll say, tho' now far away. ; 
 That a lesson I've learned, yes 'tis true. j 
 
 When a loved one is wanted, some other . ; 
 
 seek. 
 When a flirt is desired, I'll seek you 
 
®- 
 
 I.OCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 729 
 
 « 
 
 EDGAR JACKSON KLOCK. 
 
 Born: Schuyler, N.Y., July 1, 18(i;J. 
 Edgar graduated in 1881 from the Fairfield 
 academy, seeuring' the Ing-liest lioiiois aud 
 valediflory of his class. Realizing- lliat liis 
 health would never permit his entering' any 
 of the professions with that vim as he would 
 have liked to have done, he declined Ids par- 
 ents' offer of a college course, and returned 
 with them to the farm, where he lias since re- 
 sided and spent much of his time in collecting' 
 a flue and extensive cabinet of minerals, In- 
 dian relics, and other curiosities. In 1888, 
 while editor of the Mohawk Standard, a small 
 collector's paper, he published in that sheet 
 his first poeiu, with no intention of continu- 
 ing- in that line. Since then, at the request of 
 friends, he has published quite a number of 
 l)oems in the several village and city papers 
 tif central New York. Mr. Klock resides within 
 twenty rods of his birthplace. 
 
 LIFE MOMENTS. 
 
 Creeping-, creeping-, oh how slow ! 
 
 Waiting, waiting-, as thej^ go; 
 
 So the moments stop and ling-er as they build 
 each passing- day, 
 
 To the one whose heart is broken, never wish- 
 ing them to stay. 
 
 Rushing, rushing, ah what speed; 
 
 Bounding, bounding, like a steed; 
 
 So the fleeting moments hasten, dragging near- 
 er to the end. 
 
 Those who have earth's pleasures plenty, era 
 wasted life to mend 
 
 Gliding, gliding, in God's time, 
 
 Passing, passing,— His is mine; 
 
 So the Iwippy moments ever, bringing plea- 
 sures one by one, 
 
 Pass to those who learn to murmur, not my 
 will but Thine be done. 
 
 TWO PAIRS OF EYES. 
 Two men stood on the summit of a hill. 
 
 The one, erect in youth and fair of face. 
 In whom beauty- blended with strength to 
 prove 
 A worthy offspring of a noble race; 
 The other, bent with age, upon whose brow 
 The lines of three-score years and ten were 
 seen. 
 Types of hope and wisdom, thus together 
 stood. 
 And gazed they out across life's fickle 
 scene. 
 
 The youth saw naught in all those wid'ning 
 fields 
 
 « 
 
 But pleasure, to the one who sought it 
 there. 
 For out as far as e'en his eye could reach. 
 
 Were pleasing landscapes, opulent and fair; 
 On everj- hand were grass-bound hills and 
 dales, 
 And plains bedecked with bud and bloom of 
 flowers; 
 Red roses, giving out their rich perfume. 
 Hung- clustering 'round the doors of vine-clad 
 bowers ; 
 
 Sweet voiced brooklets on whose mossy banks 
 
 You listen to the music soft and low. 
 And dream yourdaj'-dreams as you gaze upon 
 
 The beauty of the valley far below; 
 Where orchards bend beneath their golden 
 loads. 
 
 And ripening grain-fields ripple in the wind, 
 And vineyards with their tendrels fruited 
 deep. 
 
 Around the creeking trellises entwined. 
 
 All these and more the eager youth beheld 
 Before him in life's pathway, as it wound 
 Out through the world— then to a forest 
 came. 
 Where 'neath the welcome shade sweet rest 
 is found. 
 
 Ah, foolish, hopeful youth, dost thou not 
 know 
 That "distance lends enchantment to the 
 view." 
 How think you thy companion views those 
 things? 
 To him the gilded world is not so new. 
 
 He knows that mingled with the grass are 
 weeds. 
 And bramble acrubs and nettles rank 
 abound. 
 While on the stems that bear the fragrant 
 rose. 
 Beneath the leaves, sharp, biting thorns are 
 found; 
 Across your path the slimy serpent glides. 
 
 Or spits and hisses at you as you go. 
 And hidden with your luscious fruit, perhaps. 
 
 The asp abides to strike its deadly blow ; 
 But even when you've found your youthful 
 dreams 
 Where all delusions, yet have bravely made 
 A struggle onward through life's rugged 
 ways. 
 And almost reached that grateful forest 
 shade, — 
 Ah, even there are beasts of prey that watch 
 For those who falterere they reach tliegoal. 
 To drag them back almost from Heaven's 
 gate, 
 Down, down to Hell,— a lost and shattered 
 soul. 
 
 ■« 
 
Si- 
 
 (30 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ©- 
 
 SUNLIGHT DRIVES THE MIST AWAY. 
 I stood at night by the river, 
 
 Under a storm-cast sky ; 
 The wind that swept thro' the tree tops, 
 
 Gave forth a disnial sig-h ; 
 Darker and black grew the storm-clouds. 
 
 Loud did the thunders peal, 
 Vividly bright flashed the lightnings. 
 
 That made tlie strong oaks reel; 
 Angry and fierce did the tempest. 
 
 Its pent-up wrath outpour. 
 Till the river swelled to a torrent. 
 
 Rushed by with deaf ning roar; 
 But I felt not wind nor raindrops. 
 
 Against my hot brow sent. 
 For deep locked within my bosom, 
 
 A fiercer storm was pent; 
 And darker far than the night storm 
 
 Was earth and life to me. 
 Till I longed but for oblivion 
 
 To come and set me free; 
 I longed for the surging river. 
 
 To take me on Its tide. 
 And bear me away to the ocean. 
 
 Out on its billows wide; 
 To forget and be forgotten. 
 
 As they who stop and drink 
 Of the fabled Lethean waters. 
 
 And then forget to think. 
 Thus by the river at midnight, 
 
 Under a storm-cast sky, 
 I watched by the lightning's flashes 
 
 The wild tide rushing by. 
 Again I stood by the river. 
 
 Under a star-lit sky. 
 When the storm had spent its fury. 
 
 And clouds had all passed by; 
 The waters had ceased their tumult. 
 
 The wind had gone to rest. 
 The rumbling thunders had sunken 
 
 To silence in the west; 
 I watched the stars in the hCcavens 
 
 Grow dim and fade away, 
 As up through the eastern gateway. 
 
 Old Sol brought in the day; 
 And as the mist on the river. 
 
 Kissed by the morning's ray. 
 Went floating' adown the valley. 
 
 Then broke and passed away. 
 Just so the gloom and the shadows. 
 
 That make our lives like night. 
 Will some day lift and be scattered 
 
 By that all-piercing light. 
 That comes from beyond the tempest. 
 
 Beyond the stars and sun. 
 To lead us home to our Father, 
 
 When life and work are done. 
 And thus I stood by the river. 
 
 Under a morning sky. 
 Unrest had gone with tiie tempest, 
 
 God's love and peace were nigh. 
 
 HIRAM HOWARD BROWNE/ 
 
 Born: Cornish, Me., Nov. 15, 1838. : 
 
 After teaching school for a while Mr. Browne ' 
 studied law and was admitted to the bar in ' 
 1863. Four years later he was married to Miss . 
 Emily M. Blazo. Mr. Browne now resides iu I 
 Boston with his wife and daughter. Since hisj 
 youth Mr. Browne has been an occasional : 
 contributor of both verse and prose to various 
 literary and other publications. 
 
 TO A DROP OF DEW. 
 Pearl of the skies ! Gift of the swarthy night. 
 To glow and sparkle in the misty light. 
 Amid the tresses of the fair-haired morn! 
 What gem so rare her beautj' could adorn? 
 For thou art fairer on the grassy lea. 
 Than were thy charming rival of the sea. 
 
 Now pendant shining on the slender blade. 
 Reflecting tints in changing light and shade. 
 Of diamond, ruby, emerald, sapphire, seen 
 Like tiny jewels of some fairy queen — 
 Too pure and beautiful to be of earth, 
 Thou gem etherial had in heaven thy birth I 
 
 Spirit of purity wandering in disguise, 
 With no abiding place in earth or skies; 
 This morn a gem of sparkling, purest ray; 
 This noon but vapor boundless space away— 
 At eve descending to the earthy plane. 
 At morn ascending- to the skies again! 
 
 Now heavenward soaring- on the zephyr's; 
 
 wing— ; 
 
 Now sparkling in the depths of woodland 
 
 spring — 
 Now with the cloud, upon its steed, the wind,; 
 Circling the world, new scenes and climes tci 
 
 find, j 
 
 Now in the g-littering crystal of the frost— ^ 
 Now in the ocean wave by tempest tossed. ' 
 
 i 
 Shining at eve in sunset's glory splendid — 
 Now in the rainbow's gorgeous colors blended,, 
 In sun-lit shower now falling from the sky- 
 Now in the tears of wan-faced sorrow's eye- 
 Beginning now the petals of the rose— ' 
 
 Now in the lily's cup seeking repose. | 
 
 Thou thing etherial glowing on this flower. 
 So evanescent, changing with the hour, 
 I fain would pluck thee in thy beauty rare, ^ ■ 
 To deck, in splendor, bright Maude Marlon'^ 
 hair— ; 
 
 Art gone! rude Eos. from its dainty cup. 
 Like Egypt's queen, has drunk her jewel up ; 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ^.® 
 
 'in 
 
 MRS. ISA G. W. WHITMAN; 
 
 Bokn: Buckfield, Me., Oct. ^8, 1849. 
 Tnis lady has always resided in her native 
 town, where she was married in 1872 to Alden 
 C. Whitman. Mrs. Whitman has a volume of 
 a iiiivcl wliich will Miipi'iii' in |-<'iii >.;|i,. |i:i- 1 v\ , , 
 
 MKS. l.SA G. W. WHITMAN. 
 
 cliildren, a sun and a daufrhter. The son, 
 Plaisted, who is represented in this work, has 
 developed quite a literary talent, and al- 
 tlmug-h but nine years of ag-e. several of his 
 poems have received publication. Mrs. Whit- 
 man is considered a very tine writer. 
 
 THE FIRST CHRISTMAS. 
 A solemn hush pervaded all the air. 
 The chill, December iiijilit had passed its 
 
 noon ; 
 Tlie west wind slumbered in the branches 
 
 bare. 
 The clouds had fled the arrows of the moon. 
 The shepherds, watchinj? on the Judean hills 
 Their peaceful flocks, that slumbered through 
 
 the night. 
 Saw, ere the midnight liour had darkened 
 
 PilSt, 
 
 The whole world silvered with a wondrous 
 light. 
 
 The mystic glow o'erflooded vali' and hill. 
 The myriad stars withdrew their tender 
 
 gleams 
 ^sif the morning hour had come again. 
 
 And this effulgent glow was glad Aurora's 
 
 beams. 
 
 All save one star, th.it swung its lump of 
 
 gold 
 Adown the East, afar oer Bethlehem's plain. 
 Set in the sky to tell a wondrous tale, 
 A signal light that burned a jeweled flame. 
 Low in the East, it rayed its golden glow 
 Above a manger, strewn with straw, and 
 
 hay; 
 And odorous with tlie breath of mild-faced 
 
 kine. 
 Where lo! in peaceful sleep, a new-born in- 
 fant lay. 
 
 Oh : mystic scene, at midnight's holy hour.' 
 Tlie fair Madonna, filled with rapturous awe. 
 The tender eyes, upraised in silent prayer. 
 The infant Jesus, on his bed of straw. 
 
 The wondering shepherds, hastening from 
 
 the hills. 
 The Magi of the Orient, kneeling round. 
 Pouring their wealth of incense, myrrh and 
 
 gold. 
 All hailed Him King, whose brow was yet en- 
 crowned. 
 While thus tliey knelt, adown the East came 
 
 swelling. 
 The silvery cadence of the angel's hymn; 
 That still floats on, through centuries long 
 
 and dim 
 Of " Peace on earth, good will to men." 
 The stricken earth rejoiced, and smiled again. 
 This wonder-birth, by Galilee's dark wave 
 Brought hope, to hearts long burdened by 
 
 despair; 
 A king had come from Heaven with power to 
 
 save. 
 Tlien afar and abroad, on this sacred niglit. 
 From our own briglit land, to the Jordan's 
 
 flow. 
 Let the story of Jesus be told once more. 
 The beautiful story of long ago. 
 Yea, softly abroad on this holy night 
 From the deep recess of each church's door. 
 From windows agleam witli tinte<l light 
 Let the beautiful story be heard once more. 
 
 And afar and away o'er the snow-crowned 
 
 hills. 
 Rising, and falling, wiili mystical swell. 
 With a melody sweet as of singing birds. 
 Ring the silvery chime, of the Christmas 
 
 bells. 
 Oh: tliose beautiful chimes well 1 know. 
 For they tell their own story to me; 
 Of the babe, who was born in a stall. 
 On the shores of the d;irk Galilee. 
 Of the babe, who was born in a stall. 
 Of the King, and the Savior of men : 
 
 « 
 
^ 
 
 732 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 How the angels of God, at His birth 
 
 Sang of " Peace and good will unto men." 
 
 Then hush, and your own hearts shall hear 
 
 What these Christmas bells say unto me; 
 
 Of the sweet, tragic life, that began 
 
 On the shores of the darli Galilee. 
 
 Of his earth-life, so holy and pure. 
 
 That it seemed like a beautiful prayer; 
 
 Or an anthem the ransomed might chant, 
 
 In those mansions all shming aM fair. 
 
 Oh ! the peal of the bells, soft and low. 
 
 As tlie murmur of waves on tlie shore; 
 
 Swelling out to a jubilant chime. 
 
 As they tell the sweet story once more. 
 
 And to-day, as T list to their peals. 
 
 The thought is borne in upon me. 
 
 That as bells, we are tossed to and fro. 
 
 By the waves of life's stormy sea. 
 
 And the thought tlirilled its way to my Heart, 
 
 Our lives, are but prints in the sand; 
 
 Which the tide of Time sweepeth away. 
 
 As it breaks on eternity's strand. 
 
 Let us cling to the dear wounded side. 
 
 Let us anchor our boat to the cross; 
 
 Then laugh at the wild surges' roar. 
 
 Nor fear, thougli our barque's tempest-tossed. 
 
 For the anchor of faith holds secure: 
 
 And the white sails rock safe on the bay. 
 
 And they need not the light of the sun 
 
 Who bask in the white throne's ray. 
 
 ROBERT F.SRILLIXGS. 
 
 Born: Cdshing's Island, Me.. Oct. 31, 1819. 
 Mr. Skillings has always lived in the im- 
 mediate vicinity of his birth-place, with the 
 exception of some eight months spent in 
 Eastport, and two voyages to the West Indies. 
 He is very popular wherever he is known. 
 
 A MORNING PRAYER. 
 As this new morning I awake, 
 I pray Tliee Lord, for Jesus' sake. 
 Help me, by wisdom from above. 
 Through all this day to dwell in love. 
 
 SB- 
 
 JULY. 
 A very pleasant month is this 
 
 To be in a country town. 
 The sunlight doth tlie foliage kiss. 
 Each verdant leaflet beams with bliss, 
 
 I see not one that's brown. 
 Fresh zephyrs fan the thrifty trees 
 
 The oaks, the elms, the willows. 
 The lake's face caressed by the breeze 
 In imitation of the seas. 
 
 Is flecked with tiny billows. 
 
 PLAISTED WHITMAN. 
 
 Born : Buckfield, Me., 1880. 
 Although but nine years of age. Plaisted, 
 son of Mrs. Isa Gertrude Whitman, has writ-i 
 
 PLAISTED WHITMAN. 
 
 ten quite a few poems. He is very far ad 
 vanced in his studies, and is a rollicking boy. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 Good-night, good-night to the daisies! 
 Good-night to every one; 
 Oh ! the dew is falling 
 And homeward I must run. 
 Out of the sweet, sweet meadow. 
 Out of the waving grass. 
 Where the buttercups and the daisies 
 Nod to me as they pass. 
 And a little twinkling star 
 Comes peeping out of the sky; 
 Just as a little bird 
 To its nest flits by. 
 The little bird begins to sing 
 Twit-twee, twit-twee, twit-twoo: 
 He seems to say, •• I am going to my nest, 
 Will you come with me. with me." 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN ROSES. 
 Among the hills the mountain roses 
 Drink the dew, as day reposes; 
 And .softly wake, when dawns tiip morn. 
 And on tlie Eastern hills the day is hiirii. 
 When from behind the clouds the sun comi 
 
 Mill 
 peeping, ^ 
 
 Andin the fields of grain the men are rca; 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 7.'i3 
 
 « 
 
 JOHN FRANKLIN BRILEY. 
 
 Born: Marshall, Mo., June 9, 1869. 
 At the age of fifteen Mr. Briloy contributed 
 to the St. Louis papers, and lias since tluit 
 time written verse for niiniorous piiblica- 
 
 Jcni.N F1{.\NKLIN BUILEV. 
 
 tioiis. He is al.so an artistic penman and re- 
 ceived a prize at Chicago In 1887 for the best 
 pendrawin;4-. Mr. Briiey is secretary of the 
 local lodjre of the Farmer's Alliance at Lamar 
 in his native state. 
 
 IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 
 
 Is life worth living? Go ask a pair 
 Whose heads are crowned with silver hair, 
 Who, hand in hand down the stream of life 
 Have gone together through joy and strife, 
 Who lived not for self, but others to bless — 
 Go ask if of them and they'll answer you 
 
 ■•yes." 
 Is life worth living? Go ask a tramp 
 Whose state of manhood is of lowest stamp. 
 Who has spent his life in idle crime — 
 Whose record is dark and not sublime. 
 Whose home is out in the rain and the snow; 
 Go question him thus and lie'll answer you 
 
 •• no." 
 Is life worth livitig? Go ask the saint 
 \Vlio has lived llnough life without complaint 
 And knows the source of all his joy. 
 And his happiness is without alloy. 
 And his last of earth is drawing nigh ; 
 Go ask it of him and he'll answer j-ou •• aye." 
 
 Is life worth Jiving? Go ask the rake 
 
 Who has lived through life for pleasure's 
 
 sake. 
 Who has no love but for the gilded saUxm 
 And to his friends a curse, but never a boon. 
 And his race through life is ebbing low. 
 Go ask it of him and he'll answer you •• no." 
 
 Is life worth living? Go ask the birds 
 
 That pipe from their throats the musical 
 
 words 
 That cheers the sad heart and soothes ttie dull 
 
 ear, 
 And drives from our bosoms the burdens of 
 
 care. 
 And they breathe forth joy but never a sigh; 
 Go ask it of them and they'll answer you 
 
 "aye." 
 
 TWO SCHOOL GIRLS. 
 
 With arms linked together, a coming thro' 
 the meadow. 
 
 And tripping so lightly that they scarce can 
 be heard, 
 
 And pushing before them a calm air of sweet- 
 ness 
 
 That is very far superior to the most musical 
 bird. 
 
 One with hair like the sunset, though a little 
 more dimmer. 
 
 That falls on her forehead so smooth and so 
 fair 
 
 In many short ringlets. (One graces our 
 scrap-book 
 
 And has a magical power of driving off care.) 
 
 The other with tresses as jet as a raven 
 
 Though minus the card.s, 'tis treasured as 
 high 
 
 When cut off and lied u|> with a little red rib- 
 bon. 
 
 And given a fiiciid for remembrance for aye. 
 
 With arms linked together they would thus 
 cross the meadow [lane. 
 
 Because it was nearer than the long muddy 
 
 With a little low school house at the end of 
 their journey. 
 
 Where we gathered each day, whether sun- 
 shine or rain. 
 
 And day after day, at each iutermi.ssion 
 
 The boys to tliese girls would instinctively 
 draw near, [voices 
 
 And listen with fondness, to the kind loving 
 
 That was sweeter than nnisic to each listen- 
 ing ear. 
 
 But at last came the day of the sad, tearful 
 parting — 
 
 The last day of school, 'twas the saddest of all. 
 
 But deep in our heart is a warm spt)t allotted 
 
 To those two pleasant school girls, whom we 
 often recall. 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 734 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMBHICA. 
 
 ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE. 
 
 Born : Naples, Me., July 13, 1833. 
 
 After graduating in 1863 at Bowdoin coUeg-e, 
 Isaac then studied law and was admitted 
 to the bar three years later. Mr. Choate has 
 written nearly a hundred poems wliich have 
 received publication, and has also written 
 considerable prose. He is now a resident of 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 ®- 
 
 THB DOOM OF ESCOUBLAC. 
 
 The ang-ry winds come fierce and strong-,— 
 Blow fresh from off the western sea, 
 
 And rave around the cliffs along: 
 The coast of Brittany. 
 
 The white sea-foam is upward borne. 
 And wildly driven before the gale. 
 
 Like flying shreds of canvas torn 
 Off from a tattered sail. 
 
 The waves break round the rocks that stand 
 Like giant warders old and gray; 
 
 Tliey chase each other up the sand. 
 Within the curving bay. 
 
 In clefts the cedars rooted fast 
 Lean landward with a frightened look. 
 
 As if with terror of the blast 
 Their withering branches shook. 
 
 And on the shore the shining sands 
 Are piled in dunes or smoothed to plains. 
 
 As thougli unseen, unresting hands 
 Were turning countless grains. 
 
 Those shifting sands turn evermore 
 Only one way, like drifting snow. 
 
 The breezes blowing off that shore 
 So soft and gently go. 
 
 Over moist meadow lands they pass — 
 Those creeping sands — with stealthly care, 
 
 Where larks nest in the tufted grass. 
 And flowers scent the air. 
 
 They fill the ditches in the field 
 And tiiirsty drink the runnels dry. 
 
 To drought the flag and iris yield. 
 The lilies droop and die. 
 
 Tlie meadow to a desert turns. 
 Above its cold, wet, springy earth 
 
 The glittering- sand in summer burns 
 Like embers on the hearth. 
 
 Upon the slope the orchard trees 
 Sliow only brandies bleaching white, 
 
 Beneatli the sand tlie trunks of these 
 Are hidden from tlie sight. 
 
 And many a low straw-tli'atchcd abode 
 
 Of village folic and flslier crew, 
 Tliat used to line a winding- road. 
 
 Has vanished from tlie view. 
 
 Only the chapel spire now stands 
 Where stood the hamlet ages back 
 
 Above the sifting, sliding sands 
 That cover Escoublac. 
 
 The neighbors still a tale repeat. 
 Told of a winter's evening wild. 
 
 When wandered through that village street 
 A beggar and his child. 
 
 They asked for shelter from the storm — 
 
 The furious storm from off the bay — 
 From every cosy cabin warm 
 
 The two were turned away. 
 And when they stood in helpless plight, 
 
 Tlieir prayer refused at every door. 
 The old man plucked three hairs so white 
 
 And blew them toward the shore. 
 And ever since, instead of rains. 
 
 Instead of feathery flakes of snow. 
 Those blasts have brought sharp cutting 
 grains 
 
 Of sand when e'er they blow. 
 
 SELMA WARE PAINE. 
 
 Born: Bangor, Maine. | 
 
 Miss Paine still resides in her native toivu '. 
 with her father, Hon. Albert W. Paine. Miss 
 Paine has written quite a few poems that • 
 have received publication, all of which have ' 
 been well and favorably commented upon. 
 
 SINGING PRAISES. 
 They pictured heaven in by-gone days 
 
 With angel hosts that sang 
 For aye and aye the Maker's praise. 
 While all along the heavenly ways 
 
 The harps celestial rang. 
 But now a century more wise 
 
 Kejects the simple lore; 
 And yet perchance within it lies 
 A truth from wise and prudent eyes, 
 
 Concealed as once of yore. 
 What fragrant fields the angel feet 
 
 May tread, I do not know; 
 Wliat words the angel lips repeat, 
 Wliat seeds of kindness fair and sweet 
 
 The angel bauds may sow. 
 But this I know, the heart that stays 
 
 On earth, and bears its part. 
 And sings the while its Maker's praise 
 On stormy and on sunny days— 
 
 That is 1 he heavenly heart. 
 I think when such a lieart is freed 
 
 From cumbering clay, that where 
 The tlunight and love are word and deed, 
 rnoonseiously, its grateful need 
 
 Will change to music there. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 in3 
 
 ® 
 
 LEWIS J.EARLY. 
 
 Born: Pellvilde, Ky., Feb. 2, 18(!5. 
 SevekAl works have been written and pub- 
 lished by Lewis ,7. Early under the noni (U; 
 plume of Markus Pillsberry, which are of a 
 
 LEWIS J. EARLY. 
 
 liumorous character. His poems have appear- 
 ed in many prominent journals, and he is now 
 editor of tiie News Workl, published at Hawes- 
 ville, Ky. In person Mr. Early is rather tall, 
 but of good stature. 
 
 ON THE OHIO RIVER. 
 All quiet along the Ohio to-day,— 
 
 No cry save the .scream of the crane, 
 As he murders the fish on the farther shore, 
 
 Wliile he tramps in the sand and the rain. 
 All peaceful to-day on the river shore. 
 
 All silent along- the white .sand; 
 But swiftly and smoothly the boats glide 
 along, 
 
 'Mong the billows so proudly and grand. 
 All quiet along tlie Ohio this eve, 
 
 Tiie murmuring waters, liow clear! 
 While sadly we gaze on each saudy reef. 
 
 And sigh for the ones who are here. 
 Listless and still are the leaves on the trees,— 
 
 For the autumn has called again. 
 And on thee we gaze, dear Ohio, with these. 
 
 And long for the cool 'f resiling rain. 
 All quiet along the Ohio to-night,— 
 
 The night winds l)low coldly and drear. 
 While soft falls the dew on thy bosom again, 
 
 And the niglit-bird we distantly hear. 
 Thou dost not forsake us, Ohio, thou'rt here. 
 
 And on thee we fondly will gaze. 
 
 Till death shall call for us and take us away 
 To moulder to dust in the grave. 
 
 Then proudly thy waves on the farther 
 shore, 
 
 Will tell of the dear ones who ai'e gone. 
 And gently thy ripples I'oU proudly away 
 
 To join in the murmuring song. 
 
 Then silent and sadly along the dear stream, 
 Our friends will in memtiry come 
 
 To gaze on thy bosom, losing the sad song 
 Of the loved ones who've gone to their 
 home. 
 
 MRS. MARCIA M.SISCO. 
 
 Born: Steuben Co., N.Y.,May31, 18:32. 
 Mrs. Sisco has written both prose and verse, 
 and her poems have received publication in 
 the local press. She now resides in Pomeroy, 
 Iowa. 
 
 AN APPEAL TO LIBERTY. 
 
 Spirit of love unstring yi)ur golden harp 
 And lay it down before the eternal throne; 
 Then bow thy head and plead with liberty. 
 To uuglove her hands and then unveil her 
 
 face. 
 And look with naked eyes upon her sword — 
 Red with oppression's l)lood; then trace 
 With naked hands the many names 
 Written upon the surface of her throne. 
 In raised letters so bold and prominent 
 That they can be Ijoth seen and felt; 
 And there are pictures, too, wrought by her 
 
 hand — 
 Pictures of men — good, honest men— 
 With daggers at their throats — 
 Because of unbelief in Christian creeds; 
 Nurslingsof tyranny —offsprings of misery, 
 
 too. 
 Held in the lap of ignorance and crime. 
 And drawing at the paps of foul disease. 
 Their souls baiitised at the dark, dismal fount 
 Of sin and death. And most of them 
 Crushed by heavy burdens unmerciful to bear, 
 And boutid in menial chains of .servitude 
 Before earth's monieii kings. And now. 
 Oh! tyranny, clothed in free<lom's robes — 
 Wearing ui)on thy cur.sed brow the starry 
 
 crown. 
 And holding in thy strong right hand 
 The key to prison walls, and in thy left 
 The flowing bowl — thine armor stain|)ed 
 With customs, creeds and dogmas — 
 But wholly void of Gods almighty truth; 
 Ope wide the dtxirsof nature's gilded halls 
 And bathe their guilty .soids 
 With the pure bracing air of freedom's 
 
 bowers. 
 
 -* 
 
SB: 
 
 736 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 © 
 
 Then take the gloves that have, for ages past, 
 Covered the treachery of thy blood-staiued 
 
 hands. 
 And wipe thy hloody sword — then sprinkle it 
 With gold dust from the streets X)f freedom's 
 
 heaven ; 
 Then stand before thy throne of burnished 
 
 gold 
 And there behold, written by demons' hands, 
 Upon its brazon front, "The lust of power;" 
 Then look above, below, on either side, 
 Thou monstrous vulture of all civiHties, 
 And see the different titles thou hast held — 
 The different garbs you've worn ; 
 The different chains you've forged about the 
 
 necks 
 Of slavery by tyranny, oppression, despotism, 
 
 mammon, — 
 And worst of all, by creeds. Then draw aside 
 The drapery of thy curtained throne and there 
 
 behold 
 The piles upon piles of heaped up skeletons. 
 Which thou, with ax, and rope, and sword, and 
 
 gun. 
 And prison walls, have slain in the name 
 Of Christian liberty. Turn now thine eyes, 
 Exalting tyranny, thou low vituperation 
 Of fair liberty, and look upon the lowest of 
 
 thy sons 
 Whose mind is fettered v/ith stale ignorance, 
 Whose body daily feeds on bread alone, 
 Whose soul has never yet been satisfied. 
 Albeit his hands are rough with honest toil, 
 He stands a moral blot upon the foremost page 
 Of nature's book. Now go from this low speeia 
 Of thy native law to the weird denizens of the 
 
 damned. 
 And there behold the brilliant minds on flre. 
 The loathsome, bloated, reeling human form 
 That hold those minds, and hear the frenzied 
 
 oaths, — 
 The kicks, the cuffs, the midnight pistol shots, 
 And watch the flowing of the crimson stream 
 That once did feed a soul as pure as they — 
 Who bow before the throne of the most high. 
 And plead with dissipation. Turn now thine 
 
 eyes 
 From this revolting scene of loathsome fllth 
 To mad insanity in all its varied forms, 
 From minds where reason comes and goes at 
 
 will 
 To those who ever wail In utter darkness. 
 And from bright youth unto the faded crone 
 Whose af^pirations once leaped mountain high, 
 Arched by the bow of promise spite of doubts, 
 Clothed in thegorgeous hues of high, resolves 
 Led on by faitli while hope lield higli her hand 
 And pointed forward to the final goal. 
 Look ! look upon the highest of God's works. 
 Wrecked and worse than slaughtered by thy 
 
 hand. 
 
 «- 
 
 Shut up in prisons, dark and damp and cold. 
 Or in the madhouse gnawing at their chains 
 Until their teeth are keenly set on edge; 
 Or worse than all, drinking the flery draught 
 Of earth deluded hell holes deep and dark. 
 While thus you stand within hell's open jaws 
 And scan the miseries of oppression's chains. 
 Trample the gaudy crown beneath thy feet 
 Which thou hast worn with such an empty 
 
 grace, — 
 Brush from thy robes the vile corroding dust 
 Of foul deceit, — then sprinkle them 
 With mercy's sparkling gems of human love; 
 Tear down the tottering pillows of thy throne. 
 Which stand upon the shaky, crumbling 
 
 sands 
 Of dead men's bones already rotten — 
 Not from the lapse of time, but from the 
 
 stench 
 Arising from the wasted, stagnant blood . 
 Of honest men. Wash well thy bloody hands 
 
 at nature's fount 
 And cleanse the inner temple of thy throne 
 With the bright glowing fires of human 
 
 rights. 
 Then hie away to the beautiful hills of God, 
 And there behold the progeny of all below thy 
 
 race. 
 Feeding on Uving pastures bright and green, 
 Drinking deep at the fount of natural life, 
 All living out the order of God's laws 
 In perfect harmony on their native plain; 
 Look and compare and then say, if you can, 
 My creeds, my customs and my laws are just; 
 Next roll away the stone from nature's tomb 
 And there behold wrapped in a little napkin 
 
 pure and white. 
 And lain away for future use 
 The holy principles of justice, love and truth, 
 At which the world still scoffs and wags its 
 
 head 
 And spits upon and crowns with thorns. 
 And crucifies and tries to kill, but which. 
 Though crushed to earth, will ever rise again 
 In spite of all the hellish powers that crush it 
 
 down, 
 And still proclaim the truth, and truth alone 
 Shall make you free. And now, O tyranny. 
 But liberty,so-called,lurking within the house 
 
 of holy creeds. 
 Cast off thy monarch crown of shining gold 
 And bow before the throneof human rights 
 And there confess t h.v sins. Show to mankind 
 That he who'd save the world must save him- 
 self 
 By living out his own, his innate laws, 
 Wiiich are the only way-marks on the road 
 Leading up to wisdom's lioly mount 
 And the unfoldment of the spirit man 
 To future peace and universal love 
 Throughout the vast domains of spirit worlds. 
 
 « 
 
SB- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 737 
 
 ® 
 
 LEANDER S. KEYSER. 
 
 Born: Tuscarawas Co., O., March 13, 185T. 
 At the age of sixteen Mr. Keyser first taught 
 school; and later combined teaching and ed- 
 ucating himself with the money he thus earn- 
 ed. Having taken a theological course, he 
 took charge of the EngUsh Lutheran church 
 at Elkhart, Ind., where he remained for near- 
 ly sixyears. T;l•^■. K('>- '-l" 'ilwayshadan 
 intense lo\e I'M lii cr.K muny poetic 
 
 LEANDER S. KEYSER. 
 
 effusions emanated from his pen from time 
 to time. He has also written many stories, 
 and in 1886 his first serial, The Only Way Out, 
 was published, which was followed two years 
 later by anotherone entitled Epochs of a Life. 
 Mr. Keyser now resides at Springfield, Ohio, 
 where he is well known as a clergyman of 
 good standing. 
 
 BRIC-A-BRAC. 
 Judith, that glove is much too tight; 
 It presses your hand so pure and white. 
 If I should press your hand for you 
 As that kid glove, what would you do? 
 Dear Judith, let us go to the woodland to-day. 
 And sit on the bank of the lonesome rill ; 
 I And Pan, the god of those shadows gay, 
 I Shall rule our hearts at his own sweet will. 
 I We will need no book of jingles and rhymes, 
 I For love will sing in her sweetest tone, 
 I And the birds will warble their liquid chimes 
 \i 
 
 And you, dear Judith, shall be my own. 
 I'd like to hear the Jingle of atoms in a wave 
 
 of light. 
 Or the sonnet of roses as they throw their 
 
 colors upon the siglit, 
 The melody of the frost as it forms upon 
 
 the window-pane, 
 And the song of the sap as it courses the veins 
 
 of the grass and the growing grain. 
 The little child with wistful eye 
 Stretches his hand out toward the sky ; 
 He sees and wants the distant moon. 
 And weeps that he cannot have the boon. 
 We larger children from day to day 
 Are wanting objects too far away. 
 Once I held to my ear a beautiful shell, 
 And I heard the song of the far-off sea. 
 So I list to my soul, and I hear f uU well 
 The song of its native eternity. 
 And I think : as the shell belongs to the sea, 
 And cannot forget its home in the wave. 
 So my yearning soul — this immortal Me — 
 Belongs to the home yon-side of the grave, 
 
 THE AESTHETIC SEARCH. 
 Somewhere I knew she was, for I had caught 
 Quick glimpses of the damsel whom I sought. 
 Her figure was divinely fair of mould. 
 Her tresses flashed in purple and in gold; 
 Her eyes had stolen of the vaulted blue. 
 Her cheeks the crimson of the rose's hue. 
 But when I sought her with a rapture rare. 
 My Virgin Bt'autiful was otherwhere. 
 I wandered into groves of living green, [seen. 
 Where traces of her marvelous touch were 
 A moment she appeared, and then she fled. 
 Like some poor startled nymph, with noise- 
 less tread. 
 Amid ambrosial gardens then I sought 
 With hope and strong desire; for I thought: 
 «» Surely among the flowers she will be!" 
 I saw her form and ran to bend the knee. 
 To worship at her shrine ; but quick the maid 
 Fled wildly from my clasp as if afraid 
 My touch were vile ; and then I turned away, 
 And fairest flowers were nauseous tliat day. 
 And then I scanned the heavens ; but every 
 
 star 
 Shimmered at once : •' Thy quest is much too 
 
 far!" 
 And aU the constellations chorused thus : 
 "Thou wilt not find the Virgin here with us !" 
 And then among the master men of song 
 I made my search and tarried with them long. 
 And thought the damsel was in my embrace. 
 Feeling her luscious breath upon my face 
 As o'er the rythmic page we bent and read. 
 Alas 1 e'en as the minstrels sang she fled. 
 And from the verse that erst had thrilled me so 
 I turned with loathing and with hopeless woe. 
 »• I ne'er shall find my sweet ideal bride. 
 My Mistress of the Beautiful I" I cried, 
 
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 738 
 
 -© 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Upon my knees I plead until the dawn : 
 •I O heaven ! whither hath the Virgin gone? 
 •'Where shall I find, how may 1 ever win 
 The counterpart of longings here within?" 
 Long while I knelt and waited for reply. 
 Until at last a voice broke from the sky : 
 " First cleanse thy soul, thy thought, oh man 
 
 from sin. 
 Then seek the object of thy quest witiun. 
 "Ne'er in external things is found the goal 
 Till moral beauty reigns within the soul. 
 "And if thou keep her there, she e'er will be 
 A holy, sweet companion unto thee. 
 "And then in song,aud flower,and leaf, and sky 
 Her image fair thy vision shall descry," 
 And tlius I sought— I need no more repine, 
 I found her, wooed her, won her, she is mine. 
 
 LEANDER COX HOWE. 
 
 Born: Mayslick, Ky., Nov. 15, 1866. 
 As a minister of the gospel, Mr. Howe has ex- 
 perienced fair success. He is very fond of 
 literature, and hopes at no distant date to de- 
 vote the greater part of his time to literary 
 woi-k. The Rev. Howe has written poetry 
 from his youth, and will present a volume of 
 his poems to the public in book-form at an 
 early date. He is at present located at Poplar 
 Plains, in his native state. 
 
 ©- 
 
 STAR-THOUGHTS BY TWILIGHT. 
 
 The purple glory of the dying day 
 Reflects its luster on the sky above. 
 
 While deep down in my heart their lies 
 The precious gift — first love. 
 
 gift divine that thou art mine; 
 Let sacred be the trust 
 
 Until tlie soul is lost in love, — 
 The mortal lost in dust. 
 
 1 see afar a silver star. 
 Bright jewel in the blue, 
 
 As is its light true to old night, — 
 
 My love is true to you. 
 Behold another brilliant star 
 
 111 azure realms of space. 
 It twinkled for the ages gone 
 
 On many a faded race. 
 And so when we have oaid the debt, 
 
 That mortals ne'ei can miss. 
 Still other eyes will sec tiiat star 
 
 In distant years from this. 
 Behold a lustrous si.ster star, 
 
 High o'er the old churdi spire, 
 A thousand eyes ujiori tliis night 
 
 Its beauty may admire. 
 I see anotlicr golden light 
 
 Hung out in realms on high, 
 
 And by decree eternal 
 Its light can never die. 
 
 see a distant shining star! 
 Its light may gently fall 
 
 Upon a mother's grave — 
 
 In life who was your all. 
 To-night upon the far-oflf hill. 
 
 Where starlight diamonds glisten. 
 There comes no echo from the grave- 
 Though millions of us listen. 
 We love to look upon that star 
 
 That casts its rays below. 
 To decorate a motlier's grave 
 
 With jewels in the snow. 
 While looking at that sacred star. 
 
 We love to think of this: 
 Her spirit may be drinking in 
 
 Its beauty that we miss. 
 The stars look down from realms of blue 
 
 Upon the lonely molds. 
 Where long have slept the bodies 
 
 Of many noble souls. 
 
 1 see another golden star 
 Which smiles in fairy blue,— 
 
 'Tis sweet to think of her we love. 
 
 Whose looking at it too ; 
 Its rays reflect the beauty 
 
 That to her nature gave. 
 And tlicn we breathe out gently: 
 
 All is not in the grave. 
 Sweet raem'ry brings to mind 
 
 A happy hour just now. 
 That self-same star was shining when 
 
 We made loves fondest vow. 
 O may that star forever shine 
 
 Down from the blue above! 
 And fill all blissful hearts 
 
 With nature's truest love. 
 O yonder is a fatal star — 
 
 One tliat we ought to hate; 
 'Tis said that those born under it 
 
 Arc wedded unto fate. 
 So well did Gloster's bastard youth 
 
 In Sliakespeare's i>lay make fun 
 Of all these planetary fates 
 
 That through the ages run. 
 Dear reader please remember this. 
 
 And read King Lear to see. 
 That stars are not resi)onsible 
 
 For what we seem to be. 
 The meanest villain drawing breath— 
 
 Or vicious rake of eart h. 
 Fair Venus may have .smiled ui>on 
 
 The cradle of their bn-lh : 
 The purest saint that ever lived, 
 
 Whose life no vice did mar. 
 For ought wo know, may have I)een born 
 
 Beneath that very star. 
 
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 ^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ;3'j 
 
 MRS.MARTHAWINTERMUTE 
 
 Born: Delaware Co., Ohio, Sept. C, 1843. 
 This lady's work, entitled Eleven Women 
 and Thirteen Men and other works, contains 
 a beautiful story in prose, and a collection of 
 her finest poems. The book is a very fine one 
 and has had an extensive sale. Mrs. Winter- 
 
 MHS. .MARTHA WIN'TERMUTE. 
 
 mute's poems have appeared in the Youth's 
 Companion, and a number of other journals 
 equally as prominent. She was married in 
 ISti:?, and now resides in Newark, Ohio, en- 
 gaged in literary work. 
 
 LAURELS. 
 
 ©■ 
 
 Victory men do not inherit; 
 
 Keep not back the wreaths of merit. 
 
 That become the conqueror's brow — 
 Laurels: ask not what tliey cost, 
 
 Go win thou ! 
 If thou gainest fame's fair chaplet, 
 
 Let it live. 
 " Unto liim that overcometh 
 
 I will give." 
 Of the lip that strangely weareth 
 Wreaths of peace, while spirit beareth 
 
 Sorrows dark and sins that mar — 
 Laurels: ask not what they speak — 
 
 Wliat of war? 
 But the grace tliat overcometh 
 Go thou seek! 
 
 It is conquest if thou find 
 
 Peace of mind. 
 There be laurels never given 
 Until wars and storms have driven 
 Heart and mind and soul to rest. 
 As the blooming flowers are laid 
 
 On deatli's breast. 
 Yet make thou thy life victorious, 
 
 Tliou may'st win 
 What is more than eartlily honor,— 
 
 Strength within. 
 
 MY DREAM. 
 
 I chanced to-day so near to that land. 
 Where the loved and immortal dwell, 
 
 That I felt the clasp of a spirit hiind. 
 And heard what her lips would tell. 
 
 I caught from a soul a cherished wish. 
 
 And it seemed akin to care. 
 Too deep, too subtile for song like this. 
 
 It was shaped in a realm so fair. 
 
 'Twas a longing quest for a heart astray, 
 
 And lost in this world of sin. 
 She fain would be .sending- my soul away. 
 
 Praying and calling him in. 
 
 You see her earthly love was riven 
 By the shaft of the archer — death 
 
 As she lingers and waits at the gate of 
 heaven, 
 This quest seems her vital breath. 
 
 A Magdalene, now pure and free — 
 I once helped, swept silently near. 
 
 And kissed my eyelids, with lips, to me, 
 Tliat seemed like the drop of a tear. 
 
 So pitiful soft and tender with love — 
 
 I cared not to lift them to see. 
 Till I felt she was gone, tlien gazing above, 
 
 Fell back her whisper to me: 
 
 " I have sisters fair in death and night. 
 
 Where the proud of the world will not go, 
 I wish you might bring them "—away in 
 
 light. 
 Was she gone, gleaming whiter than snow. 
 
 And I saw the celestial feet of a saint. 
 
 I once cheered, when he stumbled below. 
 And he touched my lips, "Ye sliall never 
 faint. 
 
 Ye shall drink where His rivers flow." 
 
 I drew this lesson— all Heaven is near. 
 
 And longing the lost to find. 
 The words I utter, the look, the tear. 
 
 The prayer and the service kind 
 
 Will live above — and the bread I cast 
 On the waters — I there shall find. 
 
 It may seem fruitless, but O! at last. 
 The angels my sheaves will bind. 
 
 -* 
 
© 
 
 -9 
 
 rio 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 CHAUNCEY C. JEXCKS. 
 
 BORX: OssiAX, N.Y., JrsE 25, 1S53. 
 After attending- 1 he state normal school of 
 Greneseo for several years, Chauncej- then 
 taught school. Mr. Jeucks wrote both poetry 
 and prose for the Schoolday Magazine, -which 
 -was afterward absorbed by the St. Nicholas 
 Magazine. He has contributed quite exten- 
 sively to the Dans-ville Advertiser. Rochester 
 
 tHACXCEY CLIXTOX JEXCKS. 
 
 Democrat and Chronicle, Detroit Tribune and 
 the Chicago Inter-Ocean. Commencing the 
 study of law in 1881, he was subsequently ad- 
 mitted to the bar, and has since been actively 
 engaged in the practice of that profession at 
 Kalkaska. Michigan. Mr. Jencks was marrievi 
 in 1882 to Miss Nettie M. Kellogg. He was 
 school examiner for eight years of Kalkaska 
 county. 
 
 AN EMBLEM. 
 Wilt accept this little rosebud, 
 
 Nellie -Nell. 
 From among its blooming sisters. 
 
 Plucked to tell 
 To thine ear, if thou'lt incline it, 
 
 What Id say. 
 And can only with this emblem 
 
 It portray? 
 In this simple little rosebud, 
 
 Nellie -Nell, 
 Beauty rare, and frajrrance rarer. 
 
 Sweetly dwell ; 
 
 But 'tis not the passing beauty 
 
 Of its cheek. 
 Nor its fragrance — emblematic — 
 
 I would speak. 
 Young and tender is the rosebud, 
 
 Nellie -Nell; 
 Childhood innocence it tokens. 
 
 Fitting well. 
 Guileless type of blooming maidhood; 
 
 But not yet 
 Have you guessed the sweetest emblem 
 
 In it set. 
 Calyx veUed the beauteous rosebud, 
 
 Nellie— Nell, 
 Blushes out at each rude gazer; 
 
 Blushes tell 
 Of its modesty supreme and 
 
 Unassumed; 
 But 'twould serve as well my symbol 
 
 Had it bloomed. 
 'Tis the mission of the roseb ud, 
 
 NeUie — Nell, 
 How it lives to bless poor mortals 
 
 I would tell; 
 How it cheers our darksome pathway 
 
 As we go 
 By its sweetness — Uke a maiden 
 
 That I know. 
 
 SB- 
 
 GATHER THE ROSES. 
 
 A spirit, unnamed and unknown. 
 From the cycles of ages unnumbered. 
 Came into my dreams as I slumbered. 
 
 And talked with my spirit alone. 
 
 Sweet and grand were the words that it said; 
 And as bright (as my spirit remembers) 
 As the glowing at midnight of embers. 
 
 Was the halo of beauty it shed. 
 
 It spake of the deeds of the just; 
 It unfolded the leaves of the ages. 
 And wiped from their moldering pages 
 
 The blood, and the tears, and the dust; 
 
 And it painted their pictures anew 
 In colors of glory- world splendor — 
 In lines that were touching and tender — 
 
 The deeds of the pure and the true. 
 
 It purged from the time-colored leaves 
 Tlie tares that have sprung f aim ambition— 
 The thistles of dark superstition — 
 
 But gatliered the wheat into sheaves. 
 
 The records of history stood 
 Replete with the warring of powers. 
 It blotted the carnage-stained hours. 
 
 And pointed alone to the good. 
 
 It spoke of no battle where Might 
 Had marshaled its legions in action 
 To crush an inferior faction. 
 
 But breathed of the triumphs of Right, 
 
 -* 
 
 I 
 
& 
 
 LOCAL, AXD XATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 711 
 
 © 
 
 ALVARO F. GIBBEXS. 
 
 BoRx: Parkersbcrg, Ta., March L 1S37. 
 After receiving: his education. Alvaro taught 
 in Missouri at La Grang-e college in 1S6L He 
 has held many positions of public trust, and 
 in 1966 became one of the editors and pro- 
 prietors of the Parkersburg Gazette. Since 
 then he has been connected with several pub- 
 lications and held gx>rernruent clerkships. 
 For Hie past twenty yeai-s Z^Ir. Gibbens has 
 
 ALVARO r. GIBBEXS. 
 
 been a contributor of poems and other liter- 
 ary articles to the leading magazines of the 
 country, and has read poems before the 
 Press Association of Louisiana and other in- 
 stitutions. In 1865 he received the degree of 
 A. M. Mr. Gibbens is one of the editors of 
 Prominent Men of West Virginia, an histoid 
 ical illustrated work of some nine hundred 
 pages. He has a volume of poems in pre- 
 paration entitled Sparks from Thoughts An- 
 vil, which he hopes soon to publish. 
 
 s<- 
 
 THE SPIRITS PETITION". 
 Out in the porch of the temple 
 
 I stand and knock at the door. 
 Master of all in the heavens. 
 
 As others have stood before. 
 Feebly I ask for an entrance. 
 
 Earnest and trusting-ly too; 
 
 Grant but the word of admittance. 
 
 And 1 shall foUow them through. 
 Out in the darkness of midnight 
 
 Among' the profane and tlie poor, 
 I tread as a pilgrim in search of 
 
 A Ug'ht through the open door. 
 I know there are riches and knowledge. 
 
 Where worship the faithful and true, 
 I long for the veil lo be parted,— 
 
 I long- for the Temple to view. 
 
 Out in this world of commotion. 
 
 WTiere sorrows o'ershadow the way. 
 Oh, Master of all in the heavens, 
 I journey in search of the day; 
 I wait for the light of the dawning-. 
 
 As others have waited before, 
 A pilgrim from earth to the heavens, 
 
 I wait and knock at the door. 
 
 I stand in the porch of the Temple, 
 
 And gaze at the brig-ht starry sky. 
 My heart leaps out in petition 
 
 To pass up the ladder on high : 
 For I know there is joy in the mansion 
 
 Where brothers have- hastened before, 
 A pUgrim from earth to the heavens, 
 
 1 wait and knock at the door. 
 
 WHAT IS THAT TO THEE? 
 Through the forest runs a river. 
 
 Restlessly and free. 
 Singing as it onward rushes. 
 
 Searching- for the sea. 
 Thus my heart has long been searching, 
 
 Lena Xora, thee. 
 Lena Nora, Lena Nora, 
 
 Tliou art dear to me. 
 And my heart is very lonely : 
 
 What is that to thee? 
 I have loved the sunshine peeping 
 
 Through the forest tree. 
 And the bird-songs on the mountain. 
 
 And the rolling sea : 
 But I'll never love them longer 
 
 If thou love not me. 
 Lena Nora, Lena Nora, 
 
 Thou art dear to me. 
 And there's nothing else I care for. 
 
 If thou love not me. 
 In a grove beside the streamlet 
 
 Stands a cottage fair, 
 WTiere the sunshine and the shadows 
 
 Fill the dewy air. 
 And the very birds are sighing 
 
 For a footstep there. 
 Lena Nora, Lena Nora, 
 
 Dear thou art to me. 
 And this heart is very lonely. 
 
 Wilt thou go with me? 
 
 -© 
 
*- 
 
 742 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL, AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MIGHT BE TO-DAY. 
 We cannot see the heart. 
 
 And we do not know the words 
 That arc rushing; toward the lips, 
 
 When its very depths are stirred. 
 If we did, the friends we meet 
 
 In our path of every day. 
 Would be dearer than they are. 
 
 And less likely to betray. 
 But we mask our very souls 
 
 From the ones whose love we seek. 
 And we bind our tongues to hush 
 
 What our hearts desire to speak. 
 This is earth's mysterious waj': 
 
 But there comes an hour of trust. 
 When the gates will open wide 
 
 And the spirit leave its dust, 
 And the knowing and tlie knowa 
 
 Shall beside each other rest. 
 While all doubts shall banished be 
 
 From each confidential breast. 
 Could we laj' aside our fears, 
 
 This bright hour might be to-day. 
 And the happiness of love 
 
 Find its perfect, blissful sway. 
 Could we look into the heart 
 
 That we fondly wish our own. 
 We would find a friendship there 
 
 Deep, responsive in its tone. 
 Pride and fear bar up the way. 
 
 Keeping humati souls apart. 
 And our noblest words are crushed 
 
 Ere they into being start. 
 True expression deepens love: 
 
 Why not say you prize your friend? 
 It will cheer his life to know 
 
 What you're keeping to the end. 
 
 UPON THE STAINLESS SAND. 
 Weird shadows creep from wave to wave 
 With velvet feet, like sandaled dreams, 
 vviiilo clouds above with parted seams 
 Drop sunlight througli. Wild waters lave 
 The shores sea-girt. I trace in sand 
 Her name beloved, while mute I stand 
 And feel my heart beat sweet refrain 
 For hours I wish might come again. 
 
 Then startled by the sea-bird's form 
 
 High in the upper Summer air 
 Sliown by the light which sunbeams wear 
 Across my tracings, lilie a storm 
 
 Tliat clouds some distant spot of sky 
 
 My hand rests idle. Why, oh, why? 
 My lieart has flown on wings afar, 
 As if to wait for rising star. 
 A ship out in the wavivcrest sea 
 Sails toward the land with measured tread. 
 And seems to bring me some strange dread 
 Of future that maj^ never be. 
 
 While once again I trace in sand 
 The name of old with lover's wand. 
 And wonder if the flying years 
 Will bear away these silent tears. 
 I ask the bird, the wave, the cloud. 
 The sail that floats the coming ship. 
 
 And swings its arms with sea-gull tip 
 
 Because I dare not speak aloud 
 
 If I shall see again, in love. 
 The face of her with dreams inwove. 
 Whose voice was like angelic song 
 That set me dreaming all life long. 
 As mute as now is Memnon's lyre. 
 Bird, cloud, and ship, and restless wave 
 Give to my heart no answer, save 
 The moan which bids e'en hope expire. 
 And as my eyes lift from the sea 
 I trace the name so dear to me 
 In ocean sand, again; again 
 I hear fond Memory's sweei refrain. 
 Go, bird with an unwearied wing. 
 Float, cloud with velvet-covered feet ; 
 Speed, wave, you ship with message fleet. 
 To one I name, and to me bring 
 The love I know is prisoned deep 
 Within her breast for me. I weep. 
 And trace in stainless sand till then 
 The magic lines with lover's pen. 
 
 *- 
 
 TRUSTING. 
 Out in the busy world. 
 
 Breasting the tidal storm; 
 Watchmg the scowls of sky. 
 
 Over the billows form. 
 Smiling at fearful clouds. 
 
 Gathering about my path; 
 Music is in their winds. 
 
 Spirit is in their wrath. 
 Facing the stranger throng. 
 
 Hearing no word c>f cheer; 
 Isn't the voice within 
 
 Bidding away despair: 
 Grasping each offered hand. 
 
 Asking no mortal aid; 
 He who can rule the storm. 
 
 Strengthens the creature made. 
 Threading the waj-s of life. 
 
 Toiling amid the night; 
 Believing all is well, if 
 
 Onlj' the heart is right. 
 Steadily on the tide. 
 
 Careless of wind or wave; 
 Glad of the smiling sk.v. 
 
 Willing the ills tobrave. 
 Sails my life barque frail. 
 
 On to the harbor above. 
 Knowing Deity's power. 
 
 Trusting Eternal liove. 
 
® — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AJIEIUCA. 
 
 743 
 
 © 
 
 HORx^CE A.STICKNEY. 
 
 Born: Harrison, Iowa, Feb. U, 1846. 
 The poems of Mr. Stickney have appeared in 
 the Mii.scatiiie Tribune, ;ind tlie periodical 
 press geiierallj'. Ho is tlie proprietor of a 
 
 HORACE A. STICKNEY. 
 
 hotel at Steele, North Dakota. Mr. Stickney 
 was married in 1875 to Miss Eimira L. Car- 
 penter. 
 
 I KISSED YOU. 
 I kissed you, 'tis true, and no king on bis 
 
 throne 
 Was ever more happy than I there alone 
 With the pride of my life clasped in the em- 
 brace 
 Of the lover that worshiped your form and 
 
 your face; 
 Who worshiped devoutly the graces sublime 
 That made you half human, the other divine. 
 And looking down into your eyes full of love. 
 As pure as an angel's from heaven above, 
 I drank from the cup overflowing with bliss 
 Just seasoned for me with a passionate kiss. 
 I kissed you, 'tis true, and the bright stars 
 
 above 
 Rejoiced at my pure demonstration of love; 
 For was it not written on tablets of stone, 
 In this world it is not good that man be alone? 
 Leave father and mother and cleave to thy 
 
 wife 
 Are precepts that sprang from the fountain 
 of life. 
 
 ® 
 
 Such thoughts and emotions were fllUng my 
 
 brain 
 With heaven-born pleasure, my heart was 
 
 aflame. 
 Till I prayed from the iniu'rmost depths of 
 
 my soul 
 To be ever with you, my loving life goal. 
 I kissed you, 'tis true, and the deep-vaulted 
 
 blue 
 Smiled heaven's approval on me and on you. 
 With your head on my bosom, all nature to 
 
 me 
 Grew brighter the longer I lingered with thee; 
 And the questions I now ask my own weary 
 
 heart 
 Are unanswered questions — Oh! why did we 
 
 part? 
 Oh ! why should such true love in fragrance 
 
 bloom 
 If not the ripe fruit instead of the tomb? 
 For could I this moment lost manhood regain 
 I would worship you, darling, and kiss you 
 
 again. 
 
 CODFISH AKISTOCRACY, 
 
 Snub your neiglibor if he's poor — 
 Make him feel his poverty; 
 
 In your presence he's a bore 
 
 If his coat's a little wore. 
 
 Though the nickle on your door 
 Glitters with dishonesty. 
 
 Snub your neighbor if he's poor — 
 Make him feel his poverty; 
 
 Never ask him out to ride. 
 
 Never once in him confide; 
 
 Seemingly you thus can glide 
 Into popularity. 
 
 Snub your neighbor if he's poor- 
 Make him feel his poverty; 
 
 Use him as you would a tool. 
 
 Treat him as you would a mule. 
 
 For it's the unerring rule 
 Of codfish aristocracy. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC. 
 Just and noble, kind-hearted and true: 
 A boy on the toe-path, a soldier in blue: 
 Member of Congress, prudent and bold. 
 Energetic and honest, by virtue controlled; 
 Social and easy at home and abroad, 
 A statesman untrammeled bj- Tammany 
 
 fraud. 
 Gifted with wisdom, rich, racy and grand, 
 A hero, and all but a sage in the land. 
 Right on the tariflf and revenue law — 
 Foresight that never admitted a flaw. 
 In history forever his memory will shine 
 E'en with the beauty of one more divine. 
 Long after his physical bearing shall wan. 
 Dead, yet alive in the memory of man. 
 
 -m 
 
m- 
 
 744 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ->B 
 
 JAMES NESTOR GALLAGHER 
 
 Born : Concord, N. H., July 5, 1848. 
 For the past fifteen years the pen of Mr. 
 Gallagher has been engaged more or less in 
 literary worli. His new work, Let 'er Go Gal- 
 
 JAMES NESTOR GALLAGHER. 
 
 lagher, which is a booli of poetry and prose 
 combined, has had an extensive sale from 
 Maine to California. Mr. Gallagher now re- 
 sides with his wife in San Antonio, Texas. 
 
 GOT LEFT HIMSELF. 
 
 There's little worse, ye clams of verse. 
 
 Than rhyming with the shears, 
 And warming o'er the thouglits of yore. 
 
 The chestnuts of the years. 
 Oft sterile pens, like brooding hens. 
 
 Warm over other's lays. 
 And spread anew, in borrowed hue. 
 
 The light of other days. 
 Bards that rely on sonnets dry 
 
 For hash and raiment here. 
 Discover soon an empty spoon 
 
 And trousers worn a year. 
 Alas, the time that's spent in rhyme 
 
 Would many furrows turn ; 
 Yet idle scribes write diatribes 
 
 And — Tanner diet earn. 
 But little fame — whicli many claim — 
 
 Heads 'neath tlie poet's wig. 
 And few rewards enrich the bards 
 
 That write instead of dig. 
 
 A silly bard once musing hard. 
 
 Plucked verses out of time. 
 And missed the freight a minute late 
 
 Because he stopped to rhyme. 
 So jingle not 'less flaming hot. 
 
 Ye flre-bugs of tlie brain. 
 For if you do, like him you'll rue — 
 
 Hello ! I've missed the train! 
 
 GOLD. 
 
 Gold is a sort of railway train 
 
 That takes us fast or slow 
 O'er pleasure's height and sorrow's plain. 
 
 Through happiness and woe; 
 And speeds the coarse aud superfine, 
 
 The agile and the lame 
 Along its grim, ensanguined line 
 
 Through good and evil name. 
 
 Conductor Greed directs the train 
 
 With heart-strings as tlie cord. 
 And mirage-like the siren Gain 
 
 Allures the sordid horde. 
 As heedless of the swelling wails 
 
 Of humankind it starts 
 And speeds along on icy rails 
 
 Spiked onto human hearts! 
 
 O'er rosy beds and thorny fields, 
 
 Through fragrance and decay. 
 It traverses and never yields — 
 
 It has the right of way — 
 But opens witle its throttle black. 
 
 Regardless of the moans 
 Provoked along its mazy track 
 
 Laid on a bank of bones! 
 
 Along the route poor humankind — 
 
 Crushed bits of breathing clay — 
 Imploring line the ditch behind 
 
 Or dot the blood-marked way. 
 While speeding by, the gilded train 
 
 No plaint of sorrow hears. 
 But passes on through human pain 
 
 Upon the stream of tears! 
 
 Many in this mortal fold 
 By thee, alas! are bought and sold; 
 And yet, despite thy hellish mold. 
 We idolize thee, winsome gold. 
 
 BE YE HARD TO GET. 
 
 Possession seldom tends 
 To enhance the value set; 
 So be yo hard to get, friends. 
 Be ye hard to get. 
 Tlie curliest of curls 
 Some libertine may stretch; 
 So be ye hard to catch, girls. 
 Be ye hard to fetch. 
 
 —9 
 
SB 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 r4r) 
 
 m 
 
 A. H.STODDARD. 
 
 In 1880 Mr. Stoddard, the farmer poet, pub- 
 lislied a neat volume entitled Misuellaueous 
 
 r- 
 
 
 %■ 
 
 1 
 
 . ,M' ^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 s 
 
 A. H. STODDARD. 
 
 Poems, which i-eceived liig-h commendation 
 from the press. Mr. Stoddard resides in Kal- 
 amazoo, Mich., where he is very popular. 
 
 ALBUM LINES. 
 We search beneath the ocean tide 
 
 For pearls of beauty rare, 
 We pierce the rugged mountain side. 
 
 For golden trinkets there. 
 We delve among- Brazilian sands. 
 
 We cross the dang-erous main. 
 Explore Golconda's diamond lands, 
 
 Their sparkling g-ems to gain. 
 With these the outward form is decked. 
 
 Admiring eyes to win; 
 But moral worth, and intellect, 
 
 Are brighter gems within. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 
 
 So silent is the flight of time. 
 
 That years will sometimes seem. 
 With all their varied changing scenes. 
 
 E'en as a fleeting dream. 
 It seems as 'twere but yesterday. 
 
 Since in my childish joy, 
 I joined my schoolmates in their play, 
 
 A wild and thoughtless boy. 
 A few brief years since that bright day, 
 
 On hastening wing have fled; 
 
 And many of those schoolmates now 
 
 Are slumbering with the dead. 
 And pictures, tliat like rainbow beams 
 
 Were ranged in bright array. 
 Have vanished as unreal dreams. 
 
 In life's advancing day. 
 In view of this, my youthful friends. 
 
 In kindness I would say: 
 Life's happy morn will soon be past, 
 
 Enjoy It while you may. 
 
 TO ROSA. 
 There's dazzling beauty overhead 
 
 In evening's starry show. 
 There's beauty everywliere outspread 
 
 On this green earth below. 
 There's beauty in the circling bow 
 
 When sun and shower combine. 
 There's beauty's in the crimson glow. 
 
 That marks the day's decline. 
 
 There's beauty in the towering pine 
 
 That bends in lofty pride, 
 There's beauty in the creeping vine 
 
 That nestles by its side. 
 But star and bow, and tree and skies. 
 
 In beauty all combined. 
 May all be prized, but more we prize 
 
 The beauty of tlie miud. 
 
 MY LITTLE GRAND-DAUGHTERS 
 Two little girls, with teeth like pearls, 
 
 And cheeks like summer roses. 
 With eyes of blue, or some such hue, 
 
 And funny little noses. 
 When combed with care, tlieir flaxen hair 
 
 Is left ni flowing tresses,— 
 But by the way it will not pay 
 
 To tell about their dresses:— 
 For girls are vain, 'tis very plain. 
 
 And if their dress we mention. 
 Would not their pride be gratified 
 
 By giving it attention? 
 These children play, in childish waj% 
 
 With dolls and little dislies,— 
 Sometimes with hook, along the brook. 
 
 They catch the little fishes. 
 The names you'll find if so inclined. 
 
 Of Lucy, and of Lizzie, 
 If you will look in this my book. 
 
 When you are not too busy. 
 
 EXTRACT, 
 To lead a useful, honest life. 
 
 To gain an honest living. 
 And something more for weans and wife. 
 
 And charitable giving. 
 
 -s 
 
®- 
 
 ® 
 
 tie 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL FOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLA MAUDE MOORE. 
 
 Born: Warren, Me., July 22, 1849. 
 
 In 1884 appeared Songs of Sunshine and Shad- 
 ow, a volume of poems from the pen of this 
 lady In 1873 she was married to Joseph E. 
 Moore of Thomaston, a prominent lawyer 
 who now has an ofllce in Boston. The first 
 
 MRS. ELLA MAUDE MOORE. 
 
 story she ever wrote for publication took the 
 first prize of five hundred dollars offered by 
 the publishers of Youth's Companion. Mrs. 
 Moore has one ciiild, a daughter, who was 
 born in 1886. Tlie Lewiston Journal, Christian 
 at Work, and other leading- publications, 
 liave given the literary work of this lady the 
 highest praise. 
 
 THE BOY ON THE TRAIN. 
 A little plain brown face. 
 That notliing claimed of grace 
 Or comeliness, lighted by mournful eyes 
 That might liave matched the skies 
 In deptli of l)lue; brown hair 
 That held a gleam of sunshine 'prisoned there. 
 
 Through the long swaying train 
 
 Of cars he moved — again 
 
 And yet again scanning each form and face; 
 
 9B- 
 
 Then drew from out its case 
 
 His well-worn violin. 
 
 And doffed his cap to place his earnings in. 
 
 From him on either side 
 
 Robings of silken pride 
 
 Were gatliered back by jeweled fingers fair. 
 
 As with that weary air 
 
 That only heartache brings. 
 
 He drew his bow across the trembling-strings; 
 
 Forth 'neath his hand there crept 
 
 Sad, plaintive airs that swept 
 
 Like half-awakened memories the heart; 
 
 Anon he played a part 
 
 Of some gay, joyous song — 
 
 And all unheeded by the busy throng. 
 
 The music ceased at last. 
 
 And then his cap he passed. 
 
 With hands that trembled, down each serried 
 
 line; 
 Many the gems thp.t shine 
 Like stars, from fingers fair. 
 Jewels that gleam from robe and breast and 
 
 hair. 
 
 Yet as he went his round. 
 
 Few were the pence that found 
 
 The old torn cap; his voice amid the din. 
 
 Trembling, and weak, and thin. 
 
 Was only faintly heard. 
 
 And few gave heed to his imploring word. 
 
 Sadly he turned away 
 From faces glad and gay. 
 Heartsick and weary; brooding bitter hate 
 Against earth's rich and great. 
 Thinking how but one gem 
 Of all their store would bring so much to 
 him! 
 
 •1 Life is gone out," they said 
 
 Lifting the icy head. 
 
 Sweeping the dripping hair back from the 
 
 brow. 
 Loosing the fingers thin 
 Clutching the violin: 
 •'Threw himself ofl" the bridge — that's all we 
 
 know." 
 Come ye glad hearts and gay I 
 All ye who turned away. 
 Careless of pleading eyes — heedless of sigh ! 
 Look on this cold, damp brow I 
 Say, feel ye guiltless now? 
 Is there no wound to bleed, no blood to cry? 
 
 Hungry:— ye fed him not! 
 Thirsting:— ye gave no thought! 
 Heartsick:— ye turned aside! 
 
 O ye who go. 
 Thoughtless, o'er all life's track I 
 Pray God, that, looking back. 
 Cause for such cursings ye never may know 
 
 $ 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 747 
 
 © 
 
 N.K.GRIGGS. 
 
 The poems of this geutleman have appeared 
 from time to time iu the leadiug periodicals 
 of America, from which they have been ex- 
 
 N. K. GRIGGS. 
 
 tensively copied by the local press generally. 
 Mr. Griggs is a well known attorney, practic- 
 ing at Beatrice, Neb., where he is highly re- 
 spected. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF LOVE. 
 The flowers of love spring up in our high- 
 ways. 
 And wave in our fields and border our byways, 
 And yet we ne'er learn who plants them nor 
 
 tills them. 
 Nor yet when they die, what secret foe kills 
 
 tliem. 
 Some flowers of love, tho' carefully tended. 
 And from the rude blast, by fond ones defend- 
 ed. 
 Bloom sweetly an hour, then wither and perish 
 And leave not a leaf for fond ones to cherish. 
 And other love-blooms are beautiful roses, 
 That blossom from spring, till summer-time 
 
 closes. 
 And then only fade because we neglect them, 
 And from the chill frost, we fail to protect 
 
 them. 
 And other love-blooms, tho' fragile and lowly, 
 Are jewels of earth most precious and holy. 
 For even when winds of autumn are sighing. 
 Those flowers bloom on, unfading, undying. 
 
 Those blooms of the heart that gladden life's 
 
 mountains. 
 Are watered by rills that flow from pure 
 
 fountains; 
 And tho' a white sliroud in winter conceals 
 
 them. 
 An angel again in spring-time reveals them. 
 
 HASTEN. 
 O, hasten, my darling, while sunlight is 
 
 streaming. 
 And tarry till moonlight in glory is beaming, 
 For welcome unmeasured is waiting to meet 
 
 you. 
 And kisses unnumbered, are longing to greet 
 
 you. 
 Ah, truly the skies have bi'ightened above me, 
 Since hearing your vows and knowing you 
 
 love me ; 
 And even the birds, transported with pleas- 
 ure. 
 Seem ever repeating, "Come hither, my 
 
 treasure." 
 I'll garland you gladly with chaplet, so holj-. 
 Of roses so ruby, and lilies so lowly; 
 I'll whisper you softly a story inspiring. 
 Of loving forever, with ardor untiring. 
 As leaflet and bud awake in the sliower. 
 My heart and my soul acknowledge your 
 
 power; 
 As smiling of spring, each morning grows 
 
 brighter. 
 My spirit, my darling, in loving grows lighter. 
 Enchanted, we'll wander thro' fairyland 
 
 bowers, 
 Where angels are bending o'er ravashing 
 
 flowers : 
 Enraptured, we'll harken to music enthralling. 
 Where loudly the songster its sweetheart is 
 
 calling. 
 O, give me but love, unchangeably glowing, 
 And fountains of trust, unceasingly flowing. 
 And heaven itself, with rapture will quiver. 
 While safely together, we're crossing life's 
 
 river. 
 
 POWER DIVINE. 
 
 The sheen of the morn, on the valley and 
 mountain. 
 
 The gems of the field, and the gifts of the 
 mine, 
 
 The glance of the rill, as it leaps from the 
 fountain. 
 
 Declare with their splendor, the Power Di- 
 vine. 
 
 The trill of the bird, in a carol of gladness, 
 
 The voice of the wind, to the whispering pine, 
 
 The husli of the eve, with its shadow of sad- 
 ness, 
 
 Declare, with their magic, the Power Divine, 
 
 © 
 
m- 
 
 -)5 
 
 748 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AIMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. LAURA 0. HAWK. 
 
 Born : Franklin, III., March 3, 1853. 
 This lady has written both prose and verse 
 for the St. Louis Christian, Cliicapi Blade, 
 
 ©- 
 
 MRS. LAUKA O. HAWK 
 
 Shelton's Weekly, and the periodical press 
 generally. She was married in 1887 to J. M. 
 Hawk of Niantic, where she now resides. 
 
 MY DREAM. 
 
 I'm sitting alone in the gloaming. 
 
 And my fancies go wandering out: 
 Through the "beautiful city 'I'm roaming — 
 
 The city John tells us about 
 I hear the " great voice out of lu aven," 
 
 I see the broad gate open wide. 
 As Christ in his infinite mercy 
 
 Calls the weary of earth to His side. 
 I see the dear hand of the Savior 
 
 The swift-falling tears wipe away. 
 And smiles of contentment and rapture 
 
 Come over each glad face to stay. 
 For sorrow and death, pain and crying 
 
 Are gone, never more to return. 
 Arrayed in white robes of great beauty. 
 
 They gladly of •• all things new " learn. 
 Now sadly the streets I'm retracing — 
 
 The beautiful streets of pure gold. 
 And out at the " pearly gate's " portal 
 
 I pass to earth's region so cold,— 
 Back into my room to my table. 
 
 And sit down to write of my dream. 
 O, God, when life's heartaches are over. 
 May T, too, have Christ for my theme. 
 
 ELVA BRYANT. 
 
 Born: Monroe, Wis., Dec. 10, 1863. 
 The poems of Miss Bryant have appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. She 
 resides at Madison, Wis., where she is well 
 known and admired for her many accomplish- 
 ments. Miss Bryant lived for three years in 
 Washington, D. C. She has a fair knowledge 
 of French and Spanish, and is the daughter 
 of Edwin E. Bryant, Dean of the Law School 
 of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. 
 In person Miss Bryant is very attractive — 
 tall and graceful, with brown hair and brown 
 eyes. 
 
 THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 The glorious sun has slipped away; 
 The voices of the woods are still; 
 To light the deathbed of to-day 
 Burns one lone taper on the hill. 
 
 Perchance it is a fallen star. 
 That crossed the heavens all ablaze; 
 The fragment of some meteor. 
 That once was worthy of our gaze. 
 
 Or it may be the glad firefly. 
 That brilliant blossom of the night 
 Choosing upon the ground to lie. 
 And broadly .shed his generous light. 
 
 But better still, I trust it is 
 
 The pa 'ent Glow-worm's constant gleam, 
 
 That fai Mumines with the bliss 
 
 Of her ow. i, long-enchanting dream. 
 
 UNKNOWN LOSS. 
 Something, this summer day my life has cost, 
 Sometliing, I feel, witli light and music gone; 
 As though a friend, I dearly loved, were lost, 
 And in his place another newly won ; 
 As though my ship, so oft in tempest tossed. 
 Were stranded, now, but stranded near its 
 
 home. 
 'Twill bring, I know not whether sob or smile, 
 This covering o'er of what I loved so well 
 By fair strange hands that offer more, mean- 
 while. 
 More than my soul, through all its tears, can 
 
 tell; 
 A wondrous change, that works with many a 
 
 will. 
 But cannot win me from that dearer spell. 
 The spell that lingers when some joy has 
 
 flown. 
 The subtile robe that Happiness had donned. 
 Before she sped to regions still unknown; 
 The utmost border of our Hope beyond. 
 The breath th;it hovers still about a rose. 
 When far afield its petals all are blown. 
 wJ 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 rio 
 
 -m 
 
 EDWIN H.BARNES. 
 
 Born: Marathon, N. Y., Mav 13, 1849. 
 Appointed Marathon postmaster at the age 
 of twentj'-one, a position lie filled lor eleven 
 years, he next entered the railway mail ser- 
 vice. He is now resident ag-ent of the Phcenix 
 
 EDWIN H. BARNES. 
 
 Insurance Company in his native city, 
 where he resides with his family. Mr. Barnes 
 has issued a beautiful little volume of verse 
 entitled A Wild Bouquet, by Leon Claire — 
 his nom de plume. 
 
 & 
 
 BENEDICITE. 
 
 Sleep peacefully my Uttle one. 
 Under the azure swell of skies. 
 Where daisies bend their starry eyes — 
 
 Beneath white fringes of the sun. 
 
 Thy soul with Christ ; thy spirit here. 
 Thy rosy lips that now are dumb, 
 By death's dark siren overcome, 
 
 Leaves earth draped in a mantle drear. 
 
 Wliy woo thee back ? Were it unjust ? 
 The voice of all the world is such 
 Tliat none would care • . not overmuch. 
 
 Save one who broods above thy dust. 
 
 The winter's wind, the summer's breath. 
 The pearly tears of June's sweet flow'rs. 
 Drag slowly out the weary hours, 
 
 That throbs between a life, and . . death. 
 
 Come back to me, my own, my fair 1 
 I reach out hands in bitter pain 
 To clasp you, sweet, all mine again; 
 
 But reason mocks at my despair. 
 
 My blue-eyed pet, my precious one. 
 Could I but hear your baby voice, 
 How gi-eatly would my soul rejoice. 
 
 None happier beneath the sun. 
 
 The stars go out, the»moon sleeps low 
 Beneath yon fringe of stalwart pines. 
 The weary night, in dull, dark lines. 
 
 In mantled blackness hides my woe. 
 
 MINE. 
 My heart broods o'er a coffined lid : 
 The truest, purest, best of all 
 Is in its narrow hmits hid; 
 And I, . . ■ well, life seems all of gall. 
 More bitter far than anything. 
 The saddest morsel Time can bring. 
 There is a grief too deep for tears, 
 A wild, corroding sense that eats 
 Full deep into the heart, and sears 
 The soul, where gladness seldom beats. 
 It is a grief that none may know. 
 Save those whose hearts are full of woe. 
 Sweet, sainted mother, truly mine; 
 Tour boy whose breast is full of woe. 
 Who loved you deeply, purely so, 
 Bends low beside a broken shrine. 
 The blue bent sky so f uU of stars 
 A wild uncertain light sends down 
 Upon the mantled earth of brown. 
 Blown full of deep volcanic scars. 
 Do angels weep ? Do angels grieve? 
 Full soon there comes so much of dread. 
 Full much — full more. Can I believe 
 My darling one lies cold and dead? 
 Lies still and white ... so better far 
 Than I • . • beneath a baleful star. 
 Christ is a mystery— a breath, 
 A holy dream— a pure sweet trust. 
 Whose promises are truly just; 
 But why, oh why, did He bring death ? 
 I would that tears of mine might flow. 
 Strive though I may they will not come ; 
 My very soul seems coldly dumb, 
 So bitter, deep, this cruel woe. 
 O lo\ing smiles that all for me. 
 Awoke within my breast such bliss, 
 A love far deeper than the sea. 
 And pure as any angel's kiss: 
 Inwoven dreams full bright and fair, 
 As rainbows braided in the air. 
 O sweet, puretlips, all voiceless now, 
 Kissed into silence — sadly mute — 
 By the pale angel's cold salute, 
 Christ help me bear this woe, somehow! 
 
 -^ 
 
-<b 
 
 *tf- 
 
 750 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 QUESTIONING. 
 Why, sweet, wliut if the stars should fall — 
 
 In all their anguislmientof love, 
 
 In memory of one above. 
 To smile no more upon this vale? 
 
 Would you not for a time — 
 Be haunted with a namelsss, untold pain, 
 A weary dread, a longing once again 
 
 For some sweet chime 
 Of half-forgotten melody, to rise 
 And sudden greet you with a glad surprise? 
 
 What if the flow'rs should lie — 
 
 A crushed and faded mass of incense 
 sweet. 
 
 No more to blossom at your little feet, 
 And all the sky 
 
 Assume a leaden blackness day by day. 
 
 And darkness hover over all the way? 
 
 Would you not think that life 
 Was nothing but a wild and wayward 
 
 dream, 
 A passion-tossed and sorrow-swollen 
 stream. 
 Full of a strife — 
 That gave too overmucli of weary toil. 
 To make the living worthy of the spoil? 
 
 What if all Nature shed 
 Her last, sweet fragrance, nevermore to 
 
 bear 
 The dear angelic dream of purest pray'r. 
 And ever dead — 
 Sweep onward through an endless sea of 
 
 space. 
 Like one who flees full frightened from 
 disgrace? 
 
 Would you not wish that you — 
 Could leave the horrors of that dismal 
 
 clime, 
 Oiitrcachiiig far beyond the lapse of tnne— 
 For something true? 
 A something that your soul might lean 
 
 upon, 
 The guerdon of a. love that you had won. 
 
 Why, such a spot to me would be 
 Like kisses sweet blown out of Heav'n, 
 If only to me you were giv'n, 
 
 What if all else were misery? 
 
 UNDER THE STARS. 
 
 EXTn.VCT. 
 
 "Leone," he s;iid, while one hand soft car- 
 essed 
 The rich, silken mesh of hci' glorious hair;— 
 
 ..You have suffered much, but my own, my 
 
 fair, 
 We will turn aside to the pathless West, 
 Where the days are sweet as the flow'rs that 
 
 bloom — 
 In the subtle fragrance of rare perfume. 
 
 .. Where the nights are rich with a golden 
 
 lore. 
 And the stars float out from the moon's 
 
 white shore; 
 Where the trees bend low to the silver waves, 
 Singing above them la beautiful staves; 
 Whei'e the birds make music the whole day 
 
 through. 
 And gold barred flies skim the circle of blue; 
 Where the warm sun tosses its golden hair, 
 In a show'r of love, to the lilies fair; 
 Where love floats out in a beautiful dream, 
 Like the fringes fair of an unknown stream. 
 
 " Where the orange groves and the clustered 
 
 trees, 
 Kiss their bands to the dimpled.upper seas— 
 In a wealth of bloom, as they reach and lift 
 For the fragrance born of a holy gift; 
 What more? save you with me, and I with 
 
 you. 
 And faith and love, and a confidence true — 
 Through the cycled years, as they rise and 
 
 wane. 
 With never the thoughts of a dead, past 
 
 pain." 
 
 His dark eyes met hers, as the last words 
 
 creep — 
 Through tlie trembling waves of the nioon- 
 
 sprent air. 
 And she bends her bead, Avith its wi'alth of 
 
 hair. 
 In an answer mute, while the waters deep — 
 Murmured soft and low in a rhythmic swell, 
 Of a song full sweet, in an unknown tongue, 
 Full so sweet and low, as they tossed and 
 
 swung 
 Through the tropic air, in a mystic spell. 
 
 And they gave them up to the subtle swoon- 
 Of a love, full deep, as the bended skies; 
 With head on his breast, and her part-elos. .1 
 
 eyes — 
 Full of deei) content, 'ne;ilh the milk-wlnle 
 
 moon ; 
 Willi never a thought of the crafty horde 
 Swift trailing their course through tlie 
 
 tangled ways,— 
 Willi a stealthy sweep, while their pal'- 
 
 faeed lord. 
 Like a sleuth-hoiiiul tracked 'ne;itli the 
 
 moon's white rays. 
 
 •*- 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEIilCA. 
 
 751 
 
 -^ 
 
 CHARLES E. ARMIN. 
 
 Born : St. Lawrence Co., N. Y., Dec. 27, 1853. 
 Working at the drug- business when a boy, 
 Charles afterward entered the state normal 
 SL-hool at Potsdam, N. Y. In 1878 he moved 
 out west, and five years later commenced the 
 
 CHARI.l,-^ I'. AFOIIV. 
 
 practice of law, in which he is at present en- 
 gaged in Waukesha, Wisconsin. The poems 
 of Mr. Armin have appeared from time to 
 time in the press of his adopted state, and 
 have received favorable mention. 
 
 © 
 
 GRANDMA'S REVERIE. 
 As the cradle she swung to and fro, 
 A vision of days long ago 
 Came before my Grandmother's eyes. 
 And she saw the green fields and blue skies 
 Of a land far away o'er the sea; 
 And the vision she told it to me 
 Filled my heart with unwonted surprise. 
 For she said she was young, long ago. 
 Ere over her brown locks the snow 
 Had thrown its cold mantle of white, 
 And her dim eyes she said they were bright. 
 And her form, now so bent, it was fair; 
 But she took up her burden of care 
 And was bearing it into life's night. 
 Tlien she told of her love in that land. 
 How she gave her heart and her hand 
 To a lover both noble and brave: 
 How he sleeps 'neath the cold restless wave. 
 
 How her heart went to sleep in his bed. 
 
 With the ocean's unsepulchred dead. 
 
 In his bed in a Coraliue cave. 
 
 And she told of her own cherubs then 
 
 Who had since grown to women and men. 
 
 How they frolicked in innocent glee. 
 
 And oh: it was wondrous to me 
 
 When I heard of my Grandmother's boys, 
 
 Of their dogs and kittens and toys. 
 
 How they sat at my Grandmother's knee. 
 
 Then the cradle stopped swinging,'twas queer. 
 
 And over her brown cheek a tear 
 
 Rolled down and fell into her lap, 
 
 And she fingered the strings of her cap , 
 
 And she told me that I too should grow 
 
 To be old and feeble and slow ; 
 
 Then Grandma went oif in a nap. 
 
 INCONSISTENCY. 
 We often think of the happy hours 
 Our lives in the past have known. 
 But we seldom stoop to pluck the flowers 
 Which to-day by our paths have grown : 
 Spurning the beauties which round us lie 
 We sigh for the jos's of days gone by. 
 The pleasures of youth are brightest 
 Because coloied by youth's wild dream, 
 And our hearts were then the liglitest 
 For we sailed on a waveless stream; 
 But the streamlet has into a river grown. 
 And with its wild waves each battles alone. 
 But mid the tumult and cares of life. 
 There are pleasures we all may grasp. 
 If we stop a moment amid the strife 
 Some friend in our arms to clasp. 
 And tell them that love, just of old 
 Burns in our hearts that appear so cold. 
 
 FAREWELL TO HOME. 
 
 Farewell, for now it cannot be 
 
 That we shall meet full soon. 
 
 The moon must many a waning know. 
 
 The sun see many a noon. 
 
 And changes that with time do come. 
 
 Will charge the wanderer and his home. 
 
 Yet deem not that my eyes are wet. 
 
 For friends that love must part; 
 
 And yet I hold with jealous care 
 
 Your forms within my heart. 
 
 And hope the time will swiftly come 
 
 Wlien I can backward turn 
 
 And quench the longing in my heart 
 
 That tor my home doth yearn. 
 
 Tlie full-fledged Eaglet lea\''es its nest 
 
 To breast the storm alone; 
 
 Why should men fear to wander forth, 
 
 And do as they have done. 
 
 But feelings flit across the breast 
 
 That pencil may not tell. 
 
 'Tis when my eyes will backward turn 
 
 To say to home Farewell. 
 
 -m 
 
*- 
 
 752 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMISKICA. 
 
 TO MOTHER. 
 " Silent and lone, Silent and lone,"' 
 Oh, for a mother's kiss, ever so brief 
 Oh, for that look and g-entle tone ; 
 Which chased from my bosom all childish 
 
 g-rief ; 
 Far on life's 'pathway I've wandered from 
 
 thee — 
 Mother, and art thou still thinking of me? 
 
 'I Silent and lone, Silent and lone," 
 Thoughts turn again to the home that was 
 
 mine — 
 Turn to the friends from which I have flown. 
 Often, now often for thee do I pine. 
 Let me go back to my boyhood again, 
 I weary of waging this battle with men. 
 
 " Silent and lone, Silent and lone," 
 
 Vainly 1 look for a friend that is true. 
 
 Wise in the world's chilling wisdom I've 
 
 grown, 
 Which teaches th;it none are so faithful as 
 
 you. 
 Strangers care not if I rise or I fall. 
 Mother and friend you are dearest of all. 
 
 TO F 
 
 Darling will the love now plighted 
 Last when brown has turned to gray. 
 When the flowers of j'outh are blighted 
 On life's downward weary way. 
 
 Darling will that love grow stronger 
 If misfortune is our lot; 
 When hope beckons us no longer 
 Can these moments be forgot? 
 
 Darling- 1 will trust the morrow 
 When the present is so blest; 
 If its sun should sink in sorrow, 
 At the last we shall find rest. 
 
 *- 
 
 ON EECEIVING A PICTURE OF THE OLD 
 HOMESTEAD. 
 
 I could not go back to my home. 
 
 But my home has come out to me, 
 
 Tlie same old place with its quiet grace, 
 
 The faces, the forms I see. 
 
 Which made it so dear in days gone by — 
 
 The days whose memory oft raises a sigh. 
 
 Can it be that it all remains 
 
 As I left it so long ago? 
 
 Have Summers' heat and Winters' cold. 
 
 The dews, the frosts and the snow 
 
 Left so faint a trace on the dear old place 
 
 That it looks for tlie world the same; 
 
 All as it was when our footsteps from it came. 
 
 The children who once were there 
 
 Are out in the world's wide mart, 
 
 Fighting the battles that you have fought, 
 And each one playing his part 
 In the game of life with its rush and strife 
 With its burden of doubt and care — 
 The burdens that all must bear. 
 
 We would oft go back if we could— 
 Back to the old home nest; 
 Would lay aside the cares of life 
 And lean on a mother's breast; 
 Would feel as we once have felt, 
 Ere our wild heart longed to roam 
 Would feel the frost in our bosoms melt 
 And be soothed to rest at home. 
 
 HERMON. 
 I love to roam when night's dark curtains 
 
 fall 
 By singing brooks in nature's spacious hall. 
 And listen while the world Is wrapped iu 
 
 sleep 
 To voices that my memory '11 ever keep: 
 Voices that sung when life was in its prime. 
 Before the soul was stained with thought of 
 
 crime; 
 For in such wanderings I am carried back 
 Through many a year, o'er many a weary 
 
 track. 
 To childhood's day — its sorrow and its joy, 
 And musing there — again I am a boy. 
 
 Again I walk through Hermon's quiet streets 
 And see the loafers in their wonted seats, 
 Tlie saucy school-boy's shout rings as of yore, 
 And busy merchants sit beside tlieir door. 
 The town-clock counts the hours with dreary 
 
 toll 
 As one bj' one they by us swiftly roll, 
 The school-house with its warped and batter- 
 ed floor. 
 With barefoot urchins playing 'round the 
 
 door; 
 Painful the memories which thy siglit does 
 
 bring. 
 Painful as the birch's unwelcome sting. 
 Taught there to say "I love " for Grammar 
 
 drill. 
 Now without Grammar I repeat it still. 
 
 But now these scenes in visions only come. 
 Bearing me ou their wings to childhood's 
 
 home. 
 Bridging the flood of years that rolls between 
 My present state and each familiar scene. 
 Raising anew the hopes which long have 
 
 fled. 
 Bringing to life the friends who now are 
 
 dead. 
 Tuning my lyre to sing in loudest praise 
 Of friends and scenes of youth's unclouded 
 
 days. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 753 
 
 -* 
 
 GILBERT L. EBERHART. 
 
 Born : Beaver Co., Pa. 
 
 After completing: his education Mr. Eber- 
 hart adopted civil eng-ineering- and teaching- 
 as a profession; but finally he read law and 
 was admitted to the bar in 1870. He served 
 for over three years in the civil war, was 
 piouioted and served ou the stafiE of Gen. 
 
 GILBERT L. EBERHART. 
 
 Meade for a time. He now practises his pro- 
 fession at Beaver Falls, and for several years 
 has also been part owner and the literary and 
 political editor of the daily and weekly Tri- 
 bune of that city. At an early age he beg-an 
 to contribute both prose and verse to various 
 literary journals of Boston, New York and 
 Philadelphia. He has represented the dis- 
 trict in which he now resides in two seesions 
 of the Pennsylvania legrislature. 
 
 I 
 
 THE CHILD AND FLOWERS, 
 The earth was clad in regal robes 
 Of golden grain and blooming flowers; 
 And all was song and notes of joy 
 From dewy morn till evening hours; 
 When out a bright and laughing- boy 
 With eye as clear as heaven's blue. 
 To pluck the sweetest buds that grew. 
 The mead and wildwood wandered thro' 
 
 And soon lie liad his heart's desire. 
 But stepping by a brook to rest. 
 In thoughtless mood he, one by one. 
 The blooms threw on its rippled breast. 
 And soon upon its dancing waves. 
 Far out beyond the urchin's reach, 
 He saw each blossom swiftly borne 
 Adown the streamlet's shingly beach. 
 
 At length, the last one out of sight. 
 Beneath the distant woodland bowers, 
 With tearful sobs he loudly cries — 
 "Thou cruel brook bring- back my flowers." 
 The chattering brook, in heedless glee. 
 Still leaped along with all its powers; 
 And only echo made reply;— 
 '• Bring back my flowers, bring back my 
 flowers." 
 
 So erring man oft careless throws 
 
 On Time's swift stream his golden hours; 
 
 And like the child, when all too late. 
 
 He vainly cries,— '-Bring back my flowers." 
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRD OF SPRING. 
 Hark: hark! I hear a bluebird sing! 
 
 His voice rings through the purple air. 
 And tells me that the hand of Spring 
 
 Is weaving garlands fresh and fair. 
 In mossy dell, on frowning fell. 
 
 And strewing flowers everywhere. 
 
 What lesson doth the springtide teach. 
 As from the mould the blooms arise?— 
 
 How life begun below shall reach 
 Eternal hfe beyond the skies;— 
 
 These souls of ours, thro' blissful hours. 
 Bloom ever in God's Paradise. 
 
 A WISH. 
 I wish I were a fragrant flower, 
 
 Fresh blooming on the summer lea; 
 And thou would'st come at even's hour, 
 
 A dewdrop. Love, to rest on me. 
 
 I'd fold thee in my perfumed cup. 
 With all a lover's jealous care. 
 
 Till morning's sun should lift us up 
 Into the crystal fields of air. 
 
 And there the world's rude strife above. 
 We'd mingle with the rainbow's dyes. 
 
 And live in Heaven's sweet bonds of love. 
 Forever in the radiant skies. 
 
 -« 
 
-* 
 
 754 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 RUTH AND I. 
 •Twas eve. The stars like censors bright were 
 
 hung about 
 The dome of Nature's old cathedral, grand 
 
 and high, 
 While the sweet roses from their golden 
 
 hearts poured out 
 A fragrant incense on each breeze that wan- 
 dered by; 
 Dear Ruth and I. the blooming croft strolled 
 
 slowly o'er, 
 Wondering whether beyond the stars and 
 
 mortal ken 
 We might not find some fairy isle, some love- 
 ly shore 
 And live forever in the joy which thrilled us 
 
 then. 
 The flowers ope'd their rosy lips and whisper- 
 ed. Yes! 
 The sighing zephyrs echoed back the sweet 
 
 reply ; 
 While all the starry host in glowing tender- 
 ness. 
 Sent down the same glad answer from the 
 
 quiet sky. 
 Ah, then we thought all joys, or past, or yet 
 
 to be. 
 Were crowded in the space of that one hal- 
 lowed hour; 
 That love and hope were one exhaustless, 
 
 boundless sea. 
 And swayed all life beneath their own resist- 
 less power. 
 
 1 said " I sail to-morrow for a distant land ; 
 
 I shall be gone, dear Ruth, for months, per- 
 haps for years. 
 
 But will return." She, trembling, claspt in 
 her's my hand 
 
 And tried to speak. Instead words, came only 
 tears. 
 
 I asked, "la all the weary years I maybe 
 
 gone. 
 Wilt thou the wanderer with thy love, as now. 
 
 still bless? " 
 And while her eyes, through gathering tears. 
 
 with love-light shone. 
 She wound her arms about my neck and 
 
 murmured, .'Yes!" 
 
 I We parted, and I sailed for years o'er foreign 
 
 sea and bay. 
 But still the light of those dear radiant eyes 
 Beamed ever on me in their beauty, night 
 
 and day, ^ , ^ ^, 
 
 Bounding my hfe as earth is bounded by the 
 
 But that, alas! was many long, long years 
 ago. 
 
 And Time it seems can change the passions 
 
 of the heart; 
 In place of love make thorns of cold neglect 
 
 to grow. 
 But yield no anodyne to cure their bjtter 
 
 smart. 
 
 They tell me Ruth's inconstant heart was 
 
 wooed and bought. 
 Through show of wealth by some mean, ly- 
 ing spawn of Hell. 
 Who, after he the deed of ruin well had 
 
 wrought, 
 Left her to perish in the shame to which she 
 
 fell. 
 Alas, that Hope should whisper such allur- 
 ing tales ! 
 Alas, that Love should fill the heart with such 
 
 wild joy. 
 When like the flame 'round which the foolish 
 
 insect sails. 
 They win us only that, at last, they may de- 
 stroy. 
 
 THE GOOD-NIGHT. 
 The moon was hanging in a cloudless, mid- 
 night sky ; 
 The stars smiled on the roses with a calm de- 
 light— 
 I rose to go; she said 'twas early with a 
 
 sigh: 
 I took her jeweled hands in mine to say good- 
 night. 
 She softly wound about my neck her milk- 
 white arms; 
 She breathed in love upon my lips her balmy 
 
 breath. 
 And drew my fainting heart out-with her 
 
 kisses' charms, 
 While on her breast I died a strange delicious 
 death. 
 
 Her eyes met mine and in my soul's volup- 
 tuous pain, 
 
 I trod the rounds of bliss as kings their royal 
 palaces; , 
 
 While in my ear she poured her love as o er 
 the plain 
 
 The flowers pour the musk from out their 
 crimson chalices. 
 
 We little recked how fast or slow the mo- 
 ments flew. 
 
 Enraptured so were we by Love's bright 
 
 golden glory. 
 1 know I said good-night at last, and she 
 adieu ; . 
 
 But when, or how is now our own sweet 
 secret story. 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAT^ AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 755 
 
 MURDER. 
 The hearts of the flowers have shrunk from 
 the dew. 
 The moon has gone down in affright; 
 And the terrified stars dare scarcely peep 
 through 
 The storm-tattered clouds of the night. 
 
 The gaunt wolf listens with bated breath, 
 As in fear of some hidden snare; 
 
 And it seems that the bloody wings of Death 
 Were beating the sweltering air. 
 
 There's a gleam of a knife, a wail of pain, 
 
 And a sound of struggling feet; 
 And a form with hands of gory stain, 
 
 Like a phantom flies down the street. 
 
 From the gloomy aisles of the shivering wood. 
 Cries a strangling voice on the wind: 
 
 " Near the side of the road, a pool of warm 
 blood. 
 And a murdered corse thou wilt find." 
 
 THE FIFE. 
 Warlike fife 1 
 Ah, how rife 
 
 With the battle's stormy strife 
 Are thy sharp reverberations as they ripple 
 into life. 
 
 And we hear, 
 Far and near. 
 
 Falling on the startled ear. 
 All the piercing undulations of thy music, 
 shrill and clear. 
 
 There's a sense 
 Most intense 
 
 Of impatience and suspense. 
 As the notes exulting, screaming, from thy 
 throat are rattling hence; 
 
 And a thrill 
 Which no will 
 
 And no force of human skill, 
 Like thy voice's ring of valor, can the soul 
 with daring fill. 
 
 And the peal 
 Which we feel. 
 Like a blade of keenest steel 
 Crashing through the head that's loyal, cut- 
 ting through the heart that's leal, 
 
 Brings unrest 
 To the breast. 
 As we see in battle prest 
 All the brave and gory legions that thy call 
 hath sent to rest. 
 
 «- 
 
 In thy tones 
 Hear the groans. 
 And the deep and wailing moans 
 Of the heroes who at Concord and at Mon- 
 mouth left their bones. 
 
 And again. 
 On the plain 
 Of Antietam's iron rain. 
 Hear thy voice defiant swelling o'er the bat- 
 tle's wail of pain. 
 
 But the years 
 Dry our tears. 
 
 And assuage all griefs and fears. 
 And thy blasts of war have vanished with 
 our slaughtered heroes' cheers; 
 
 Yet on high 
 Swells thy cry. 
 Like an anthem to the sky. 
 While our serried hosts triumphant in our 
 dreams go marching by. 
 
 And to God, 
 From the sod 
 
 Which our fallen martyrs trod. 
 Ever rise their blood as incense, and their 
 souls still march abroad: 
 
 Keeping time. 
 With the chime. 
 And the symphony sublime. 
 Of the valiant tramp of freemen, and the 
 glory of our clime. 
 
 A SONG. 
 Ever is my soul enchanted. 
 In my dreams am ever haunted, 
 
 By a beiny fair and young; 
 Fairer far than poet ever 
 In his happiest, best endeavor. 
 Dared to dream of, or hath sung. 
 But how I adore and love her, 
 
 She, sweet soul, doth never weet. 
 More than clouds that swim above her. 
 Or the blossoms at her feet. 
 
 All the golden store and treasure. 
 All the wide world's rarest pleasure. 
 
 Would I lavish at her feet. 
 If but once she would enfold me 
 In her arms; or even scold me 
 With that mouth so full and sweet. 
 But how I adore and love her. 
 
 She, alas, doth never weet. 
 More than stars that glow above her. 
 Or the buds that kiss her feet. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 756 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 How my soul with joy would quiver, 
 If she would but let me give her, 
 
 On her sweet mouth's pouting lips. 
 Just one little, dainty token 
 Of the love that now has broken 
 Into words upon my lips. 
 
 But how well I love, adore her. 
 
 She, dear angel, doth not weet, 
 More than skies that smile above her. 
 Or the daisies at her feet. 
 
 If upon her spotless bosom. 
 Blooming like a radiant blossom, 
 
 She would let my head recline 
 Only for one single minute. 
 Heaven and all the bliss within it 
 Were no joy compared to mine. 
 But how I adore and love her, 
 She shall never, never weet, 
 More than airs that float above her, 
 Or the roses at her feet. 
 
 If she will but let me be her 
 Slave, that daily I may see her. 
 
 Know that she is near the while, 
 I will bear life's keenest sorrow. 
 More than blest to know each morrow 
 Shall be radiant with her smile. 
 But how I adore and love her. 
 
 She, sweet angel, doth not weet. 
 More than birds that soar above her, 
 Or the violets at her feet. 
 
 THE KISS OF MAUD. 
 
 When Maud came with her lips of pink, 
 
 I felt as do the bees that drink 
 The honey from the rose's cup. 
 When South winds wake the blossoms up. 
 
 When Maud came with her lips of pink. 
 
 She held them, like a chalice, up, 
 Wherefrom, the better, I might sup 
 The nectar there: how pure and sweet, 
 No one but me shall ever weet — 
 She held them, like a dear girl, up. 
 
 The day was fair, and long the aisle 
 Down whicli we wandered, double file; 
 The setting sun, his glories cast 
 On every blossom that we passed — 
 The day was fair, and long the aisle. 
 
 She strolled along the way with me. 
 As happy a.s a droning bee. 
 And made each rosebud brighter grow 
 
 Along the path that we did go — 
 She strolled along the way with me. 
 
 And still she held the chalice up, 
 That I the wine of love might sup: 
 I drank and felt my soul aflame 
 With every draught of joy that came — 
 And, still she held the chalice up. 
 
 Then Maud, beside me, sat and smiled. 
 Demurely as a little child; 
 And O, what thrills of purest bliss 
 Ran through my soul, with each fond kiss- 
 Then Maud, beside me, sat and smiled. 
 
 The Summer moon, old Time beguiled. 
 And Maud, as pure and undeflled 
 As stars that decked the blue above. 
 Poured in my ear her deathless love — 
 The Summer moon, old Time beguiled. 
 
 Ah, that was long, long years ago. 
 But still the roses bud and blow. 
 And still the sun, his glories cast. 
 Athwart the aisle down which we past — 
 Ah, that was long, long years ago. 
 
 But where is Maud, I do not know. 
 More than the buds that then did blow: 
 For in those dear and bygone years. 
 She poured her love in other ears — 
 And where is Maud, I do not know. 
 
 THE REASON. 
 Ah, see her brilliant eyes, her classic nose; 
 Her jaunty bonnet, and her other clothes — 
 
 dear, how they attract me! 
 
 A figure tall and lithe; her face so sweet — 
 Her slender hands, and then those sylph-like 
 feet! 
 These all, indeed distract me. 
 
 Pdream of her —that is, sometimes I do — 
 And think I'll try right hard to win and woo 
 
 Her hand and her affection; 
 And yet, altlio' I know she's good and sweet. 
 And has a fortune quite complete, 
 
 1 have, to her, just one objection. 
 
 And, hence, T think T'll have to let her go. 
 And still I kind o' sort o' love her so, 
 
 I really liate to lose her. 
 But she, perliaps, will find some other man, 
 Who can't sec dirty finger nails — I can ; 
 
 And, therefore, I refuse her. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 757 
 
 WE PART FOREVER. 
 Fare thee well! We part forever I 
 
 Love's bright dream is turued to pain; 
 And my bleeding heart shall never 
 
 Throb in joy to thine again. 
 Once I was thy fond believer — 
 
 Once did deem thee pure and true; 
 But I've learned, thou felldeceiverl 
 
 There is naught so false as you! 
 All the boasted love you cherished 
 
 Once so tenderly for me, 
 In thy heart as quickly perished 
 
 As the bubbles on the sea. 
 
 Once I loved thee, oh, how dearly! 
 
 Fondly hoped to call thee mine; 
 And my foolish heart had nearly 
 
 Worshipped thee as one divine; 
 But the fatal word thou'st spoken. 
 
 That dost drive me hence from thee — 
 Love's sweet spell hast rudely broken, 
 
 Thou hast proved too false for me ! 
 Then farewell! We part forever! 
 
 All thy tears must fall in vain; 
 For thy false heart I will never 
 
 Press in love to mine again. 
 
 Tell me not in feigned sadness, 
 
 Thou wilt fondly love me yet — 
 That the deed was human madness, 
 
 And thy folly dost regret. 
 No; thou false one! I will never 
 
 Listen to one word from thee; 
 For the tongue that heart can sever 
 
 Is too false, too false for me ! 
 Then farewell ! We part forever! 
 
 All my love is turned to pain ; 
 And my bleeding heart shall never 
 
 Throb with love for thee again! 
 
 *- 
 
 ROBIN HAS COME. 
 Robin has come, and bluebird, too. 
 And while their songs the air float through. 
 They call up visions of beauty and days 
 That lie beyond the springtime's haze; 
 Of babbling brooks and leafy trees. 
 Of golden grain, and rosy seas 
 Of bloom, on which, in fragrant gale. 
 The bee will spread his fair}' sail. 
 And carry away to his own sweet mart 
 Some precious freight from each blossom's 
 
 heart; 
 Of roses clasped in the arms of Dusk; 
 Of jasmines pouring their wine of musk 
 Into the heart of the mignonette, 
 And the purple lips of the violet; 
 Of fruits that shall make the children laugh; 
 Of the luscious juice their fathers shall quafl 
 
 As they gather about the Christmas hearth. 
 When leaf and blossom have left the earth. 
 
 And other visions of summer time 
 
 Run in the warp and woof of my rhyme; 
 
 Visions as fair as May and June, 
 
 Of happy lover and happier maid. 
 
 Swinging along in the twilight shade; 
 
 Strolling beneath the smiling moon, 
 
 Whispering each to the fragrant breeze 
 
 Of something as deep as the deep, deep seas; 
 
 Of hours too short, and tales too sweet 
 
 For mortal lips to dare repeat; 
 
 Of joyous lull of lute and song; 
 
 Of vows of love, and ties too strong 
 
 For ruth of man, or strength of art, 
 
 Or life, or death, to tear apart. 
 
 Robin has come, and bluebird, too, 
 
 Telling of joys for me and you; 
 
 Singing of balmier, softer airs 
 
 That shall waft away our sorrow and cares; 
 
 Telling us all that every hour. 
 
 Like the unfolding of leaf and flower, 
 
 Cometh to us from the Father above. 
 
 His bountiful gifts of gracious love; 
 
 Strewing for all with his kind hand 
 
 Endless blessings over the land. 
 
 And while the robin and bluebird sing. 
 Waking these thoughts of budding spring- 
 Ringing in with their merrj' chime 
 Riper beauties of summer time — 
 Grander visions unbidden arise 
 Ever before the poet's eyes; 
 Visions bright of immortal lands; 
 Of loving faces and angel hands; 
 Voices that come from realms afar 
 Soft as the beam of twilight star, 
 Whispering ever to soul and sense 
 Of the boundless flelds of recompense, 
 That stretch away in glor.v sublime, 
 Far, far beyond the gray hills of Time, 
 Where all that is mortal shall ever be 
 Robed in the bloom of immortality. 
 
 AFTER THE BALL. 
 I now sit alone; the guests have departed; 
 The viol's sweet music no longer I hear; 
 And only the laugh of the throng, merry- 
 hearted. 
 In shadowy cadence, dies away on my ear. 
 
 But there's one whose soft tones and eyes' 
 tender glances, 
 Still echo and thrill through my soul and 
 my heart. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 758 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 As when in the whirl of the wildering dances, 
 She sighed that so soon we should be sun- 
 dered apart. 
 
 I see the red roses she daintily fingered, 
 
 I smell the carnations that fell at her feet. 
 When close hy my side, in her beauty she 
 lingered. 
 And whispered the words that I dare not 
 repeat. 
 
 I wake from my dream in the keenest of 
 anguish; 
 My heart is now bursting with bitter re- 
 gret; 
 She's left me, as others, in sorrow to lan- 
 guish— 
 I have learned, when too late, she's a 
 heartless coquette. 
 
 Alas, that such creatures are all so unreal! 
 That the soul's rarest pleasures so soon 
 fade away ! 
 That the purest, the best, the most perfect 
 ideal. 
 Like buds that are fairest,are first to decay. 
 
 SADIE BENN. 
 Ah, Sadie Benn, fair Sadie Benn, 
 
 Long are the years since last we met. 
 But that fond kiss thou gav'st me then. 
 
 In sweetness lingers round me yet. 
 
 Thy broken vow, false Sadie Benn, 
 Is still to this fond bleeding heart 
 
 As bright and dear, alas, as when 
 Thou swor'st death only should us part. 
 
 For years I've tried in vain to break 
 The spell that binds my soul to thee. 
 
 But each attempt doth only make 
 Tliine image dearer still to me. 
 
 And thus, in grief's keen, bitter smart 
 My long and weary days are passed. 
 
 In madness pressing to my heart 
 The sting that brings me death at last. 
 
 DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 
 Lay him low, ah, lay him low; 
 Out of reach of all tliat's human, 
 A'hat cares he for friend or foe. 
 Sigh of man, or tear of woman ! 
 liiiy liim low. 
 
 "Where the verdant grasses grow ; 
 Where the meek-eyed pansies blow. 
 Lay him low. 
 
 He the race of life hath run. 
 In discharge of loyal duty; 
 He the meed of valor won, 
 In his manhood's crowning beauty. 
 Lay him low. 
 Where the roses bud and blow. 
 Where the sweetest blossoms grow, 
 Lay him low. 
 
 Let him now in glory rest. 
 Free from all life's toil and sorrow, 
 Sure that He who knoweth best 
 Gives to him eternal morrow. 
 Lay him low. 
 Where the lilies fairest blow; 
 Where the rue and pansy grow, 
 Lay him low. 
 
 THE FISHING BOY. 
 The little boy, he doth get up 
 
 Quite early in the morning, 
 And goeth to the creek to fish, 
 
 Despite his mother's warning. 
 
 And there he fisheth all the day. 
 The sun his nose a-burning. 
 
 But catcheth not the great big fish 
 For which his heart is yearning. 
 
 At last the sun it goeth down; 
 
 That boy his steps retracing, 
 Arriving hungry at liis home. 
 
 To meet his ma's embracing. 
 
 She turneth him across her lap. 
 And soon her boy is wishing 
 
 He ne'er hath seen the fatal day 
 He skulked to go a-fishing. 
 
 FRENCH-ENGLISH. 
 A man at Dubuque, 
 Called another a puque; 
 Then he tried hard to )iit him. 
 But lie couldn't quite git him. 
 Because he was quick on the juque. 
 Was this very gallant young duque, 
 That called the other a puque. 
 Without any fear of rebuque. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 
 
 By tlie cottage door hv.v baby slie lulls, 
 And hums to the tune of tlie fountain, 
 
 As it bubbles over the shelving rocks 
 From its source in the purple mountain. 
 
 She slngeth a song of her early love; 
 
 But she suddenly stops to listen. 
 While tears roll down across her cheeks 
 
 Where, as dew on the rose, they glisten. 
 
 She looks on her child with feverish gaze — 
 Does she hear the thunder and rattle 
 
 Of the red-mouthed guns as their heated 
 breath 
 Blasts the foe on the field of battle? 
 
 No! Again she singeth: >' Sweet baby rest; 
 
 God will protect thy brave sire ever; 
 Tender and pure be the dreams in thy breast, 
 
 Sorrow shadow thy dear heart never." 
 
 In her cot by the fountain, a tender song 
 Singeth she still for her absent darling; 
 
 But it never will reach his listless ear 
 On the red field where the wolf is snarling. 
 
 GONE. 
 Gone as the stream that, for many a year. 
 
 Gladdened the traveller worn and weary: 
 Gone as the song of a beautiful bird. 
 
 And the hope of the heart that is dreary. 
 
 Gone as the wing that cleaveth the sky. 
 Gone as the bloom from the corn that is 
 golden. 
 
 Gone as the fragrance that is wafted by, 
 When the summer is faded and olden. 
 
 Gone as the visions In our dreams at night. 
 When the stars are asleep on the silent 
 river; 
 
 Gone as the loved eyes' beam of light. 
 When shadowed by Death — and forever. 
 
 THE WINDS DO BLOW. 
 
 The mellow wihds do blow, do blow. 
 Over the tiiountain, over the plain. 
 
 Swelling the germens that lie below 
 Into broad oceans of golden grain. 
 
 And. when ye last did blow, did blow. 
 My Willie, my darling, said to me: 
 
 >• Over the main, my dearest, I go; 
 Back with a fortune will come to thee. 
 
 *- 
 
 "Ah me, the winds do blow, do blow, 
 Manj' a sail o'er the summer sea. 
 
 But why do they mock my sad heart so? 
 Why do they bring not vvillie to me? 
 
 " Ah me, ye winds that blow, do blow, 
 The beautiful blossoms over the lea. 
 
 Tell me in truth, for ye know, ye know. 
 Is Willie, my own, still true to me? " 
 
 " Ah summer winds that blow, do blow, 
 In melodj- sweet o'er land and main; 
 
 If, alas, to me ye answer, No! 
 Maj' never I hear your voice again." 
 
 The winds of spring do blow, do blow. 
 Calling in sobbing and tender stave, 
 
 Pansy and rue to bourgeon and grow, 
 Over a maiden's new-made grave. 
 
 LOVE NOT. 
 Love not, for love will soon decay, 
 
 And teach thee to thy sorrow; 
 Tlie brightest skies that smile to-day. 
 
 May scowl with storms to-morrow. 
 
 Love not, for love is but a dream. 
 Whose glory's soon departed, — 
 
 Fair joys that for an instant gleam. 
 Then leave us broken-hearted. 
 
 Love not, for love is but a thing 
 
 Tliat lives in airy flashes; 
 A tempting fruit until thou bring 
 
 It to thy lips, then — ashes. 
 
 Love not, for love is full of tears. 
 
 In doubt its victims languish ; 
 And when their hope most bright appears. 
 
 It turns to keenest anguish. 
 
 Love not, for love will leave thee soon ; 
 
 The things ye fondly cherish. 
 Like buds that crown the brow of June, 
 
 When fairest, soonest perish. 
 
 TO MINNIE. 
 Thou little, laughing, dumpy sprite! 
 
 Thou lovely, romping baby! 
 I ne'er have known such keen delight, 
 
 Nor e'er on earth can, maybe. 
 As thy sweet smiles, my ciuld. impart 
 Day after day to my glad heart. 
 
 Laugh on, thou fairest, sweetest innocent I 
 Fear not: I am thy loving friend, 
 
 -* 
 
«l- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 And would not check thy merriment 
 For all the world. Still to me lend 
 Thy confidence. May sweet and unaffected 
 
 grace 
 E'er plaj', as now, in rosy dimples, o'er ihj' 
 face. 
 
 Sweet child! within thy laughing sparkling 
 
 eyes, 
 Methinks I catch e'en now 
 A glimpse of that bright world beyond the 
 
 skies. 
 Where all are fair as thou; 
 And where each face, thro' all Eternity's 
 
 long years. 
 Shall ever be as free as thine is now from 
 
 tears. 
 
 A heavenly lamp, O Minnie dear, art thou. 
 Let down thro' the blue curtains of the sky. 
 
 To light with joy and hope my sin-stained 
 brow 
 And lead me to the realms of love on high. 
 
 Romp on ! I love to see thee laugh and crow 
 
 In frantic glee, in thy fond mother's arms. 
 
 I know that earth.no purer type can show 
 
 Of Heaven than thou. God shield thee 
 
 from all harm. 
 
 And grant thee many years my heart to 
 
 bless 
 With thy pure love and angel tenderness. 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 Ah me, my soul is drenched in Grief's hot 
 tears ! 
 My heart consuming in a hidden Are; 
 And no loved one is near to calm my fears; 
 No tender voice one ray of hope to inspire. 
 
 I, joyless am, as some wrecked mariner. 
 Tossed on old Ocean's rough and stormy 
 wave ; 
 
 No land or beacon-light, or far or near. 
 No pitying eye, no hand to help or save. 
 
 But doomed in wild despair awhile to drift. 
 Before the veering blast — the cheerless 
 wind. 
 
 Then all alone, as some poor soul unshrift, 
 Sink in the deep and leave no trace behind. 
 
 *- 
 
 GRIEVE ME NO MORE. 
 Grieve me no more, grieve me no more. 
 
 With words of scorn and bitter strife; 
 But let thy loving words of yore, 
 
 Still be the solace of my life. 
 
 Grieve me no more, but let thine eye 
 Beam kindly as in other years. 
 
 And light my soul while Hate goes by. 
 And Love comes in to dry my tears. 
 
 QUATRAINS. 
 I yearn for the joy of a tender embrace, 
 
 I weep for the grasp of a vanisht hand; 
 1 pray for the smiles of a radiant face 
 
 I lost long ago in a foreign land. 
 
 How vain are all our fondest joys. 
 
 Our hearts how much abusing! 
 They are but children's gilded toys 
 
 That perish with the using. 
 
 As two bright clouds that float all day be- 
 neath the sun. 
 At eve, fuse in the rosy chambers of the 
 West. 
 I felt my heart and soul with hers melt Into 
 one, 
 When on my lips her first dear seal of love 
 she prest. 
 
 Sleep dear, till morn, with bright beaming 
 eyes. 
 Peeps through tlie opening doors of Day; 
 And in rosy robes climbs up the Eastern 
 skies; 
 And tears the dusky curtains of Night 
 away. 
 
 Her mouth is, indeed, as sweet as the roses 
 That bloom in the soft airs of June; 
 
 But lier tongue's like the snake that reposes 
 At its root, and will kill quite as soon. 
 
 OUR VOLAPUK. 
 
 " O dear mother, that is enough ! " 
 He cried, as she gave him a cough. 
 That fell kind o' sudden and rough. 
 
 On her darling son's left ear; 
 And made liim think of rappee siiough. 
 Or some otfier very hard stough 
 
 Tliat caused him to feel quite queer. 
 
 "Tliere," said the old lady, •• you nough. 
 Go to the field and bring in the cough. 
 And see you don't get into a rough 
 
 With any boys by the way. 
 Wlieii you returti, call dad from the plough, 
 And be sure to drive the old sough 
 
 And her pigs, to the whey." 
 * 
 
©- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 759 
 
 -IB 
 
 WILLIAM CASWELL JONES. 
 
 Born : Hutson ville. III., July 15, 1848. 
 
 The poems of this gentleman have appeared 
 in the Railway Age, Chicago Evening- Jour- 
 nal, National Tril)une and the periodical press 
 generally. Mr. Jones was a member of the 
 twenty-seventh g-eneral assembly in 1871-73; 
 
 WILLIAM CASWELL JONES. 
 
 county judg-e in 1877, and is now serving his 
 second term as judge of the second judicial 
 circuit of the state of Illinois. The Hon. 
 William C. Jones was married in 1869 and re- 
 sides at Robinson. Personally Judge Jones 
 is of very fine stature, and is well known and 
 highly respected; and is a member of Gorin 
 Commandery No. 14, K. T. 
 
 ®- 
 
 LOVE'S ARROWS. 
 
 Treacherous thy arrows. Love, 
 
 Poisonous thy darts; 
 We place them in our quivers. Love, 
 
 Forgetting broken hearts; 
 You bid us be in welcome. Love, 
 
 We blindly, madly sing; 
 Hope's sweetest smile is with us, Love, 
 
 Till thou thy arrows fling. 
 
 You play, you fondle with your prize. 
 Led captive by thy love ; 
 
 You tease, torment us, with thine eyes — 
 
 Sweet starliglits like above! 
 We tliy caresses glad embrace. 
 
 Not fearful of thy sting; 
 We yield to beauty and thy grace. 
 
 Till thou thy arrows fling. 
 
 Yet seek we for thy arrows. Love, 
 
 And gather, o'er and o'er. 
 Thy smarting, stinging, piercing darts. 
 
 Forgetting those of yore. 
 What would life be without them, Love? 
 
 We'll to them always cling; 
 Trust to thy graciousuess, O Love, 
 
 Till thou thy arrows fling. 
 
 THE TWILIGHT SHADES. 
 The twilight shades of night appear, 
 As I sit silent, lonely here. 
 Watching the rifting clouds on high 
 Swiftly passing each other by. 
 The fitful stars shine out so bright, 
 As nature dons her robes of night; 
 'Tis time for weary eyes to close 
 In sleep— kind nature's sweet repose. 
 
 The low, sad chirp of insect wail. 
 Alone doth cheerless hours regale. 
 Save ripplings from yon babbling brook, 
 Tliat greet me in this quiet nook. 
 All nature's still! The weary borne 
 To peaceful rest from cares till morn. 
 And hushed in the stillness of the night 
 Are all the busy sounds of light. 
 
 I fancied in yon peeping star, 
 A home for beings tho' afar, 
 Who now are free from sin and vice. 
 And dwell with God in paradise. 
 I saw in vision's viewless space. 
 Spirit-forms of a blissful race. 
 Who trod of yore the unseen way 
 That leads to life's eternal day. 
 
 Eternity! O endless years! 
 
 Shall mortal fear thee! Banish tears 1 
 
 Put trust in Him who gave to thee 
 
 A soul to save for eternity. 
 
 Along time rolls ! It waits for nonel 
 
 It claims alike the oM, the young; 
 
 Earth's but a season to begin 
 
 To save the soul once lost in sin. 
 
 And as I dreamed, 'way sped the night. 
 With flick'ring moon and starry light — 
 Emblem of death! when 'neath the sod 
 We wait the coming of our God. 
 So, as the night gives way to morn 
 We'll to undying life be born; 
 The dawn of lovely morning bright. 
 Is emblem of the world of light. 
 
 -© 
 
©: 
 
 m 
 
 760 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 THE TKEE AND THE fiOSE. 
 I. 
 
 One day, boasting, 
 
 An Oak-Tree said 
 Unto a Brier-Rose, 
 
 With low-bent liead: 
 
 II. 
 " Barns and bridges 
 
 Are built of me; 
 Towns and cities — 
 
 I'm a useful tree. 
 III. 
 " You, a Brier-Rose, 
 
 Are of little use — 
 To the busy world 
 
 A mere excuse!" 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Sir," said Brier-Rose, 
 
 " Happy the hours. 
 Seeing- fair ones 
 
 Gather my flowers. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Wreathes of roses. 
 
 Buds on the stem. 
 Lovely garlands 
 
 T give to them." 
 
 VI. 
 
 The giant tree — 
 
 The boasting Oak, 
 Soon lay fell'd 
 
 By woodman's stroke: 
 
 VII. 
 
 But the little Rose 
 Still grows each year. 
 
 Her fragrant flowers 
 To the world so dear, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So, isn't it best 
 
 Quite oft' to be, 
 A Brier-Rose 
 
 Than a boasting tree? 
 
 ©- 
 
 THE FELON'S DREAM. 
 Slumbering I lay in prison cot. 
 
 In peaceful dreams, all woes forgot. 
 Repose! How sweet! 'Twas scarcely marred 
 
 By heavy tramp of prison guard. 
 Back to my home in dreams I went; 
 
 Back to that place I childhood spent; 
 Mingling there in merriest glee 
 
 Again with those quite dear to me. 
 1 clasped in fond embrace once more 
 
 A mother's form! Heard her implore 
 In bitter anguish, God to spare 
 
 A truant son,— an only care! 
 Friendly faces were gathered around. 
 
 Welcoming home, a lost one found; 
 
 I had resolved to quit my sin,— 
 
 1 felt a change of heart within! 
 It was a dream — and when I woke 
 
 The walls of prison on me broke: — 
 I felt to dry a felon's face, — 
 
 Saddest, dreariest of his race ! 
 
 I said: >• This cruel fate seems hard!" 
 
 'Twas only mocked by tramp of guard. 
 Gruel's the pang! Deep is the sting! 
 
 A lonely cell to felons bring! 
 Deal not harshly ! Speak not ill! 
 
 Fate was 'gainst him —'gainst him still, 
 Who sleeps behind this prison wall:— 
 
 There's none so strong, but what may fall ! 
 
 THE LITTLE PHYSICIAN. 
 
 There is no type of man 
 
 Among all I can scan. 
 Assumes such a mystical air. 
 
 As the little physician — 
 
 A kind of magician — 
 A man of some unction, as 'twere. 
 
 He is always quite dapper. 
 
 Remarked as a snapper. 
 Important in the superlative degree; 
 
 And when called to a case. 
 
 Assumes such a wise face. 
 You are struck with the wisdom you see! 
 
 Polite, to a fault. 
 
 He bows should you halt. 
 And tips a small hat which he wears; 
 
 Witli his pill-bags and cane, 
 
 Tho' seemingly vain, 
 'Tls only his knowingsorae airs. 
 
 When he visits the ill. 
 
 With powder and pill, 
 Prescribes for a patient with brains; 
 
 His bump of conceit 
 
 Is the first thing- you meet, 
 As you lie there racking- with pains. 
 
 As an expert, I ween. 
 
 No other I've seen, 
 Can theorize in, and then out; 
 
 A hypothetical case, 
 
 He states with such grace. 
 As convinces beyond reasonable doubt. 
 
 But his faults are all laid. 
 
 Where the willow's deep shade 
 Obscures them forever from view. 
 
 As you pause to reflect. 
 
 And can only suspect 
 The devil will some day get his due. 
 
 For there's no type of man. 
 
 Among all I can scauv 
 Assumes such a mystical air. 
 
 As the little physician — 
 
 A kind of magician — 
 A man of some unction, as 'twere 
 
 — © 
 
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 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 761 
 
 -* 
 
 WHAT JS FAME ? 
 And what is Fame? 
 A dazzliug name. 
 Like a meteoric star; 
 A moment on 
 And then 'tis gone. 
 Away, away so far. 
 Aye, who can tell. 
 What worli, and well, 
 Will bring- it in our grasp? 
 Like melting snow, 
 'Tis quick to go. 
 Ere mortals can it clasp. 
 Man's never still. 
 But ever will — 
 Ambition his desire — 
 Seek for a name; 
 To court proud Fame, 
 Alone he will aspire. 
 Still life's made bright 
 Like new-born light. 
 That doth each morning shine; 
 And toiling man 
 Will plan and plan. 
 In search of Fame divine! 
 
 BIRCH ROD DAYS. 
 Fond memory still recalls the day 
 Of tyrannizing birch rod sway. 
 When sturdy teacher, of the old-time school. 
 Did govern well with rod and rule. 
 His unrelenting look, his solemn mien. 
 May, in imagination, still be seen; 
 And the truant, disobedient of his law 
 Recalls how quick he was to find some flaw ; 
 Remembers youthful days— the days of woe — 
 When oft was dealt the unforgiving blow 
 Upon the back, oft minus coat and vest, 
 Of hapless youth, for trifles, thus opprest. 
 
 Who dared to look or feel a moment gay. 
 
 Felt his coercion all that day ! 
 
 Well calculated to suppress all noise 
 
 His laws inexorable, were for boys. 
 
 We would rebel, yet each rebellious time 
 
 Were scored with the birch rod, as for some 
 crime. 
 
 Forgive him! Never! My heart revolting 
 swells 
 
 With wicked thoughts, when back my mem- 
 ory dwells. 
 
 Yet, I remember, when in days now past, 
 
 We were all taught to spell, alike and fast; 
 
 To syllable and pronounce were taught it 
 well — 
 
 Taught from the spelling book — learned how 
 to spell; 
 
 The class in reading, from books, were taught 
 to read, 
 
 The teacher had one purpose — to succeed ; 
 And grammar, boys and girls were sparse 
 Who could not give the well known rules 
 
 and pai'se; 
 Each winter brought us to the rule of tliree. 
 And we could cipher, well— for well could he; 
 In writing the teacher would oft indite 
 This couplet, in our home-made copy books 
 
 to write: 
 " A man of words and not of deeds 
 Is like a garden full of weeds." 
 And well we wrote, and there was scarce a 
 
 blot — 
 For praises from his grace, quite oft were 
 
 sought— 
 But never given, unless true worth was 
 
 there — 
 Worth was not found, if it was, I'm not 
 
 aware. 
 Among them all, alone there is but one 
 My memory loves to dwell upon; 
 He spared the rod on me, a helpless wight, 
 And made me love him, ruled me not by 
 
 might; 
 Judge was he then, as now supreme — 
 Best of them all, be he alone my theme: 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Just man ! A friend to my early days. 
 All hail, for thee can I sing praise! 
 Clear was thy head, in discrimination then— 
 Oft hast thou since sliown it 'mong thy 
 
 walks with men; 
 Brilliant in speech, sweet voiced also; 
 When first I knew thee, tbou did'st thy 
 
 greatness show. 
 When in my boyhood days, young,frank and 
 
 free. 
 In thy tuition I loved to be; 
 Led by thy teaching we first Inclined 
 Knowledge to obtain for the j'outhful mind. 
 Infinite thy kind offices — we name thee — 
 Noblest of men — true as man can be. 
 
 As the mind recalls those days, T am proud 
 
 There is one enduring without a cloud 
 
 To darken. Brilliant to-day — bright was 
 
 then — 
 Best of dear teachers — loveliest of men ; 
 Who ruled and governed well — one always 
 
 may 
 Kindly — without dictatorial sway- 
 
 My memory loves to dwell upon those days — 
 For even 'midst the clouds of mist and haze 
 Life's brightest sunshine will appear 
 When looking back o'er times we now 
 
 revere. 
 Ah, chilling time! we turn aside to glance 
 And find thy fancied visions all romance; 
 Thy fondest hopes, thy brightest dreams. 
 Sad memories for life's after themes. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 762 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 We hear no more the gentle, chikUike voice. 
 Who long-, long years ag-o was youthful 
 
 choice 
 Of one who bent with years, now silvered 
 
 gray, 
 Waits but for time to bear his cares away; 
 Waits for the hour to come when life is o'er. 
 When he shall join her on the other shore. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 I think me now of one sweet girl. 
 
 That was the gem, 'mong many a maiden 
 
 pearl, 
 Tliat grew in loveliness and grace 
 Until we loved her — time will ne'er efface 
 The memory of her sparkling eyes — 
 Bright as the stars, that nightly jewel skies; 
 And the wavy tresses of her dark-brown 
 
 hair 
 Were soft and silken, as her face was fair; 
 Lithe was her form, each perfect part 
 Chiseled as 'twere for the sculptor's art; 
 With voice full round, so soft and sweet. 
 She spoke not word you would not wish 
 
 repeat. 
 But like the wild flowers we used to gather 
 And bring to her from off the heather, 
 Slie too has faded. Gone now to rest 
 With Him who gave that angel spirit blest 
 Unto the friends, who lingering stay 
 To watch and weep o'er now her lifeless clay. 
 Who is there who has not stood by the grave 
 Of some dear friend, and tried most brave 
 To stop the silent tear that trickled down 
 
 with sorrow 
 All the fond hopes of the bright to-morrow? 
 Who is there that does not now recall 
 The sorrow of the funeral knell and pall? 
 Who is there here on earth, who would not 
 
 give 
 His own sweet life, one dear to him might 
 
 live? 
 Who is there who has not felt the sting and 
 
 tear 
 Of bitter anguish losing friends most dear? 
 And yet 'mongst God's angel forms and 
 
 fairies, 
 I'll find, I know, someday, loved Clara's! 
 
 THE SKATE. 
 
 December's sun has risen bright and clear. 
 Red cheeks and blue noses told winter was 
 
 severe. 
 But boys were happy, for the chill of night 
 Brought to them visions of rare delight! 
 The creek was frozen o'er, its glistening ice 
 Was to their minds a part of paradise; 
 And morning's task at home complete. 
 Each buckled on his skates for winter's 
 
 treat. 
 
 i 
 
 Alas ! the glittering surface of the ice 
 Did many a truant boy from school entice. 
 The swiftest was a "deer," and soon the 
 
 race. 
 For forty lusty throats quick gave him chase ! 
 The school bell rang,although its notes were 
 
 clear. 
 What cared we for it, while playing deer? 
 Away we went, each steady stroke 
 But hours of distance onus broke; 
 And as the race more intense grew 
 It seemed to each, he fairly flew ! 
 When, at last, we caught the long chased 
 
 deer. 
 The air was rent with deafening cheer! 
 It was then boys circles cut, and eagles 
 
 spread — 
 While some cut letters that were plainly 
 
 read ! 
 On ice we ran to see who could farthest 
 
 jump — 
 Saw stars, in daylight, as our heads would 
 
 thump! 
 Yes, mingled we in sports, then, o'er and 
 
 o'er 
 Just as boys mingled in the days of yore. 
 Then schoolward turned, each skater gay. 
 Little did he list, the weal that he must pay. 
 The homeward journey one always tires 
 And passes little that he first admires; 
 'Tis true of life, we pass ambition's goal. 
 Then pray to rest the weary mind and soul. 
 Ah, noble youth, thy freaks are oft despised. 
 When better judgment would them have 
 
 prized ! 
 Think you, my friend, that boyish vim 
 Augurs not but usefulness to follow him? 
 Exultant youth, both bright and gay. 
 Will ever live to bear life's prize away? 
 Reached we at last the school house door, 
 
 our faces bright. 
 Forgetful of the hour, in our delight — 
 His angry looks, his sullen tones. 
 Were worse than next day's aching bones — 
 His switches? I remember — and live to 
 
 tell — 
 How well he used them — Aye used them 
 well! 
 
 THE HUTSON MASSACRE. 
 
 In eighteen hundred and ten, a pioneer. 
 Named Hutson, left for the wilderness, then 
 
 here. 
 His wife was with him, and six dear boys and 
 
 girls; 
 One, a maiden of sixteen, had soft brown 
 
 curls. 
 And bright blue eyes, with cheeks so fair, 
 Tlicy would with lilies well compare I 
 The daughter was the idol of her father's 
 
 heart — 
 
^- 
 
 -^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 763 
 
 « 
 
 And Tvlien the time liad come tliey must de- 
 part 
 For the unknown, and then far distant west, 
 Slie was witli all his plans imprest. 
 Hardships were endured, and privations by 
 
 the way 
 But laughed at, in hopes of a better day. 
 Then came they to a land in Nature's dress — 
 A plain and valley teeming- in fruitfulness: 
 Earth had not then, nor now, a lovelier spot. 
 Than the grand old prairie of Lamotte! 
 It was liere Hutsonbuilta homely dwelling'— 
 A rude log- cabin — liis stout heart welling- 
 With joy o'er the happiness it gave to him, 
 To be thus safelj' housed, in a cabin trim. 
 Time went smoothly on until the season's 
 
 close. 
 When their harvest warned them of the 
 
 savage foes ! 
 Plundering, murdering-, committing- rav- 
 
 ag-es, 
 Around that cabin home, were lurking: 
 
 savages, 
 Who for the pale face had the most intense 
 
 hate — 
 Yet none was more cruel than the Hutson's 
 
 fate: 
 One evening-, as the sun sank in the west, 
 A mother sat watching-, with babe at breast. 
 The leturn of father who had gone to mill 
 Miles of distance, across the plain and hill. 
 Would that lovely sunset, as it westward fell 
 Could but their fate to them foretell! 
 Calmly she waits — when, yell of Indian 
 
 devils 
 Break now upon her — death in carnag-e 
 
 revels! 
 Her babe was Into a boiling- caldron thrown ; 
 Mother and children tomahawked, save one 
 
 lone 
 Sweet g-irl; who was there captive led 
 To live a life of shame and dread ! 
 Then to that cabin was placed a torch of lire, 
 The lifeless hurled thereon! While with 
 
 demon's ire 
 They watched the rolling flames and curling: 
 
 smoke. 
 Till sighing embers, and faint glare, the end 
 
 bespoke ! 
 Hutson came home ! Though strong of frame 
 Intensely haggard his face became! 
 "My wife! my children!" Then 'mid the 
 
 agony of woe. 
 The teardrops from their fountain ceased to 
 
 flow! 
 The carnage was complete. Aye, well he 
 
 knew 
 The brutal nature of the scene in view! 
 Hutson, from all once near and dear, then 
 
 turned, 
 
 And while on horse, as heart within him 
 
 burned. 
 Vowed eternal vengeance, o'er and o'er. 
 Against the Indians evermore. 
 Well did ho keep that vow! Week after 
 
 week. 
 He with lus trusty rifle did vengeance reek; 
 Until, at last, he too was known to fall 
 At the head of troop, pierced by the Indian's 
 
 ball! 
 And the old creek, where we boys used to 
 
 skate 
 Was nailed Hutson, o'er his untimely fate; 
 And on the Wabash banks, 'bove and 'neath 
 
 the hill, 
 Sits to his memory, the village— Hutsonville. 
 'Tis said that we grow old ! That time's decay 
 Will change our feelings day by day; 
 That man will change the purpose of his 
 
 youth. 
 And feel that all is fading— even truth; 
 That what is good lived onlj^ in the past — 
 The world's degenerating fast and fast. 
 Tlie lawj'er lays aside his book, grown old, 
 Wliich once such precious truths had told. 
 And folds the door upon the musty shelf. 
 And feels despondent with the world and 
 
 self — 
 Then moralizes with his fate and time. 
 And blames the world, not his decline. 
 But youth, exultant, with eager look. 
 Will gather up the shelfworn book. 
 He will its pages anew read o'er. 
 And glean fresh treasures from its store. 
 He will for the future each day plan 
 And feel the world depends on coming man ; 
 New cities shall grow up, the future great. 
 Will rival all the past in church and State! 
 'Tis ever thus; the old shall weary be. 
 While youtli is buoyant, lithe and free; 
 And feels the world, with all its broad ex- 
 panse 
 Is made for him, his pleasures to enhance; 
 And grapples with it, new treasures sure to 
 
 find. 
 That ever yield to his inquiring mind. 
 One age declines, another takes its pl.-ice. 
 And progress ever marks our noble race. 
 Aj'e, man! no matter what thysiihere. 
 Thy memory loves to wander back to things 
 
 once dear; 
 And dear to thee, which after years will 
 
 trace. 
 Are all the scenes of boyhood's time and 
 
 place. 
 Call back in memory ye gray-haired sires, 
 Call back to memory your youthful flres; 
 Call back the laws you once transgressed. 
 Call back the times you were repressed; 
 Go back unto the turning point of life. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 764 
 
 LOCAT- AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 The sweet repressions of the future wife; 
 She, who was sweetheart of year youthful 
 
 days. 
 Reproving kindly wayward ways. 
 
 THE SPELLING SCHOOL. 
 
 How cheery was the old-time spelling school 
 Given by the teaclier in days of birch rod 
 
 rule. 
 Do you not still remember with what delight 
 We hailed the coming of that night? 
 The mud of winter, or the drizzling rain. 
 Caused us no anxiety or pain; 
 For we would bundle well and go 
 Be it through storm or winter's snow ; 
 Do you not still remember tlie rosy cheeks 
 Whieli youth and liealth alone bespeaks? 
 His glasses were adjusted, with stick in 
 
 hand, 
 He was determined all erect should stand; 
 Long lines were drawn up, like armies well 
 
 arrayed 
 For field of action, not for dress parade; 
 And warm the contest, for there were those 
 Who faced each other like deadly foes 1 
 And there were some who knew every word 
 In Webster's speller — for I have heard 
 It said, 'twas only by some grave mistake 
 That either side could honors take. 
 'Tis no fancied vision ! Ah, I remember well 
 The merry times of the old fashioned spell ! 
 The night though dark, the sidewa'k then 
 
 unknown, 
 But otlier pleasures would these all atone ; 
 For as we wandered home, her words so 
 
 sweet, 
 I would not dare in after life repeat! 
 But you remember, though now you're 
 
 silvered gray. 
 The words as well as 'twere but yesterday. 
 And you might tell, though this perhaps 
 
 you'd hate — 
 The kiss was stolen — just at her father's 
 
 gate! 
 These feats of skill by all were well enjoyed, 
 Think you not still, 'twas time quite well em- 
 ployed? 
 O, boyhood's happy days! We dream them 
 
 o'er. 
 Forgetful now the ills we had in store. 
 As we go back unto our first old home. 
 To find none dearer 'neath earth's dome. 
 We see again with enrapt deliglit 
 The teachers in their power and miglit; 
 And learn obedience from their law 
 That ever guides our after life in awe. 
 Ah, yet, those lessons first impressed in 
 
 youth 
 Are full of thought — if not prosaic truth. 
 We find the boy a man, and watch his course, 
 And hail delightedly his manhood's force ; 
 
 Then trace his truant youth, his wayward 
 
 ways. 
 To find the man was made in birch rod days. 
 
 THE DEBATE. 
 
 Can you callback the anguish of your look 
 When first you part in tlie discussion took? 
 His august presence, as he sat in state. 
 And eager watched your first debate! 
 Aye, Cushing's Manual, altho' 'twas new. 
 Produced not consternation then to you ; 
 But stammering,speechless, with your heart 
 
 in throat — 
 Forgetful the points you were quick to note ; 
 The floor was sinking— it would soon give 
 
 'way — 
 You could not then on feet one thouglit 
 
 convey. 
 Tour effort was a failure —but his word 
 Was not reproof, and when from him you 
 
 heard: [sound 
 
 " The Halls of Congress would some day re- 
 With words from the speaker, intense, pro- 
 found!" 
 You felt at once this life to you renewed 
 As with new ideas you were imbued. 
 Confidence in yourself when once you've 
 
 gained. 
 Ever through life will be by you maintained. 
 And from that moment in forensic art 
 You eager were to take some active part; 
 Skilled in parliamentary law you tried 
 With due deliberation to preside. 
 Your efforts then, if with success were 
 
 crowned. 
 Speak but the man, in after life renowned. 
 
 Dear Hutson, my heart turns back to thee 
 As scenes of boyhood days come back to me. 
 Back to the river's bank I trace 
 My steps, with line, to the old fishing place. 
 We angle with the world in after years. 
 Trembling and cautious, we battle it with 
 
 fears. 
 While in our youth we cast a baited hook 
 With joyous glee into the babbling brook. 
 Watching contentedly until the bite 
 To land the bass and croppie with delight; 
 But busy man will scarce find time to know, 
 Or wander back to scenes of long ago. 
 Until old age creeps 'long with silent stealtli 
 When first he realizes, that in life his wealth 
 Is but contentment! Contented will I bo 
 When the hour shall come, old time is done 
 
 with me — 
 When the clouds grow dark, and the eye 
 
 grows dim. 
 And the Master's summon, is to answer Him, 
 If they'll take me back to thee, old place so 
 
 dear. 
 To rest 'side Him who gave my spirit here, 
 
 *- 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEUICA. 
 
 7G5 
 
 THE FELON'S SOLILOQUY. 
 Yes, I have killed him I And in bending low, 
 Kifling j)Ockets, I saw his life's blood flow. 
 Then stood aghast! For who can tell the 
 
 sorrow 
 Even a life-long' criminal will borrow 
 At sight of deed so cruel. Woe is me ! 
 Outcast! outlaw! Where'er on earth to flee! 
 Quick! Let me go! The very stillness of 
 
 night 
 Makes doubly dread even a felon's flight! 
 And blood-leeches will soon be on my track, 
 Hounding, pursuing, soon to drag me back. 
 Where shall I fly? Is there no safety left 
 To one of law's protection now bereft? 
 Flee where 1 may, the lightning tracks my 
 
 path [wrath. 
 
 And justice scents my trail with pent-up 
 Hark ! Ere the gray of morning's dawn 1 fear 
 The sleuth-hounds will have trailed me and 
 
 be near. 
 Surrender ! Never ! I will fast retreat 
 Back to the lonely swamps — for life is sweet. 
 "Throw-up!" List! See! Now they surround 
 
 me fast. 
 I yield — for in these times escape is past. 
 For even one, who hath law offended oft 
 Of God and man, and at man's nature scoffed ! 
 But tracked and trailed, like a wild beast of 
 
 prey, 
 I, felon, bend before the law's dread sway! 
 Oh, fate, thrice wretched ! Henceforth in this 
 
 cell 
 Remorse is mine, so bitter none can tell! 
 Behind the prison wall, a sin-cursed Cain, 
 Fettered in irons, bound in prison chain! 
 Aye, never more to breathe a breath that's 
 In sorrow waiting for the gallows tree ! [free — 
 Ah! We have felt the silent tear of time 
 Steal down the careworn, hardened face of 
 
 crime. [grief 
 
 Ah, crime! Foul crime! Thou hast indeed to 
 Brought all thy followers, and thy course is 
 
 brief ! 
 Methinks at times, thy seed is bred in man. 
 And curse the fate that brought us in thy van 
 To dire destruction ! yet, we oft neglect 
 Best feelings of our conscience, and reflect 
 Not until the deed is done. Ill-fated born. 
 Flee from the path of sin, ere you forlorn 
 Fill some prison cell, or a felon's grave ! 
 Fear laws of God and man and thyself save 
 Kespect, as well as fear, for they alone 
 Bring peace on earth and happiness our own. 
 
 MARION MUIR RICHARDSON 
 
 Born: Chicago, III., Feb. 13,1857. 
 Thk poems of this lady have appeared In the 
 Boston Pilot, New York Sun, Century, St. 
 
 Louis Magazine and the periodical press 
 from Maine to California. She was married 
 in 1886 to Prof. Richardson, founder of Gun- 
 nison, Colorado, and Pioneer of southeast 
 Utah. Mrs. Kichardson has one son, William 
 Muir, and resides with her husband at Rich- 
 ardson, Utah, where they have a magnificent 
 fruit farm. 
 
 IN SOUTH-LANDS. 
 The sun on burning levels pours 
 
 A torrent of continuous light. 
 The river winds by stony shores 
 
 A serpent-curve of silver white. 
 Oh, for the waters of the spring, 
 
 The tasselled fir-tree's wall of shade, 
 The mountain breeze's fragrant wing. 
 
 The cool, sweet flowers that will not fade I 
 The high Sierra's crested brow 
 
 Looks calmly down on sultry days. 
 A dim, blue shadow seeming now 
 
 Like some diviner resting-place. 
 A promised land, serenely fair. 
 
 The mother of a host of streams, 
 Whose presence, throned in upper air. 
 
 Rules the warm darkness of our dreams. 
 
 EAST AND WEST. 
 Yes, quick — too quick — of act and speech 
 
 am I, 
 Not fair to see, but darkened by the sky. 
 Yet, ere you blame me wholly,stop and think. 
 Your childhood knew the river's shaded 
 
 brink, [school. 
 
 The garden wall, the coming home from 
 Deep clover fields and orchard alleys cool. 
 And mine? — Up where the breath of June 
 
 is cold 
 I saw the light, in vallcj's seamed with gold. 
 Where even the stream is darkened in its flow 
 And men are buried by the blinding snow. 
 To one the odor of the brush-fire tells 
 Of where the Platte goes rolling on in swells 
 Of welcome silver, sweeping leisurely [sea. 
 Through green Nebraska's lowlands to the 
 The music I remember was the gale 
 In roaring pines, or far down in the vale. 
 The song of Indians as the tribe went by,— 
 The locust fifes, the coyote's midnight cry. 
 Not gentle were the faces that I knew. 
 Yet full of kindness, bearded,strong and true. 
 The bare, brown blutfs were 'round me as I 
 
 played 
 At evening by the camp, or, not afraid. 
 Flew through the morning on mj' pretty bay, 
 Would you, thus trained, not be the same 
 
 to-day? 
 We do not choose our lives,- or well or ill, 
 Vou keep your book, and T my pony, still. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 766 
 
 LocAi. a:st> national poets of AMEKICA. 
 
 REV. WALTER L. FERRIS. 
 
 Born: Oneida, III., July 31, 1852. 
 
 After attending the colleg-e at Wheaton, 111., 
 Mr. Ferris entered the ministry. He }ias 
 filled pastorates at Wataga, Prospect Park 
 and Chicago, and is now pastor of the Con- 
 
 BEY. WALTER L. FERRIS 
 
 gregational church at Clierokee, Iowa. This 
 gentleman has written many fine poems 
 which have appeared from time to time in 
 the Chicago Inter-Ocean and other leading 
 publications. He has a family of two child- 
 ren, Mary and Hattie, born in 1884 and 1887 
 respectively. 
 
 ■*- 
 
 THE PIONEER 
 
 'nien let me sing of the Pioneer, 
 
 The hero hardy and strong. 
 Who "blazed the way" for better days. 
 
 When the road was dark and long; 
 1 hear e'en now the woodman's stroke. 
 
 As it echoes along the years. 
 And hear again the crashing oak. 
 
 And the shout of the pioneers. 
 
 They were heralds of a better time, 
 These men who went before. 
 
 For they wrouglit for coming ages, 
 In the brave days of yore; 
 
 Though hands were hard and calloused, 
 And cheeks were brown with tan. 
 
 They know each drop on the wrinkled brow 
 Was the sweat of an honest man. 
 
 And thus it is in every cause. 
 
 Which lifts aloft the rights of man, 
 Some one must labor ou before. 
 
 Some men march In the van; 
 Aye, every sacred God-born truth,] 
 
 Which to this world hath come. 
 Hath had its sturdy pioneers, 
 
 Wlio bore the torch of faith alone. 
 
 Tlie Switzer sings at eventide 
 
 Sweet freedom's song by his cabin door. 
 But Gcssler's threat must be defied. 
 
 And Winkelried press on before. 
 To court the point of Austrian spear, 
 
 And cry, "Make way for Liberty,"^ 
 'Ere freedom reigns, or we may hear 
 
 The hero's shout of victory.; 
 
 Through years of malice and of scorn 
 
 Tlie mighty Luther led the way, 
 And heralded the blessed morn 
 
 WJicn ages dark should turn to day ; 
 He nailed his Theses to the door. 
 
 The old church door of Wittenburg, 
 And men shall know him evermore 
 
 As Reformation's Pioneer. 
 
 'Twas old John Brown, of martyr fame, 
 
 Wlio spoke from out his inmost soul, 
 " My country's flag, shall wave above 
 
 No man who wears a chain." 
 He'll keep his word, ye need not fear. 
 
 For the shackles now are gone. 
 He wrought the work of the pioneer. 
 
 And the cross hath won a crown. 
 
 Where other foot-sore pilgrims trod, 
 
 With valiant step we walk the road, 
 Wlnle some have died for faith and God 
 
 Wo reap the fields which they have sown; 
 Tlie yeomanry of other days 
 
 Hath lit the fires upon the hill. 
 They send adowu their cheering rays 
 
 To light the valleys still. 
 
 And so I love the pioneer 
 
 And gladly sing the praise 
 or him who saw 'mid prayer and tears 
 
 The glory of our better days; 
 For thus it is in every cause 
 
 Which lifts aloft the rights of man. 
 Some one must labor on before. 
 
 Some men march in the van. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 769 
 
 ->h 
 
 ALVIN T. LANPHERE. 
 
 Born: Hanoveis, N. Y., March 22, 1840. 
 Early in life the subject of this sketch was 
 connected willi liis father in railroad eon- 
 tractinfr, and later as a banlser at Coklwater, 
 Mich. In 1861, with two brothers, ho raised 
 the Battery of Light Artillerj-, Ijnown as 
 Lanphere's Battery, and went to the front. 
 In 1862 Alvin was obliged to resign on ac- 
 count of disability. Mr. L:inphei'e w:is then 
 ndmittod to the bar. and li;is practiced in the 
 
 • 0^ 
 
 "i 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 
 ^^^^^\^^^^^^^^^^H 
 
 ALVlN T. LANPHEBE. 
 
 State and federal courts ever since. He was 
 elected justice of the peace and alderman, 
 and declined the nomination for mayor, 
 politics not being- cong-enial. Since his boy- 
 hood Alviu T. Laiiphere has written prose 
 and poetry for the press, and a collection of 
 his poems was published in book form. Mr. 
 Lanphere has lectured extensively upon 
 temperance; is prominent in Grand Army 
 and Union Veteran circles, and is a member 
 of the Episcopal church. His poems have 
 appeared in Waverley Mng-azine, Ballou's 
 Magazine, Atlantic Monthly, Kansas City 
 Times, Kalamazoo Gazette and other publi- 
 cations. Ml. Lanphere was married in 1858 
 to Miss Helen L. Saunders, and has two sons- 
 Herbert, born 1866; and Victor Carl, born 
 1869, whom he lost by death a few years since, 
 which is the great sorrow of his life. 
 
 MY TREASURES. 
 I count my treasures o'er again, 
 As oft I've done in passing- years, 
 * . 
 
 With eyes .suffused by blinding- tears 
 And heart surcharged with ceaseless pain. 
 
 The treasured toys ni.y darling- prized, 
 Like sunbeams from its setting- cast. 
 Now breathe a language from the past 
 
 That few lilce me have realized. 
 
 And as I count them o"er and o'er. 
 These relics of some j-ears ago; 
 Wliy wonder that I prize them so. 
 
 For .. Carl " once prized them all before. 
 
 The childish gifts that once ho loved, 
 And oft caressed in boyish glee. 
 Still speak a language dear to me. 
 
 And can I view them now unmoved? 
 
 His hat now hanging on the wall 
 
 Reminds me of the liead that wore 
 It oft as coming from the door 
 
 He met me at affection's call. 
 
 The cab whereiTi in boyish state 
 
 He rode impelled by loving hands, 
 
 Now still — but how suggestive — stands 
 
 A sad reminder of his fate. 
 
 The empty crib whereon he lay 
 
 At morning, noon, and eventide. 
 
 In health and sickness — where be died — 
 
 Ere from our midst he passed away; 
 
 Still breathes its tale of treasured love — 
 Its sheets and pillow now unpressed 
 By "Carl's " loved form- — an empty nest 
 
 Whence flown the bird to realms above. 
 
 Oh God! how cruel death's decree 
 
 That parts us from our loved and lost 
 Awhile, until the river crossed 
 
 Again their sainted forms we see. 
 
 But through the countless ages gone 
 
 Have untold millions bowed with grief 
 Like me, and vainly sought relief. 
 
 And shall I grieve as one alone? 
 
 And as I retrospect to-night 
 
 Shall I not prize all else abo^'e 
 The memory of the one whose love 
 
 Leads onward, upward to the light. 
 
 For though my grief be great, I know 
 That sunshine always follows night — 
 That darkest hours but uslicr light. 
 
 And blessings from aflflictions flow. 
 
 Though lost his outward form to me, 
 His presence ever lingers near 
 To solace, comfort and to cheer 
 
 Me in my journey o'er life's sea. 
 
 And as I view life's golden bars — 
 
 The sunshine 'mid the cloud and storm. 
 My mind surmounts griefs outward form, 
 
 And fondly looks •• beyond the stars." 
 
 -* 
 
770 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LINES TO LORENA. 
 The daylig'ht is swiftly declining-, 
 
 And its splendors are fading awaj% 
 While tlie tremulous twilight is chang-ing 
 
 Its glories from golden to gray; 
 And I stand with the zephyr's soft kissing 
 
 My brow in the glimmering light, 
 While my spirit, love-laden and longing. 
 
 Turns to thee on this beautiful night. 
 
 Turns to thee in its quest through the 
 gloaming. 
 
 Though distance doth now intervene. 
 And thy memory lingers about me 
 
 Lilce a charm, o'er this beautiful scene, 
 For I know thou art here in thy musing — 
 
 That thj' longing responds unto mine. 
 And 'tis sweet to be witli thee in spirit. 
 
 And to mingle my iovclight with thine. 
 
 I remember a fable in story 
 
 That tells of the mystical hour, 
 When " Genii " and •> Fairies " were casting 
 
 Their magic o'er leaflet and flower; 
 And I think, could I gather a chaplet 
 
 Of those marvelous flowers, and entwine 
 Them over the brow of my loved one. 
 
 While sleeping, her faith would be mine. 
 
 For then I would gather a garland 
 
 Of lilies and amaranth bright — 
 Of rose buds and pansies and tulips. 
 
 To twine round my darling to-night; 
 From the lotus I'd steal one rare blossom, 
 
 For its golden, its quivering beams. 
 Would be of the whole the most potent 
 
 In my Ijeautiful wreath of dreams. 
 
 My chaplet once wreathed, and each blossom 
 
 Full bathed in those magical airs, 
 I would whisper my love in each calyx 
 
 That my spirit might mingle with theirs; 
 Then I'd send off those lovely enchanters 
 
 On the moonlight's soft hallowing beams. 
 To press lightly the brow of my loved one. 
 
 And thus mingle my thoughts with her 
 dreams. 
 
 *- 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 When my mind l:)ecomes lieavy and weary 
 
 With the world's earnest struggle and strife. 
 And the future looks darkstmie and dreary 
 O'er the mountains and valleys of life — 
 Wlien my heart mid its longings and pleas- 
 ures 
 Sinks sad 'neath its burdens again. 
 As I count up my losses and treasures 
 And compare them In silence and pain,— 
 
 When the years that havc^ vanished, re- 
 turning 
 
 With the joys and the sorrows I knew. 
 And the fond lamp of memory burning 
 
 Now passes them quick in review; 
 And the dark chilling winds of December, 
 
 And the soft lisping breezes of May 
 Are commingled as uow I remember 
 
 Those scenes that have vanished away. 
 
 And the bright sunny spots that are throng- 
 ing— 
 
 How little I treasured them then; 
 But now I am sighing and longing 
 
 To live o'er their brightness again. 
 How vain and how useless my sighing! 
 
 Our journey is forward and on. 
 And the past to the future replying. 
 
 Mingles sighs with the pleasure that's 
 gone. 
 
 There's a dear one whose memory lingers 
 
 Like the fragrance where incense is burned. 
 As Time with his skeleton fingers 
 
 The hands on the dial hath turned; 
 And the voice I once knew is around me, 
 
 And his footsteps are echoing near. 
 And the charm of his presence that bound 
 me 
 
 Like a halo encircles me here. 
 
 Ah ! the dark loving eyes that were beaming, 
 
 And the bright sunny ringlets of gold. 
 And the dimples where Cupid lay dreaming. 
 
 And the ways that no language had told; 
 And the sweet lisping accents of childhood. 
 
 With their musical thrill of delight. 
 Come like voices that flit through the wild- 
 wood 
 
 On the wings of the vanishing night. 
 
 And I think of the loved one departed — 
 
 Of the sunshine, the tempest and strife — 
 Of the barque that in joyousness started 
 
 To sail o'er the ocean of life; 
 And I wake from those transports Elysiau — 
 
 From tlie dreams so enchantingly fair. 
 And tin; sunshine has passed from my vision, 
 
 Leaving darkness, and sorrow, and care. 
 
 And when the dark curtain concealing 
 
 Our future is wafted aside, 
 And the " unknown," its brightness rcvoal- 
 
 iug. 
 Shines clear o'er life's turbulent tide; 
 Oh ! then may my soul be reciuited 
 
 For its sadness and sorrow below. 
 And, with the "lost loved one" united. 
 
 Through the realms of eternity go. 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 771 
 
 MRS. GRACE DUFFIE ROE. 
 
 Boun: K.ax,am.\zoo, Mich., Feb. 9, 186L 
 This lady received }ier early education in 
 the public schools ot that place; she after- 
 ward attended tlie college of Literature and 
 Art at Boston, where she g'raduated with 
 liig-li lionors. While Mrs. Roe has attained 
 her greatest prominence as a poet, she is also 
 a prose writer of considerable merit and an 
 olocutioni.st of rare abilitj-. Her poems have 
 appeared from time to time in the leading 
 
 MUS. OHACE nrFFIE ROE. 
 
 newspapers and magazines of America, and 
 some of them liave found their wa3- into the 
 papers of the old world. As a song-writer 
 she is meeting with great success, sind most 
 of the words in that charming selection of 
 musical gems, >' Royal Songs," are from her 
 pen. Slie is also tlie author of the songs 
 "Love's Angelus," "Looking," "Pilot of 
 Galilee." >. The Prayer " and others. Per- 
 sonally, she is petite in form, possesses a 
 handsome, f.iscinating face, and is popular 
 in social circles. She was mari-icd in 18V9 to 
 Mr. George Roe, of Detroit, and one child — 
 a Httle daughter — is the result of the union. 
 Mrs. Roe resides in Battle Creek, Mich. 
 
 XINDER AND OVER THE STARS. 
 I have wander'd away from the music. 
 The laughter light, and the flowers. 
 And out where night's gatli'ring shadows. 
 Fall fast in the path of the hours. 
 
 I can hear the feet of the billows. 
 
 As iliey tread o'er the wide sandbars; 
 
 And lie at rest on the short warm grass. 
 
 Looking up at the beautiful stars. 
 
 On the brown-jeweled breast of our mother, 
 
 I lay my head weary with care. 
 
 The wind has blown chill thro' life's valley. 
 
 And scatter'd its snows in my hair; 
 
 I catch from yon dark-masted schooner. 
 
 The songs of some home ward- bound tars; 
 
 We both see the liglits of a harbor. 
 
 But I look at the beautiful stars. 
 
 So I lie on the grass while e%''ning 
 
 Glides by with lier feet shod with dew, 
 
 And the lights fade out of the windows. 
 
 For tlie cares of to-day are through. 
 
 Perchance when the hand of summer. 
 
 Again earth's frost-prison unbars, 
 
 I sliall be lying under the grass. 
 
 Looking down at the beautiful stars 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF THE SOUL. 
 Unfinished was the temple. Here and there 
 A stone unpolished lay, an archway flung 
 One curved arm, unwedded, to the air; 
 The shadow'd niches saintless gaped and bare 
 And on harsh hinge the graven portal swung. 
 Yet many walked therein. The clangor'd 
 
 aisles 
 Gave proof of armed heel, as lighter tread. 
 Legion and phalanx passed in serried flies. 
 Whom wide-brow'd historj- alone beguiles 
 From out the guarded fortress of the dead. 
 
 And thro' the pulsing corridors betimes 
 Sounded the anthems of the morning stars. 
 Or chained in meshes of the silvered rhymes 
 The restless tenant heard the vesperchimes. 
 That night flung to him from the sunset bars. 
 
 Still at the shadowed altar cool and gray 
 
 No footsteps paused, no orison arose 
 
 To freight the wings of incense on its way; 
 
 With slumb'rous eyes the taskless vestal lay, 
 
 A poppy-lidded Goddess of Repose. 
 
 Till with a flame the elements drew near. 
 
 Formed by an alchemist above — below — 
 
 I know not where, for it doth oft appear 
 
 (In all its lights and shades of joy and fear) 
 
 To mingle Tartarus and Heaven so. 
 
 But as it fell upon the sacred place 
 
 A sudden splendor shimmcr'd from above. 
 
 The temple quivered thro' its golden space, 
 
 Shook as at throe of birth or death's embrace, 
 
 Audstood— completed— at the touch of Love I 
 
 OLD FOLKS HEAR THE CITY CHOIR. 
 Father an' me are gettin' old; 
 
 We ain't used to the way 
 Of goin' to hear the singin', 'stead 
 
 Of preachin', Sabbath day. 
 
*- 
 
 772 
 
 -• 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AlilERICA. 
 
 So when we was with Andrew's folks. 
 
 An' Sundaj' mornin' come, 
 We s'posed we'd hear the Word an' jine 
 
 In the sweet hymns they sung. 
 
 An' when we stood in that dim aisle, 
 'Neath arclied an' fluted stone, 
 
 A ray of light touclied father's hair 
 An' his worn features shone. 
 
 The organ's grand an' solemn tone 
 
 Jest sounded like a prayer, 
 An' when it stopped I seemed to feel 
 
 Wings beatin' through the air. 
 
 "The prodigal," the preacher said, 
 
 •I Of sinnin' weary grown, 
 Has left the swine an' now has turned 
 
 His face toward his home." 
 
 Then all to once the choir riz; 
 
 It almost made me laugh 
 To hear that young soprany shriek: 
 
 " Bring in the fatted calf ! " 
 
 " Bring in the fatted calf, the calf," 
 
 Implored the alto low. 
 An' all the rest jined in, as if 
 
 They couldn't let it go. 
 
 The tenor's pleadin' touched my heart, 
 
 A critter'd been a stone 
 Not to hev come a friskin' in. 
 
 In answer to that tone. 
 
 Waal, pa, he sot with eyebrows bent. 
 
 Like bushes touched with snow 
 A growin' round some sheeny lake. 
 
 Half hidin' its blue glow. 
 But when the bass had started in 
 
 A callin' for that calf. 
 He jest reached fur his han'kerchief 
 
 To cover up a laugh. 
 " Bring in the fatted, fatted calf," 
 
 Bellow'd tlie bass; an' stars! 
 Our grandson John called (half asleep): 
 
 "Grandpa, lot down the bars! " 
 
 *- 
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE WING. 
 
 Swiftly sped the banner'd steamer 
 With a gay excursion crowd ; 
 But apart from all his fellows. 
 One in thought or sorrow bowed, 
 Watcliing absently the waters, 
 Crisply foam and geiitly roll, 
 Softly singing — as for lieart-ease — 
 " Jesus, lover of my soul." 
 
 As he sang, a stranger near him 
 Sought with courtesy his side: 
 "Pardon, sir, but for that juithom, 
 By my liand a man had died: 
 And to-day it seems to lead me 
 Once again neath Southern sky. 
 
 Were you in the army, stranger? " 
 "Yes." "And for the Union?" "Aye:" 
 
 "Then the incident may please you 
 
 For I was a soldier, too ; 
 
 Not your comrade, friend, but fighting 
 
 For the cause I thought was true. 
 
 So one niglit at Chattanooga 
 
 I crept near the Union camp; 
 
 Near enough to see the jjicket 
 
 And to hear his measured tramp. 
 
 I could see his boyish features 
 
 Lifted to the star-lit sky. 
 
 But the hate of war burned in me 
 
 And I longed to see him die. 
 
 Panted, witli a savage triumph. 
 
 As my rifle leaped in place. 
 
 And my eye gleamed 'long it's barrel 
 
 Straiglit to his fair. Northern face. 
 
 Ping ! Death's me.ssonger went singing: 
 
 Buttlie lad was singing, too; 
 
 And my marksmanship, so boasted. 
 
 For that once had proved untrue. 
 
 And his beardless lips were saying 
 
 As he turned and passed me by: 
 
 " Jesus, lover of my soul. 
 
 Let me to thy bosom fly." 
 
 Then I muttered: " Come old rifle. 
 
 Join his song and change its note; 
 
 Stop the pious j-oungster's warble 
 
 In his cursed Yankee throat: 
 
 Now he comes"— ping! go and meet him! 
 
 But he sang (from danger frcej 
 
 " Other refuge have I none, 
 
 Hangs my helpless soul on thee." 
 
 Then a chill of fear, or anger. 
 
 Fell upon me in that place. 
 
 And I aimed in reckless fury 
 
 For the tender, brave, young face. 
 
 Friend, that moment seemed eternal. 
 
 Till I heard him softly sing: 
 
 " Cover my defenseless head 
 
 With tlie shadow of thy wing? " 
 
 Then I knew an host unnumbered 
 
 Was encamped up on the way. 
 
 And that boy was under orders 
 
 From tlie Captain of the day: 
 
 And the unseen li'gions gathered 
 
 As I knelt ujion the sod. 
 
 And vow'd, there in my suit of gray. 
 
 Allegiance to his God. 
 
 Years have passed, but in my mem'ry 
 
 Is engraved that soldier's face. 
 
 Nor can lines of careworn manhood 
 
 Quite efface its youthful grace. 
 
 Turn and look at me, my brother. 
 
 Take the faith my message brings: 
 
 For you were the lad in refuge 
 
 'Neath the shadow of the wings! 
 
 ■A 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 773 
 
 EDWIN SEYMOUR HULIN. 
 
 Born: Braceville, Ohio, July 14, 1822. 
 The subject of tliis sketch was brought up 
 on a farm, but abandoned that occupation 
 for want of strength, and learned a trade, 
 which he followed several years. Mr. Huliu 
 then became a school teacher, and has since 
 
 1.U\^1^ i-tYMOUK HULIh. 
 
 taught in six different states. At present he 
 occasionally engages in light farm work and 
 in taking orders for standard works at Er- 
 win, Tenii. Mr. Hulin has written numerous 
 fine poems, many of which have appeared 
 quite extensively in the periodical press. 
 
 THE FADING FLOWER. 
 
 How oft they do this caption use — 
 Ambitious and poetic youtlis, — 
 
 To praise some tiower, thro' aid of muse. 
 Then show its death. Two simple truths. 
 
 But in my walks of yesterday, 
 
 1 saw a flower, "t seemed struck with death. 
 The petals and the leaves all lay 
 
 Beyond all signs of vital breath. 
 
 That flower was reared by love and care. 
 Of sisters, brothers, parents, all. 
 
 But now the tears that all can spare 
 Cannot new life again recall. 
 
 No care or dress of roo t or spray. 
 Of friends of tliat once lovely flower. 
 
 Can send, to root, or stem, one ray 
 Of health and life's renewing power. 
 
 A fiend in manly form and shape. 
 With wooing words of wily power. 
 
 Did often seek •• for friendship's sake," 
 To sit beneath that lovely flower. 
 
 But when he'd taken final leave. 
 The fragrant blooms all fade away. 
 
 Nor filial care, of those who grieve. 
 That shrinking, fading blight can stay. 
 
 THE LITTLE ORPHAN. 
 Walking down the lonely street. 
 Where want and woe we daily greet, 
 A little child I chanced to meet — 
 
 A child that had no mother. 
 Then spake a woman passing by: 
 Why sit you here alone and cry? 
 He answered her with heaving sigh, 
 
 I've lost, lost my mother! 
 That blessed saint to me so dear. 
 Whose spirit ever lingers near. 
 Who taught me God to love and fear. 
 
 Is dead. Oh! Oh! my mother! 
 My cruel father once so dear. 
 For that accursed wine and beer. 
 Did oft forsake his children dear, 
 
 Wliich did distract my mother. 
 He then to rum became a slave. 
 And like a madman oft would rave. 
 But soon did fill a drunkard's grave. 
 
 Broke her heart — killed my mother. 
 Then go with me, we heard her say 
 Unto my home not far away. 
 And from me never go astray. 
 
 And I will be your mother. 
 "xJut liowcan you with patience share 
 All the ills tliat orphans heir. 
 And lisp my name in every prayer. 
 
 Since you are not my mother? 
 That God thy mother taught to fear, 
 Doth ever whisper in my ear. 
 Unto the poor draw gently near. 
 
 And be the orphan's mother. 
 With joy beaming in his eyes. 
 Into her arms he quickly flies. 
 And kissing her he wildlj- cries, 
 
 I think I've found my mother. 
 She banished all his rising fears, 
 'And wiped away his falling tears. 
 While hope and love his spirit cheers. 
 
 She's now the orphan's mother. 
 This lovely little prattling boy. 
 Did soon become the household joy. 
 And oft thanks gave without alloy. 
 
 For his new and kind mother. 
 He was the solace of her heart. 
 And from him she could tiever part. 
 But blest the day that she became 
 
 That little orphan's mother. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 774 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE W. KETTOMAN. 
 
 Born: Gettysburg, Pa., April 17, 1853. 
 Mr. Kettoman is known as the South Moun- 
 tain Bard. At nine years of age he com- 
 menced to court the muse and since that time 
 he has written more tlian five thousand pag-es 
 of maiuiscriiit. In 1^76 Mr. Kettoman was 
 
 GEOUCE \V. KETTO.MAN. 
 
 married to Miss Carrie B. Smith, of Decatur, 
 111., by wliom he has liad two eliildren— ason 
 who died of diplitheria at the age of eight; 
 the oilier, a daugliter, who is still living. Mr. 
 Kettoman has studied medicine. His best 
 poems have not yet been published. 
 
 *- 
 
 HAZEL GREENE. 
 There is a land dear to my heart 
 
 As freedom to the fawn. 
 Which from my memory ne'er shall part 
 
 While life in me lives on. 
 'Tis where the Lehigh, broad and bright, 
 
 Do'^h pour his glinnnering slu-en 
 Down through a vale of love and light 
 
 To beauteous Hazel Greene. 
 
 Around her quiet cottage home 
 Sleek herds in shadows di'owse; 
 
 And meadow pink, and daisy bloom. 
 And asphodel and rose. 
 
 And there within a becchen grove 
 A ch.-ipel lifts its vane. 
 
 And choristers sing God's high love 
 
 With saintly Hazel Greene. 
 Now down the mead her dainty feet 
 
 Light tripping stir the dew. 
 And nymph-like in this arcady 
 
 She sings to me and you. 
 Her basket with wild flowers in it 
 
 She bears with artless mien : 
 In soft blue gown and jaunty hat, 
 
 God bless our Hazel Greene! 
 No marquis, duke, or titled earl 
 
 Walks in her suitors' train. 
 But those who love the farmer girl 
 
 Are Nature's noblemen. 
 And no proud empress sable-robed, 
 
 Or jeweled Southern queen 
 Can dare compare with her so rare, 
 
 God'sown sweet Hazel Greene. 
 
 THE OLD HOME PLACE. 
 I have wandered far and wide. 
 Over land and over tide; 
 I have gazed on the rarest of grace. 
 But I've found no other spot 
 With so much of beauty fraught. 
 As the kingdom of my childhood. 
 
 The Old Home Place. 
 
 Chorus: The Old Home Place 
 
 With its violets so blue, 
 The Old Home Place 
 
 With its hearts so leal and true; 
 The pride of my father. 
 The home of my mother. 
 My sister and my brother — 
 Heaven send a blessing on the Old Home 
 Place ! 
 
 I have lingered half the year 
 Where the roses of Cashmere 
 Were bewildering in odor and grace. 
 But more beautiful to me 
 Are the lilies on the lea. 
 In the kingdom of my childhood. 
 The Old Home Place. 
 
 I have felt what man doth feel 
 When cathedral organs peal 
 Under domes where angel wings interlace. 
 But a grander melody 
 Were the Sabbath psalms to me. 
 In the Kingdom of my childhood. 
 The Old Home Place. 
 
 When I die I will not <ask 
 Sculptured tomb or obelisk, [grace 
 Let them lay me down in tenderness and 
 Where the violets will blue 
 In the Summer sun and dew. 
 In the kingdom of my childhood, 
 The Old Home Place. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 775 
 
 -* 
 
 ENOCH GEORGE ADAMS. 
 
 Bokn: Bow, N. H. 
 Graduating in 1849 from Yiile coUeg-e, Mr. 
 Adams tliGTi taug-lit school in the states of 
 New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Marjland 
 and Missouri. At an early age he contributed 
 poems to the Boston Olive Branch, the Cin- 
 cinnati Ladies' Kepository and other publi- 
 cations. Tn 1861 he enlisted in Co. D. 2d N.H. 
 regiment, and \v;is .iftorward woiindeil :itthe 
 battle of Williamsburg, tliu bullet ailll re- 
 
 L^ 
 
 LNDCU (;i,(ni(ih, AUA.M^. 
 
 maining in his body. He was in the Peach 
 Orchard at tlie battle of Gettysburg-. In 186.5 
 he commanded Fort Rice, D. T., wliere he 
 met and vanquished the famous Sitting-Bull 
 and ten thousand warriors. In 1865 Mr. 
 Adams was mustered out of service as cap- 
 tain and brevet-major. For a number of 
 years he was editor and proprietor of the 
 Vancouver Register, W. T., where he was 
 also register of the land office. He next pub- 
 hshed the Columbian, at St. Helen, Oregon, 
 wliere he was also justice of the peace. As 
 a lecturer, Major Adams lias attained a wide 
 reputation, and his poems have been highly 
 praised by the press and public. 
 
 THE RELEASED. 
 Over the dark cloud of her life 
 
 The rainbow of death ascended, [arch, 
 
 And her spirit went through its triumphal 
 
 Like a liero when battle is ended. 
 She never will wake in the gloomy niglit 
 
 And dread the coming morrow: 
 
 She has gone where the strains of eternal 
 peace 
 
 Hush the wild notes of sorrow. 
 The angels of light they met her that morn 
 
 Close by the gates of wonder, [sweet. 
 
 Which turned on their hinges to music 
 
 Then gloriously fell asunder. 
 
 Then her spirit went up New Jerusalem's 
 streets. 
 
 With the angels of God around her. 
 And then from the amaranth bowers above 
 
 Wit h a garland of beauty tlioy crowned her. 
 Then she seized in her hand a harp of gold, 
 
 In that wilderness of splendor, [full. 
 
 And poured forth a song of thanksgiving 
 
 Ineffably sweet and tender. 
 
 The angels took up the ending song. 
 
 In a full and mighty chorus, 
 ..All glory to the Lamb that was slain. 
 
 To the Lamb that goes before us." 
 The sapphire hills that were gleaming there. 
 
 With a grandeur serene and splendid. 
 Repeated in echo, again and again. 
 
 The strain that should not be ended. 
 And the river of Life that is flowing for aye. 
 
 From the throne of the Great Jehovah, 
 In silvery cadences, sweet and low. 
 
 Kept singing the chorus over. 
 ( ), what to her are the griefs of life! 
 
 Like clouds iu remotest distance, 
 Since she's entered upon a glorious state 
 
 In a blissful and new existence. 
 She weeps not that her path through life 
 
 Was roughened by thorn and briar, [state 
 Since the griefs that consumed her mortal 
 
 Only brought her heavenly nigher. 
 Her path was stony, her path was rough. 
 
 And her feet were torn and bleeding; 
 But she bathes them now in the river of Life 
 
 From the throne of the Lamb proceeding. 
 And binding- her golden sandals on 
 
 With a joyous step and vagrant. 
 She wanders along where the lily-bells 
 
 Are showering their odors fragrant. 
 No light of the sun or moon is there. 
 
 But a soft and crystal brightness. 
 Like a cluster of stars, the Deity's throne. 
 
 Stands afar in its silvery whiteness. 
 And ever above it a rainbow gleams, 
 
 A pledge that the Gt>d-hcad has given. 
 That undisturbed shall the quiet be 
 
 Of inhabitants of Heaven. 
 
 O, for the pen of the angel that stands. 
 
 In the Book of Life recording 
 The deeds of the just,— to tell of the joys 
 
 That the righteous are rewarding-. 
 4" 
 
776 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ORSON F. WHITNEY. 
 
 Born: Salt Lake City, Utah, Jclv 1, 1&55. 
 For some years Mr. Wliitney, wlio is a pro- 
 minent mormon, traveled In Europe on busi- 
 ness connected witli liis cliurch. Returning- 
 in 1883 he resumed liis former place on ti^ie 
 editorial stair <>{ tin- DcM-n-t X<-\\-, auda 
 year lati-r \\a- clfi-tnl city trea.-un'i- nf Salt 
 
 ORSON F. WHITNEY. 
 
 Lake, which he retained until 1890. He has 
 published two books, including a volume of 
 his Poetical Writing's. Mr. Wliitnej' lias 
 held various high positions in his native 
 place, and in Utah is best known as BLsliop 
 Wliitney. Mr. Whitney is quite a musician, 
 and possesses not a little dramatic talent, 
 and was president o£^ tiie home dramatic 
 club for some time. He is now engaged in 
 writing the History of Utah, to be published 
 in three volumes. 
 
 *- 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 Thou art lovely, tliou art fair. 
 Maid of sunny golden hair. 
 Eye of azure.'neath its curl. 
 Lips of coral, teeth of pearl. 
 Sure the .soul that has its shrine 
 In that face and form divine — 
 If such things did (;'er agree — 
 Must a soul of beautj' be. 
 Radiant as a vesper star: 
 Gazing fondly from afar. 
 To mine eyes thou dost appear 
 Being of a brighter sphere. 
 Though I ne'er may call thee mine. 
 Lovely star, still o'er me shine; 
 
 Though I ne'er may .see thee more. 
 Still thy memory I'll adore. 
 Though art lovely, thou art fair. 
 Maid of sunny golden hair. 
 And thy silvery voice .shall seem 
 As the music of a dream. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN AND THE VALE. 
 
 There's a mountain named stern justice. 
 
 Tall and towering, gloomy, grand. 
 Frowning o'er a vale called Mercy, 
 
 Loveliest in all the land. 
 Great and mighty is the mountain. 
 
 But its snowy crags are cold. 
 And in vain the sunlight lingers 
 
 On the summit proud and bold. 
 There is warmth within the valley, 
 
 And I love to wander there 
 'Mid tlie fountains and the flowers. 
 
 Breathing fragrance on the air. 
 Much I love the solemn mountain; 
 
 It doth meet my sombre mood. 
 When, amid the muttering thunders. 
 
 O'er my soul the storm-clouds l)ro<xl; 
 But when tears, like rain have fallen 
 
 From the fountain (jf my woe. 
 And my soul has lost its fierceness, 
 
 Straight unto the vale I go; 
 Where the landscape, gently smiling, 
 
 O'er my heart pours healing balm. 
 And, as oils on troubled waters. 
 
 Brings from out its storm a calm. 
 Yes, I love both vale and mountain, 
 
 Ne'er from either would I part, 
 Each unto my life is needful. 
 
 Both are dear unto m3' heart; 
 For the smiling vale doth soften. 
 
 All the rugged steep makes sad. 
 And from icy rocks meander 
 
 Rills that make the valley glad. 
 
 THOUGHT'S MARTYRDOM. 
 
 What is it to be gifted";* Sons 
 
 Of .science or of song'/ 
 Ye whose brows are crowned with laurel. 
 
 Ye to whom the wings belong 
 Of Fancy's eagle, upward soaring 
 
 Past the regions of the sun, [erns, 
 
 Or downward piercing thought's deep cav- 
 
 Whither erst had ventured none. 
 Answer, is it not to suffer 
 
 Pangs to lesser souls unknown? 
 Pine 'mid earthlj- throngs an exile 
 
 Ne'er as then so much alone'/ 
 Is it not to feel more keeidy 
 
 Censure's breath or sorrow's dart, 
 To feed Fame's fickle, flickering flambeau. 
 With blood from passion's breaking heart. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 777 
 
 -* 
 
 CH.\RLESRIEF. 
 
 Born in Germany, Nov. 13, 1843. 
 Mr. Rief's career lias been an eventful one, 
 having been around the world twice, and lias 
 just returned from Palestine and Egypt. 
 He is a member of the city council, president 
 of the Board of Education, and also member 
 
 CHARLES RIEP. 
 
 ofthe Board of Examiners of Teachers. He 
 has been county representative and also 
 county clerk at Grand Island, Neb., where 
 he now resides, engaged principally in lit- 
 erary work. 
 
 THE SNOW STORM. 
 Hazy in the northern skies. 
 Doth a dark-grey storm-cloud rise; 
 Now a hill, anon a gust 
 Playing free, in sportive lust, 
 Intermi.xed with dust and snow; 
 Driven quickly to-and-fro. 
 
 Whirling round — 
 
 Onward bound; 
 With a hollow moaning sound. 
 And an icy arctic sting 
 Comes the storm-the snow-crowned king. 
 
 Beast with instinct, man with brains. 
 Dread the storm-king of tlie plains. 
 In his snow-fed track they come 
 Eacli one striving for a home; 
 
 Man walks, blinded on liis route. 
 Whilst the beasts will roam about. 
 
 Till at last — 
 
 The}' are cast, 
 Down before the winter's blast: 
 One to die, one to be blest 
 Yonder with celestial rest! 
 
 See the fragrant cedar tree — 
 Bows its head to worship thee. 
 King of storms, thy royal will 
 Sweeps the mountain, vale and hill; 
 On thy regal diadem 
 Every crystal is a gem. 
 
 Snow sublime. 
 
 For a time. 
 Ruler of a nortiiern clime; 
 All thy fury will be spent. 
 Three days bring thy final end! 
 
 In the west we see a gleam. 
 Now and then a golden beam; 
 Fleecy clouds pass swiftly by. 
 Presently an azure sky 
 Greets us, with a. setting sun; 
 Storm-king now thy work is done? 
 
 Still the nifiht. 
 
 Stars shine bright. 
 And the moon sheds silv'ry light. 
 Sparkling white the crystals glow. 
 On the snowy plains below. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE ..ISLAND OF 
 
 ICELAND." 
 Hark! storm-tossed land, isle of the sea. 
 Field of the geysers, seat of Thor, 
 Restore again to memory 
 The runes, within thy ice-bound shore. 
 And sagas of tlie ancient skald. 
 '• Heims kringle " as by Sturleson told. 
 Reclaim thy former liberty. 
 And set thj' sons and daughters free! 
 
 O cold and arctic wonderland. 
 With slumbering jo-kuls glacier crowned. 
 Brought forth from Neptune's aqueous 
 And Titan's forces upward bound, [hand, 
 Child of the wave, yet born by fire! 
 Thy eddas ever will inspire. 
 Produce the legends of the sea. 
 And chant the songs of liberty. 
 
 The Midgard serpent is asleep, 
 Reposing, in the ocean's bed; 
 Old Kraken rests within the deep, 
 Still twilight of the gods gleams yet. 
 Let Frigga's son from Hecla's dome. 
 Again command the Norse, to roam 
 For liberty, from Vinland's shore. 
 Where first the Vikings freedom bore. 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 « 
 
 778 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Stern Skaptar, in his fog-bound clime, 
 With Vatna's heads spread gloom about; 
 Volcanic peers, that rule sublime; 
 (When Strokr may be coaxed to spout) 
 Such wars, of fire, and frost, and snow. 
 With streams, that liot from geysers flow. 
 Proclaim, that fire-born energy 
 Is incubating liberty. 
 
 Behold the Logberg of ThingwoUs 
 Where clear and dark-green water flows; 
 In secret streams, from far Joculs, 
 Close by the ancient >> Mount of Laws," 
 Here on the rugged lava floor. 
 The " Althing " met in days of yore; 
 When Leif stood with his bark to sea. 
 For Bjarues — Laud of Liberty. 
 
 King Olaf 's Christian tidal wave. 
 Submerged the northern pagan claim. 
 At that time when a chieftain brave 
 In council mocked god Odin's claim. 
 When sagas pure and elegant 
 From Frode .J and from Snorre's hand 
 Told of thy jarls, the brave and free. 
 Then Iceland cradled liberty. 
 
 Awake once more from lethargy. 
 Float the white falcon to the breeze; 
 Unfurl the blue flag of the free. 
 Let vassalage and bondage cease 1 
 Erect thy runic ballad's throne. 
 In honor of the arctic zone. 
 First self-rule, or autonomy 
 Then native free-born liberty. 
 
 ATOMIC GRAVITY, THE CAUSE OF 
 
 SOLAR SYSTEMS. 
 A force, designed by mystic hand 
 Launched, from the realms of nature's 
 cause; 
 Found in the smallest grain of sand. 
 And atoms, moved by inborn laws. 
 
 These laws at work, in space appear 
 
 As gravity, the cosmic nurse. 
 Which governs ever, far and near, 
 
 And rules and guides the universe. 
 
 From causes, effects are displayed ; 
 
 Observed wherever we may gaze. 
 An atom, that a cause obeyed, 
 
 Gave effect to a sun in space. 
 
 It was at the creative morn, 
 
 When atoms brought along that force 
 Of matter, deep within them born; 
 
 Nursed, from a life-inflating source. 
 
 Decreeing Fiat ordered light, 
 When chaos was upon the scene; 
 
 And from a long Cimmerian night. 
 Did suns and worlds in space convene. 
 
 An innate force they did maintain. 
 By casting from a blazing throne 
 
 The planets, which around them train. 
 With pristine power still their own. 
 
 Perforce, whilst j-et each planet glows. 
 Their crusts — cooled in an onward race- 
 
 Were hurled along, by seismic throes 
 In moons and asteroids through space. 
 
 So suns were with iheir systems thrown 
 In space, on spiral curves to roam. 
 
 By impulses in atoms shown ; 
 Bound ever for a central home. 
 
 This force born by primeval laws; 
 
 A motor for eternity; 
 Receding and advancing cause 
 
 Is the Atomic Gravity. 
 
 ROBERT SINNICKSON. 
 
 Born: Salem, N. J., Feb. 10, 1827. 
 Mr. Sinnickson is a printer by trade. He 
 has contributed to some of the leading i)eri- 
 odicals of Americn. 
 
 LINES TO A GOLD DOLLAR. 
 
 Bright little messenger of love ! 
 
 Speed on thy way. 
 And cheer the weary hearts of those 
 
 In sorrow's fold. 
 
 Thy tiny mold 
 Doth concentrated power inclose, 
 
 Which even may 
 The Aveight of Sorrow's mountain move. 
 
 NEW VERSION. 
 He said he'd traveled cast and west. 
 
 Both continents all over; 
 But liked his native land the best. 
 
 Where springs the Jersey clover. 
 I asked him if he was the ■• swell" 
 
 I'd met with in Vienna: 
 He said that I might go to — well, 
 
 They call it, now, Gehenna. 
 
 ALBUM LINES. 
 
 What shall I write 
 For her, to-night? — 
 
 Though young she's far advanced: 
 Shall it, like wine. 
 With ricliness shine. 
 
 Its worth by age enhanced? 
 
 Now let me see — 
 
 What shall it be? 
 Metbinks I see her laugh. 
 
 As she replies. 
 
 With sparkling eyes. 
 Why, write your autograph. 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 779 
 
 DR. AMASA S.CONDON. 
 
 Born : Penobscot, Me., Dec. 23, 1846. 
 Dr. Condon served as a volunteer in the 
 civil war, and is now an active member of 
 the Grand Army of the Republic. In 1875 he 
 was appointed one of the surgeons of the 
 Union Pacific railroad, with headquarters at 
 
 DR. AMASA S. CONDON. 
 
 Ogden, Utah, where he now resides. Dr. 
 Condon has written numerous poems tliat 
 have appeared quite extensively in the 
 pei-iodieal press, and liopes to publish a 
 volume of liis poems at an early date. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 1889. 
 Tell me, oh Spirit of the eager sun, 
 When the long- circuit of thy worls is done. 
 What liolier shrines thy beams have bless'd 
 
 to-day 
 Than those green mounds embalmed in 
 
 faitliful tears. 
 Love's sweet libation to the feudal years 
 Now honored with tlie flowery wealth of 
 
 May. 
 
 And thou dear Angel of the lingering Spring, 
 As on our ear throbs tliy departing wing, 
 Lilie Ocean's pulse-beat ou some distant 
 
 shore, 
 Tell me what dust tliy garlands wrap about 
 With more of ruth or tender love devout 
 Than ours that once a Nation's ransom bore. 
 
 Those days come back,thosedays when War's 
 
 red hand 
 Wove cypress o'er the thresholds of the land 
 For brave, strong men, who nevermore re- 
 turn. 
 To weeping Rachels whose belov'd and lost 
 They offered as a Nation's holocaust 
 And made of hearths a sacrificial urn. 
 
 Tins sad recurring day serenely warms 
 The recollection, and familiar forms 
 Tlirow off the grave's dull ceremental rust. 
 We hear and know their voices as of old 
 And grasp tlieir hand outstretched, nor feel 
 
 it cold 
 Till in our own it turns to naught but dust. 
 
 ***** 
 <3nce more, 'tis Spring, and her reviving 
 
 breath 
 Hides with propitious buds the sears of 
 
 death. 
 And clouds are white-wing'd angels of the 
 
 air; 
 Once more the brook sweeps through the 
 
 meadows green, [tween. 
 
 And sings unvexed its fragrant banks be- 
 That Peace and sweet Content dwell everj-- 
 
 where. 
 
 To-day I backward look through years of 
 
 rime, 
 Adown the long-drawn misty aisle of Time, 
 i'o the old picture of the village green ; 
 1 see tlie circling camp-fires through the 
 
 night. 
 Painting the soldier's tent with timorous 
 
 light. 
 While silhouette sentries pace the lonely 
 
 scene. 
 
 1 feel the spell of sadness brooding down. 
 And deepening gloom pervades my native 
 
 town, 
 O'erspreading all the rural country side, 
 I seem to hear through twilight deepening 
 
 still 
 The cricket and the plantive whip-poor-will. 
 And murmurs from the Ocean's rising tide. 
 ****** 
 
 Like some fair morn that wakes in leafy 
 
 June 
 To Boreal frosts and Winter's sunless noon. 
 And snows that sting, and bitter winds that 
 
 blow — 
 So woke to wrath the Nation's Summer way. 
 When men were met in battle's fierce array. 
 And foe crossed swords witii hate-inspiring 
 
 foe. 
 So fell the day and every heart stood still 
 Beneath the rod of Fate's imperious will. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 780 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 When thunderiug- from the Southern clouds 
 
 afar. 
 We heard the roaring' cannon of Bull Kun, 
 Telling- the awful wage of strife was on, 
 Nor knew the end of this remorseless war. 
 
 Once more we see the ensang-uiued plain 
 With crimson windrows of heroes' slain. 
 The wounded slow-pouring- their life out 
 
 there. 
 The trooper controlling his plung-ing horse. 
 Full charging- the front— a trampled corse 
 With face of a girl, and as debonair. 
 We're with them now in the elm-shaded home 
 And waiting- with dread for the news to come. 
 Detailing- the list of immortal dead. [g-rief 
 There's wringing- of hands and impatient 
 And hearts are breaking- for tears of relief. 
 And silent and bow'd is tlie silvery head. 
 
 But Peace has come down and tlie old home 
 
 still 
 Is charmed by the song- of the whip-poor-will. 
 As he tunes his voice to a happier key. 
 And we, each year, when the day comes 
 
 round, 
 Eng-arland the graves in the Holy Ground 
 Where they sleep who died for you and me. 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 Scotland with pride claims Burns her c>wn 
 Although his fame fills zone to zone; 
 With right good clieer, and song, and mirth. 
 She hails the day that gave him birth. 
 Where'er his well-loved portraits hang — 
 
 By wimpling Doon's dear cottage halls, 
 Where sweetest of the minstrels sang; — 
 
 Or by proud crests on gilded walls, — 
 The Scotchmen true to Scotia's pride; 
 Wreathe the loved face of liim who died 
 The friend of all of human kind. 
 In precept and example taught 
 " A mon's a moii," whate'er his lot; 
 Man's patron saint and friend. 
 For to their eyes their seems to bend, 
 An aureole as lieavenly bright 
 As angels wear beyond this night. 
 They feel his pain — want's cruel whip;— 
 Death set his seal upon his lip; — 
 And thank high heaven that He bequeathed 
 This Scotchman best that ever lived ; 
 And from this birthright of the free. 
 Goes out across the billowing sea —"Amen." 
 
 And our dear Whittier ; sage of men ; 
 
 Who caught the other's falling pen; 
 
 Who sung — and liuman fetters broke 
 
 And melted in the battle's smoke; 
 
 And in that all-consuming act. 
 
 The world's great Hope forged into Fact,— 
 
 May thy long afternoon endure 
 Long e'er the dreamy twilight ends 
 Where shadow into darkness blends 
 
 And rest at last becomes secure. 
 
 We'll hang thy wreath with his beside, 
 
 And though th' unthinking world deride, 
 
 We'll garland them with rusting bands 
 
 That fell from lielpless human hands. 
 
 Thou, -who, ignoring- sect and creed. 
 Self abnegating to behold 
 
 The lifted faces of the freed; 
 Thou who did'st seize the falling pen, 
 
 Shall in all future, side by side. 
 Be the compeer of Scotia's pride 
 
 While all the world responds-" Amen." 
 
 DR. S. D. SIBBET. 
 
 Bokn: Northampton, Pa. 
 For the past twenty years Dr. Sibbet has di- 
 vided his time between the practice of his 
 profession and scientific researches. He has 
 read a number of papers before scientific 
 bodies on The Unity of Matter and Force, The 
 Correlation and Conservatism of Energy, 
 Spectrum Analysis, The Nebular Hypothesis, 
 and upon other topics. 
 
 THE DEWDROP ON MY WINDOW PANE. 
 As I watched the frost on my window pane, 
 
 A dewdrop came laughing in sight. 
 As pure as the frost in which it'liad lain 
 
 A close )>risoner all night. 
 Bright, laughing dewdrop, the sun set you 
 
 A nd soon he will bear you away [free, 
 
 Toyour cloudland home now waiting for thee 
 
 While here, as a truant, you stay 
 Whj', little dewdrop, why stay from your 
 home. 
 
 Where sun-tinted clouds are at play? 
 Did j-ou know the bright, bright sunbeams 
 
 To take you as vapor away"? [would come 
 "As vapor I came, as vapor I go," 
 
 Said ray dewdrop laughing with glee; 
 "Maybe I'll come back as beautiful snow, 
 
 I would love a snowtlake to be. 
 "Should 1 be wooed by some bright little 
 
 I'll sport as a dewdrop again; [flower, 
 
 Perchance, In summer, descend in a shower 
 
 As one of its drops of warm rais." 
 "Sweet child of the frost.thou first-water gem 
 
 I know of no jewel so bright; 
 Will you come back to my window again 
 
 And sleep in its frost over night"? " 
 But ere I could get the wished-for reply, 
 
 Or ere a good-bye I could say. 
 The sun sent a beam from the Eastern sky 
 
 And bore little dewdrop away. 
 4 
 
* 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIOJfAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 781 
 
 HORACKBIRNEY WILLx'^RD. 
 
 Born : Volney, N. Y., JIay 2, 1825. 
 
 Graduating in 1849, Mr.Willurdsubsequent- 
 Ij' practised medicine for tv/enty years, 
 whicli profession failing liealtli compelled 
 him to abandon. ITe served several j-ears in 
 the county board of supervist)rs; one year 
 
 HORACE BIRNEY WILIvARD. 
 
 as Mayor of Fort Atkinson; and in 1861 was 
 a member of the Wisconsin legislature. Mr. 
 Willard lias been often called to otlier places 
 of public trust and responsibility. He is 
 now vice-president of the Citizen's State 
 Banli at Fort Atkinson, Wis., where he now 
 resides 
 
 THE TRUTH SHOULD BE SPOKEN AT 
 ALL TIMES. 
 Is silence a lie? 
 How guilty am I 
 Wlio suppress many truths from duty or 
 choice, 
 And lay them away 
 For some future day. 
 If, indeed, they ever be given n voice. 
 
 If truth must be spoken. 
 Then hearts must be broken. 
 And family ties often sundered in twain; 
 Wouldn't editors' wives 
 
 Lead miserable lives 
 If, on every occasion the truth should obtain r 
 
 Should ministers tell 
 
 The truth about hell. 
 Would editors' sleep e-ive the same quiet rest? 
 
 A maxim quite old 
 
 Says "Silence is gold," 
 While speech, tho' 'tis truth, is but silver at 
 best. 
 
 TO DELLA. 
 My Child, could I the Fates control, 
 I would not dare, upon my soul. 
 
 To make the coming years 
 As cloudless as I might desire. 
 The fruit and flowers of life require 
 
 Some s5-mpathetic tears. 
 
 I oft have thought, and wished as oft. 
 That I might spread the velvet soft 
 
 For thy soul's white feet. 
 And jet I'd have you understand 
 That Wisdom dotli, with loving hand. 
 
 Mix bitter with the sweet. 
 
 Why should the feeble plant despise 
 The benediction of tlie skies. 
 
 Or deem the storm its foe! 
 For leaf and bud and fragrant flower. 
 Both to the sun and to tlie shower. 
 
 Their wealth of beauty owe. 
 
 QUANDARY. 
 To lie, or not to lie, with me. 
 The solemn question seems to be. 
 In such a world, where naught is real — 
 Where love and friendship are ideal — 
 Where lying- isHhe legal tender, 
 And Truth's large discount seems to render 
 Bankrupt all who dare invest- 
 Where joy and peace and sacred rest 
 In hope and faith and fancj' dwell, 
 Wliere human nature since it fell. 
 As we are told, and don't deny. 
 Is a contradiction and a lie. 
 And feeds on falsehood; as we know. 
 On carcass feeds the carrion crow — 
 Whether 'tis better for age or youth 
 To mix with lies some little truth. 
 Or take quite clear their natural food. 
 Behold there goes a hungry brood 
 Of turkey-buzzards; o'er the plain 
 They soar, scorning all fresh slain 
 Quadrupeds, that, untainted lie 
 In rich abundance; by and by 
 They snuff with fierce avidity 
 
 -^ 
 
*- 
 
 782 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 Quintescenco of putridity. 
 
 And there thej' feed — there they batten. 
 
 Do you suppose that they would fatten 
 
 On the sweetest kinds of diet? 
 
 Could you ever laake them try it? 
 
 Should moral buzzards be coerced 
 
 To feed on truth when so aversed? 
 
 Lying! Why 'tis the " Goldsmith Maid " 
 
 Of politics. Wlio rides tlie jade 
 
 Is sure to win in every lieat; 
 
 While ig-nominious defeat 
 
 And dire disgrace, do but await 
 
 The honest, truthful candidate. 
 
 In literature 'tis much the same; 
 
 Ambition's son who covets fame. 
 
 Finds It in fiction and romance. 
 
 It only needs a furtive glance 
 
 To see th' immortal mind demands 
 
 The works of Dickens, Elliot, Sands. 
 
 We thank the Lord they lived, and lied. 
 
 And pray their like be multiplied; 
 
 Living, we laud and glorify. 
 
 We monument them when they die. 
 
 Tlien in tlic social Avorld, ah me, 
 
 What should we do, what would we be. 
 
 Could we speak nothing but the truth? 
 
 What palsied tongues for want of use — 
 
 What wretched souls for want of food — 
 
 How stagnant all the neighborhood — 
 
 How stupid our tea-table talks. 
 
 Insipid all our evening walks; 
 
 No cheek would tingle with delight 
 
 At Flattery's tongue, or eye grow bright. 
 
 How sweet the words •• I love you well," 
 
 From woman's lips — though false as bell, 
 
 Tlie depths are stirred, the thrills are given, 
 
 And sweetest thoughts of life and Heaven 
 
 Exalt the soul. What the' she lied, 
 
 Would not tlie lie be sanctified? 
 
 Who does not know, as well as Knox, 
 Tlint lying may be orthodox? 
 That Abraham denied his wife. 
 Because lie fancied that his life 
 Was jeopardized by her sweet face. 
 Or by her symmetry and grace? 
 And Jacob, too, as well we know. 
 Lied, and was blessed in doing so; 
 Oh, such a master-stroke of lying 
 To a father, old and dying ! 
 Sucli a rich reward receiving 
 For his falsehood and deceiving, 
 In vain we search historic page 
 For parallel in any age. 
 George, of the "hatchet," never lied; 
 Ho lived and loved, and when ho died 
 He left no son to bear liis name; 
 No child nor chick to share his fame: 
 Such was tlie poor reward he met, 
 While Jacob lives in Israel yet. 
 
 PROF . JOSEPH W. CHAPMAN 
 
 Born: Marblehead, Mass., Nov. 26, 1855. 
 
 After graduating from the Dartmouth col- 
 lege in 1879, Joseph W. Chapman entered the 
 educational field, and is now principal of 
 High school at Pueblo, Colorado. His poems 
 have appeared quite extensively in the peri- 
 odical press, and in several collections. He 
 has lectured on literature, written quite a 
 number of stories, and is a great student of 
 literature. Mr. Chapman was married in 1885 
 to Miss Julia Prichard, and has a son named 
 Edward. 
 
 MARBLEHEAD. 
 
 There is none like our mother in the land ! 
 Such grace as hers, such warm, impulsive 
 
 heart ! 
 Such will, too, strong as her gray rocks that 
 
 part 
 The squadron waves when mustering on her 
 
 strand ! 
 Stout souls her children are — a valiant 
 
 band! 
 They carve her name ahigh in Honor's 
 
 mart; 
 They write her praise on Time's eternal 
 
 chart; 
 For men are they of sturdy heart and hand! 
 And who but loves her for her gracious self ? 
 Who is not proud lier humblest child to be? 
 Freedom she gives us with our everybreath, 
 Not born of servile wills, nor gilded pelf. 
 But of her winds and her gi-een-girdling 
 
 sea. 
 And sweet as love, iiye, strong iis bitter 
 
 death. 
 
 MY FRIEND. 
 " Oh, deep love for a new friend is not meet!" 
 You say with something bitter in your tone. 
 Then do you grant me that the years complete 
 The perfect friend, and but the years alone? 
 And is there nauglit save time, and life so 
 
 sweet? 
 Is not the spirit more than blood and bone? 
 This man is not a new friend you saw greet 
 Me yesterday. 1 knew his soul ere moan 
 Of life began. We joyed in fields of light 
 Together, heart and heart, while a'ons sped. 
 Till on our souls asleep came as of night 
 And we were born. Should I not know though 
 
 dead. 
 My own 1 The now Isold. Saw you not, say, 
 How true unto my heart he know the way? | 
 -H 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 783 
 
 -* 
 
 JOSIEFRAZEECAPPLEMAN. 
 
 Born: Champaign, III , June 28, 1859. 
 
 When about eight years of age the parents 
 of this lady removed to Louisville, Kentu(;ky, 
 and later to Okolona, Mississippi, where she 
 now resides with her husband, whom she 
 
 JOSIE FRAZEE CAPPLEMAN. 
 
 married in 1880. She graduated in 1876, re- 
 ceiving- the gold medal in senior composition. 
 Mrs. Ciippleman has written some two hun- 
 dred pieces of i)oetry, almost all of which has 
 received publication. She is a member of 
 the Press Association of Mississippi. 
 
 I * 
 
 WHERE DO THE KISSES GROW 
 They leap from the soul of a baby 
 
 And then all over it spread. 
 From the white and pink of its toe-tips. 
 
 To the halo of gold round its head; 
 From the depths of its dainty dimples. 
 
 From the i-oseate, laughter-turned lips. 
 From the smooth, shapely neck and shoulders 
 
 To the tapering finger tips. 
 
 They're hidden within every heart-fold. 
 And cuddled down close to the core. 
 
 And, the' they are evermore gathered. 
 Still I find there a thousand-fold more ! 
 And each one seems softer and sweeter 
 
 Than the treasure I found just before — 
 Till I wonder if ever the sweetest 
 
 Is taken from baby's vast store. 
 
 So daily I search for and seize them, 
 
 And hourly I pluck a new prize — 
 Sometimes from the whitest of foreheads, 
 
 Sometimes from the brightest of e.ves; 
 And I whisper— O, angel-kissed babj% 
 
 Do you feel — can you ev^er quite know — 
 Of the wonderful worth of these kisses 
 
 That ever continue to grow? 
 Of tlie wearisome woes that they soften? 
 
 Of the heart-cares they curtain from sight? 
 That their magic soars outthro' the sunshine, 
 
 And on thro' the knells of the night? 
 
 I hold that we're higher and better 
 
 For every fresh kiss that we take. 
 For every fond love-token given — 
 
 When given for sacred love's sake; 
 For, if purity's planted in earthdom, 
 
 Then surely it springs from the soul 
 Of that beautiful, angel-like being. 
 
 As its life-page begins to unroll. 
 
 So I'll gather them early and often. 
 
 From the bright, curly head to the toe, 
 I can't rob the wee-tot of its treasures — 
 
 For scill they'll continue to grow; 
 And in long after-years gleams a mem'ry 
 
 That backward forever will flow. 
 To that bonnie-eyed babe of the bygone, 
 
 Whose kisses no longer may grow. 
 
 LITTLE HANDS. 
 Dear little hands, kind little hands. 
 
 Dear and kind as can be. 
 Hands that I feel hold all the world, 
 
 And are dearer than life to me. 
 
 Good little hands, warm little hands. 
 Warm as the heart by their side, 
 
 Warm when the world and its ways have 
 chilled. 
 And friends have failed whom we tried. 
 
 Bold little hands, brave little hands. 
 
 Bold and brave as can be, 
 Hands that will brave the world and its 
 wiles. 
 
 Just for the sake of me. 
 
 -qi 
 
*- 
 
 784 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 Tried little hands, true little hands. 
 
 True, and oft tried they be, 
 Hands that will toil tlie whole night through 
 
 In their loving concern for me. 
 
 Know we not all some loved little hands. 
 That are dear, and brave and true? 
 
 Aye; and for them we'd lay down our lives, 
 Or aught that a mortal can do? 
 
 O loved little hands now leaping with life. 
 
 All chilly they'll some day be; 
 Then care and caress them, ere folded from 
 sight. 
 
 For the term of eternity. 
 
 A PLEA. 
 I have watched the children playing 
 
 With the countless odds and ends. 
 Such as children glean together 
 
 In their mystic little dens. 
 I have watched their mute emotions 
 
 Ever changing with the hours. 
 And I find they have their heart-aches 
 
 The same as we have ours. 
 
 I have seen their frightened faces 
 
 When a glorious Golden-hair, 
 From out the dolly-kingdom, 
 
 Had sudden' gone back there; 
 And have lieard tlieir sighs and heart-sobs 
 
 When thej- realized the blow. 
 Then isn't dolly's death to them 
 
 Just as a mother's woe? 
 
 Yet we smile upon their folly. 
 
 Or chide them for their grief. 
 Little thinking of their anguish — 
 
 That their feelings need relief: 
 Never heeding, never halting 
 
 To reck that childhood's heart. 
 Of all that's good in nature. 
 
 Is the best — the purest part. 
 
 But, can you not remember. 
 
 In the days of long ago. 
 Of just sucli crusliing sorrow 
 
 As these little darlings know? 
 And for days and days together 
 
 Have mourned some thing of play. 
 And wondered tliat your elders 
 
 Should not your grief allay? 
 
 Do you think because its childhood, 
 And childhood's lieart is light. 
 
 That these ceaseless little crosses 
 Cannot their beings blight? 
 
 Oh, hear that soulful sobbing, 
 And see those tearful showers ! 
 
 Ah! children have their heart-aches 
 The same as we have ours. 
 
 Then soothe that childish sorrow. 
 
 And smooth the throbbing head, 
 As tho' it were a mother 
 
 When mourning for her dead: 
 And the little heart will thank you 
 
 In the years that are to be; 
 Aye, remember that the children 
 
 Have heart- aches just as we. 
 
 THE CLICK OF THE RUSTIC GATE. 
 There rises a picture before me — 
 
 A picture that's darkened and dim. 
 And the feelings of youth — time rush o'er 
 me — 
 
 A youth-time all hallowed to him. 
 Again 'tis the husli of the gloaming. 
 
 And my heart doth all eagerly wait. 
 As I breathlessly look, then listen 
 
 For the click of the rustic gate. 
 
 Anon sound the rust^hampered hinges. 
 
 And I smother a great boundless sob. 
 While a tremor thrills thro' my whole being 
 
 Till my heart-strings convulsively throb; 
 And I feel the glad light of his presence. 
 
 As I list to the tread of his feet, 
 And my soul Hows out in its fullness 
 
 Its mate and its master to meet. 
 
 Ah, sacred — too sacred for mention — 
 
 Are words uttered low in the ear — 
 Too sacred the troth of our soul-lives 
 
 For aught but the night-winds to hear. 
 I know a content fell upon me, 
 
 And I tremulous tried then to pray 
 That the perfect love-peaco of that moment 
 
 Might prove my sweet portion alway. 
 
 Are you waiting the end of my love-dream? 
 
 The sobs choke my voice should 1 speak. 
 And the tears dim all the white pages 
 
 When the cause, to unl)ui-tluMi, I seek; 
 Yet the moments have merged into ages — 
 
 Or ages it seemeth to mo — 
 Since the click of the gate in the gloaming. 
 
 That can never, ah? never more be. 
 
 Those rapturous hours are all ended, 
 
 Tliose love-days long since died away. 
 And their memory is all that remaineth 
 
 Of my hero, who fell in the Fray: 
 And here, in my lone, loveless chamber. 
 
 In desolate sorrow 1 wait, 
 For silent, forever is silent 
 
 Tlie click of the rustic gate. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL A^'i) XATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 785 
 
 MRS. C. M. H. WRIGHT. 
 
 Bokn: Junes, 1830. 
 Mrs. Wright has written prose and poetry 
 quite extensively for different papers and 
 periodicals for tlie past tljirty years. She 
 has g-iven mucli of her time to temperance 
 work, and written several dramas; one of 
 
 ,^ 
 
 
 
 % 
 
 m iKs 
 
 . .% 
 
 
 c\ 
 
 Vv- 
 
 .y 
 
 
 
 f*-' 
 
 J 
 
 
 w^- 
 
 '^'. * -. 
 
 
 MRS. C. M. H. WRIGHT. 
 
 which is entitled " Mot lie r Knows Best," a 
 temperance play. Naturally of a retiring' 
 and conscientious disposition Mrs. Wriglit is 
 averse to liaving her name placed as promi- 
 nently before the puhhc as it undoubtedly 
 deserves. 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE WORN-OUT HORSE. 
 Have mercy on that worn-out liorse. 
 
 Remember how ho strove 
 Witli heavy load up hill and down. 
 
 When but a youth you drove. 
 
 Deal g-entlj' with him now he's old, 
 
 And halt, and lame, and Ijlind; 
 The time was wlien a better horse 
 
 You strove in vain to find. 
 
 Have pity on his stumbling' gait. 
 
 Those rough, iinsluii)ely limbs. 
 Were smootli and fleet in younger days. 
 
 You were justly proud of him. 
 
 Do you mind that free and dashing- step. 
 When once you bet, and won the race? 
 
 So proud to be the winning liorse 
 He sliowed it in his face. 
 
 Give him a warmer, softer bed, 
 
 A sweeter bunch of haj'; 
 Buy him a thick warm blanket too. 
 
 And don't begrudge the pay. 
 
 You fed him when a prancing colt. 
 
 And with a boyish pride 
 Remarked upon his rounded build. 
 
 As you stroked his glossy side. 
 
 Heap up the measure round and high. 
 
 He needs it all the more. 
 Since age with its infirmities, 
 
 And hardships oft he's bore. 
 
 Don't let the children harass him, 
 
 But teach them to be kind 
 To patient, plodding old lame Dick, 
 
 And all his needs to mind. 
 
 The best that you can do for him 
 
 Isonly his just due; 
 His long hard life of honest toil 
 
 He freely gave to you. 
 
 SHE COULD NOT BE SELFISH 
 I wouldn't be selfish like some girls I know. 
 And be wishing for everything nice on the 
 tree; 
 Of course I want something, a dolman per- 
 haps 
 And a few more things, would satisfy me. 
 
 I own I've been wanting a book and some 
 lace, 
 Oyes! and some mittens, a scarf and a 
 ring. 
 Besides there's that necklace I've doted upon. 
 And a cage with a pert little bird that will 
 sing. 
 
 That isn't much I am sure, but I almost for- 
 got 
 A set of new furs and a stylish new liat. 
 That will quite eclipse the Browns and the 
 Jones, 
 With a long sweeping feather, and all of 
 that. 
 
 Yes ! I'd like some slippers and a dainty hood, 
 Which would lie the envy of all the town, 
 
 And I am sure to get, I hope so at least, 
 A pearl card case and blue silk gown. 
 
 A box of perfumery and a pair of kid gloves 
 With a nice gold watch would come in very 
 good, 
 
 But I don't want everything as some girls do. 
 I cannot be selfish — I never, never could. 
 
 -* 
 
* 
 
 786 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS RHYME FOR THE LITTLE 
 
 ONES. 
 A poor little girl with a tattered g-owii 
 
 One beautiful Christmas night. 
 Crept up to a window large and wide 
 
 And feasted her eyes on the sight. 
 
 A table was spread with Christmas pies. 
 
 And all that was good to eat; 
 While she stood shivering and cold without 
 
 No shoes to cover her feet. 
 
 A kind old man saw the dear little face 
 Pressed close to the window pane; 
 
 And, snatching her up in his g-reat strong- 
 arms 
 Strode up to the door and walked in. 
 
 A bevj' of children gathered around 
 
 To take in the curious sight; 
 Some gave her candy, and some gave buns. 
 
 Till the little girl cried with delight. 
 
 That night she slept in a soft warm bed. 
 
 And never knew hunger more; 
 For the man who picked up the starving waif. 
 
 Was a friend to the needy and poor. 
 
 Now, when we eat our Christmas sweets. 
 And beautiful presents receive. 
 
 Let us not forget that some boys and girls 
 Are liungry and cold this Christmas Eve. 
 
 SORROW IN EVERY HEART. 
 
 There is sorrow in every heart on earth. 
 No mortal can hope to be free. 
 
 And others have seen their idols laid low 
 Alike tvith you and with me. 
 
 The cup our neighbor is drinking to-day. 
 Draining to tlie dregs of Sorrow, 
 
 May come to us as it came to them. 
 To quaff it off to-morrow. 
 
 We lay our choicest treasures down. 
 The while our hearts are breaking; 
 
 And in our woe we'll nigh forget. 
 What other hearts are aching. 
 
 What though our darlings still and cold, 
 Sleep 'ncath the nodding daisies; 
 
 When Jesus wakes his jewels up 
 They'll rise to sing his praises. 
 
 And then how sweet 'twill be to fool. 
 When united round^ His throne, 
 
 Tlirough affliction Clirist was leading us. 
 To our bright eternal home. 
 
 'Tis the common lot of all mankind, 
 Each in their turn to suffer pain; 
 
 But he who often sows in tears. 
 Shall reap in joy again. 
 
 TEMPERANCE RECITATION. 
 
 FOR A SMALT> BOY. 
 
 Red Ribbon, do you ask why I wear it. 
 
 Why notliing can be mure plain — 
 Just simply to say to my neighbor 
 
 That I'm not a drinking man. 
 
 I've signed the pledge over and over. 
 And broke it, I blush to confess. 
 
 But, with this little pleasant reminder. 
 I can't drink with this ou my breast. 
 
 I've tried to look the other way. 
 And edge my way up to the bar. 
 
 But it is sure to flash up in my face. 
 The bright little guiding stur. 
 
 To be sure it is but a trifle. 
 
 This bit of red ribbon I wear. 
 But our life is made up of trifles. 
 
 And each trifle some weiglit doth bear. 
 It is but a trifle this drinking 
 
 A little weak ale now and then ; 
 Yet it leads to results most disastrous. 
 
 Often ruining tlie mightiest of men. 
 These trifles, I happen to notice. 
 
 Soon alarming proportions assume. 
 And in order to steer clear of breakers. 
 
 We should mind all these trifling things. 
 Besides, the girls look more kindlj% 
 
 A fact which I'm happy to note. 
 And if the dear creatures will back us. 
 
 We'll wipe this vile whisky stain out. 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S BOY. 
 
 Why is it my school mates all shun me; 
 
 And call me a poor, worthless brat. 
 Do they think I have not enough sori-ow, 
 
 That tliey scorn me, and treat me like that. 
 Is it not enough I must go shivering. 
 
 And starved and beaten at home, 
 Tliat they jostle and push me so rudely. 
 
 Must I travel life's journey alone? 
 Is there not one eye left to pity. 
 
 One heart in sympathy to beat; 
 One hand in mercj' to lead nie, 
 
 To guide these poor wandering feet. 
 
 Am I to blame that my father 
 
 Loves whisky more than the right. 
 Must I bear Ins iiicks and liis curses. 
 
 And the scorn of the world alike? 
 Is there a being above, as thej' tell me, 
 
 All powerful in goodness and love; 
 Who is able to give, or take from us, 
 r O, is there such a being above? 
 If so, why does he not help me; 
 
 Wliy do I not hear his loved voice? 
 One look or one word of kindness. 
 
 Would make this poor lone heart rejoice, 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAI.. POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 787 
 
 * 
 
 REV. DENIS O.CROWLEY. 
 
 Born: Ireland, 1852. 
 Before attaining- liis majority, Mr. Crowley 
 emigrated to America and settled in Boston, 
 where be procured a position in the pub- 
 lishing- bouse of Rand, Avery & Co., at the 
 siune time contributing many short poems 
 and sketcbes for the periodical press under 
 
 *- 
 
 BEV. DENIS O. CROWLEY. 
 
 the nom de plume of Dunboy. We next find 
 him in the lar west, having laid aside the 
 pen and took up the pick-axe in the mining 
 camp, -where he accumulated sufficient 
 means to enter St. Vincent's college, at Los 
 Angeles. Here be won the first prize every 
 year for English composition, and graduated 
 the Valedictorian of his class in 1880. He 
 next entered the St. Mary's seminary, at 
 Baltimore, where be completed a tbree years' 
 course of theology, and was elevated to the 
 priesthood in 1883. In 1887 be was transferred 
 to Sau Francisco, where the City Waifs ivere 
 confided to his care. Since then be has built 
 a large and beautiful home for the destitute 
 and homeless boys of the city and state. At 
 the same time Rev. Father Crowley started 
 the St. Joseph's Union, a magazine from 
 which he derived the principal means of sup- 
 port for bis destitute boys. As president of 
 the Youth's Directory, of San Francisco, and 
 as editor of tlie St. Joseph Union, Rev. Denis 
 0. Crowley has attained a national reputation 
 as a philantnropist and litterateur. He is the 
 author of "AChapletof Verse," and has con- 
 tributed extensively to current literature. 
 
 THE SWEET AND GOLDEN WEST. 
 
 They talk of the beauteous Dardanelles, 
 
 And tlie Sunny land of Spain; 
 Of scenes where primeval Nature dwells 
 
 Away by the Indian main; 
 But the plastic germ ol Empire great 
 
 Wakes hope in every breast. 
 Where a future grand looms o'er the land 
 
 Of the sweet and golden West. 
 I have roamed by sunny Southern seas. 
 
 Thro' breathing groves of palm. 
 Where flight of birds alone disturbs 
 
 The blue ethereal calm; 
 But the vernal vest of the glowing West 
 
 Is fairer far to me 
 Than the snn-i-obed South wilb its coral isles 
 
 And cloudless canopy. 
 The sun there smiles on a hundred isles 
 
 Of the greenest and loveliest hue. 
 Ere liis rays are spent in the Occident 
 
 Where he bids the -world adieu; 
 And Sierras tall from a hundred peaks 
 
 Their darkling shadows throw 
 O'er a virgin land where glades expand 
 
 And beautiful rivers flow. 
 Those sombre dells where the wild deer 
 
 And the rude red Indian roams, [dwells. 
 Are yielding- now to the white man's steel 
 
 And the white men build their homes 
 Over Indian graves where the Madrone waves 
 
 And sunbeams love to rest. 
 When evening shades steal thro' the glades 
 
 Of the sweet and golden West. 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 We pray for the fond ones whose life-blood 
 
 On Liberty's altar -was shed ; 
 And deck with green garlands and flowers 
 
 The graves of the Patriot dead; 
 Who stood by the Union's brave banner. 
 
 Unflinching 'neath War's open mouth. 
 When the proud Rebel hosts rushed upon her 
 
 Like tempest-clouds, up from the South; 
 Who march'd to the red field of battle 
 
 And breasted the brunt of the fight. 
 While the guns of the foe were out-belching 
 
 Death-hail against Justice and Right. 
 Weave,weave your gay garlands, young mai- 
 
 And make no distinction to-day [dens, 
 
 'Twixt those who went down in the Blue 
 
 And these who fell under the gray, [ranks 
 The Patriot, Poet and Statesman 
 
 Long, long shall their virtues proclaim 
 In the fond-leeling heart of the Nation 
 
 Upbuilt is their temple of fame. 
 And there it shall stand forth unshaken. 
 
 Defying wreck, molder, or change 
 While down through the vistas of ages 
 
 Gray Time on his orbit doth range. 
 
*- 
 
 M 
 
 788 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JUANITA. 
 
 The flowers that bloom in tropic bowers. 
 
 And bask in sunset splendor; 
 The halcyon breeze at twilight hours. 
 
 Where rippling torrents me'uder. 
 Are uot so fair as thy sweet face. 
 Or liglit as thy elastic pace, 
 
 Juanita. 
 A sunbeam o'er a sea of pearls, 
 
 Is thy briglit smile, Juanita; 
 Thou fairest of tlic lovely girls. 
 
 From far La Paz to Quito! 
 Spouse of my soul, hope of my heart. 
 My love beyond compare thou art, 
 
 Juanita. 
 Bright Angels fi-om celestial spheres, 
 
 Melliinks might stoop and listen 
 To thy sweet song, or view thy tears. 
 
 When pity bids them glisten; 
 Sure Cortez in his palmy days. 
 Would gladly pause to chant thy praise, 
 
 Juanita. 
 O, for an island far away. 
 
 An Avalon of beauty. 
 Where founts of youth eternal play, 
 
 And it should be my duty 
 To praise and loi e but thee alone. 
 Unseen, unheard of, and unknown, 
 Juanita. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE SONG OP OUR LAND. 
 
 Koam where you will through the civilized 
 nations. 
 
 From grim Keeps of winter to summer's 
 bright zone. 
 
 And still it will greet you in sweet intona- 
 tions — 
 
 " The last Rose of Summer left blooming 
 alone." 
 
 Ye sons of the muse that illumine our pages,- 
 
 Moore, Mahonj', Davis and Callanan grand— 
 
 Your names shall go down through the long 
 coming ages. 
 
 Enshrined intlie beautiful songs of our land. 
 
 Dear Children of Nature, sweet bards of our 
 
 Island, [blime, 
 
 Balfe, Mangan and Lover and Griffin su- 
 Your songs are a beacon that gleams from 
 
 the highland, 
 " A rainbow of hope " through ilie vistas of 
 
 Time. 
 You may roam through the Universe, mix 
 
 with it's races 
 From the Orient sky to the Occident strand. 
 And still you shall hear 'mid all people and 
 
 places. 
 The soul-stirring, sweet-sounding songs of 
 
 our land. 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 Thou gallant Chief whose glorious name 
 Doth still adorn the Book of Fame; 
 Whose deeds shall live while freemen prize 
 The cause for which the Patriot dies. 
 Long to Columbia may'st thou be 
 The beacon light of Libertj*. 
 
 THE RUINS OF THE COLISEUM. 
 Hearken, ye bards, I sing a noble theme. 
 The pride of Rome, the wondrous Coliseum 
 Whose aged ruins in tow'ring boldness stand. 
 Their shadows casting o'er a storied land; 
 Whose ancient splendor e'en surpassed the 
 
 height 
 Of facts far range, or fancy's chain less flight. 
 Ere yet the Christian sun of modern Rome 
 Shed its efl'ulgence on St. Peter's dome, 
 Tlie Coliseum, six hundred feet in length. 
 In width five hundred, peerless in its strength 
 Of pillar'd arches, tow'rs and turrets high. 
 Reared its dimensions to the sapphire sky, 
 Cfesar spoke, Augustus laid its plan; 
 Titus finished what Augustine began; 
 Tier after tier uprose in Doric style. 
 Out-soaring thePj'ramidsof themj-stic >file; 
 And its vast awning, when at morn out- 
 rolled. 
 Flashed in the sun like undulating seas of 
 
 gold. 
 Its cushioned theatre of elliptic mold. 
 Glittered with lamps inlaid with Syrian gold; 
 With precious rubies, culled from Eastern 
 
 mines. 
 And sacred pendants torn from Juda's 
 
 shrines. 
 The broad arena in the center stood. 
 Crimson and reeking M'ith barbarian blood, 
 Drawn by the lion's fang, the lictor's dai't, 
 And acting like incense on the Roman heart. 
 
 Ten times ten thousand gazers, breathing 
 
 low. 
 Watched with impatience the descending 
 
 blow 
 That forced some spirit from its mortal zone, 
 And sent it trembling to its Maker's throne; 
 Then call'd and clamor'd till Oi'pliean strains 
 Stilled the flerce current in the flery veins. 
 Void of humanity, it seemed their aim 
 To drug with human woes their draught of 
 
 fame. 
 
 They, with a foice wliich uncurbed jiassion 
 
 lends, 
 Oppressed the world, to further private ends; 
 An(Jso, at length, impelled by savage greed. 
 Outstepped tlie limits Nature's law decreed. 
 And wrung from sacred heaven that direful 
 
 fate. 
 
*- 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 789 
 
 *- 
 
 Which humbled Rome in all lier streugtli 
 
 elate ; 
 Alaric came to veut with sword aud Are, 
 On Pagan heads the Lord's avenging- ire; 
 God's Chast'ning- Rod, was he, surcharged 
 
 with doom. 
 That smote tliose savage games in all the 
 
 pride of bloom. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 When Luna sheds her melancholy light 
 O'er this vast ruin, and peoples all the night, 
 With spectral forms, the wand'riug- poet's 
 
 brain 
 Fills the wide space with yelling- crowds 
 
 again. 
 Creative faiicj' olden acts renew. 
 And former scenes come thronging to liis 
 
 view. 
 His bosom heaves, he sheds a pitying- tear 
 For poor barbarians, brought trom Finland 
 
 here; 
 Torn from their native spring-s, their forest 
 
 home. 
 To glut the cravings of licentious Rome. 
 Young Christians kneeling- on the crimsoned 
 
 sands. 
 Raise to high heaven their wistful eyes. In 
 
 bands. 
 Scorning alike the Emperor's smile and 
 
 frown. 
 Reject they the ermine for the martyr's 
 
 Crown. 
 Where once the sands were dyed with human 
 
 blood. 
 Now hostile navies sweep along the flood. 
 He Gees them grapple, whirl their flashing 
 
 spears. 
 Tumultuous shouts are sounding in his ears. 
 Anon the galleys, filled with human gore. 
 Sink 'neath their crews, alas ! to rise no more. 
 And drowning wretches crying for aid aloud. 
 Receive but jeers from the encircling crowd. 
 The floods recede, and vernal woods appear 
 Wherein are crouched the '-forest king" and 
 
 bear; 
 Where flitting birds of gaudy plumage sing. 
 And sparkling fountains from their sources 
 
 spring-, 
 Wliore the rich lawns mirror the countless 
 
 dyes 
 That fleck ths azure of Italia's skies. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Thus the young poet, through fancy's golden 
 
 maze, 
 Roams, laughs, and weeps, 'mid scenes of 
 
 other days ; 
 Sips from the cup of visionary joy, 
 
 Brimful of hope and bliss without alloy. 
 But as the joy that most sul)stantial seems 
 Breaks from our grasp, like sparks from 
 
 meteor beams. 
 His bliss evanislied. Tlie shrill screams 
 Of the night-owl arouse him from his dreams. 
 And starting up he sees the silent moon 
 Gaze softly down the broad expanse of ruin; 
 Then slowly spake he — thus his stanzas ran: 
 " How frail, how faultj' is the work of man! 
 How fleeting joy,how fickle power and health. 
 How false is pride and how deceiving wealth." 
 Yon Celean hills as full aud firmly stand 
 As when just molded by the Maker's hand. 
 The rushing Tiber flows with force unspent. 
 As when Rome's founder gazed from out his 
 
 tent 
 On its bright bosom, spreading far and wide. 
 Or led his flocks along its cooling tide; 
 While this huge wreck, the climax of man's 
 
 power, 
 'Neath Time's corroding: breath is wasting 
 
 hour by hour. 
 Where stilted Trajan reared his haughty 
 
 head. 
 The busy spider spins his glossy thread; 
 And hooting owls in nightly broils engage. 
 Where proud Commodus reddened into rage; 
 The swift swallows, the silent sable bat. 
 Usurp the arches 'neath which Titus sat. 
 Ye Kings of Commerce, ye who gaze with 
 
 pride 
 On fertile acres stretching- far and wide; 
 Who would oppress the wealth-producing 
 
 poor. 
 Ponder the fate of those who ruled of yore. 
 From Obe's tide to Britain's western shore. 
 Observant man who studies Nature's laws 
 And deeply thinks, this one deduction draws: 
 All works of Art, no matter how sublime,'* 
 Shrink from the touch of all subduing time; 
 While those of Nature— ocean, dale and steep. 
 Sky, sun and stars — the Godhead's impress 
 
 keep. 
 
 Then how account for Rome's unequaled 
 
 age! 
 Her sisters' fall illumines Historj-'s page, 
 Greece, Carthage, Antioch, Sj-ria, all 
 Who lived ere she was conqueror of Gaul, 
 Have sunk beneath the feitile fibrous plains. 
 But she of all the ancient throng remains! 
 A simple Cross, the symbol sign of Truth, 
 Though old in years, in strength a stripling 
 
 youth. 
 Is poised whereon •• Colossal of the Sun," 
 The culminating height of Rome's dominion 
 
 shone; 
 And, after centuries of mortal strife. 
 Reveals the mystery of Rome's immortal life. 
 
 -* 
 
»- 
 
 790 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL POETS OF A5IERICA. 
 
 AARON W. FREDERICK. 
 
 Born: Pennsylvania. 
 Graduating from the Mount Union college 
 of Ohio in 1876, Mr. Frederick has since been 
 a teacher, and in 1883 was elected superin- 
 tendent of schools in Preston county, W. 
 Va., which position he filled for two years. 
 He next had charge of the Saint George 
 academy, of West Virginia, for two years; 
 then was called to the principalship of a 
 high school at Parks, N. C. ; and in the 
 spring of 1888 Mr. Frederick went west and 
 has since had charge of Dry Creek academy, 
 a grammar school in Fresno county. Gala. 
 The poems of this educator and writer have 
 appeared from time to time in the periodical 
 press, and have received high commendation. 
 
 -A GENTLEMAN FRIEND." 
 
 Is he your friend? Is he your friend, who 
 
 chats [your soul 
 
 With you and smiles his gladness through 
 
 Like moonbeams shimmering through the 
 
 trees where love 
 Links arm with love? Is he, indeed, your 
 friend? 
 Is he your friend, forsooth, who leaves the 
 stamp 
 Of sweet sincerity upon your lips? 
 Who presses you against his too-warm heart. 
 As if to let you know it beats for you — 
 Would break for you, had it but half a 
 
 chance? 
 He is j'our friend, though but a dog, wlio 
 leaps [waves 
 
 From off the pier and plunges thro' the 
 At risk of his own life to rescue yours. 
 
 He is your friend, who hears the wild alarm 
 Of bells, who rushes to your side and dares 
 The flames, who brings you saved from 
 
 crumbling walls 
 In his strong arms — a god-like hero, he! 
 He is your friend, who rather would meet 
 death 
 Than see you sin or suffer wrong and pain 
 Through any fault of his; 'tis such alone 
 Can bring a bride love like a parent feels. 
 Call him by his true title — fiend, not friend, 
 Who spreads a snare to dupe young inno- 
 cence, [kiss. 
 No friend would give weak Virtue one false 
 Or cause the cooing dove, poor thing! to fall 
 A victim to the vulture of his vice. 
 A gentleman is pure as he would have 
 His sisters be; no less. A friend is he 
 To guardian angels dear, who loves you well 
 Enough to be your stout and staid ally. 
 Your Noah 'mid the deluge of desires 
 qf 
 
 That topover religion's Ararats — [wealth 
 A friend worth more than worlds of hoarded 
 Is 1)6 who helps you sot your spirit free 
 From passion's burning edifice of lust 
 In which youth finds itself. 
 
 A friend is one 
 Who should be Christian to the finger tips, 
 And ready always with a kindly hand 
 To proffer aid, and honor to defend. 
 
 Who lives the life of duty and would lead 
 All men in ways of worth, elect him friend- 
 No nobler suffrage has the heart on earth — 
 And hold him high in holy confidence; 
 For friendship is akin to faitli in God. 
 
 A HOME. 
 He has a home — a loving heart 
 
 In which he may securely dwell; 
 No harm can come to him, I ween. 
 
 In such a dainty citadel. 
 She has a home — a manly breast 
 
 Will shelter her, whate'er befall; 
 No harm can come to her, I ween, 
 
 Within that rugged castle-wall. 
 They have a liome — a sweet child-soul 
 
 Wherein they live in perfect bliss; 
 No harm can come to them, I ween. 
 
 In such a residence as this. 
 
 CLARA. 
 One day the sun peeped thro' the clouds 
 
 And a little girl smiled. 
 And all around grew brighter still 
 
 Because of the child. 
 Her father sat and talked about 
 
 The way that it rained. 
 And all around grew dark again 
 
 While he complained. 
 '. I wouldn't mind it, pa, a bit," 
 
 Said little daughter, 
 " You'll make it worse to cry, I'm sure — 
 
 You'll make more water." 
 
 A SONNET. 
 Afar I often see a stranded yacht 
 Along the dim horizon of my dreams. 
 And from the floundering wreck I catch 
 
 faint gleams 
 Of warm desires, too bright to be ft)rgot. 
 My yearning is forever — yielding not, 
 Tlio' jetsam be the gold of buoyant schemcis. 
 I long for liappiness. My day-star beams 
 Its bliss on some far-off and favored spot. 
 Not here. My aspirations, waking, rise; 
 I wish; hope soars and seeks a better sphere— 
 The instinct of the soul is hence; 'tis wise: 
 Faitli hovers hifih above each fluttering fear, 
 And I am sure the spirit never dies 
 But lives in cycles farther on. Not here 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 791 
 
 -* 
 
 AARON GREEN DAVIS. 
 
 Born: Camden, Tenn., March 9, 1865. 
 In his youth Mr. Davis contributed both 
 prose and verse quite extensively to the 
 Southern press. In 1889 he began the pub- 
 Heation of th(> Soutlicrner, and the following- 
 spring was elected county lecturer of the 
 
 AARON GREEN DAVIS. 
 
 Agricultural Wheel, ik)w known :is the Far- 
 mer's Alliance, which position he filled for 
 two years. He is now county court clerk of 
 Dyer county, and resides in Dyersburg-, 
 Tenn. JFr. Davis also has editorial control 
 of the Dyersburg- Times. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 Some tlioug-hts like liowers grow. 
 
 In tenderness, and iliese are sweet 
 Blown when the dawn is bending low; 
 But some gushed from tlie furnace, glow 
 
 Like sun-rays of the noontide heat. 
 
 These gently breathe thro' heart and mind 
 
 The sweets of Beauty's spirit deeps; 
 Those with the fires of passion blind. 
 Fill souls that rise and weep to find 
 They cannot reacli the glory steejis. 
 
 '* 
 
 ]N THE WOODS, 
 I love these grand old solitudes. 
 These sylvan deeps, these pathless woods: 
 For when, with weary, throbbing brain 
 And yearning bosom, dull with pain. 
 
 I long for rest, I find it here 
 In this screner atmosphere; 
 In tranquil moments of release 
 From toil blessed with holy peace. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The corn is shocked in the hollow, 
 And the cotton patch is white; 
 
 The rugged hills in the distance 
 Grow dim in the smoky light. 
 
 The lingering birds are chirping 
 In the boughs of the sighing hedge; 
 
 Where the lonely flowers are blowing 
 And the rabbit hides in the sedge. 
 
 The lark is gay where the meadow 
 Is sprinkled with tinted leaves; 
 
 And the partridge, over the thicket. 
 Is piping among the sheaves. 
 
 And when the sundown has faded. 
 And the night comes, bleak and chill. 
 
 And I hear the horn of the hunter 
 Break over the distant hill. 
 
 When the dim, red moon is rising 
 
 Over a path that is traced 
 Across the woodland, I wander 
 
 To a cot half hid in the waste — 
 
 To a cot where fagots burn brightly 
 As the hour is wearing late. 
 
 And two bright eyes at the window 
 In the gloaming watch and wait! 
 
 THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Tlie blast from the battle-blown trumpet 
 
 Has died on the War God's breath, 
 And the blood-stained banner of Freedom 
 
 Droops over tlie plains of death. 
 Where under the clod of the valley 
 
 In many a gory bed. 
 Amid the shadows and silence, 
 
 Are the long, long ranks of the dead. 
 There, resting in'death and glory, 
 
 Are the proud Confederate braves. 
 All gathered from tempests of battle. 
 
 And lost ill myriad graves, 
 Wliere war-clouds never shall darken. 
 
 Or the bolts of the combat fall. 
 But the years of sleep unbroken 
 
 Shall linger alike for all. 
 From many a rural fireside 
 
 And home of the throbbing marts, 
 Lit up with the light of aflfcctioii 
 
 And dear to their jiroud, brave hearts. 
 With the gleaming sword and musket. 
 
 At the call of a bleeding land. 
 They arose like Spartan heroes 
 
 In the ranks of glory's band. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 792 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF A:UERICA. 
 
 MRS. B. A. DINSMORE. 
 
 Born : Guilford, Me., 1836. 
 Since the death of her husband this lady has 
 resided at the old homestead at Foxcrofr, 
 Maiiu'. Her poems have api)eared in snnieof 
 
 MH.s. B. A. DINSMOKE. 
 
 the leading periodicals, and she is represent- 
 ed in the Poets of Maine. Mrs. Dinsmore is 
 a teacher of vocal music. 
 
 LIFE. 
 Forever palpitates creative thought 
 In nature's vast expanse to all her deeps. 
 And drawn by sun-smile of His love upleaps 
 New formed — reflecting- glory, clear en- 
 wrought 
 With deathless sign, — And tho' o'er mountain 
 
 brought 
 And down its slope, where, brooding dark it 
 
 keeps 
 Its mingling teardrops hid, at length, forth 
 
 creeps 
 In mighty tide, unbearing and strength 
 
 fraught 
 By skyward flight, and sweeping torrent's 
 
 force. 
 On toward the pulsing, primal, deep abyss. 
 Where rhytlimi(! lite on life forevermore 
 Moves up from darkness in the Spirit's cour.se 
 And, at that Light-commanding word there 
 
 soar 
 Forms radiant clothed from Death's dark 
 
 chrysalis. 
 
 DUANE MOWRY. 
 
 Bokn: Providence, E. I., Dec. 14, 1853. 
 After receiving his education at the univer- 
 sity of Wisconsin, Mr. Mowrj' entered the 
 profession of the law. His poems have ap- 
 peared in many prominent newspapers and 
 magazines, and have always received favor- 
 able notices. Mr. Mowry was married in 1880 
 to Miss Mai-y J. Eusminger, and resides with 
 his wife and family at Mauston, Wis., where 
 he is a prominent practicing attorney of the 
 firm of Veeder & Mowry. 
 
 THE WAY OF LIFE. 
 'Tis love of gold makes man akin 
 To many evils bound by sin; 
 'Tis love of praise that causeth man 
 To gain »»wcll done" from whom he can; 
 'Tis dread of death that makes man sad. 
 And love of life maketh him glad. 
 And peace of mind at set of sun. 
 Gives hope of peace in worlds to come. 
 
 ENJOYMENT. 
 Drink deep at the fount of glorj', 
 
 And long at the cup that cheers. 
 For never was truer story — 
 
 Life is too short for tears. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 "Let the dead die." 
 
 Such was the lay of Infidelity, 
 
 Such the prattle skeptics loved to prate. 
 
 But the soul stood 'ghast at words so cruel, 
 
 And in thundering notes of mightiness said, 
 
 "Never," 
 Even in accents of the gentlest love, 
 Pronounced a benediction on the heads of 
 
 men. 
 And tho heart believed. 
 But the Mind was disinclined, 
 Until the holy sunshine 
 Of impartial and unprejudiced investigation 
 Had removed the mistiness of self-conceit 
 And error. Then it, too, stood ready to avow 
 
 its weakness. 
 So the dead do never die. 
 But live on and on forevei'. 
 To the end of the unending days. 
 That are unnumluTed. 
 
 BABY'S GRAVE. 
 
 'Tis liere that Hope lies buried deep. 
 That love forevermore doth cling. 
 
 That precious Memories we keep. 
 And Death, the sting. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 793 
 
 LULA EMMA SPEARS. 
 
 Born: Avalon, Mo., July 13, 1870. 
 
 A FEW of the poems of Miss Spears have ap- 
 peared ill the riiilliootlip f'l-isis, Avalon 
 
 luijA kmma speaks. 
 Aurora and other local papers. She received 
 her education at the Avalon college, and 
 still resides in her native town. 
 
 THE FOOTPRINTS OF TIME. 
 In studying- Time's history 
 Opened for us all to read. 
 Let us profit by its precepts, 
 Of its value be agreed. 
 Muchot knowledg-e, truth and wisdom. 
 We will find engraven there. 
 Much we thouglit had been forgotten, 
 And to Heaven a silent prayer — 
 Rises in deep supplication. 
 To Him who sits on Mercy's throne; 
 To blot out tlie crimes, the errors. 
 And we in good deeds will atone — 
 For all the vices we've committed. 
 In the vivid, bitter past. 
 And will ever love and serve Him, 
 Yea! as long as life shall last. 
 Oh Time I dost thou never weary, 
 In the ceaseless march of years. 
 Dost thy sliy grow never cloudy. 
 Is thy light ne'er dimmed by tears'? 
 When we're happy, bright and joyous. 
 
 Thou flit'st by — we're unaware; 
 But when our joy lias turned to sorrow, 
 Tliy wings seem clogged witli pain and care. 
 And slowly — slowly on thou draggest, 
 Tliy fleetness and thy brightness gone; 
 Tlio' oft we weary of life's burden. 
 We grasp new hope and bear it on. 
 Tho' the music all bo mournful. 
 As played upon tho harp of life; 
 There is a melody and sweetness. 
 That lulls our pain and soothes our strife. 
 Love's guardia,ii angel hovers o'er us. 
 Bids us labor and to wait; 
 And at last we'll wear the glory. 
 Just beyond the pearly gates. 
 Then learn to read aright the footprints. 
 Printed on the sands of Time; 
 Know the laws of human duty. 
 For these all lead to the sublime. 
 Thouglits thus wakened prompt to action, 
 Acts of right and untold worth; 
 Lights and sliadows haplj' blended. 
 Brighten the somber hues of earth. 
 Clouds are transformed into sunbeams. 
 Rippling o'er life's troubled sea; 
 And the seaman almost hopeless. 
 Views the light across the way- 
 Takes new courage and steers forward 
 To the dim — yet distant shore; 
 And though peril marks his pathway. 
 The crown he wins — tlie journey o'er. 
 
 TO A ROSE BUD. 
 Oh! sweet and beautiful rose bud. 
 Emblem of early spring. 
 To think that so mucli beauty 
 Is enclosed in so small a thing; 
 So much of grand perfection. 
 And of wisdom quaint and rare. 
 So sweet too is thy fragrance. 
 And thou art wondrous fair. 
 I wonder who was thy maker. 
 Surely some one very wise. 
 For tliine is real perfection. 
 And man could not thus devise ; 
 And so to some power higher. 
 Than the frail, weak powers of man. 
 To one —the Supernatural, 
 I'll ascribe thy wondrous plan. 
 This being is called by us God; 
 He's the Maker of us all. 
 He lists to our feeblest cry. 
 And hears e'en the sparrow's fall. 
 And here is thy sister fair. 
 Butlo! concealed in her heart 
 Is a worm, the sad destroyer. 
 Who is ever doing his part. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 794 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Oh ! ye sadly shattered beauty, 
 Thy heart is vacant within; 
 Thou'rt the emblem of fallen man, 
 The worm — the demon of sin ! 
 He stole as a thief in the night 
 Into thy pure heart's cell. 
 And now as I behold you 
 You are naught but an empty shell. 
 So many of God's dear children 
 Let the worm steal into their heart, 
 Till we see so much corruption — 
 It chills us, and quickly we start. 
 I'll pluck this worm from the bud. 
 And help it be a perfect flower; 
 'Twill gladden, tho' late in the day. 
 And brighten the gloomiest hour. 
 
 ♦-►-♦ 
 
 ETHEL ALICE CARTER. 
 
 Born: Shasta, Cal., Jan. 18, 1873. 
 This young lady has written about thirty 
 commendable poems, wliich have appeared 
 in the San Francisco Christian Advocate and 
 other publications. Miss Carter resides in 
 her native city, wliere she is finishing her 
 education. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 'Tis night. No star shines in the sky; 
 The moon is hid; against the shore 
 The angry restless waves dash Iiigh. 
 Borne on the winds, a human ciy 
 Rings out above the ocean's roar; 
 It swells and then is lieard no more. 
 
 'Tis morning. A sad woman stands 
 
 Upon the wet beach, cold and gray. 
 
 She looks out o'er the yellow sands, 
 
 And wildly, sadly wrings her hands. 
 
 She sees, thruugli the white oce;in spray 
 
 A wave-wet sail, far, far away. 
 
 The sky is clear; the wind blows free. 
 
 The dancing waves are blue and bright. 
 
 And those who live beside the sea 
 
 Go to their day's work cheerfully. 
 
 With joyous hearts and laugliter liglit, 
 
 Save she, whose son was drowned last night. 
 
 *- 
 
 SLEEP BABY, SLEEP. 
 The bird has forgotten its cai'ol. 
 And sleeps in its downy nest; 
 Tlie flowers liave folded their petals, 
 
 And silently gone to rest; 
 And cosy and warm in liis cradle. 
 
 While the gath'ring shadows creep. 
 Lulled t-o dreams by his mother's singing. 
 The baby has gone to sleep. 
 Sleep, little onel 
 The long day is done. 
 
 Night's shadows creep — 
 Sleep baby, sleep! 
 Again the baby is sleeping; 
 
 Closed fast are the deci) blue eyes; 
 They closed on earth, and were opened 
 
 By an angel in Paradise. 
 Mother, you cannot rouse him, 
 
 Tliough you maj' mourn and weep; 
 You cannot awaken the dreamer. 
 For baby has gone to sleep. 
 Sleep, little one; 
 The short day is done; 
 In slumber deep — 
 Sleep baby, sleep! 
 Mother, what need to cover 
 
 The quiet, icy breast? 
 For Nature will bring fair g;irments 
 
 To shelter your darling's rest; 
 In winter a robe as spotless 
 As the ermine of a queen. 
 And in springtime a blanket of daisies. 
 Bordered with brightest green. 
 Sleep, little one; 
 The short day is done; 
 In slumber deep. 
 Sleep baby, sleep. 
 
 JOHN WILLEY DEAN. 
 
 Born: Randolph Co., Va., Dec. 26, 1847. 
 After receiving his education at Mt. Pleas- 
 ant, Iowa, Mr. Dean taught school. Since 
 1871 he has resided in Putnam couuty. Mo., 
 where he still lives at Chariton. Mr. Dean 
 was admitted to the bar; has been a justice 
 of the peace, school director, township clerk 
 and township registrar, and notary public; 
 and in 1877 edited the Union ville Investigator. 
 His poems have appeared in the Western 
 Plowman, Burlington Saturday EveningPost 
 and tlie leading papersof Ohio and Missouri. 
 
 THE VALUE OF TIME. 
 Were I to give to you to-day 
 A lesson that would last for aj'e. 
 And serve in every age and clime. 
 It would be this: Improve your Time. 
 Your days at school that seem to go 
 With ladened wings so dull and slow. 
 Swift as a meteor, alas! 
 With all their f roightof prospects pass. 
 And gone, they ne'er return again, 
 Our siii)plications are in vain 
 That ask for chance to use once more, 
 'J'he moments that have fled before. 
 Then stei'iily strive to make your mark 
 While daylight lasts; for comes the dark, 
 The long, dark night, when you must tell 
 If you have used your daylight well. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 795 
 
 HUBBARD ALONZO BARTON. 
 
 Born: Ckoydon, N. H., May 1, 1842. 
 Fob many years this g-ontlcmnn held the 
 position of superiiiteudeiit of schools. Iul8i9 
 
 HTJBBARD ALONZO BARTON. 
 
 he became the editor and one of the proprie- 
 tors of the N. H. Arg-us and Spectator. 
 
 FLAG OF OUK COUNTRY. 
 O flag' of our countrj' and emblem of g'lory ! 
 How dear to my lieart istlie shrine thou 
 infold. 
 How uoble the deeds cnlialnied in Ihy story, 
 Howsacred thy trust to the millions untold. 
 
 The Koyal of Britain maj- cause admiration 
 To well ill the heart of tlio Englishman's 
 breast ; 
 The German Inperial point admonition 
 To the foe that would dare tliat nation's 
 behest. 
 Tlie Stars and the Stripes have a far pr;inder 
 meaning': 
 They stand for freedom and liberty's law; 
 For learning- and progress and Christ's spirit 
 g-lcaming, 
 Tlic grand, liailing- future our forefathers 
 saw. 
 
 Tliey tell of a nation whose g'lory and 
 
 grandeur 
 Are known iu remotest abodes of the earth. 
 Whose l)lessings are shed on tlie poor and 
 
 the stranger, 
 
 As well as tlie rich and tlie subjects by 
 birth. 
 
 Then guard ever well our lov'd ensig-n of 
 freedom. 
 Protect tlie ]iioud cniblcni on land and by 
 sea, 
 Sing' its praises in song: and hopeful Te Deum, 
 And long let it wave o'er the land of the 
 free. 
 
 ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES. 
 
 Born: Glens Falls, N. T., Jcxy 2, 1867. 
 For several years the subject of this sketch 
 resided at Lake George in his native state, 
 where many of his earlier poems were writ- 
 ten. Several hundred of the poems of Mr. 
 Tubbs have appeared in Peterson's Mag'azine, 
 NVaveriey Mag'.aziiie, Sunday Mercury, Yon- 
 ker's Gazette, and the periodical press g'en- 
 erally. Mr. Tubbs is now eng'ag'ed iu edito- 
 rial work, and resides in his native town. 
 
 WHISPERS. 
 
 Oh, how the glistening' waters 
 
 Whisper along on the shore. 
 Telling of lands in the distance 
 
 With beauty and fragrance galore. 
 Mystical islands of pleasure. 
 
 Far in the ocean of Rest, 
 Where the 'origlit angels of glory 
 
 Sing in that land of the blest. 
 
 Whispering flowers are ever 
 
 Telling of visions they know; 
 Lowly we bend if we hear them. 
 
 Their voices of fragrance are low. 
 Whispers of melody, sweeping 
 
 Many harmonious keys, 
 Down from the fluttering treetops 
 
 Float ou the breath of the breeze. 
 
 Many the voices of nature. 
 
 If we but listen we hear; 
 Ever a message to cheer us. 
 
 Never with tidings of fear. 
 With the bright blushes of twilight. 
 
 Blending in unison fair. 
 Then do we whisper to Heaven, 
 
 On the sweet Incense of prayer. 
 
 Lips that are filling their mission 
 
 Hopefully whisper of cheer. 
 Telling the beautiful story. 
 
 Ever so precious and dear. 
 'Tis the same word that tlie flowers. 
 
 Breezes and murmuring tide. 
 Bear in their musical wliispers. 
 
 That joy mny with mortals abide. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 796 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EDWARD HOLLx\ND. 
 
 FOB the past twenty years Mr. Holland has 
 been engag-ed in mining and prospecting in 
 Arizona and California. He has written 
 enough poems to fill a volume, many of 
 which have appeared in the leading publica- 
 tions of America^ 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 There, amid the meadows, grow the trees, 
 forever green; 
 There is heard tlie voice of youth in joyous 
 song; 
 There the sunny skies and ocean forever are 
 serene:- [throng. 
 
 Along the shore the youth and maiden 
 There is music everywliere. 
 On the ocean, in tlie air, 
 And flowers are scattered by many a fairy 
 
 baud; 
 And from the sunny ocean comes the fresh, 
 
 life-giving breeze 
 That breathes o'er the morning land. 
 
 Here, withered are the flowers, and sere and 
 brown the trees ; 
 Here the voice of song is silent evermore; 
 Here, mournfully beat and break the sullen 
 seas. 
 All ceaselessly along the rugged shore. 
 And livid, dripping clouds 
 Fall like ghastly tattered shrouds- 
 Like a pall spread o'er dead nature by 
 
 night's hand; 
 And from the leaden skies comes the deadly 
 
 chilling wind 
 That sighs o'er tlie sunset land. 
 
 A RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 .. Go forth ! " said the sun, to a ray of Ught 
 
 That for feons hud lain on its breast. 
 ..Of light and Ufo from world to world 
 
 ne thou tlie bearer blest." 
 Down past the morning star it flew. 
 And lighted on earth. On the glistening dew 
 Reflected here, refracted there. 
 It shimmered and glistened everywhere. 
 It visited all the liaunts of men: 
 Looked into misery's noisome den; 
 Lost in the city's flltli and mire. 
 Found again in the f urnace-flre — 
 Refracted here, reflecti'd there, 
 U shimmered and glistened everywhere. 
 
 U told the tale of h;i.te and scorn; 
 
 It dyed the rosy clouds of morn; 
 
 U shone on many a precious gem; 
 
 1 1 gleamed on a royal diadem ; 
 
 1 1 bore love's glance to beauty's eyes ; 
 
 It painted evening's purple skies; 
 
 It glanced along the polar snow, 
 
 And lingered in the tropic's glow; 
 And cleaving again the vault of blue, 
 From star to star it onward flew. 
 Where the vision of man can never pierce. 
 To the nebulous pales of the universe. 
 Bearing light and life wherever it went. 
 It again returns from whence 'twas sent. 
 Where rest eternal ends its wearied flight- 
 In the life of life, in the light of light! 
 So thy spirit,© man,when its destiny's flUed- 
 Thongh it hide in a body of shame. 
 Though it burn in passion's red flame, 
 On the journey Omnipotence willed — 
 Yet pure as it comes, so untarnished it goes, 
 And returning again to the God whence it 
 came. 
 Will in glory eternal repose! 
 
 CHARLES KELSON JOHNSON. 
 
 Chakles Nelson Johnson, L. D. S., D. D. 
 S., has written quite a number of commend- 
 able poems which have appeared in some of 
 the leading publications. He is a resident of 
 Chicago, where he is highly respected. 
 
 BETTER THAN REST. 
 
 And what if the striving and groping. 
 
 And the passionate pleading for truth; 
 And what if the peering and hoping, ■ 
 
 Dispels all the faith of our youth. 
 'Tis better this faith were confusion ; 
 
 'Tis not only better, but best 
 That we flee from the utter delusion 
 
 Of that which We once thought was rest. 
 If we seek for new facts and we find them; 
 
 Shall the finding not add to our store. 
 As the seeds bring the harvest behind them? 
 There's no better harvest tlian lore, [fores. 
 Shall we crush all the whyfores and where- 
 All the longings that rise in our breast? 
 Shall wo stop on this side of the therefores? 
 
 Ah, that were a heathenish rest! 
 Go ask of the Prophets and Sages, 
 
 The men who illume the world's night. 
 They who hold up the mirror of ages; 
 Ask them if they .see too nuich light. 
 Must we lie down in lanquid contentment, 
 
 With nothing but ignorance blest? 
 We had far better sulTer resentment, 
 
 Tiian a life lived in that kind of rest. 
 ..There are truths too sublime .and too holy 
 
 To grasp with a mortal mind's touch 1 " 
 Ah no! If the man bo so lowly, [much. 
 
 Between man and the brute there's not 
 We are launched on the waves of life's ocean. 
 
 Let us reacli while we can for the crest; 
 The precept of nature is Motion, 
 There is something that's better than rest 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 797 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. A. M. EVERS. 
 
 Rorn: Rockingham Co., Va., Oct. 3, 1837. 
 The subject of this sketch is a minister of 
 tlie gospel, and for fiv^e years lias been pre- 
 siding' Elder in the Conference, and been 
 twico elected to tlie General Conference. He 
 
 REV. A. M. EVERS. 
 
 has written many hymns and small poems 
 which have received publication in singing 
 books and newspapers generally. Mr. Evers 
 %fas married in 1863 to Miss Jennie S. Rine- 
 hart, and now has a family grown to ma- 
 turity. 
 
 HE SACRIFICED HIS LIFE FOR OTHERS. 
 His keen far-seeing eye 
 
 Looks up the mountain-side; 
 He sees there's danger nigh. 
 
 The coming of the slide. 
 
 He thinks of precious lives, — 
 Unconscious, on tliey ride,— 
 
 Reasons within himself. 
 The train must backward glide. 
 
 The throttle-valve is closed, 
 Reverse-bar now is drawn, 
 
 Then precious lives are saved 
 Regardless of his own. 
 
 The engine overturned, 
 So ponderous was the slide 
 
 A few brief words of prayer. 
 And then brave Arthur died. 
 
 The boulder quickly came. 
 Then Artliur's work was done; 
 
 He sacrificed his life, 
 Yet laurels he has w'on. 
 
 Oh, blessed after-life, 
 When all our toil is done, 
 
 May we our brother meet. 
 And with him wear a crown. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO GENERAL GRANT. 
 
 The press and bells announce to-day. 
 Our hero. Grant, has passed away. 
 At Mt. McGregor, heralds tell 
 Where the victor general fell. 
 
 In days agone his star arose, 
 Historians tell, in verse and prose; 
 Distinction classed liim with the grea 
 His fame no one will dissipate. 
 
 That he was faultless none will claim. 
 And yet few heroes had such fame; 
 We class him with the most renowned. 
 Because his brow Is honor-crowned. 
 
 At Donelson the victor rose 
 To eminence in spite of foes; 
 Undaunted, calm and undismayed, 
 His generalship was there displayed. 
 
 At Vicksburg, oh, how great the strife! 
 Great sacrifice, great loss of life; 
 But Grant, with superhuman will. 
 Yielded not till Vicksburg fell. 
 
 At Appomattox, Grant and Lee, 
 Generals great, as all concede. 
 Agreed that war to peace should yield. 
 And have their soldiers quit the field. 
 
 The terms of peace let angels tell, 
 Since Grant and Lee with angels dwell; 
 Like brothers side by side they stood 
 To reckon on the nation's good. 
 
 All felt that strife and war should ease - 
 Magnaiiimous were the terms of peace — 
 The terms, so easy, so sublime. 
 Proffered through influence benign. 
 
 As husband, father, brother, friend, 
 Millions now live to see the end; 
 As soldier and chief magistrate. 
 We classify him with the great; 
 
 In our city, yes, everywhere. 
 The flags half-mast to all appear — 
 Streamers of black from flag-poles wave; 
 Prepare the hero for the grave. 
 
 The everlasting .4rms beneath 
 Made him invincible in death. 
 He died in hope of bliss beyond. 
 And with his peers is victor crowned. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 798 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 COURTLAND S. WHITE. 
 
 Born: Waukegan, iLt.., Nov. 13, 1849. 
 Since settling in Kansas in 1883 he has taken 
 great interest in the Union Labor and Peo- 
 ple's Partj'. He was one of the founders of 
 
 COURTLANXt S. WHITE. 
 
 the Industrial Publishing- Company, and is 
 still president. One hundred campaig-n songs 
 and labor poems, have been written by him. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF FREEDOM. 
 
 It is coming, it is coming. 
 The grand spirit of the times; 
 'Tis written well in lines of prose, 
 Told o'er and o'er in rhymes; 
 There is nothing now can check it 
 For its under full head-way; 
 It is bursting from the darkness 
 Into full resplendent day; 
 So ye proud and tyrant rulers 
 Who have filched our wine and corn, 
 Must now hide your guilty faces 
 From the bright, new, coming morn; 
 For the sun of truth and justice 
 As it sheds its sparkling light. 
 Will reveal your deeds a:id actions 
 That were fostered in your might. 
 It is coming, it is coming — 
 Over high and over low. 
 It is inarching bravely forward. 
 And will strike the freeman's blow 
 It is like the sciirfog rolling. 
 As it comes down from the hills. 
 And through every niche and corner 
 Of humanity it thrills: 
 
 And the rulers start and tremble. 
 
 As with i)alsy's fearful dread. 
 
 For they dream of French rebellions. 
 
 And the words the prophets said; 
 
 Man will ride in blood of humans 
 
 From the ground to bridle reign; 
 
 They will lose their hold on power 
 
 Which they never can regain. 
 
 It is rolling up in splendor 
 
 As it comes from east and west; 
 
 It is throbbing, it is beating 
 
 In each freedom-loving breast. 
 
 You will hear it talked in hovels. 
 
 And debated in the shop. 
 
 But looked upon in mansions 
 
 As a thing that must be stopped. 
 
 They've defiled our grand republic — 
 
 ITave given us want and shame. 
 
 And have prated about contentment,— 
 
 So disgraced our parents name. 
 
 For out fathers in rebellion 
 
 Had raised their honest hand 
 
 Against the stamps and tariff 
 
 That Great Britain made demand; 
 
 But to live in want and hunger 
 
 With oppression on everj- side. 
 
 Are burdens ten times greater 
 
 Than lor which our fathers died. 
 
 It is coming like the sunlight 
 
 As it drives the night away; 
 
 It is bringing to the workers 
 
 A brighter, happier day; 
 
 For it tells them in the future. 
 
 When justice rules the land. 
 
 They will enjoy the full reward 
 
 Of the labor of their hand. 
 
 'Tis the gospel of peace and plenty 
 
 Taught by the noble ones and true, 
 
 AVho give up homes and comfort 
 
 For the good which they can do. 
 
 So all praise the sturdy workers 
 
 Who devote their sacred lives 
 
 To banish ever from the world 
 
 The Lazarus and the Dives. 
 
 It is coming like the sea-wave 
 
 As it rolls upon the shore; 
 
 It is stirring up the people 
 
 As was never done before; 
 
 For they see their homes all vanish. 
 
 With starvation at the door. 
 
 And they hear their children crying 
 
 For the bread they have no more. 
 
 So we'll never stop our efforts 
 
 Till the tyrants are in the dust. 
 
 Though our i)lows tiiay lay in idleness. 
 
 And our pruning hooks may rust. 
 
 But with Reason's voice proclaiming 
 
 And the power of press and pen. 
 
 We will gain our rights to justice. 
 
 Truth and freedom for all men. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 799 
 
 -* 
 
 EMMA BENNION. 
 
 Born: Sheldon, N.Y., March 13, 1859. 
 The poems of Miss Emma Bennion h:ive ap- 
 peared in the Amherst Bee, Golden Record, 
 Jiivan E.-iiile ami m her jkijicix of ihe slate of 
 
 EMMA BENNION. 
 
 New York, from wliieh they have been ex- 
 tensively copied. Miss Benniou still resides 
 in her native state at Strykersville. 
 
 *- 
 
 JOSIAH AND BETSY ANN. 
 I've been a-thinking-, Betsy Ann, 
 
 While sitting- in the shade. 
 That all the fuss and show to-day 
 
 Was but a dress parade; 
 The jewels and the orange flowers. 
 
 The satin and the lace. 
 The rush and crush and flutter 
 
 To secure the choicest place. 
 'Tis all a jumble in my mind. 
 
 It don't seem real or true. 
 And no one looked quite natural 
 
 Like people that we knew. 
 It 'minds me how, when but a lad, 
 
 A circus came to town. 
 And I couldn't see tlie elephant 
 
 For staring at the clown. 
 And though we are .so near of kin 
 
 We're scarcely of a kind. 
 And when we got to church to-day 
 
 I wished I'd stayed behind. 
 They call me " dearest uncle " 
 
 With the crowd a-standing by. 
 
 But when we meet in private 
 It will be •• how are you Si ';' " 
 
 It's just like grafting fancy boughs 
 
 Upon an old crab tree. 
 And when the fruit begins to grow 
 
 Things somehow don't agree. 
 I'm not ripening, Betsy Ann, 
 
 1 know I'm dull and slow. 
 And I don't expect the world to move 
 
 In the ruts made long ago. 
 
 But, O, how different was the morn 
 
 When you and I were wed; 
 It hardly seems the same old sun 
 
 That's sliining now o'erhead. 
 I've but to close my fading eyes 
 
 To see it all again. 
 The meadow path, that lay between 
 
 The fields of waving grain. 
 
 The ground-lark in the hawthorn hedge 
 
 Where scarlet berries glowed. 
 We gathered some, I know the spot, 
 
 Close by the old stile road. 
 The thrush was singing in the grass. 
 
 The crickets chirping shrill 
 About the tombstones that surround 
 
 The chapel on the hill. 
 No wedding bells rang out for us. 
 
 No wedding march was played. 
 Our only march was made through lanes 
 
 Beneath the pleasant shade. 
 Our tiny home was all our own. 
 
 No stranger dare efface 
 The old land marks that gave the place 
 
 Its mellow, old time grace. 
 The woodbine at the cottage door. 
 
 The drooping wild rose tree, 
 The lilacs, all were planted here 
 
 By either you or me. 
 Sometimes the outer world was harsh. 
 
 Often a friend unkind. 
 But when I closed the cottage door, 
 
 I left the world behind. 
 
 And when my heart was wounded 
 
 And my spirit sick and sore, 
 I always pictured Betsy Ann 
 
 A smiling at the door. 
 My wife would understand me. 
 
 She would know my spirit's need 
 And the words so hard to utter * 
 
 Would be taken for the deed. 
 And so through sun and shadow 
 
 Steady walked we side by side. 
 And never left the narrow way 
 
 For one more smooth and wide. 
 Soon, yes soon we'll reach the turnpike, 
 
 Almost run, our earthly span. 
 Only death can part Josiah 
 
 And his faithful Betsy Ann. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 800 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FRED MYRON COLBY. 
 
 Born: Warnei:, N. H.,Dec. 9, 1848. 
 After receiving hiseducatiou at tiie schools 
 of his native town and the Concord High 
 school, Mr. Colby then taught school success- 
 fully for many years. Tor a while he was 
 
 FRED MYRON COI,BY. 
 
 editor of a prominent iiewsjiaper, and in 
 1875-76 was in Washington, D. C, as a corres- 
 pondent for Boston and New Hampsliire 
 papers. Fred Myron Colby has written large- 
 ly for the press, stories, historical articles 
 and poems, and in 1876 published a novel en- 
 titled "The Daughter of Pharaoh." Since 
 that time he has published several books 
 which have had a large sale. In 1883 Mr. 
 Colby was married to Miss H. Maria George. 
 
 THE ROSE OF JERICHO. 
 
 'Neath Afric's spreiiding palm-trees 
 
 There blooms a humlile flower. 
 Sacred as virgin's holy Vilnsh. 
 
 That blossomed one sweet hour,— 
 Wlien at the feet of Mary 
 
 It raised its lovely he:id. 
 The night she fled to Egypt 
 
 From Herod's hate - 'tis said. 
 O flower of perfect beauty. 
 
 So holy, fair and bright 
 Opening thy spreading petals 
 
 Only on Christmas night, 
 We hail thee as an emblem 
 
 Of that immortal love. 
 
 Which Christ the King of Glory, 
 
 Sheds from his throne above! 
 O sainted, loving mother. 
 
 Whose pearly teardrops fell; 
 We'll not forget thy sorrow 
 
 When Christmas carols swell. 
 We join the angel chorus 
 
 That sings this eve again,— 
 Glory to God the Lord most High, 
 
 Good will and peace to men ! 
 
 M ARIL'S AMONG THE RUINS OF CAR- 
 THAGE. 
 
 The orb of day was sinking fast. 
 
 On Afric's shores its beams were cast. 
 
 As mid the sands an t)ld man passed. 
 
 Weary and worn with care. 
 'Twas Marius, Rome's bravest chief. 
 Who, like the crown of a golden sheaf. 
 Though now an exile and in grief. 
 
 Wore a glory none might share. 
 Before him in tlie setting sun. 
 Lying in silence cold and dun. 
 Where erst so many feet had run. 
 
 Were the ruins of Dido's city. 
 He saw once more his eagles wave 
 O'er Roman hosts. Once more his brave 
 Legions fought the Gaul and to the grave 
 
 Consigned the foes of the Roman state. 
 Once Rome itself had feared his frown. 
 Seven times he had worn the laurel crown, 
 High senators of the seven-hilled town 
 
 Had trembled under his stern rage. 
 Now he was like those ruins, sad and old,[ed. 
 His rival's flushed whereonce his chariot roll- 
 Forgotten were his victories; none so bold 
 
 As to show reverence to his age. 
 But hark ! A voice fell on his ear, 
 I. Cains Marius, dost thou hear?" 
 Shame that he could address without a tear, 
 
 This br.ave old Roman consul. 
 1. 1 bear from Afric's praetor here, 
 Sextillius, whom all traitors fear. 
 Tidings to thee. Thy footsteps near 
 
 Must now no longer linger." 
 The grand old man looked like a king. 
 No more he seemed the abject thing. 
 His bosom heaved, his voice did ring 
 
 As when of yore lie led his legions. 
 "Go tell your praetor this." he said, 
 ..Go tell it in Rome's streets gory and red, 
 Aye, let it fill every consul's head. 
 
 With the lesson of its .story. 
 That amid Hamilcar's ruined hall. 
 Where once an army thronged the wall. 
 Thou hast seen Mai'ius, under the pall 
 
 Of exile, reading the fate of Roman glory." 
 
 *■ 
 
 _* 
 
$ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 801 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. ADDIE LUCIA BALLOU. 
 
 Born: Chagrin Falls.O., April 29, 1837. 
 
 As ARTIST, writer and orator Mrs. Ballon 
 has become very popular. She is president 
 of the Nationalist Club of San Francisco. 
 
 ADDIE LUCIA BALLOtT. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Ballou have appeared in 
 various publications from tlie Atlantic tu 
 the Pacific. 
 
 MAMMA'S DAISY. 
 Stealing from lier snowy pillow. 
 Kneeling' by the window pane, 
 Little face upon the casement, 
 
 Hands outstretched to catch the rain. 
 Whispered little lips in sadness, 
 «' Wish mamma would come again I " 
 Chc— Do the angels know 
 How we miss below 
 Their sweet love-words — 
 Do they know, do they know? 
 "Riiitidrops, have you seen my mamma 
 
 Where you come from in the sky? 
 Mamma's gone to live with angels — 
 What made God have mamma die? 
 Wonder if when I get sleepy. 
 He won't take me by and by?" 
 Do the angels know 
 How we miss below 
 Their sweet love-words — 
 Do they know, do they know? 
 
 "Every night I say, •! lay me 
 
 Down to sleep,' and llien I wait 
 For mamma to come and kiss me; 
 
 But I guess it was so late 
 When she got 'way up to Star-land 
 
 God just thought He'd shut the gate." 
 Softly drooped the lids in slumber. 
 
 As the leaves of falling flowers. 
 Gently into sunny dream-land, 
 
 Nested in its mazy bowers, 
 While the guardian angel-mother 
 Watched her all the sleeping hours. 
 Chc— For the angels know 
 How we miss below 
 Their sweet love-words — 
 Yestliey know, yes they know. 
 
 LENVOI. 
 Down Memory's shadowy aisle to-night, 
 
 There sweeps the train of bygone years; 
 As stars with shimmering trail of light. 
 An army of the heaven appears. 
 While night dews show their crystal tears. 
 Each orient space 
 Some long-loved face 
 Unveils to bless my lingering sight. 
 Down by each time-familiar lane 
 
 My mother walks, as in those days 
 When we were boys. Ah ! would again 
 Our eyes could meet her tender gaze 
 As they looked then their love and praise. 
 The soft caress, 
 Her fingers' press. 
 Was solace for all grief or pain. 
 Down where the silence is so deep 
 
 My thoughts give echo ere I speak. 
 They laid you when you fell asleep. 
 With death's pale lilies on your cheek. 
 You, best l)ek)ved, wlio was so meek. 
 So placid seemed, 
 As if you dreamed 
 Of secrets tliat the angels keep. 
 Down from your now abiding place 
 
 Is there no passageway to ours? 
 No window, where }"our sainted face 
 May look from out your spirit's bowers 
 To cheer us on life's lonely hours? 
 Is there no word 
 That may he heard 
 Peace-giving in its thrilling powers? 
 Down Time's tempestuous coast at last, 
 When life's frail tent forme is furled, 
 When night my day shall overcast. 
 When wrecked and out of being hurled, 
 Will your sweet eyes by love impearled 
 In welcome wait 
 At Aiden's gate 
 And find me room in your blest world? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 802 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -« 
 
 GO AND TELL IT TO THE BEES. 
 Have you heard the oldeu leg-end 
 
 By the Eastern people told. 
 Of the strange, sweet superstition. 
 
 That wlien Death's dark pinions fold 
 Newly 'I'ound some cherished loved one, 
 
 That the dearest friend to these 
 To the busy hive must hasten. 
 
 And must tell it to the bees? 
 Is it true some spirit lingers 
 
 'Twixt their busy lives and ours, 
 And that half their sweets they gather 
 
 From tlie breaths of human flowers? 
 Did some other winged thing tell them. 
 
 When the bees o'er drifts of suow 
 To her window came to perish 
 
 When she died, who loved them so? 
 
 How distinctly I remember 
 
 All those drear uumotherod years, 
 Of the lalie-side and the cottage 
 
 Where I wept my childish tears; 
 How from earlj' budding April, 
 
 Till the autumn sered the trees. 
 Every twilight found my father 
 
 Busy with his swarms of bees. 
 For they loved him, and caressed him 
 
 With their gauzy, restless wings. 
 Dusty with the yellow pollen, 
 
 Girt about witli golden rings. 
 Year by year they thus enriched him 
 
 With tlie sweets from flowering trees, [him 
 And witli each white thread that crowned 
 
 Dearer grew to him the bees. 
 
 Oh, I know how they will miss him 
 
 All the summer afternoons. 
 When the languid perfume lingers 
 
 O'er the lily-spread lagoons! 
 And the angel that received him 
 
 Must have told among the trees. 
 When the dear old man, grown weary. 
 
 Fell asleep among the bees. 
 Busy bees, cease not your humming. 
 
 Burdened witli the summer sweets; 
 Hallowed thoughts 'round you are clustered. 
 
 Where the past and future meets. 
 When shall come the dark-winged angel, 
 
 And my weary spirit frees. 
 Will some loving friend or kindred 
 
 Tell it to my father's bees? 
 
 *- 
 
 WHERE DO THE SEAGULLS GO ? 
 Away from the docks and the shipping 
 
 That tangled the breast of the bay. 
 From the flutter of hands in the harbors. 
 
 Our ship went sailing away. 
 And as the cannon's brazen lip 
 Boomed back farewell from our good ship. 
 
 A score of snowy-breasted things 
 Swooped low and drooped their downy 
 
 wings, 
 And rose and dropped with every swell. 
 And cried, in flute-like tones, "Farewell! " 
 
 Up rose the winds and the waters 
 In fury, leaped forward and aft. 
 
 And the foam and the spume of the breakers 
 Dashed over the decks of our craft, 
 
 Till rocked upon a gentler swell. 
 
 Our gallant ship uprose and fell. 
 
 Still followed close those feathered things 
 Who trip and sweep with noiseless wings — 
 Those restless birds, by day and nigiit. 
 Who seaward wing their ceaseless flight. 
 
 Away and away o'er the ocean 
 The track of our destinies lay. 
 
 Through the languor of tropical evening. 
 Through the tropical languor of day. 
 
 Willie still a thousand leagues from shore 
 
 The watery waste we traverse o'er, 
 I>ike phantoms of an exile troupe 
 Those pinions o'er the waters droop. 
 And swing and curve, and dip the main. 
 Then rising, lift their plumes again. 
 
 And this I asked of tlie skipper: 
 " Pray, where do the seagulls go 
 
 When the ships wliich their white wings 
 follow 
 Go down with the wrecks below?" 
 
 He smiled, and looking far away. 
 
 Replied, " Ours do not go that way." 
 Heaven grant him right; and yet— and 
 
 yet — 
 The hearts that break cannot forget 
 Those who along the seagulls' track 
 Went out, but never more came back. 
 
 With a strange, yet sweet superstition, 
 A nation as free as their wings. 
 
 Believe that the bird on the ocean 
 Good speed and prosperity brings. 
 
 The mariner o'er frozen seas 
 
 Thinks, too, the souls of men arc these; 
 That angels of the so-called dead. 
 In these, their own bright pinions spread, 
 And watchful of the wrecks and shoals. 
 Bring safe to harbor human souls. 
 
 Whatever may he the tradition, 
 A truth or a f-.uicy of thought. 
 
 May the wing of our angel jirotect us. 
 That calamity follow us not; 
 
 And lip to lip, and heart to heart. 
 
 May all yet meet who wide apart. 
 In different ways — by land or sea- 
 Pursue life's varied destiny. 
 Oh, white wings, bring at last our spars 
 To liarbor safe, beyond the stars. 
 
» 
 
 I.OCAI. AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 803 
 
 -* 
 
 CHARLES H. MACKAY. 
 
 Born: Bridgton, Me., March 11, 1859. 
 
 For five years Mr. Mackay was a railroad 
 telegraph operator. Besides writing- poetry 
 lie is the author of many articles on astrono- 
 my which have appeared in the Boston Jour- 
 nal and the Esoteric, of which latter publi- 
 
 CHARLES H. MACKAY. 
 
 cation he is editor and business manager. 
 Mr. Mackay is a cornettist of considerable 
 ability, and has played leading parts in 
 bands and orchestras from his youth. He 
 has been postmaster at Amherst, N. H. and 
 at Wilmington, Mass. 
 
 YESTERDAY. 
 Following peace, as night the day. 
 
 These lonely, darksome hours, 
 Yet through their gloom, like sunny May 
 
 Emerging bright from April showers 
 Tl\ere streams a pure white ray. 
 
 The day is dull; the hours so long; 
 
 But yesterday was bright. 
 For yesterday, my life in song 
 
 Rose higli in strains of pure delight. 
 Seemed lieavenward borne along. 
 
 And yesterday the azure curve 
 
 O'er all the sky was blue; 
 To-day,— ah! me, I fain would swerve 
 
 From care, from life, e'en duty true — 
 These scarce a thought deserve. 
 
 For all that now should bring me joy 
 
 Gives only saddest pain. 
 To-day all's drear, all's cheap alloy, 
 
 For yesterday comes up again. 
 And smiles and niirtli annoy. 
 I hate the things which come to nie. 
 
 Reminders of that day; 
 I hate e'en i>eace which seems to flee. 
 
 Because of one now far away 
 And 'neath whose eyes I'd be. 
 Oh, rain! Oh, clouds! ye verif j- 
 
 The love within my soul; 
 The contrast show 'twixt placid sea, 
 
 'Twixt peaceful vale and waves that roll 
 Between my love and me. 
 The march of time I fain would spurn,— 
 
 To heaven of yesterday,— 
 The wheels of time I then would j'earn 
 
 Might stop, and leave that brightest May 
 All mine in peace eterne. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 Mute reminder of an evening's joy 
 
 Sweet emblem pure; 
 I'd not exchange for mines of gold 
 One leaf in its dear, blissful fold; 
 'Twould only peace of mind destroy 
 
 And grief allure. 
 Before me here, in deep, calm grace. 
 
 It lies in state; 
 Dear token of a love so strong. 
 It bears me high above the throng 
 Of life, and brings to nie her face, — 
 
 Strange act of fate. 
 It thrills me, as by sweet perfume 
 
 It now doth speak. 
 In gentle zephyr seems to breathe 
 The joy which througli my soul doth seethe 
 At thoughts of d;iys that end too soon 
 
 When thee I seek. 
 Each petal in its purity. 
 
 Each leaf so bright. 
 Reminds me of a pure, true heart. 
 From which, hcav'n grant, I ne'er may part; 
 It gives me peace and sanctity. 
 
 It lends sunlight. 
 As to my lips, with sac red thought 
 
 Of absent love, 
 I press thy labyrinthine vein, 
 I wonder that thou dost not deign 
 Response, but ah ! thou quick'nst not 
 
 Bj- word or move. 
 Sweet flower, as tliro' tliy tender leaves' 
 
 Transparent hue 
 The light of day is plainly seen; 
 Thus, sanctified, I hope to glean. 
 From heart and soul that ne'er deceives. 
 
 Pure love, and true. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 804 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT ECLIPSE. 
 Fair and bright the full moon rides 
 
 In southern sphere, down low; 
 To nig-ht she gives a splendor grand. 
 Touching earth with magic wand. 
 Coining gold from out tlie sand, 
 
 She malieth all to glow. 
 
 So proud, so bright, withal so pure ! 
 
 Of night she's trulj' queen ; 
 No rival to her silver face, 
 None equal her in winning grace. 
 As on, iti still, majestic pace. 
 
 She sails with noble mien. 
 
 The twinkling fctars in myriad host. 
 
 Attend lier, great and small; 
 The Millsj' Way, the Pleiades; 
 Tlie Nebula-, great Hercules; 
 From northern heights to southern seas. 
 
 In homage bow they all. 
 
 Her grandeur now she seems to feel. 
 
 Flooding the earth and sliies; 
 Her light she takes to be her own — 
 The beauty hers and hers alone — 
 So thinks this queen upon her throne. 
 As tlirougli the night she flies. 
 
 Truly, thou may'st well be proud. 
 
 Goddess of starry dome : 
 Thy shining front In dazzling rays 
 Maketli all a fairy maze. 
 Changing night to autumn days; 
 
 We must thy splendor own. 
 
 But ah I what transformation steals 
 
 Upon that face so bright? 
 Upon her clieeks, around her brow. 
 About her limbs there creepetli now 
 A phantom grim, a darksome vow 
 
 Which dims the streaming light. 
 
 A passing cloud? It cannot be. 
 
 For all tlie sky is cleiir; 
 The arclier bold; tlie arrow small; 
 Meteors, as they flasli and fall 
 Are plainly, clearly noted all. 
 
 But our queen — alasl so drear. 
 
 Where now, O moon, that sparkling light 
 
 So recently with thee? 
 Wliere all thy cold and soulless glare. 
 Thy beams of silvery sheen so fair. 
 Thine unsurpassed grandeur; where 
 
 May now tliy beauty be? 
 
 My eyes may safely dwell on thee. 
 
 As on the deep, black sky; 
 Impotent now to blur my sight. 
 Completely shorn of grace and light; 
 I mourn thy lot, dead queen of ntght; 
 
 I hear all nature sigh. 
 
 The humble star, before unseen. 
 
 Close at thy glowing side. 
 Was lost in tliine effulgent glare. 
 But shineth now with glory rare. 
 Seeming to smile at thj' despair, 
 
 And sneer at thy false pride. 
 
 Wouldst thou, O moon, if now thy light. 
 
 So quickly gone, w^as thine; 
 Wouldst tliou, with evil thoughts again. 
 In self-suflBcient promptings vain. 
 Deny thy king whose powers sustain, 
 
 Whose face mak'st j-ours to shine? 
 
 Repentance dawns upon thy brow; 
 
 Upon thy crown the light 
 In distant space from that great orb, 
 In trembling benedictive sob. 
 Falls by grace of loving God 
 
 Upon the beauteous sight. 
 
 All nature wakes and casts aside 
 
 The mantle dark and sad; 
 The little birds arouse and praise 
 Approach of morn by lunar raj'S, 
 For trulj' now the light of days 
 
 Has made the midnight glad. 
 
 Again the splendors of the sk.v. 
 
 But tranquil peace present; 
 The moon, with all her fair, clear light. 
 Now sails away in greater might; 
 The shadows passed, fair queen of night 
 
 Rolls on in sweet content. 
 
 TRUST. 
 With nature here in evening's peace I sit 
 
 And think on life. 
 Tlie end of day has come; 
 There's naught of worldly lium. 
 As past me swift and soft the moments Hit, 
 
 And banish strife. 
 I'm filled with love and happy trust to-niglit; 
 
 A strange deep calm. 
 Here God His beauties shows 
 To me as twiliglit glows. 
 And while I think on Him .-uid find tills light 
 
 I fear no harm. 
 May heart and mind forever know the mood 
 
 Tliat now they feel. 
 My past I've thrown away. 
 And things which cannot stay 
 I've crucified, that I may iiave tliat food 
 
 Of higliest weal. 
 There's harmony in all I sec, and love 
 
 More tlian I l^now. 
 My life within is peace. 
 And may it never cease 
 Its trusting course to love and light above 
 
 Though drawn below. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 805 
 
 HUNTER MACCULLOCH. 
 
 Born: Glasgow, Scotland, Oct. 22, 1847. 
 Hunter MacCclloch was brought to this 
 country in 18.51, and has been a resident of 
 Plnladelphia ever since. For six years he 
 was in business as an importer of fancy 
 goods. In 1878 lie classified and arranged the ■ 
 library of the Spring- Garden Institute. In 
 1882 Mr. MacCuIlocli was engaged byStraw- 
 
 HUNTER M'CULLOCH. 
 
 bridge and Clothier to edit a liousehold 
 magazine, wliich is now in its ninth year of 
 publication. His poems have appeared in 
 Lippincott's, Overland Monthly, Godey's 
 Lady's Book, Pliiladelphia Ledger, Boston 
 Transcript and various other leading publi- 
 cations. In 1886 lie published a selection 
 under the title of From Dawn to Dusk. 
 Hunter MacCuUoch is the author of a drama 
 entitled Amour, which was successfully 
 produced at the Philadelphia Arch-street 
 Theater, and at Ford's Opera House, Balti- 
 more; and many of his songs have also been 
 Bet to music. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE END. 
 There is no end of days, no end of nights — 
 Alternate links of time's unending chain; 
 There is no end to nature's keen delights. 
 For spring in time to siiring succeeds 
 again; 
 
 i'et do they run their ceaseless round in 
 vain? 
 Will seasons lielp, will d;iys and nights be- 
 friend 
 When I have reached the end:- 
 
 There is no end of joys, no end of sorrows — 
 
 Alternate iinksof life's unending chain : 
 No end of dark to-days and bright to-mor- 
 rows. 
 For oft-slain hope as oft will rise again; 
 Yet let who will rejoice; who will, com- 
 plain; 
 What matters the days that mar, the mor- 
 rows that mend 
 When I have reached the end? 
 
 There is no end of children mid their pleas- 
 ures; 
 No end of youthful hearts by visions fed; 
 There is no end of men to win life's treas- 
 ures; 
 No end of age to dwell half with the dead; 
 Though down time's waj' the great proces- 
 sion tread. 
 There is none will leave the ranks some help 
 to lend 
 v.'iien I have reached the end! 
 
 There is no end of time, no end of space; 
 Beneath and above stand stars of all de- 
 gree ; 
 This whirling world forever runs its race. 
 And harvests life thereon perpetually; 
 What good these everlasting things to me? 
 Since surely will the shades of death des- 
 cend. 
 And then, there is an end I 
 
 UNFRAMED. 
 
 The sun, that fell all afternoon 
 
 From mid-height heaven in mid-month June, 
 Has touched the far, warm west, and, lol 
 It sinks in the earth like April snow; 
 
 While clouds of crimson, purple and gray 
 
 Are anchored about in the buriushed bay; 
 And the sea of glad, green leaves is stirred 
 At the soft southwest wind's whispered 
 word. 
 
 The spell-bound painter looked with awe 
 On the earth-wide, heaven-high scene he 
 saw, 
 
 While one ecstatic moment passed. 
 
 Then turned, exultant, to make fast 
 With cunning hand, that very hour. 
 The secret placed within his power. 
 
 Alas ! he lost It on the way; 
 
 For in no frame Is it seen to-day I 
 
 -* 
 
>b- 
 
 806 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LABORES. 
 Ye worshipers bending before her, 
 
 O'erladened with gifts for her shrine. 
 Ye do well to admire and adore her, 
 
 She is great above all and divine; 
 Surpassing the Greek-conceived stories; 
 
 With hands and with garments that soil — 
 
 humble and haughty Labores, 
 Our Goddess of Toil ! 
 
 'Tis mine to bedeck thee with praises, 
 My well-paying labor of love, 
 
 1 coin for thee current gilt phrases, 
 That set thee beyond and above. 
 
 My voice has grown husky and broken. 
 My weight has been greatly increased, 
 
 I am paid for each syllable spoken, 
 I, Proudflesh, the priest! 
 
 strenuous souls in strong bodies! 
 
 How ye struggle and strain and perspire! 
 From the heighth of the throne where a god 
 
 is 
 I will reach down the sponge when ye tire. 
 
 1 have set apart one day in seven. 
 That rest may replenish the oil. 
 
 Dividing your days between heaven 
 
 And our Goddess of Toil. 
 No trifling mere tithes are ye leaving. 
 
 Like a ravenous churchman demands; 
 For I, the high-priest, am receiving 
 
 Nine-tenths of the work of your hands. 
 Though the dust and the grime that inclose 
 you 
 Be as bars in the cage of a beast. 
 There is one looking through them who 
 knows you, 
 I, Proudflesh, the priest! 
 
 As I jingle your gifts, as I jingle, 
 
 I cry to you never to shirk! 
 Since dirt and true dignity mingle! 
 
 Since nothing is nobler than work! 
 See the workmen in haloes of glories, 
 
 Forgetting the duties that moil 
 At siglit of thee, holy Labores, 
 
 Our Goddess of Toil! 
 
 She sends unto all of you greeting. 
 And manifold bU'ssings this day. 
 The pleasures of life thoy aie fleeting, 
 
 Tlien think but of work and not play; 
 For work wears a visage of beauty. 
 
 From her service who would be released? 
 Have not I an adorable duty, 
 
 I, Proudflesh, the priest? 
 What! What! Thou her message ref uscst? 
 (Some souls there are yet who blasphemed !) 
 The work which tliou lackest thou losest 
 If thou callest devotion a scheme 
 
 Would a priest (and a high priest) tell stories. 
 
 And the fair face of truth would he soil. 
 For the good of the cause of Labores, 
 
 Our Goddess of Toil? 
 O Goddess, again we implore thee! 
 
 Inspire us once more Avith thy wine. 
 Bring back the long hours to adore thee 
 
 With worship from five until nine; 
 Else into thought's gulf we be falling. 
 
 Or be puffed up withcoUege-biewed yeasi; 
 In the name of thy sons ant 1 calling, 
 
 1, Proudflesh, tlie priest! 
 O teach us to labor untiring; 
 
 To thrive on a sup and a bite; 
 To hire out our souls in our hiring; 
 
 To fulfill each industrial rite. 
 Oh! kill every thought that emerges; 
 Exhaust us and freeze us and broil; 
 Overwhelm with innumerable surges, 
 
 O Goddess of Toil! 
 Thou Shalt set upon all but the laggard. 
 The seal that proclaims them as thine; 
 
 Have I labored enough, O Labores? 
 
 Have 1 praised thee my dutiful time? 
 Thy beauty and worth such a store is, 
 
 'Twould wear out all rhythm and rhyme. 
 I liave flred men with glimpses of beauty ; 
 
 I have fed men with honey and oil — 
 Have I done my adorable duty, 
 
 O Goddess of Toil? 
 By the little ones weakly and stunted, 
 
 Wlio are needed to phiy their small part; 
 By the half-grown, with senses half blunted, 
 
 Who know thee so well what thou art; 
 By the father made brutish by labor; 
 
 By the mother whose love has long ceased; 
 By the love that I bear for my neighbor, 
 
 ], Proudflesh, the priesi! 
 By the body which once was a dwelling, 
 Where the soul finds a prison instead; 
 By the slaves we are buying and selling. 
 
 That are ours till the day they are dead: 
 By the mountain of gifts that they bring 
 thee: 
 By the wage of six feet of the soil — 
 Receive and believe what I sing thee, 
 
 O Goddess of Toil! 
 And ye, with lives barren of pleasure. 
 Though your hopes are killed one altoi 
 one; 
 Though the march for the .lead he the mea- 
 sure 
 Until life's wretched journey be done; 
 Though the curse of life bitter and sore is 
 
 The malice of fate ye may foil. 
 If ye fall down and worship Labores, 
 Our Goddess of Toil ! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 807 
 
 -* 
 
 SUSAN ELLEN WIXON. 
 
 Born: Dennisport, Mass., 1849. 
 From lier youth this lady has written poetry 
 aud prose. She has taught school at inter- 
 vals for several years. Miss Wi.voii has con- 
 tributed to the press since a girl, and is the 
 author of several books — All in a Lifetime, 
 
 >i^ 
 
 SUSAN VLLF.N WIXON. 
 
 Apples of Gold, The Story Hour, Summer 
 Days at Onset, and various pamphlets. For 
 many years past this lady has edited the 
 children's departed of the New York Truth 
 Seeker, and is at preseut engaged upon 
 that journal. She is also a well known and 
 popular lecturer on moral reform and ed- 
 ucational topics. Miss vvixon is a resident 
 of Fall River, Mass., where she is a promi- 
 nent member of the school board, and also 
 president of the Humboldt Scientific society. 
 
 WHEN WOMANHOOD AWAKES. 
 
 No more shall Error 'round her play 
 In fitful moods and clouds of gray. 
 Or cruel fancies crush her down 
 Where demons wait and furies frown — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 No more sliall big-ftt turn and rave, 
 A ranting yet a cringing- slave. 
 At Truth, who, in her garments white, 
 Stands facing ever to the right — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 No more shall sisters turn aside, 
 With haughty tread and sullen pride, 
 From those who walk in clearer light. 
 
 Whose keener vision sees the right- 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 No more in abject fear she'll cower 
 Before a mitred, tyrant power; 
 Nor grope in darkness, pain and shame — 
 A hopeless wretch without a name — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 No more she'll idly dream away 
 Life's splendid hours in trifling play. 
 Nor think the whole of life to be 
 To lose her own identity — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 No more the story will be told 
 By writers young- and writers old. 
 That man but toils till set of sun. 
 While woman's work is never done — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 The chains that bind her foot and hand — 
 That hold her close in every laud — 
 Will drop and crumble in the dust 
 By force of their own ancient rust — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 Her eyes are closed in slumber now. 
 The poppy-wreath is on her brow. 
 But soon her night shall change to day. 
 And mid the tombs no more she'll stray — 
 
 Wlien Womanhood awakes. 
 In horror will she view the past. 
 That, vice-like, lield her hard and fast. 
 The coming time her mind shall dower 
 With vigorous strength and helpful power- 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 The future day shall see her then 
 Clothed rightly as a citizen. 
 And she'll behold with judgment clear 
 The sovereigii rights that wait her here — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 And man shall stand on grander height; 
 Shall see the truth in larger light; 
 Shall rise from groveling in the dust 
 To realms where dwell tlie true and just — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 And all these things shall surely be 
 When Justice reigns from sea to sea; 
 Fair Freedom then, in fullest measure. 
 Shall give to each her equal treasure — 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 
 How gloomy all the past will seem ! 
 A misty way — a dreadful dream — 
 With Superstition's slimy trail 
 O'er mossy banks and flowery dale — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 O, rosy dawn in eastern skies! 
 Thy morning light the world supplies! 
 Joy-bells shall ring from shore to shore; 
 Anthems shall swell forevermore — 
 
 When Womanhood awakes. 
 
 -* 
 
PERFECT PEACE. 
 Throughout the tangled paths of life, 
 
 Restless we come and go. 
 And 'mid life's cares, its toil and strife. 
 
 We little quiet know. 
 But, when in silence, soft and sweet. 
 
 Is ended life's short lease, 
 Gently as day the night doth meet 
 
 We pass to perfect peace. 
 
 Eyes that are closed toearthly sight 
 
 Can never wake to weep ; 
 No pain or woe, no baleful l)light. 
 
 Can move that slumber deep. 
 Ears that to earthly sounds are stilled 
 
 May never more be stirred; 
 With sorrow never can be filled. 
 
 Or pained by cruel word. 
 
 Thus hearts of dust all griefs forsake - 
 
 They never break or bleed; 
 The living hearts, that throb and ache. 
 
 Our tender pity need. 
 O restful sleep! O calm repose 1 
 
 Wliere all life's trials cease. 
 Thy silver stream forever flows 
 
 To realm of perfect peace ! 
 
 Then let us in good deeds forget 
 
 The grief that fills our eyes. 
 And fn)iri these days of sad regret 
 
 Shall fragrance sweet arise. 
 And sanctified this life shall be 
 
 With pure and holy aims. 
 Until at last we come to see 
 
 All human needs and claims; 
 
 And find in them our power to make 
 
 The lives of others Vilest, 
 So they with us to hope shall wake. 
 
 To sense of joy suid rest. 
 And whether pulseless sleep is death 
 
 Or quickened life's increase. 
 Its gentle tovich is but the breath 
 
 That giveth perfect peace. 
 
 HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 How well I mind me of the day, 
 
 Tinted with August gold, 
 I held her, laughing in my arms. 
 
 Our baby, one year old. 
 How fond I watched her infant charms. 
 
 And kissed her dimpled face. 
 While close I folded to my breast 
 
 Her form of matchless grace. 
 
 And when on silvery wings Time sped 
 Twelve months again away. 
 
 Then sweetly lisped her loving voice - 
 
 »i I two 'ears old to-day ! " 
 
 Her httle feet had learned to climb. 
 
 Her hands learned mischief, too; 
 Yet watch and ward o'er her to keep 
 
 Was pleasure sweet and new. 
 
 And when three years had seen her mind 
 
 Unfolk in beauty bright, 
 To her the earth a Wonder Land, 
 
 An Eden of delight. 
 I kissed her pure and stainless lips, 
 
 Hoping, trusting the while 
 That she might never know earth's woe. 
 
 Its harshness or its guile. 
 
 Four years flew gaily, swiftly on — 
 
 Four joyous years of love. 
 With brilliant hopes and many plans 
 
 Each year was thickly wove. 
 Her i)rattling voice, her merry laugh. 
 
 Made happiness complete; 
 And music sweet to our ears 
 
 The patter of her feet. 
 
 Five years old ! her precious mind 
 
 Unfoldedday by day, 
 And promise gave of gracious worth 
 
 A gem of brightest ray. 
 Proudly we watched her onward growth. 
 
 As fled the hours away. 
 Nor thought we that our jewel bright 
 
 Was shrined in mortal clay. 
 
 Six years at length came quick and sure, 
 
 Rose-crowned and diamond-tipped. 
 As bright as though each year had been 
 
 lu rainbow colors dipped. 
 In sympathetic grace she grew 
 
 A sweetest friend to be; 
 Before her words. "I love you, dear I" 
 
 All clouds would quickly flee. 
 
 Seven years old! This August day 
 
 Is gay with birds and flowers; 
 The purple pansies bloom as bright 
 
 As when, in other hours. 
 We wreathed them on our darling's head. 
 
 With leaves of ivy green. 
 Herself the fairest, brightest flower 
 
 Our eyes had ever seen. 
 
 Her birthday! and, through n.isty tc ars, 
 
 I look in vain to see 
 Her lovely face -her wondrous eyes. 
 
 With love-light turned to me; 
 For silent is the voice I loved. 
 
 Still are the dancing feet. 
 And in the dust are all the hopes 
 
 That once made life so sweet. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 809 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. JOSIE AXTONIEWICZ. 
 
 Bokn: Russian-Poland, Sept. 3, 1840. 
 The education of this lady w:is oommeDced 
 at the Saered Heart Convent iu Poland, and 
 fliiishod in Paris. She was married in ISfiO to 
 
 ;i P^'li-h r.'t'u.ii-.M', wli- .1i,m| ■...,,,, ::<']■■- t lie 
 
 MRS. JOSEPHINE ANTONIEWICZ. 
 
 French war of 18T1, where he served in the 
 French national guard. She next taught 
 two years in a young' ladies' schot)l in En- 
 gland, and later engaged as governess in 
 Berlin. About 1878 Mrs. Antoniewicz came to 
 California, where she is now engaged in San 
 Francisco as a private teacher of modern 
 languages and music. 
 
 THE BIRDS NEST. 
 Near my window grows a tree, 
 In it birdlings sing iu glee; 
 On the branch a nest hangs low. 
 Swinging, swinging to and fro. 
 
 The little birds are hard to please. 
 And their patient mother tease; 
 Though she gives them all her store. 
 Yet they crj- and cry for more. 
 
 Often in real life we find 
 Children of exacting mind, 
 Who from parents more demand 
 Than is their's to e'ei' command. 
 
 ON THE SOBBING SEA OF TEARS. 
 
 On the sobbing sea of tears. 
 
 Wept by men througii countless ages, 
 I am drifting through the years. 
 
 Love of you my soul engages. 
 
 On the vessel of my heart. 
 
 Guided by mj' grieving soul, 
 I am coming to the mart. 
 
 Where you wait — at Heaven's goal. 
 
 Hope the mast is of my ship — 
 Hope's a mast tiiat never beuds; 
 
 In the waves the swift oars dip 
 Toward thy feet — a greeting sends. 
 
 At a certain day and hour, 
 
 O beloved Father mine! 
 Heaven's consul grants the power 
 
 To a pen my pass to sign. 
 
 Then the surging waves of feeling 
 Glad shall break upon Heaven's shore; 
 
 Heart to heart, with God's bells pealing. 
 We shall meet to part no more. 
 
 VISION OF AGES GONE. 
 
 Visions of ages gone drift by in shadowy le- 
 gions. 
 
 Speaking alike of wisdom as well as of ig- 
 norant weakness — 
 
 Speaking of strife and of conquest, and then 
 of subsequent downfall. 
 
 Those were the days for tlie strong, when 
 the Macedonian mantle 
 
 Flaunted its jewels and colors in the halls 
 and homes of t)ie Persians. 
 
 Then came the Greeks and the Romans, 
 struggling to gain on the other. 
 
 Marching with jihysical strength, the forces 
 of mind and of will power. 
 
 What avails us the glory of conquest when 
 Rome, the most powerful of nations. 
 
 Through warring and strife met with con- 
 quest? 
 
 The time was when force alone counted , 
 
 To-day there are kings in frail bodifis; 
 
 'Tis mind and not muscle that's needed. 
 
 And the mind shrinks from warfare and 
 hatred. 
 
 Why not learn from the ruins of ages 
 
 To live in peace and in quiet. 
 
 To turn all the power of tlie soul 
 
 Toward making life purer and better? 
 
 One man nor one mind can suffice 
 
 To rule all the world of the present. 
 
 But each in liis place can be a king. 
 
 If he strives for the glorj- of others. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 810 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. SARAH K. BOLTON. 
 
 This lady published in 1887, in conjunction 
 with her son, a, volume of poems entitled 
 From Heart and Nature. Mrs. Sarah K. 
 
 MRS. SARAH K. BOLTON. 
 
 Bolton has gained quite a reputation in tlie 
 literary world, and her poems have appeared 
 in many of tlie leading- publications of the 
 United States. 
 
 THE HUMAN HARP. 
 
 I said, .'Now I will play a sonj;'. 
 No matter whether brief or long-. 
 So it be blithe, and light, and gay. 
 Fit only for a summer's day." 
 But no one cared to hear or see; 
 It did not touch humariity. 
 
 I said, "Give me a deeper strain. 
 
 E'en tliough it must liave birth in pain." 
 
 The tempests came, and harp-strings broke. 
 
 But sweeter music from them woke. 
 
 X learned to sviffer and be strong. 
 
 And yet to keep a cheerful song. 
 
 I learned the drift of human needs. 
 The worth of higli and holy deeds. 
 That only noble hearts which break 
 Can suffer for another's sake, 
 He oidy sings for coming years 
 1 Who mixes with his gladness tears. 
 
 GOLDEN ROD. 
 O golden rod ! sweet golden rod ! 
 
 Bride of the autumn sun; 
 Has he kissed thy blossoms this mellow 
 morn. 
 And tinged them one by one? 
 
 T^id the crickets sing at thy christening 
 
 When, in his warm embrace, 
 He gave thee love from his brimming cup. 
 
 And Ijeauty, cheer and grace? 
 
 He brightens the asters, but soon they fade; 
 
 He reddens the sumach tree; 
 The clematis loses its snowy bloom 
 
 But he's true as truth to thee, 
 
 Scattered on mountain top or plain. 
 
 Unseen by human eye, 
 He turns thy fringes to burnished gold 
 
 By love's sweet alchemy. 
 
 And then, when the chill November comes, 
 And the flowers their work have done, 
 
 Thou art still unchanged, dear golden rod. 
 Bride of the autumn sun ! 
 
 ONE FACE. 
 
 One face looks up from everj' page, 
 From snowy cloud or tranquil sea; 
 
 One face that can all woes assuage. 
 Dearer than all tlie world to me. 
 
 The eyes are mild, the brow is fair. 
 The voice is sweet as song of bird. 
 
 How oft my hand upon the hair 
 Has rested, with no spoken word. 
 
 The years will come and go again; 
 
 Their joys and sorrows they will trace 
 On lip and brow and busy brain ; 
 
 And heaven will hold that one dear face. 
 
 BLINDED. 
 
 She lay like a rose-leaf on liis cup; 
 He scarcely knew she was there at all 
 Until, like tiie leaves of early fall. 
 
 For their i)recious hue she was gathered up. 
 
 He knew too late that the flower was gono- 
 No fragrance left in tlie cup for hlni; 
 Alas! tliat he did not clasp the brim 
 
 With tender hands in the early dawn 
 
 Of love, and save to himself the leaf. 
 
 To own is often to lose the prize; 
 
 We stumble along with blinded eyes, 
 .\nd wake to losses and bitter grief. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 811 
 
 -* 
 
 JAS. BARTLETT WIGGIN. 
 
 Born: Wadley's Falls, N.H., July 19, 1833. 
 The Wild Artist in Boston, a prose work of 
 400 piigps, from tlie pen of James Bartlett 
 Wipfrin, luis received liigh praise. His jiocms 
 
 1 
 
 JAMES BARTLETT WIGGIN. 
 
 have appeared in the Boston Transcript, 
 Brooklyn Eas'le, and other publications. 
 Mr. Wig-gin is in business, and resides with 
 his wife and faniilj- at Cambridgeport, Mass. 
 
 THE AIRY WHEELMAN. 
 Young Bigh Sj-chelle of Ryde 
 Of wheelmen was tlie pride 
 
 Of the land: 
 He could navigate a wheel 
 Built of rubber and of steel. 
 In a way to make you feel 
 
 It was grand. 
 He started out one day 
 To take a spin away. 
 
 Time to do : 
 Along the road he fared. 
 And the horses looked and seared, 
 And the people stood and stared 
 
 As he flew. 
 Wlien going down a hill. 
 In meditation still, 
 
 Walked a maid ; " 
 
 Of course ho turned aside 
 As soon as he espied. 
 And, as the road was \vid-.\ 
 
 Not afraid. 
 
 Of course nobody knew 
 
 What that angel maid would do. 
 
 So intent; 
 Surprised tliey both did feel. 
 When she gave a little squeal. 
 And rushed before tlie wheel, 
 
 Down they went. 
 
 Oh, a woman, bless her eyes, 
 Is a constant wild surprise 
 
 To a man. 
 She will muddle all his wits. 
 She will break him into bits, 
 She will set him into flts. 
 
 When she can. 
 
 Man finds trouble where he goes, 
 Takes a header, skins his nose; 
 
 'Tis his way. 
 But when ho rides a-boomiug, 
 And sees not what is coming. 
 If he upsets a woman, 
 
 Let him pay. 
 
 Of course they both got hurt. 
 And tumbled in the dirt. 
 
 Oh, so sad. 
 She was young, and oh, so fair; 
 Oh, so sweet and debonair. 
 That it almost killed him there, 
 
 'Twas so bad. 
 
 Then to help her he must try 
 To her handsome home near by. 
 
 Right awaj- : 
 And his arm was not misplaced 
 Wlien he put it round her waist. 
 And some other wounds were placed. 
 
 Come to stay. 
 
 When the wheelman rode away 
 
 To return another day 
 He was bid; 
 
 And tliat maiden's heart he carried. 
 
 And he came and came and tarried. 
 
 And they courted and got married- 
 Yes, they did ! 
 
 And he is a splendid man; 
 Deny it if you can. 
 
 And in luck; 
 He is happy as a king. 
 And his bride can laugh and sing. 
 And she is the nicest thing 
 
 He ever struck. 
 
 Hurrah for Bigh Sychelle, 
 May his bearings all run well. 
 
 Not ajar; 
 May his blessings never cease. 
 May his homo be love and peace, 
 And his family increase. 
 Tra-la-la. 
 
 -* 
 
812 
 
 LOCAT. 
 
 AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 FRED ALLISON HOWE. 
 
 born: Blendon. Mich., Sept. 15, 1866. 
 AFiTK graduating, thosubjcctof tbis sketch 
 t„„k up the profossiou of teaching. His 
 
 FRED ALLISON HOWE. 
 
 poems have appeared In many prominent 
 religious and ed ucational jo urnals. 
 
 NEVER AGAIN! 
 Never again, tl>ose light-winged hours 
 
 That passed unheeded by. 
 And filled our lives with sun or showers. 
 
 Sliallother years supply. 
 
 Never again fho rosy smile 
 On youth's fair cheelc that shone, 
 
 sS those dear, laughing hearts beguile, 
 Wl.ich cold in death have grown. 
 
 Neveragain shall this dead rose 
 
 Bloom as it did of yore,- 
 For Hfes fair tide, when once it flows, 
 
 Ei)l)s out forevermore. 
 Withered and dead, like autumn leaves. 
 
 Are pleasures Unit have fled. 
 O'er their lone grave the spirit grieves. 
 
 But brings it l)ack the dead.' 
 
 Fur soon the day becomes the night. 
 
 And niglit becomes the day. 
 Our sunlit hours, ourdrcams of light. 
 
 Take wings andfly away! 
 Yet fallen leaves and faded flowers. 
 
 Perchance, in years unborn. 
 Decayed, may nourish greener bowers. 
 
 And fairer brows adorn. 
 And snows that in the early spring 
 
 Dissolved and passed away. 
 Far south may chase the robin's wing. 
 
 In some dim-distant day. 
 That cloud that shimmered in the sun. 
 
 And fell in April rain. 
 May rest again, its circuit done. 
 
 Deep in the boundless main. 
 And though our joys may not revive 
 
 And blossom as of old, 
 Mayhap some germ, e'en yet alive. 
 
 May tender leaves unfold. 
 Tliat grief we thougbt had passed away. 
 
 May yet, like early snow. 
 On autumn flowers, o'er hearts too gay, 
 
 Drift all its ancient woe. 
 The secrets of the years to be 
 
 Lie buried in the past! 
 Dead fingers mold the destiny 
 In wliich our lives are cast! 
 We can not tear tlie veil apart 
 
 That hides the long ago. 
 Whose echoes yet surge o'er the heart 
 While life's swift currents flow. 
 
 TWO VOICES. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 Ah me? the wilderness is vast and dreary; 
 Tlie wailing winds, of dirges, never weary! 
 
 The hollow sea-waves roar! 
 O'er pale, dead flowers the gloomy rain is 
 falling,— , 
 
 The poor heart's tears on buried ^J'^ws^ot 
 
 And wandering voices to lost friends are 
 
 At midnight's spectral hour. 
 
 Along the shore 1 
 If this one life be all. then better Perisb. 
 Thanlinger to i>ehoUl whatmost wec.ierish. 
 
 Like vernal wreaths, decay. 
 
 SECONU VOICE. 
 
 Tliere is a land when, crystal 
 
 WhereTreezes lull, and trees of lito arc 
 growing. 
 And starry waters shine. 
 Tbo- many a task thy fingers must unrav^ 
 O'er many a rugged path thy feet must travel 
 
 To reach that radiant shore. 
 Strive on! thy feet may stray tluongl. mci- 
 
 dows vernal ^ , 
 
 1 r faithful till thy toilscmie journey sou. 
 Strife on! before thee lie the hills eternal! 
 Let faith ga/.e on before — 
 Life soon is o'er! 
 
 streams are 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAT. A>!D NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 813 
 
 JOHN R. MUSICK. 
 
 Born; St. Louis, Mo., Feb. 28, 1849. 
 In early life the subject of this sketch was 
 an actor, then taught a country school, stud- 
 ied law and practiced five years, but later 
 on gave his entire time to literature. He 
 
 JOHN R. MtlSICK. 
 
 has written four novels and several plays. 
 His poems have appeared in Potter's Month- 
 ly, The Current, Yankee Blade, Youth's 
 Companion, and other prominent publica- 
 tions. Mr. Musick has l)cen very successful 
 in his literarv work. 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 I know sweet .songrs I can not sing-, 
 
 I have bright thoughts I dare not breathe, 
 Thoug-h triumphs of fame for me should ring- 
 
 And crown my brow with laurel wreath. 
 I've tales untold I cannot tell 
 
 Though they would bring- me wealth and 
 fame. 
 And ihroug-h the ceaseless ages stamp 
 
 In gilded words my deathless name. 
 This hardened heart must ever bear 
 
 la silence through the years to come 
 Its disappointment and despair 
 
 As day by day I :>m nearing home. 
 And when those songs I learn to sing 
 
 And breathe the thouglits that burn 
 within. 
 This 'prisoned soul will surely wing 
 
 Its endless flight from grief and sin. 
 
 THE BAY WINDOW. 
 There's an ohjcct, I vow. 
 
 That's to me a treasure. 
 For oft I have hailed it 
 
 With exquisite pleasure. 
 More sacred to me 
 
 Than their gods to the Hindoo 
 Or gold to the raiser 
 
 Is a brilliatit baj' window. 
 I haste to the college. 
 
 When the early bell's ringing. 
 The birds in the trees 
 
 And all nature is singing, 
 I pause thereto listen forgetting I sin, oh! 
 
 And cast a sly glance 
 
 Toward the bay window. 
 Enchanted by a fairy, 
 
 'Tis long there I linger 
 And listen enchanted 
 
 To the voices of a singer. 
 'Tis the voice of an angel, 
 
 Or one that's akin to. 
 For the music of Assian 
 
 Floats through that bay window. 
 Such sweet strains of music 
 
 My heart-chords are thrilling 
 Although the dew dampness 
 
 Of even are chilling. 
 This heart has oft fluttered 
 
 Like a late-captured minnow 
 When ere I glance into that window — 
 
 That brilliant bay window. 
 
 UNKIND WORDS. 
 Could mankind in the coujse of life 
 
 But for a moment pause and think. 
 How one kind word may save a youth 
 
 With foot upon destruction's brink — 
 Just one kind word a .soul might save. 
 Or keep one from a felon's grave. 
 
 Did woman know how unkind words. 
 
 If breathed about from ear to ear. 
 May bring despair on tender hearts. 
 
 And rob them of all life liolds dear — 
 The tongue of scandal in one sl-.ort hour 
 May blight and wither the fairest flower. 
 If children knew when on the green 
 
 Engaged, perhaps, in nurthful play. 
 Thai, words, like daggers, shari) and keen. 
 
 May wound and bleed one's joys away — 
 No dagger's burnished point can smart 
 Like unkind words to childliood's heart! 
 Oh, would we bo more careful then 
 
 Of what we think or how express. 
 And modulate our mind and voice 
 
 With gentle love and tenderness? 
 Then let us ever bear in mind 
 We always gain by being kind. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 814 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DANIEL F. MILLER. 
 
 Born: near Prostburgh, Md., Oct. 4, 1814. 
 For forty years Mr. Miller was a member of 
 the Territorial Leg-islature. He has followed 
 
 
 *- 
 
 DANU^Fi F. MILLEK. 
 
 tlie profession of law since 1835, and is now 
 a resident of Keokuk, Iowa. His poems 
 have appeared extensively in the periodical 
 press. 
 
 OLD SETTLER VENTURES. 
 
 Old settler life 
 Though good and true. 
 
 Was often reckless in its way, 
 And many ventures 
 Oft engaged 
 
 For less of need than brave display. 
 
 To cross the stream 
 On floating ice — 
 
 Ice rushing wild from shore to shore, 
 Or stem the flood. 
 On horseback ride. 
 
 Were feats they often boasted o'er. 
 Or chase the deer 
 At break-neck speed. 
 
 Dashing as fast as horse could gn, 
 Or pull the oar 
 When waves ran high. 
 
 And stem the stormy current's flow. 
 Such feats as these 
 Wore settler's pride 
 
 When blood flowed free in youthful veins, 
 
 But now old age 
 Has chilled our limbs 
 
 And turned our thoughts to other strains. 
 But yet could we 
 Our youth renew — 
 
 Turn back our years two score and ten, 
 We would agree, 
 Though reckless 'twas, 
 
 To do these same feats o'er again. 
 And often I, in depths of sleep. 
 
 When fancy riots uncontrolled, 
 Imagiue I 
 Am j'outh again, 
 
 And living as in days of old, 
 A settler life with all around. 
 As in Old Settler age I found. 
 And when I wake, and find 'twas dream. 
 It grieves my heart it had not been 
 
 Not fane3% but a real thing; 
 For settler life and settler ways 
 Were, all in all, my best of days; 
 
 Where social life by all was sought. 
 
 And friendship was the leading thought. 
 
 WOMAN SUFFRAGE. 
 They say a woman should not vote 
 
 Because she is not a yeoman: 
 Because she cannot wield the sword 
 
 With strength and force of foemau. 
 But I divine it is not sword 
 
 Nor muscle of the yeoman, 
 But intellect which casts the vote, 
 
 And that most comes from woman. 
 I never knew a gifted man 
 
 But came from gifted mother. 
 And mostly every girl I know 
 
 Is smarter then her brother. 
 Tn former years in Iowa 
 
 The jail was common passage 
 When poverty could not pay debts 
 
 And ci-editors were savage. 
 But that old shame is wiped away 
 
 By lionest legislation. 
 Yet woman's servitude remains 
 
 A scandal to our nation. 
 But God's great mill, tho' it grinds slow, 
 
 Yet keeps itself in motion. 
 And ere twice twenty years shall pass 
 
 Suffrage will be woman's portion. 
 
 MARS. 
 Mars was a soldier so 'tis said, 
 
 Witli iron liehnet on his head, 
 And full of vengeful ire; 
 
 But when liis eyes sweet Venus saw, 
 He lost his ire and stood in awe. 
 
 Subdued by love-lit Are. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 815 
 
 CHARLES E. HOAG. 
 
 Born: Moultonboro, N. H., Sept. IS, 1849. 
 In 1875 Cliarles E. Hoag- was admitted to the 
 bar. In 1885 he purchased the Peabody Re- 
 porter, and two years later issued the Amer- 
 ican Citizen, at Boston, Mass., both of which 
 
 CHARLES E. HOAG. 
 
 publications he still edits. Mr. Hoag has 
 published several works, and has just is- 
 sued a volume of poems entitled Chords 
 and Discords. He was married in 1884, and 
 resides with liis wife and two children at 
 Peabody, Mass. 
 
 SONG OF EIGHT. 
 The little maid was eight months old, 
 
 The youth as many years; 
 He held her, kissed her, O, so bold ! 
 
 'Tis love that has no fears. 
 A pretty girl of ten and eight, 
 
 A gallant youtli of eight years more; 
 Again he holds her (kind is Fate !), 
 
 And kisses, as of yore. 
 She's eighty years of age yet fair; 
 
 His age— some eight years more; 
 His pillowed head is held with care, 
 
 As hers was held before. 
 
 SISTERS. 
 Deep, dark eyes, and curly liair. 
 Rosy cheeks, and face so fair — 
 That is Ena standing there 
 
 By her mother's side. 
 Soft, white skin, and hair that's light. 
 Pouting lips and blue eyes bright — 
 Ila makes a pretty sight 
 
 Trying now to hide. 
 
 Dark-eyed Ena's two years old; 
 She's the elder of the fold. 
 Knowing this she's very old, 
 
 Is our Ena fair. 
 Very young and very shj'. 
 Knowing not the reason why — 
 She'll be older bye-and-bye — 
 
 Ila hiding there. 
 Ena talks to Dolly Dare: 
 " You must say your evening prayer; 
 Then I'll lay you right down there 
 
 In your little bed! " 
 Ila looks with wondering eyes 
 At the ancient girl, then sighs 
 At such stern parental ties; 
 
 Then she hides her head. 
 Ena kisses Ila dear, 
 Tlien says: " Baby, have no fear. 
 Sister Ena's standing near — 
 
 She's a great big girl." 
 Since from liarm she is so free. 
 Baby Ila laughs with glee; 
 Hopes that she sometime will be 
 
 Such a great big girl. 
 Will this always seem to you — 
 Deep, dark eyes, and eyes of blue. 
 These so old and these so new. 
 
 On life's weary way? 
 May you both be always strong. 
 Love the right and fear the wrong; 
 Happy, joyous be your song 
 
 All the livelong day! 
 
 LOOKOUT ROCK 
 There it stands; 'tis Lookout Rock, 
 Baptised by many an ocean shock; 
 
 Seaweed clinging to its side 
 But half conceal and half reveal 
 
 The jagged face they fain would hide. 
 There it stood when Earth was j-oung. 
 When Moses taught and David sung. 
 
 Poets then had much to say. 
 But half revealed and half concealed 
 
 The story of that distant day. 
 There 'twill stand so old and gray. 
 And years will come and pass away: 
 And the waves that round it dash 
 Will half conceal and half reveal 
 
 Marks that note the lightning's tiasli. 
 There it stands, and there you'll find 
 Strange sights for eye and food for mind; 
 
 Yet so spectral all appear 
 That, though it reveals, it lialf conceals 
 
 Weird marks of life, of love, and fear. 
 There it stands a sent'ne) old. 
 And there it must stand, its tale untold. 
 
 Poets, as in otlier days. 
 Half concealing, half revealing. 
 
 Sing its song in divers ways. 
 
*- 
 
 816 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FOR MABEL'S ALBUM. 
 
 Little Mabel, luippy Mabel, 
 In the joyous days of spring; 
 
 Little reck you of the future, 
 Little care you what it brings! 
 
 Older Mabel ! sadder Mabel, 
 Now thy autumn days are near! 
 
 Is it of the past or present 
 Thou would'st most prefer to hear? 
 
 Angel Mabel ! spirit Mabel ' 
 Earthly joj-s and sorrows past — 
 
 Do j'ou see eternal spring'time? 
 Do you wear the crown at last? 
 
 THE PICTURE ON THE WALL. 
 
 See that picture on the wall? 
 An old picture, that is all; 
 Yet that picture brings to view 
 Other days, yet always new. 
 Of the years ago. 
 
 See that house upon the hill? 
 See the meadow, brook and miU? 
 It is those that bring- to view 
 Other daj's, yet ever new. 
 
 Of the years ago. 
 Dear old picture on the wall. 
 Very dear if very small , 
 Thou art ever to me new. 
 Ever bringing' to my view 
 
 Years of long- ago. 
 
 White-haired miller in the mill. 
 Brown-haired maiden on the hill. 
 They are constantly in view, 
 Never old, but alwaj"s new. 
 New as years of old. 
 
 Take that picture from the wall! 
 Ding-y picture, old and small? 
 1 would have it from my view, 
 I would have me something- new 
 Now upon the wall < 
 
 Dead, the miller in the mill; 
 Wed the maiden on the hill; 
 I have other g-irls in view. 
 And I'll place a picture new 
 Now upon the wall. 
 
 EXTRACT 
 Thou came and went in all thy meekness. 
 Came to us in all tiiy weakness; 
 Coming-, going, all in meekness, 
 O, how much of life is bleakness 
 In this world of oars! 
 
 MRS. CARRIE W. HOAG. 
 
 Born : Peabody', Mass., Dec. 30, 1856. 
 After graduating from the high school, 
 this lady afterward taught school for a few 
 years, but delicate health compelled her to 
 give up the occupation. She was married 
 to Charles E. Hoag in 1884, and is the mother 
 of two daugViters. Her verses have appeared 
 from time to time in the American Citizen, 
 of Boston, and the Reporter, of Peabody, 
 both published by her husband, Charles E. 
 Hoag, who is also represented elsewhere in 
 this work. 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 What is the name to me? 
 Think how it came to me; 
 
 So still the summer night 
 Gathered around us there; 
 Bending- your iiead to me. 
 "My wife," you said to me — 
 
 • 'My wife," in accents light. 
 
 Soft as tliat evening air. 
 How like sweet birds to me 
 Came those two words to me. 
 
 Singing all fears to rest — 
 
 Singing- sweet songs of love. 
 That keeps it near to me, 
 Keeps it so dear to me — 
 
 Me ever happy and blest — 
 
 Blest as the spirits above. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 Two sisters there were, when the world was 
 young, 
 
 Earth was fair, and life was g:iy. 
 And one liad eyes like midnight skies. 
 
 And one was fair as day. 
 But a young lover came in the summer time 
 
 To the home of the sisters twain. 
 They loved liim in truth with the love ot 
 youth. 
 
 But, ah 1 they loved in vain. 
 He played them false with his vows so free, 
 
 Till the love they bore for liiin 
 Made the eyes of night shine tiercely bright. 
 
 And the light of day grow dim. 
 He went on his way when the Autunuicanio 
 
 And the sighing trees were bai-e; j 
 
 And he ne'er rctunied to the eyes tha' 
 burned 
 
 Or the face as morning fair, 
 Th.ey waited and watclied while hoi'O g^•^ 
 faint. 
 
 Then in sorrow passe<l away; 
 And one had eyes like the midnight skies. 
 
 And one was fair as day. 
 
 *- 
 
it 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 817 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. JOHN B. ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Warren Co., Ohio. 
 Graduating at Ohio Wesleyan University 
 in 1860, Mr. Robinson the same year was 
 married and made principal of Mount Wash- 
 ington Seminary, near Cincinnati. He was 
 successively president of WillouglibyCoUege, 
 Fort Wayne College, New Hampshire Semi- 
 
 REV. JOHN B. ROBINSON, D.li II 
 
 nary and Female College, and Jfiiiiiii--^ ^i in- 
 inary. He has lectured under the auspices 
 of some of the bureaus. This gentleman 
 has published the following worljs in prose: 
 Infidelity Considered, Vines of Eshcol, Com- 
 mencements, Serpent of Sugar Creek Col- 
 ony, Preacliers' Pilgrimage, etc. He has also 
 written a vast number of fugitive poems, 
 but his chief poetical work was a volume en- 
 titled Emeline, or Home, Sweet Home. 
 
 MY BRIDE. 
 
 My first, my last, my only love. 
 
 My angel bride, my purest dove I 
 
 Let others probe the deep unknown. 
 
 And circle in some magic zone. 
 
 My fancy ends its ravished drpam. 
 
 Daylight of bliss has flung- its gleam; 
 
 I'll meet thee at that break of day, 
 
 And never more be torn away. 
 
 Not goddess of poetic fame 
 
 Such ocean wealth of worth can claim. 
 
 O, sacred altar! solemn vowl 
 
 Where boundless oceans overflow, 
 
 And float our souls upon its tide 
 
 In life-boat to the other side. 
 
 Melt warm affection in a glow. 
 
 These ocean currents overflow. 
 
 Forever like a sea of tears. 
 
 That weep for joy a thousand years. 
 
 Th' immaculate of heaven's throng 
 
 Can never chant a sweeter song. 
 
 If every star in yonder sky 
 
 Were riven from its canopy 
 
 And crushed to make a starry crown. 
 
 Its lustrous wealth should be thine own. 
 
 Let fancy-painters fade away. 
 
 Eclipsed by real fruition's ray. 
 
 Deep down the avenues of soul 
 
 In ravishment let nature roll. 
 
 Should fortune frown or hope despond. 
 
 Through Christ and thee I'll iiope bej'ond. 
 
 On Sabbath morn, that happy •• now," 
 
 I'll print caresses on thy brow ; 
 
 I'll meet thee at that break of day. 
 
 And never more be torn awaj\ 
 
 FIRSTLINGS. 
 
 Two milky eggs peeped from the nest 
 Which mother bird warmed with her breast; 
 To brood and watch them in the grove 
 Her faith was constant as her love. 
 She warmed the gems each lonely day 
 While father bird would fly away. 
 
 At break of day " peep ! peep ! " Avas heard 
 
 Beneath the wings of mother bird. 
 
 " What's that I hear?" chirped Mr. Thrush, 
 
 " I'm at my morning chorals, liush ! 
 
 Vour curtain-lecture starts again. 
 
 Or did your hungry crop complain? 
 
 You should be here, close by my side. 
 
 With feathers smooth as when a bride." 
 
 "Peep! peep!" comes from the nest more 
 
 clear. 
 Till all his feathers stand in fear. 
 Said Mrs. Thrush, "Do look at this " — 
 A scene of real domestic bliss. 
 She raised her breast just so his bill 
 Could peep beneath the downy frill. 
 "Oh! oh!" said lie, " what pretty things. 
 So like their papa's silver wings. 
 We did it, mamma," cliirruped lie. 
 And hastened gaily down the tree. 
 Ashamed of all liis sore neglect, 
 So lately vowing to protect. 
 But worms and seeds are lavished now, 
 The infant birdies sealed his vow. 
 No happier mates could love or blush 
 Than papa and good mamma Thrush. 
 So baby's smile inspires esteem 
 To which the honeymoon's a dream. 
 
*- 
 
 818 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THOMAS H. ARNOLD. 
 
 Born: New Orleans, La., Dec. 36, ISST. 
 After learning the printer's trade at Mo- 
 bile, Ala., tliis writer tor three years was 
 connected witli the Times-Democrat, of New 
 Orleans, when he accepted a lucrative posi- 
 tion on a St. Louis publication. For three 
 
 THOMAS H. ARNOLD. 
 
 years Mr. Arnold was connected witli the 
 Chattanooga Times, and is now editor of tlie 
 Middleborough News, of which publication 
 he is also president and manager. In 1883 the 
 subject of this slsetch was married to Miss 
 Mary B. Harrison, by whom he has two sons. 
 
 " 'TISS ME AND I'LL DOE TO SLEEP." 
 
 "'Tiss me, an' T'U doe to sleep," 
 
 Said our darling- sweet and low. 
 For her face was flushed and fevered, 
 
 And her breath came soft and low. 
 O'er her crib I bent and watched her. 
 
 Stroking back her golden hair. 
 And my heart seemed bowed in anguish 
 
 Overladened with despair. 
 ..Don't try, mamma, I'll be better 
 
 Wlien dis night is done away; 
 Den your baby'll tiss and love 'oo. 
 
 Be a dood cliild all de day." 
 How each word seemed bulened 
 
 With a sori'ow long and deep; 
 How my heart bled when she whispered, 
 
 .''Tiss me an' I'll doe to sleep! " 
 
 Then I kissed her, oh, so fervent. 
 
 Held her tiny hands in mine, 
 And I prayed that God might spare her 
 
 If but for a little time. 
 STes, I prayed as never mother 
 
 Prayed for that she longed to keep. 
 And again the v/ords came fainter, 
 
 "'Tiss, me an' I'll doe to sleep." 
 But 'twas useless, God had called her. 
 
 He had placed his signet there 
 On the pure and holy forehead 
 
 Of my baby darling fair. 
 He had called her to heaven. 
 
 Where the angels vigils keep. 
 So the Savior bent and kissed her. 
 
 And my babe had gone to sleep. 
 Oh, ye fathers, and ye mothers 
 
 Who have darlings pure and fair. 
 Guard their gentle little footsteps, 
 
 Foster them with tenderest care; 
 Hear ye not the angels calling 
 
 To your dear ones — low and sweet? 
 Hear you not our darling's murmur, 
 ..'Tiss me an' I'll doe to sleep." 
 
 THE FARMER TO HIS SON. 
 So yer goin' to leave the old home, boy — 
 
 Yer goin" away from the farm"? 
 Well, I'm sorry the thing hez come to this, 
 
 But I wish yer may meet no harm. 
 It's hard ter think we must give yer up — 
 
 Your poor old mother aiid me; 
 We've tried hard fur to do the square thing, 
 boy. 
 An' to tote with you fair and free. 
 The world is filled with its crooked ways. 
 
 And the city's the place whar they 
 Is found on every corner and street- 
 
 You'll meet 'em by night and day. 
 You'll have a hard time to 'scape sin, John, 
 
 Fur they'll always be in yor way ! 
 But jest close yer eyes and think, my boy. 
 
 What the old folks at home would say. 
 Just think that yer old mother's heart would 
 break 
 If yer foot should slip by the way; 
 And that every night we'll kneel by the bed 
 
 And pray for our boy away. 
 We'll pray that some time he may wander 
 back 
 To the farm where he often has played 
 In his childhood's home, and rest his head 
 
 On our lireast where it oft has laid. 
 It 'taint that we're 'fraid of the boy we've 
 raised. 
 Or that aught of his heart's going wrong. 
 But the city is full of vices and sieh. 
 And temptation for sin is strong 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 819 
 
 -»J. 
 
 LAURENCE W. SCOTT. 
 
 Born : Monongalia Co., Va., May 29, 1846. 
 The subject of tliis sketch weut to Texas in 
 liis youth, where he learned the printer's 
 trade. He was at one time local editor of 
 the Daily Leader, published at Coving-ton, 
 Ky. At the age of twenty Mr. Scott became 
 
 LAURENCE W. SCOTT. 
 
 a preacher, and has become somewhat dis- 
 tinguished as a theolog-ical disputant. In 
 1872 he returned to Texas, where he pub- 
 lished the Olive Rranch, which was after- 
 ward consolidated with the Southern Chris- 
 tian Weekly. He is the author of Paradox 
 and Other Poems, besides several prose 
 works. 
 
 *- 
 
 MARCHING HOME. 
 
 The bells of heaven are ringing-. 
 The choir of heaven is singing-. 
 The pearly gates are swinging. 
 
 As we go marching- home. 
 The Ught of heaven is shining. 
 The shade of night's declining, 
 Tlie clouds have silver lining. 
 
 As we go marching home. 
 Tlie harps of heaven are playing, 
 Tlie lieirs of heaven arc praying. 
 To God their homage paying, 
 
 .\s we go marching home. 
 
 The songs of lieaven we're singing. 
 The garnered sheaves we're bringing. 
 To Jesus' cross we're clinging. 
 
 As we go marching home. 
 The silver is refining. 
 The dross of earth dechning. 
 The golden ore we're mining. 
 
 As we go marching home. 
 "We long for heaven," we're saying. 
 On Christ our hopes we're staying. 
 To God we're Immbly praying. 
 
 As we go marchirig home. 
 Our souls in heaven we're saving, 
 In blood our robes we're laving. 
 The banners liigh are waving. 
 
 As we arriv(! at home. 
 
 BALxM IN GILEAD. 
 A Christian lies upon his cot. 
 
 With aching- heart and limb; 
 Suffering long has been his lot; 
 
 His sister reads to him: 
 • • Is there no balm in Gilead ? " 
 And "Is there no physician there?" 
 "Grant us balm o' Gilead," 
 
 Is his mother's prayer, 
 
 ••Soothing- balm o' Gilead, 
 
 Cordial for our care." 
 
 His frame is racked with misery. 
 
 His nerves are twinged with pain. 
 His soul is full of agony. 
 And this his sad refrain: 
 "Is there no balm in Gilead? 
 Oh. is there no physician there?" 
 Echo answers, .'Iliad! " 
 Echo answers, " air! " 
 Answers faintly, " Iliad," 
 Expiring on the air. 
 His father from his study comes - 
 
 His hearing is not clear — 
 He raises to his head his thumbs. 
 And bends his ears to hear: 
 "Is there no balm in Gilead? 
 Oh, is there no physician there?" 
 " Here is Homer's Iliad — 
 
 Doctor, too, is near! " 
 Holding Homer's Iliad, 
 He soils it with a tear. 
 The doctor comes with solemn mein 
 
 And looks Into his face; 
 He feels his pulse and sees his tongue 
 And hears his cry for grace: 
 " Is there no balm in Gilead? 
 
 Oh, is there no physician there?" 
 Doctor queries, "Gilead?" 
 Doctor whispers, "there?" 
 
 Musing, queries, "Gilead?" 
 Wondering, whispers, "there!" 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 820 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ELVIRA H. HOLLOWAY. 
 
 Born: Richvil,l,e, N.Y. 
 
 This lady went to San Francisco, Cal., in 
 1860, and holds a teacher's life diploma for 
 that state. Her poems have appeared in the 
 
 EL.V1KA HASKINS HOLLOWAY. 
 
 New York Tribune and various other publi- 
 cations, generally under a nom de plume. 
 She is now preparing- a volume of poems for 
 publication. 
 
 THE BURNING BUSH. 
 The Burning Bush that Bible lore 
 
 Records as seen by Moses, 
 Perchance, was the sunlight streaming 
 
 Through a bush aflame with roses. 
 
 Fair petals crowned with gems of light. 
 Glowing with glistening pearls. 
 
 As the roseate flush of dawn, 
 Her banner of beauty unfurled. 
 
 Our great creator through his works 
 
 His wisdom thus discloses; 
 And by this wondrous power 
 
 He spake in the bush to Moses. 
 
 Through all the fair creation. 
 Through flow'ret, loaf :uid tree. 
 
 He is speaking by his wisdom 
 In tones of mystery. 
 
 WAIT NOT. 
 Wait not till the leaves have fallen 
 
 From the rose tree, in full bloom ; 
 Ere you cull the fragrant blossoms. 
 
 Would you gather their perfume 
 
 Seek not in the winding pathways 
 Of the vine-wreathed sylvan glade. 
 
 For the glory that departed 
 With the summer's beauteous shade. 
 
 Do not wait till loved ones falter. 
 Droop and perish by your side; 
 
 If their burden you may lighten. 
 Or, with helping hand may guide. 
 
 If with loving thoughts and kindly. 
 You some darkened life would cheer. 
 
 Speak them while the tender accents. 
 Fall with music on the ear. 
 
 Do not wait till loving- glances 
 Are bj' death's chill shadow marred. 
 
 Speak the words of love and kindness. 
 Ere the eai-s are closed and barred. 
 
 Send the. lovelj' fragrant blossoms. 
 While the soul's deep sense may know 
 
 All the wealth of true aftection. 
 That doth from love's fountain flow. 
 
 Do not wait till icy fingers 
 Place their signet on the brow ; 
 
 Crown with love's sweet benediction. 
 Ere too late, the tardy vow. 
 
 OUR PATRIOT DEAD. 
 Whene'er we tread on freedom's plain 
 We wake to life her dead again! 
 Though their mounds are worn away 
 By the waves of time's decay. 
 Their deeds immortal and sublime 
 Live through the cliangmg years of time. 
 As ages pass with silent tread, 
 Tlie memory of our patriot dead 
 Will live forever in tlie soul, 
 As the cycles onward roll; 
 And evermore will prajan-s arise 
 As grateful incense to the skies. 
 How loved, how lionored are their names. 
 Though naught of them but dust remains; 
 Yet, heroes die not with their dust, 
 Let earth enclose her sacred trust; 
 The atti-ibutes divine were given 
 As the inheritors of lieaven. 
 Fame will iiiifadiiig laurels wreathe. 
 For them proud elcxiurnce will breathe 
 In lofty strains their highest praise; 
 And poesy witli graceful phrase 
 For them her fairest flow'rswill twine 
 And consecrate to freedom's shrine. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 821 
 
 -« 
 
 HU MAXWELL. 
 
 Boun: St. George, W.Va., Sept. 23, 1800. 
 The poems of Mr. Hu Maxwell have appear- 
 ed in the li'iidini;- duily :iiid woukly iirw 
 
 Hr MAXWKI.T, 
 
 pers. He follows the proiession of a civil 
 engineer, and slill resides in his native place. 
 
 *- 
 
 TO AMY. 
 I cannot say that I would wish thee blest 
 Entirely, always with no cloud of shade 
 To cross thy pathway. It perhaps were best 
 Tluit so it should not be. The summers fade 
 To bloom more beautiful with flowers ar- 
 rayed [dread 
 When storms are o'er, and when the winter's 
 No longer hovers In the angry west. 
 It will be so with thee. The shades that 
 spread [stead. 
 Above thee will but bring a purer light in- 
 But I would never liave dull sorrow crush 
 That gentle iit-art of thine, too kind and 
 true [rush 
 For the rough ways of earth, nor memories 
 Remorseless on you. It were best for you 
 To know not these. 'Neath .skies serene 
 and blue 
 
 Almost forever — just a shadowy day [brush 
 Sometimes, the merest shade of clouds to 
 The azure from above — I'd have thy way 
 Lead in wliere light and love and sheen and 
 shadows play. 
 
 A SONG. 
 • • Softlj- calling," sings the sailor, 
 
 " Whisper low the winds to me. 
 At they come with gentle welcome. 
 
 Calling softly o'er the sea." 
 And the sailor by the islands 
 
 Of the southern ocean far 
 Lingers while along the waters 
 
 Trembles faint the evening star. 
 Then his dreaming lightly wanders 
 
 To that distant haven fair. 
 Where she waits, while winds are playing 
 
 With her sunny, golden hair. 
 And he hears the passing whisper 
 
 Of the winds through flower and tree. 
 And he sings: "Her voice is calling. 
 
 Calling softly o'er the sea." 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 Fair Evening Star, now gleaming calmly 
 bright 
 
 Above the crest of mountains far away. 
 Thou shinest silent o'er the world to-night 
 
 As thou wilt gleam in peacefulness for aye. 
 I cannot sleep. Thy beams of silvery white 
 
 Like fairj- forms around me softly play, 
 .\nd soothe me into memories that throng 
 
 Rack to the rapturous summer of tlie Past. 
 Bright star, tliat shineth all the still liours 
 long, 
 
 Perhaps even now thy silver beams are cast 
 Through that far window, where in sweet 
 repose 
 
 My gentle "Vivian sleeps and dreams in 
 
 bliss ! [rose. 
 
 Calm star, touch soft her fair cheek, like the 
 
 And as she sleeps bestow for nie a kiss. 
 Disturb her not. 'Tis well that she can rest 
 
 Unconscious of the Past. Let balmy sleep 
 Soothe,sweetly whom the angels love the best 
 
 And vigil o'er her slunibi'r kindly keep. 
 Calm star, yet radiant in the sinking West, 
 
 Thou knowest not what liotli buried deep 
 In human hearts. She drearaeth not of me. 
 
 My Vivian to-night, and it is well. 
 Then, star, go down into that western sea. 
 
 Thou knowest not, and tongue shall never 
 tell! 
 But ere thou leave me lonely here to-night. 
 
 And train thy beams along ,some distant 
 
 shore, [lig'ht. 
 
 Shine through that window with thy silent 
 
 And on her cheek for me leave one kiss more. 
 
*- 
 
 822 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHARLES M. >s^EWELL. 
 
 Boun: Concord, Mass., Nov. 23, 182L 
 The subject of this sketch took to the sea 
 before he was seventeen years of age, and 
 followed that occupation for twenty years, 
 sailing on long voyages to all parts of the 
 world. He became master of a ship at the 
 age of twenty-six, and continued so for ten 
 years. He then left the sea to study medi- 
 cine, in which he has been very successful. 
 
 CHARLES MARTIN NEWELL. 
 
 Mr. Newell has published, in addition to 
 medical literature, six volumes of prose of 
 nearly 500 pages each, entitled The Voyage 
 of the Fleetwing, The Isle of Palms, the 
 Wreck of the Greyhound, and others, which 
 have given him a world-wide reputation as a 
 writer of sea-stories. Mr. Newell was mar- 
 ried in 1855, and is a resident of Boston, 
 Mass. The jewel shown in his portrait is the 
 insignia of a Knight Companion of the Order 
 of Kapiolani, and was presented to him by 
 the king of Hawaii in appreciation of Mr. 
 Newell's work, Kalani of Oahu. The poems 
 of this popular author will be published m 
 book-form in the near fut lire. 
 
 O, dream to-night one dream of me! 
 
 Dream I am pure and fair, 
 My heart all bright with melody. 
 
 The Bride-rose in my hair. 
 No harm to dream a dreamland kiss. 
 
 To only dream of me ! 
 It fills my heart with a witching bliss 
 
 Whene'er I dream of thee. 
 O dream of me these soft night-hours - 
 
 God grant I may dream of thee ! 
 Like perfume from the garden flowers. 
 
 Our love in dreams will be. 
 
 DREAM THOU OF ME. 
 
 Dream thoa of me, these soft night-liours? 
 
 Dost dream of love divine? 
 Forget, dear Love! the fate that lowers; 
 
 Forget that thou art not mine. 
 
 ALOATA'S DEATH SONG. 
 Tuning her lute with fingers fair. 
 Tuning her lute to divine despair. 
 Touching the strings with a girl's caress. 
 Freeing her face from a raven tress. 
 Sadly she sang in a voice so sweet! 
 Cooing her notes as the wood doves greet 
 Into her voice, with its gift of song. 
 Into her lute, with its tones of wrong. 
 Sorrow crept in like a sad refrain. 
 Till song and lute seemed a cry of pain. 
 Wringing the heart of the man she loved — 
 Never again have his lips reproved. 
 Ending her song, she was dumb and mute; 
 Snapping the strings of her heart and lute. 
 Silent she sat, with her face to the moon. 
 Tearless and pale, like a soul in swoon; 
 Into her face crept a look of woe 
 Only the heart-breaking soul may know? 
 Swooning, she fell with her arms on high, 
 Reaching to God with an anguish cry; 
 Falling, she lay on her lover's breast. 
 Bleeding from lips where his kisses pressed; 
 Broken - the heart that had loved so long! 
 Winning his love with her dying song. 
 
 THE ISLE OF PALMS. 
 There's an isle I love in the Southland seas, 
 Where the palm waves tall in the trade-wind 
 
 breeze; . 
 
 Where the flow'ring vines leap aloft on high 
 Like appealing hands reaching up to the sky. 
 There the Sabbath-bells are the golden fruit, 
 As dumb in their chimes as the silent lute; 
 There the orange blossoms their stars iin- 
 
 foid, [^«'*': 
 
 And the jasmine gleams with its stars oi 
 E'en the sea below, in its coral eaves. 
 Has its Mermaids fair in the azure waves; 
 They ring on the shore to the summer moon 
 Wifii the voice of a lute in its sweetest tune. 
 Tis an Isle of beaut y ! Spirits guard the plaro. 
 And the wing-breeze of spirits fan the facei^ 
 There the sea-worn mariner, bowed wit li cart, 
 Finds an ear-divine to receive his pray r 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 823 
 
 -* 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM. 
 
 Born: Hahira, Ga., Jan. 31, 1857. 
 In bis youtli tliis writer was a great reader 
 of Josoplius, Telemadus and other works of 
 like nature. Wlien eig-hteen years of ag-e he 
 went to Southern Florida, tlien a wilderness, 
 where he spent several years as a hunter 
 and woodsman, occasionally teaching- a coun- 
 try school in the back woods. For awhile 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOf-'-OM. 
 
 he was a f aimer, then a country mereluint, 
 and then a teacher. Anally drifting- into jour- 
 nalism. His work finding favor with the 
 late Henry \V. Grady, Mr. Folsom was em- 
 ployed on the Atlanta Constitution. In 1888 
 he published Scraps of Song- and Southern 
 Scenes, a very fine collection of jioems and 
 sketches. Mr. Folsom has made a national 
 reputation as a story, sketch and editorial 
 writer, reporter, correspondent and as a poet. 
 He was married in 1879 to Fannie B. Croft, 
 and now resides with his wife and four chil- 
 dren at Atlanta, Ga., where lie is on the edi- 
 torial staflf of the Constitution. 
 
 A WOMAN'S WORD. 
 
 I told you nay when last we met; 
 I knew 'tis inconsistent, yet, 
 
 Upon reflectien, 1 confess 
 Wells from my heart the answer - 
 Uncertain as a humming bird 
 Upon the wing, a woman's word ! 
 
 res! 
 
 I love you, but I've changed my mind; 
 
 I do not mean to be unkind; 
 
 I see it in a different light, 
 
 And really must say •• No! " to-night. 
 
 No leaf by varying breezes stirred 
 
 So changeful as a woman's word. 
 
 O, love, pray press your lips to mine. 
 Once more your arms around me twine; 
 Now, that life's tide is ebbing fast, 
 I will be consistent, true, at last! 
 Heartsick from hope too long deferred — 
 A woman's word ! A woman's word ! 
 
 TO HENRY W. GRADY. 
 
 True Friend: 
 To wliom my heart hath turned 
 When in Life's skies in splendor burned 
 The Star of Hope. And oft to whom 
 My soul hath looked when deepest gloom 
 Of dark adversity appalled: 
 
 To Thee: 
 To whom I oft have called 
 For help and sympatliy and cheer [drear 
 When clouds were dark and skies were 
 And never, never called in vain; 
 This modest tribute of my bi-ain 
 
 Tn Love 
 I dedicate, and bring 
 With this a heart's free offering. 
 Through every change or varying mood. 
 Of deep, undying gratitude. 
 
 A SPRAY OF HELIOTROPE. 
 A withered spray of lieliotrope. 
 
 With one poor faded blossom. 
 Fit emblem of a cherished hope 
 
 Borne in his restless bosom. 
 Were't like that "Resurrection Rose," 
 
 In Mexic legend tender. 
 That 'neath the showers of April bUiws 
 
 Anew in heightened splendor; 
 So might tliat dead liope bloom again 
 
 In beauteous form atid fashion. 
 After the driving, blinding rain 
 
 Of some wild gust of passion. 
 Reminder of what I forgot — 
 
 The glamor and the glory. 
 The sacred joy, the vain regret 
 
 Of one sweet summer story. 
 Tliough shadows dark increase the scope 
 
 Of sorrows that enslave me, 
 I'll keep this spray of heliotrope 
 
 That long ago you gave me ! 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 824 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SEPARATION. 
 So near and yet so far apart. 
 
 Dear faithful heart! 
 Day after day we meet and greet 
 
 Upon the street 
 With -words so calm and dignified. 
 
 Such well-feig-iicd pride. 
 None guess we love — ah, none can know? - 
 
 Each other so ! 
 And yet, though circumspect and wise, 
 
 Our tell-tale eyes 
 Give — unvoiced thoughts we dare not say 
 
 Our souls away ; 
 And wakened by their ardent beam 
 
 From blissful dreams. 
 The youthful god, with mischief rife, 
 
 Renews the strife. 
 So far apart, and yet so near. 
 
 We linger here; 
 The radiance in your love-lit eyes 
 
 The tear-drop dries 
 In mine, just as the distant sun 
 
 Drive?, one by one. 
 The dew-drops off that tremble on 
 The cheek of Dawn. 
 
 THEY WILL MISS YOU. 
 I am sure the birds will miss you 
 
 Bye and bye; 
 Whispering winds will loug to kiss you 
 
 When the sky 
 Wears a veil of teary sadness. 
 Shadowing the summer gladness. 
 
 When you die! 
 Flashing waters, lowly humming 
 
 Out of tune. 
 Blossoms bright that loved your coming 
 
 As a boon ; 
 Smile no more, but grieve and wonder - 
 Busy bees will sadly ponder 
 
 As they croon ! 
 Starry eyes of night will glisten 
 
 Through their tears; 
 Chant the whip-poor-will and listen 
 
 Through the years. 
 Ever sighing and recalling 
 That 'tis not your light step falling 
 
 That he hears! 
 Children, too, with sober faces. 
 
 They will tell 
 How that you, with all your graces. 
 
 Loved tliem well ! 
 Treasured memories will awaketh 
 With your name, in hearts forsaken 
 
 Isabel ! 
 But one heart e'en nbw must languish. 
 
 Sob and moan — 
 Bear its load of pain and anguish - 
 
 And unknown. 
 Like some tortured soul unshriveu. 
 Watch the guarded gates of heaven 
 
 All alone ! 
 
 Yet, I know the world will miss you 
 
 When life's done; 
 But I envy now the winds that kiss you. 
 
 And the sun 
 Who, with rapturous caresses, 
 Touches now your shining tresses — 
 
 Happy one ! 
 From December to December, 
 
 All the way 
 Through life's decline will remember 
 
 That bright day 
 When, upon your snowy bosom. 
 Bloomed a spray of apple blossom 
 
 In the May ! 
 Oh, the words I cannot fashion. 
 
 Though I try; 
 For th' unfathomed depth of passion 
 
 Drowns the cry ' 
 You will know it all and feel it 
 When mists of earth no more conceal it — 
 Bvc and bye! 
 
 MY LADYS EYES. 
 My Lady's eyes 
 Are like the dyes 
 Of Indian summer's ]:)luest skies; 
 And in their deeps 
 An angel keeps 
 His watch, while infant Cupid sleeps. 
 Her brow is white 
 As snow and bright 
 As April's incandescent light 
 
 When south-winds bring 
 And gently fling 
 Their treasures at the feet of Spring. 
 Nor dark nor fair 
 Her twining hair. 
 But all the rays of evening share; 
 Each tender touch 
 And tint is such 
 I only know I love them much. 
 The rich rays seek 
 Her rounded cheek 
 Like sunbeams clustering 'round some peak 
 Where ebbs and flows 
 And burns and glows 
 The blended light of suns and snows. 
 Her sweet breath tips 
 Those rosy lips 
 With honey dew the brown bee sips 
 From fragrant flowers. 
 In wavehuul bowers. 
 At evening's calm and tranquil hours. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 825 
 
 * 
 
 LUTHER GRANGER RIGGS. 
 
 Born: Fairfield Co., Conn., Sept. 38, 1837. 
 This editor, author aud poet commenced 
 liis career as a printer, at the same time con- 
 tributing stories, slvetclies and verse to nioic 
 than a score of the leading- publications of 
 America. Since that time he has contri- 
 bntcd to Graliam's Magazine, Peterson's 
 Magazine, Godey's Lady's Book, aud hun- 
 
 « 
 
 liXJTHER GRANGER RIGGS. 
 
 dreds of otlier equally prominent publica- 
 tions. After serving through the war, Capt. 
 Riggs began tlie publication of the Meriden 
 Recorder, which he successfully conducted 
 for twenty-one years, issuing both daily and 
 weekly editions. For a number of j-ears lie 
 also published and conducted the Evening 
 Journal, the Morning Call, the Citizen, the 
 Wallingford Forum, and the New Haven 
 BailyNews. Capt. Riggs was for five suc- 
 cessive years an official reporter of the Con- 
 necticut state senate. Ill 1875 he published 
 a collection of liis miscellaneous poems, and 
 a second edition was issued, which was 
 speedily sold. In the fall of 1883 Capt. Riggs 
 located in Chicago, where he has written 
 largely for the Chicago Tribune, Times, 
 Herald, Inter-Oeean and News; prepared 
 many scientific and descriptive articles for 
 Andreas' History of Chicago, edited trade 
 journals, and has done an almost infinite 
 
 amount of specialty work. In 1877 Capt. 
 Riggs married Miss Ray Warner, daugliter 
 of Samuel Warner, of Apple River, Jo 
 Daviess county, Illinois. He is now editor 
 of tlie Recorder, pul)li.s.hod at Richmond, 
 Illinois. 
 
 LIFE'S SUNSET HOUR. 
 The western hills are fading now. 
 
 The golden-tinted clouds are gone. 
 The rapid river's ripples flow 
 
 More faintly in my fancy on. 
 Tlie sweet repose, so still, so calm, 
 
 Whicli sunset's softening shades impart, 
 Migiit soothe, metliinks, likeGilead's balm. 
 
 The weary or the wounded heart. 
 
 The flowers' scent, the forests' force, 
 
 Sweet silence of pale stars still sliare. 
 Since sorrow's shadow its sad source 
 
 Secrets with solemn, sober air. 
 Now its fierce fires spread o'er the soul; 
 
 No drop of dew dispels the heat; 
 The eartli seems shriveled like a scroll. 
 
 Nor lonely lakes lave lonely feet. 
 
 \Vhere waves are wild, where shores are 
 steep. 
 
 And princely pines peer down in pride; 
 Where waters cheerless, dark and deep 
 
 In gloomy groans grate on life's tide; 
 Wliere reeds and rushes, red and ranlv. 
 
 Skirt shining strand of shell-strewn shore. 
 Or foamy seas sweep o'er steep bank, 
 
 I list the waves' low, sullen roar. 
 
 I know not why, but at this hour. 
 
 When sinks the golden sun to rest, 
 I turn with strange, impelling power 
 
 A searching glance within my breast, 
 And in the day's receding light 
 
 Tlie veil falls from my heart anew. 
 And all grows dim to human siglit. 
 
 And but One Eye its faults can view. 
 
 The sun-set hour is sweeter far 
 
 Than glittering glare of glowing noon, 
 I love to watch the first faint star 
 
 Or gaze upon the crescent moon ; 
 Then thotight flies high, and memory 
 
 Sleeps in the quiet of the scene. 
 Till in the future far I see 
 
 A desert isle, forever green. 
 
 'Tis fancy all! Eiirth hath no rest! 
 
 Life's busy throng, with bustling air, 
 Press on ; while liidden in each breast 
 
 Are eager hope and anxious care, 
 Till, torn by turbulent desires. 
 
 And chilled by disappointments past, 
 Consumed by passion's fevered fires. 
 
 Life's sunset-Iiour is readied at last. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 826 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMERICA. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 Be thou, O man '. in all thy ways 
 Generous as love, and like the rays 
 Shot from the sun to warm the field: 
 Let thy full sheath its substance yield, 
 Not with a stealth, but free as love. 
 As God sends rain from clouds above 
 To water fields with gentle sliowers. 
 And woo the seeds to burst in flowers. 
 So all through life, ye sons of man. 
 Aid ye the heart in this great plan. 
 To wreathe in smiles each careworn face, 
 And plant within the soul new grace. 
 Give of thy store, though small it be. 
 As God gives life and health to thee; 
 Oh ! blest it he who gives with love 
 His charity, and high above 
 Tlie angels sign and gild his name 
 On the eternal scroll of fame! 
 
 *- 
 
 EVENING. 
 When the long, bright hours are numbered. 
 
 And the daylight beauty dies; 
 When the stars tlieir nightly watch-fires 
 
 Kindle in tiie western skies. 
 What is that which, gently stealing. 
 
 Dream-like o'er the musing mind. 
 Calms each wayward thought and feeling 
 
 With a magic undefined? 
 Hark! the sound of distant waters. 
 
 Murmuring in their ceaseless play. 
 Comes upon the breath of evening. 
 
 Blending with the night-bird's lay. 
 Whence the power that strangely sways us. 
 
 As we list that magic tune. 
 Bringing back fond, faded memories 
 
 With the glances of the moon? 
 Now the evening-star nrises 
 
 Brightly o'er the wooded hill. 
 Gilding with its mellow radiance 
 
 Field and forest, fount and rill; 
 Knowest thou whenci^ this strange emotioti, 
 
 Stirring e'en the fount of tears- 
 Why the glance, so quick and searching. 
 
 Backward flies to childhood's years? 
 
 Is it memory of the wildwood. 
 
 Wherein early life we straj'ed. 
 Or the moonlit haunts of childhood. 
 
 Where we innocently played? 
 Is it name of friend or brother. 
 
 Hoarded long in memory's cell. 
 Or tiio mild glance of our mother 
 
 That awakes tlie mystic spell? 
 Deep within that spell is centered — 
 
 Yet what tongue can speak the whole — 
 Wlio reveal the hidden power 
 
 Of the strange, mysterious soul? 
 
 Ever unexplained yet in-csent 
 With our spirits dwell the power 
 
 Potent thus to move and sway us 
 In the pensive evening hour. 
 
 IMPULSE. 
 
 The silvery sun shone through a cloudless 
 
 sky, 
 And bright the blossoms borne on shrub 
 
 atid tree; 
 Sweet was the hum of the industrious bee. 
 While birds filled all the air with melody. 
 I saw her tie her hat beneath her chin ; 
 I saw her band her raven ringlets in; 
 But not alone were these cauglit in lier 
 
 snare. 
 For O! my truant heart went roving there! 
 The rude rough winds witli her thick tresses 
 
 played ; 
 They madly l)lew her curls across my face? 
 They chased her ringlets in a frolic race; 
 They played sad tricks with my sweet rural 
 
 maid; 
 How could I less than gently fold her in. 
 Or how forbear to kiss her dimpled chin? 
 
 ASPIRATIONS. 
 O, for the mistral's strong wing, hence to fly 
 To realms where the bards wake soul-mel- 
 ody — 
 Where, in mystical harmony, fair buds and 
 
 bright flowers 
 Blend their voices with twin stars and sing 
 
 of the liours; 
 Where the zephyr and sunbenin. in ecstatic 
 
 delight, 
 Playful dalliance give fairies, then hideout 
 
 of sight; 
 While the lute's melting iiiusic in soft tones 
 
 swept by. 
 And the harp's grand choral wakes sweet 
 
 melodj-. 
 
 O, for the wings of the wild Lutin-steed, 
 
 To bear me to charmed flower-circles with 
 speed ! 
 
 Wliere the lightning's dread waiul cncliant- 
 eth the ground. 
 
 And luminous footprints tlie sprites scatter 
 round.; 
 
 Where fond Hope hath planted, 'mid scenes 
 of deep gloom. 
 
 Bulbs of Fancy and Feeling, whose perpet- 
 ual bloom 
 
 With the blossoms of Sympathy juM-feetly 
 blend. 
 
 And the delicate odors waft to earth's re- 
 mote end. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 — * 
 
 827 
 
 MRS. MAY C. SHAPLEIGH. 
 
 Born: St. Louis, Mo 
 In 1878 this l.idj' was nuirried t(3 Augustus 
 F. Shapleigh, of St. Louis, Mo., wliere she 
 now resides with her husband and two 
 
 ^. \, - V: 
 
 ; Vn 
 
 .^iiL 
 
 Jn{ S.MAY C. SHAPLEIGH. 
 
 children. Mrs. Shapleig-h has written more 
 than a hundred poems anri a number of 
 plays. 
 
 THE ARTISTS LAMENT. 
 You've ensnared my heart, my darling. 
 
 With your burnt sienna liair, 
 Witli your cobalt eyes, beloved, 
 
 And your cheeks of carmine rare: 
 And your smile has quite bewitclied me. 
 
 Oh, that soft Vermillion smile! 
 As your teetli of Kremnitz white 
 
 Gleamed dazzlingly the wliile! 
 Let those blushes of rose madder 
 
 But faintly ting-e your clieek. 
 And those drooping- eyelids shadow 
 
 With neutral shadows while I speak. 
 May the Naples yellow high lig-hts 
 
 Of your soft sienna hair. 
 Rest lifrhtly and distoi-b not 
 
 Those Vandyke shadows there I 
 Sitting silently before me. 
 
 Ideal of my dream ! 
 " As pretty as a picture " 
 
 In your reverie you seem. 
 
 And I love you as you sit there 
 
 In your robe of Prussian blue. 
 Wearing- topaz, like gold ochre. 
 
 And a deep chrome llower or two; 
 Whilst you lean against a background, 
 
 Caledonian brown and gold. 
 And the traces of soft laces 
 
 Sigh caresses in each fold. 
 If my arms might thus enfold you. 
 
 If I dared to hold you so! 
 But, alas ! you are another's. 
 
 And your heart may never know 
 How I've loved j'our very outline. 
 
 And have traced it with bright dreams. 
 As the moonlight rays trace shadows 
 
 Of the flowers 'ueath its beams. 
 Oh, my sweet, poetic idyl ! 
 
 Pictured ideal of my heart. 
 Dreams of j'ou are vain and idle — 
 
 From my idol I must part. 
 For to love you is heart-misery 
 
 And "madness to the brain; " 
 If your heart were mine, my darling, 
 
 I must give it back again; 
 For fate has come between us, 
 
 And in grief I turn to go — 
 I who have loved you, oh! beloved, 
 
 More than j'ou can ever know. 
 And so, with tears and sorrow, 
 
 I must tear you from my life — 
 You, who are my sweetheart. 
 
 Fate forbids should be my wife. 
 
 I LOVE AIY LOVE. 
 I love my love with a heartache. 
 
 For my love does not love me; 
 And whether I sleep or wake. 
 
 And whatever and wherever I be. 
 
 It is all the same to me 
 That I love my love with a heartache. 
 
 Because she loves not me. 
 
 I love my love, and I trust her. 
 
 For none could doul)t her eyes, 
 So tender their wonderful lustre — 
 
 So tender with h.-ippy surprise. 
 And shining like stars from the skies 
 
 Is the truth tliat makes me trust her — 
 The truth from her heavenly eyes. 
 
 I love my love and I've lost her. 
 And the floodgates of grief open wide. 
 
 Whilst the waves madly dash thro' the dark- 
 ness. 
 Bringing wrecks with the incoming tide. 
 
 Oh, there's no life but death since she died '. 
 I loved her so! and I've lost her. 
 
 And there's nothing to think of beside! 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 828 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 AN APPEAL TO YOU. 
 Do you tbiuk I did not care 
 When you turned from me there, 
 Leaving' me moody just where 1 stood, 
 
 Transfixed as it were, 
 
 For I could not stir; 
 And j-ou thought it indifference ? You 
 
 should 
 Study the indifference 'twixt a listless mood 
 And the hopelessness of despair ! 
 You thought then I did not care, 
 That you turned from me there? 
 You saw only the attit ude ! 
 
 You'd have been more wise 
 
 Had you noted the eyes 
 That followed you, tho' I stood 
 Stunned when you turned from me just as 
 
 I should — 
 There seemed nothing to me but despair! 
 
 You still thiuk I did not care 
 
 When I told you tliere 
 
 What I told you, asking so much beside; 
 
 Can you not recall 
 
 I said all, asked all. 
 In my foolish, presumptuous pride? 
 And you left me there in despair 
 For a hopeless love denied? 
 
 Ah! you can't think I did not care; 
 
 You believe in despair! 
 
 Don't mock me thus ! Beware ! 
 
 You surel.v know 
 
 Since I tell you so! 
 Don't say that I did not care! 
 Don't tempt a desperate man to break 
 His heart for your heartless sake. 
 
 What is that? 'Tis an idle threat? 
 
 You know I'll forget? 
 
 A man's heart is not easy to break. 
 
 Well, perhaps tliat is so; 
 
 But stay ! —ere you go 
 Perhaps you had just as well know 
 I feel I can never recover this blow; 
 Despair will not let me forget! 
 Farewell, then: your hand —if you will 
 You would be friends still? 
 No I could never be such to you. 
 
 It isn't too late 
 
 To face my fate. 
 There's something left for me to do! 
 Your satire has saved me to myself, thank 
 
 you! 
 I'll be brave if I can. Adieu! 
 You're as wliite as a ghost! What care 
 Can you have for despair? 
 I thank you for i)ity; but no. 
 
 You needn't weep now. 
 
 For my grief I bow 
 Submissive, release you, and — go — 
 
 See ! I shall g'ive you up bravely, you know ; 
 1 shall try to outlive my despair! 
 You are weeping; and yet do not care 
 For me — but my despair; 
 You must needs not pity me so ! 
 
 For God's sake, no! 
 
 Ah ! let me go, 
 I can't bear your pitj', you know. 
 There, I cannot be brave if I stay; let laego! 
 But you love me? Thank God it is so ! 
 
 ill the 
 
 A DREAM LULLABY. 
 
 Let us float far away 
 
 To the end of the day — 
 To the Bye Babyland we will go; 
 
 We'll drift down in a dream 
 
 On the deep slumber stream, 
 ^V^hile the waves sing a lullaby low. 
 
 In that wide wonderland. 
 
 With your hand in my hand. 
 We will wander at will to and fro; 
 
 And such strange things we'll see — 
 
 Strange to you, dear and me; 
 Things that none but the Bye Babies know 
 There the rosebuds have wings. 
 
 And the buttei-ily sings. 
 And the birdies can talk if they try; 
 
 While the babies that never 
 Could talk or walk ever. 
 
 Can sing like the birds and can fly. 
 In that land it's always June, 
 
 And the happy afternoon 
 See the laughing sunlight daiicini 
 grass. 
 
 While the madcap's merry breeze 
 Frolics romping- through the trees, 
 
 Catching at the little shadows as they pass. 
 There the ripples of the stream 
 
 Laugh like music in a dream 
 At the sleepy flowers nodding to and fro — 
 
 Nodding flowers, dreaming flowers. 
 Rocked to sleep by golden hours. 
 
 As tlie golden-winged hours come and go. 
 And the bees, the lazy things, 
 
 On such honey-laden wings, 
 Drowsy, droning.half asleep upon the bloom; 
 Langruor- faint, the cradled bees. 
 Fanned by the phaniuui breeze. 
 
 Fall asleep upon the pillows of perfume. 
 Then lliat guardian angel sleep 
 
 Witli enfolding arms will keep 
 My nestled darling closely sheltered, float- 
 ing on 
 
 Tiiro' the dreamless slumber times, 
 Till earth's matin music-chimes 
 
 Whisper to the winged sleepers: "It is 
 dawn! " 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 829 
 
 CHARLES L. PAIGE. 
 
 Born: Pontiac, III., Dec. 9, 1859. 
 At twelve years of age the subject of this 
 sketch went to Cleveland, Ohio, and two 
 years later to Shasta, Cal., where he still re- 
 sides. He was appointed postmaster at 
 Shasta in 1878, and served m that capacity. 
 
 CHARLES L. PAIGE. 
 
 and as telegrapli operator and merchant, 
 until 1886. The following- three years he 
 was agent for the Pacific railroad company 
 in Nevada and California. He is an ardent 
 sportsman with rod and rifle in the moun- 
 tains. The poems of Mr. Paige have ap- 
 peared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Over- 
 land Monthly, New York Forest and Stream, 
 and many other notable publications. 
 
 SONG OF THE GOLD. 
 With features heavy and worn, 
 
 With visage florid and red, 
 A gentleman sat in conventional rags 
 And siglied in a way that was sad: 
 Eioh! rich! rich! 
 In wealth and in luxury roU'd, 
 
 And still with a voice of a dolorous pitch. 
 He sang the -Song of the Gold ! " 
 Wealth! wealth! wealth! 
 In houses, and lots, and land. 
 
 And wealth! wealth! wealth! 
 In possessions vast and grand. 
 
 It is oh ! to be a slave 
 And have the barbarian's health ! 
 1& 
 
 For a man has never a soul to save 
 Who only toils for wealth 1 
 
 Wealth! wealth! wealth! 
 Still striving and toiling for gain; 
 Wealth! wealth! wealth! 
 Yet I never enough obtain. 
 
 Gold, and mortgages, and deeds. 
 Bond, and mortgage, and gold; 
 
 And, counting it all, 1 fall asleep. 
 To dream of the coupons I hold! 
 O men who strive for gold ! 
 
 O men who revel in wealth! 
 You make ill-use of limited time — 
 
 You lose your strength and health! 
 Rich! rich! rich! 
 In wealth and in luxury roU'dl 
 
 What is it all in the end but dross? 
 And for what was existence sold? 
 
 Work! work! work! 
 My labor is never less. 
 
 And what are its wages? Additional cares. 
 Additional cares and distress. 
 
 O you, who are poor and in want. 
 You do not suffer alone — 
 
 Your lot may be hard, but so is mine. 
 Your sighs only echo my own. 
 
 Oh I but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslips and primrose sweet, 
 Witli the sky above my head 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet? 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel — 
 Before 1 knew cir cared for wealth ! 
 
 Ah ! then T enjoyed a meal ! 
 With features heavy and worn. 
 
 With visage florid and red, 
 A gentleman sat in conventional rags 
 
 And sighed in a way that was sad: 
 Rich! rich! rich! 
 In wealth and luxurj' roU'd, 
 
 And still of a lot that was hard to endure 
 
 (The rich may be sad as well as the poor!) 
 He sang the " Song of the Gold! " 
 
 AWAY FROM THE THRONG. 
 
 It may not be — yet it seems to me 
 
 Away from the throng is best; 
 By some lonely shore where the waters roar. 
 
 Or far in the crimson west. 
 For friends are few that are sure and true — 
 
 Aye, the crowd is a mob to me; 
 More tame and mild is the distant wild. 
 
 More calm is the stormiest sea. 
 Ah, it must be so, for the wisest know 
 
 That man is a foe to man ! 
 The love is small that extends to all, 
 
 Tho' we trust it as we can. 
 
 -* 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 To have oue friend at a long life's end 
 
 Is a blessing- rare, I sigh. 
 One faithful clasp as we dying gasp- 
 
 Oue glance in an honest eye ! 
 Yet there's love in all, in great and small, 
 
 ]u the fiend whom all avoid; 
 You may see its gleam in a demon's dream. 
 
 And it cannot be destroyed. 
 In the great and least, in man and beast, 
 
 'Tis the soul, till life shall fail; 
 I'm sure 'tis ihe part of my lady's heart. 
 
 And it wags my spaniel's tail. 
 But I sigh again as I say with pain. 
 
 Away from the throng is best; 
 My fondest dreams are of woods and streams 
 
 Afar in the hostile west. 
 There's a gleam 1 prize in my horse's eyes, 
 
 And I like — three dogs at most — 
 Aye, one dear face in my heart has place. 
 But it cannot liold a host. 
 
 A BELIEF. 
 
 Time shifts the scenes, fast changing each 
 and all; 
 No little atom rests inert on earth; 
 No tiling, no thouglit, no life, or great or 
 small 
 But changes with the seon from its birth. 
 
 Men come and races come and go as fast 
 
 As ever magic pictures on a screen; 
 The era, age and empire, at the last 
 
 Will come and go as this and will have 
 been. 
 Omnipotence is all; Man makes nor mars; 
 
 He cannot cause or check a sparrow's fall. 
 Else he might change from destined ways 
 the stars 
 
 And scorn fell death - the universal pall. 
 That power is, and nothing can evade. 
 
 Diminish or re-order it a jot; 
 Fate was decreed when all the worlds were 
 made. 
 
 And every man apportioned then his lot. 
 
 Thi' babe's first gasp is not an act its own ; 
 The youth's loud shout is still no part of 
 him; 
 And reasoning man may labor or may 
 drone; 
 He lives, he dies -and all beyond is dim. 
 
 I'll write no more, all themes are over- 
 wrought. 
 And only wrinkles deck the pale, sad brow 
 
 of thought. 
 Why store tke brain to stoop beneath the 
 weight 
 Of never-sated reason's cumbrous load? 
 Only to know the fixedness of fate — 
 
 To bear the pain and still apply the goad! 
 And then, when all the lease of life is spent, 
 But be more gray than wise — more feeble 
 than content! 
 
 Why should we reck of days or years or ages? 
 Why note the mysteries each moment 
 brings? 
 I Why heed the hoarded wisdom of dead 
 sages? 
 Why pore o'er histories of fools or kings? 
 Away with all that's past! all ghosts of 
 
 time — 
 And all the grinning skeletons of prose or 
 rhyme. 
 
 I'll rest me here; the soul most yearns for 
 rest ; 
 The vacant mind is fetterless and free; 
 All things that live, save man, live to attest 
 
 Unalterable nature's stern decree! 
 Then blest the boor who lives and dies se- 
 rene. 
 Careless and dull, nor thinks what is or 
 
 might have been ! 
 Too late-too late! the craft once cast adrift 
 Upon the shoreless sea must restless float; 
 All points converge and useless every shift 
 
 Of the blind pilot in each fated boat. 
 Then spread all sail, catch every wind that 
 
 blows ; 
 Sail, bravely sail, and sink, and then who 
 knows, who knows! 
 
 A PAUSE. 
 The poet paused and listless dropped his pen ; 
 I'll think no more, he said. The w(n-ld is 
 old, 
 'Tis filled with thouglit, and weary-mindi'd 
 men 
 
 Have gleaned eiu)iigh from all that time 
 has told ; 
 
 EXTR.^CT. 
 Sere, blank and yellow, orchard, lield and 
 
 On drooi.'ing boughs s.uiie dead-ripe fruit 
 is hung; 
 With thrifty care is garnered all the gnnu. 
 The summer's ended and hor birds have 
 
 Her birds have sung. and. we.uiod, seek to 
 
 rest; , _„, 
 
 There's scarce a chatter in the sim-hurnt 
 
 hedge ; ,,, 
 
 And dry leaves rustle in the spring-bullt 
 
 As wheiv'no more the little groups should 
 fledge. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS O^^ AMERICA. 
 
 831 
 
 -* 
 
 ISAAC EDGAR JONES. 
 
 Born : Liverpool, Eng., 1850. 
 As author aud journalist, tliis writer has 
 gained a national reputation, having- con- 
 tributed extensively to the Boston Tran- 
 -script, Louisville Courier-Journal, Chicago 
 Times, Chicago Inter-Ocean, aud other lead- 
 
 ISAAC EDGAR JONES. 
 
 ing publications, and he is now editor of the 
 Daily Chronicle, Muskegon, Mich. For sev- 
 eral years he lived in Indianapolis, Ind., 
 wliere he was proprietor and editor of the 
 official city paper, aud was active in social, 
 benevolent, political and literary circles. 
 
 THE MEASURELESS DEEPS. 
 
 I think sometimes that the silence itself has 
 
 a soundless ghost, 
 A stillness deeper than ocean, where gather 
 
 the countless host 
 Of shades that are shade's reflections, of 
 
 glooms that are shades of gloom. 
 And echoes of thoughts unfathomed'which 
 
 never in words find room. 
 There are thoughts which move at midnight, 
 
 too deep for a vision's reach; 
 
 There are waves deep down in silence, too 
 strong lor the grasp of speech ; 
 
 And a mystic intuition in infinite depths of 
 space 
 
 Too far to impress reflections or .shades on a 
 mortal face. 
 
 We know in the silent chambers the beats of 
 a distant heart. 
 
 Wo have seen with an inner vision the cur- 
 tains of silence part. 
 
 And far in the shaded distance have read, as 
 on magic scroll. 
 
 The words no sound could utter, addressed 
 to an earnest soul. 
 
 There are things so deep and sacred they 
 
 flee the approach of sound. 
 There are ideas pure and holy no natural 
 
 hedgerows bound, 
 And somewhere M'ell adjusted, unseen, un- 
 heard, intense, 
 Are the truths which reach ns only through 
 
 a seventh mysterious sense. 
 We hear not, speak not, feel not, yet we 
 
 think, and trust, and know. 
 While the viewless mystic currents sweep by 
 
 in their endless flow. 
 While above the mirrored crystal there 
 
 flutter the ghostly wings. 
 And a song too sweet for language its jubi- 
 lant anthem brings. 
 The grandest truths of the ages have entered 
 
 the heart like this, 
 The things we can never utter ])rodueiiig 
 
 the greatest bliss; 
 Mysterious intuitions, swift shades of a 
 
 shadow-thought. 
 Have flooded the soul with sweetness in 
 
 miracle wonders wrought. 
 We know there are soul vibrations, a subtle 
 
 and glorious bond. 
 Uniting the world matei'ial with a something 
 
 so far beyond 
 That it reaches us in soul waves, too delicate 
 
 far for touch. 
 That the brightest words are lieavy and bur- 
 den them overmuch. 
 
 So we learn its beauteous wisdom. Its peace- 
 ful currents flow 
 
 Too far for the reachof evil, too high for the 
 touch of woe. 
 
 Too deep for our words to fathom, too soft 
 for the grasp of sound. 
 
 In a jilace which God hatli guarded with a 
 silence most profound-. 
 
 Then welcome the mystic message, the 
 peace beyond all compare. 
 
 Too sweet to be grasped or measured, found 
 but by a voiceless prayer; 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 832 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 The sig-n of a higher presence, a rapture 
 which may not cease 
 
 Till it reach the great Nirvanna and hlend 
 into endless peace. 
 
 A symbol of sometliing- coming, revealings 
 some time to be, 
 
 The ripples of glory lapping the shore of an 
 endless sea; 
 
 The secret of life eternal, too grand for the 
 bonds of speech, 
 
 Conveying a soundless message to the wait- 
 ing souls on the beach. 
 
 So the soul receives its message, by a route 
 
 we may not trace. 
 From tlie deeps where fathomless silence 
 
 broods ever in endless space; 
 Where the finite may not measure with its 
 
 puuy rule and rod 
 Tlie truths which the soul receiveth direct 
 
 from tlie lieart of God. 
 
 CHAS. RNOWLES BOLTON. 
 
 Bohn: Cleveland, O., Nov. 14, 1867. 
 
 The poems of tliis writer liave appeared in 
 the Century, Magazine of Amerieau His- 
 
 *- 
 
 CHAHLKS KN()\V1.K8 liOl.TON. 
 
 tory, Youth's Companion, and other promi- 
 nent publications. In 1887 he published a 
 volume of poems entitled From Heart and 
 Nature; and he has also published a gene- 
 alogy of the Bolton family. Mr. Bolton has 
 traveled extensively in Europe, and lias 
 given art entertainments of one thousand 
 
 brilliant views tliroughout America, which 
 have made him very popular. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 The rain makes music at midnight, 
 
 Dripping from rafter and eaves. 
 Blown hither and thither by mad-cap 
 
 Wind on the twittering leaves. 
 Its sound has solace for sorrow. 
 
 Touching the heart-chords o'er 
 So softly, oh, so softly ! 
 
 Sweet as the lutes of yore. 
 But sweetest of all sweet music, 
 
 Making my heart rejoice. 
 Comes over the dew-damp meadow 
 
 Tenderly, true— a voice! 
 
 RLTTH. 
 
 She is fair as a child unchidden 
 On the marge of a wonder stream. 
 
 And the lights in her bright 
 Blue eyes are the stars a-gleam. 
 
 Where her breast by flowers is hidden 
 The white flower, crushed, lies dead. 
 
 And the light of her bright 
 Cheek reddens to rose in its stead. 
 
 Where her red lips part unbidden 
 Her breath comes fast and low, 
 
 Till the light in her bright 
 Eyes dies and the tears flow. 
 
 And tears bring love as they did in 
 The cavalier olden times; 
 
 And the light of her bright 
 Blue eyes is the light of my chimes. 
 
 PEKPETITITY. 
 In my garden grows ;l flower, 
 
 Roj'ally yellow it is; 
 Tliere my neighbor has a bower — 
 
 Golden curls in his. 
 Sun and rain and summer air 
 
 Open my bud each day; 
 Flowers and skies and visions fair 
 
 Circle him in his play. 
 Soon he will love my little flower, 
 
 Tender and undeflled; 
 Then, though it die, it will live a power 
 
 Sweet in my neighbor's child. 
 
 BEAUTY IN SORROW. 
 Souls that master sorrows. 
 
 Bear and oft forl^ear. 
 Find existence borrows 
 
 Richness from life's care; 
 See each rich to-morrow's 
 
 Sky new beauty wear; 
 Beauty born of sorrows 
 
 Is most truly fair. 
 
f- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 833 
 
 -* 
 
 WILLIAM CUMBACK. 
 
 Bobn: Franklin Co., Ind., March 24, 1829. 
 
 Before lie was twenty-six years of ag-e Wil- 
 liam Cumback was elected to congress, being 
 the joiinfiest member of the 3tth congress. 
 la 1868 he was elected Lieutenant-governor 
 of Indiana. Gov. Cumback is a member of 
 
 WILLIAM CUMBACK. 
 
 the Beta Theta Pi ; and was president of the 
 National Convention at Cincinnati. He is an 
 Odd Fellow, and lias been grand master and 
 grand representative of his state. He has 
 been on the lecture platform for more than 
 fifteen years, and lias gained quite an envia- 
 ble reputation. Mr. Cumback was married 
 in 1851 and now resides with his family at 
 Greensburgh, Ind. 
 
 THE WITHERED BOUQUET. 
 
 The midnight blast is sweeping past 
 
 Through each deserted street. 
 With not a sound its moan to drown. 
 
 The weary ear to greet. 
 The cold before eacli dweller's door 
 
 Would fain admittance gain. 
 And tne chilling winds weave frosty lines 
 
 On every window pane. 
 No moon or stars with radiant bars, 
 
 Banish night's sable shroud, 
 For before them all, like a gloomy pall. 
 
 Is winter's darkest cloud; 
 
 And not a light rejoiced the sight. 
 
 Save a feeble, flickering ray 
 In the student's room, on this night of gloom. 
 
 In the attic over the way. 
 The light was small, yet it told me all 
 
 The secrets of his place, 
 And bore my sight through the gloom of 
 night 
 
 To his sad and sorrowing face — 
 For before liim lay a wither'd bouquet. 
 
 Fastening his tearful eyes. 
 From whence more showers fell on the 
 flowers 
 
 Than e'er from laughing skies. 
 But ne'er again can the summer rain. 
 
 Or affection's warmest tear. 
 Bring back the i:)loom they had last June, 
 
 To the flowers now crisp and sere; 
 And ne'er will come the loving one. 
 
 As bright and sweet as they. 
 Who plucked the flowers in his joyous 
 hours — 
 
 Her gift in his happiest day. 
 Ambition's schemes are idle dreams. 
 
 To that lonely, suffering heart. 
 His dead hopes lay near the dead bouquet — 
 
 A fitting counterpart. 
 A slender band, tied with lier own hand. 
 
 Around the withered flowers. 
 So memorj-'s chain still holds in vain 
 
 The liopes of his better hours. 
 His harp unstrung; and his song unsung. 
 
 Unfinished his poem lies. 
 His fancy will soar, alas! no more 
 
 To the poet's paradise. 
 He thii'sts for the cheer of the voice so dear. 
 
 To nerve him for the strife; 
 For love is the spring of everything 
 
 In the bitter contest of life. 
 
 I'll not cease to pray that next smiling May. 
 
 As she comes with her troops of flowers 
 And her birds of song, singing all the day 
 long. 
 
 In aromatic bowers. 
 Will gather anew of the choicest hue. 
 
 Another and sweeter bouquet. 
 And send by the one, now absent so long. 
 
 To the attic over the way. 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 « 
 On a beetling cliff, on a moonless night. 
 
 The gloomy suicide stood; 
 Above rolled the dark and angry clouds, 
 
 Below leaped the raging flood ; 
 No hope illumed his wretched soul. 
 
 But a bitter agony wrung 
 A wail of despair from his broken heart,— 
 
 And this was the dirge lie sung: 
 
*- 
 
 834 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A5IERICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 Come death— oh come, you're my only friend ; 
 
 No other can serve aie now, 
 You, only, can still the throbbing heart. 
 
 Can cool the fevered brow; 
 And come you must, I'll not be denied, 
 
 JFor now you're in my power; 
 The sorrow and gloom of weary years 
 
 You shall end this very hour. 
 
 No more of life! I know it all, 
 
 Hither and thither I've run 
 To find its jjromised peace and joy. 
 
 But before I had begun 
 To taste what false and flattering- hope 
 
 Had sworn was rare and sweet, 
 I found all filled lilse Sodom's fruit. 
 
 With the ashes of deceit. 
 
 Its Wealth! An empty senseless show. 
 
 Brought the hollow-hearted near. 
 Who fled with a laugh of railing- and scorn 
 
 When Poverty did appear; 
 Its Fame ! I loathe myself to know 
 
 That 1 sought the rabble's applause. 
 For their curses, and jeers and shallow 
 sneers 
 
 Followed close their wild huzzas. 
 
 Its Friendship! A sham and mere disguise, 
 
 A mask that the selfish wear. 
 Its Love! Ah, its torturing- agony, 
 
 I never again can bear ! 
 Ingratitude, Hate and Jealousy, 
 
 Falsehood and Slander, too. 
 Are hell-born demons that poison love. 
 
 And banish all that's true. 
 
 Life! Life! The shameless cheat! 
 
 Too long- 1 have endured; 
 A prison for my unwilling soul 
 
 With grim despair immured — 
 Thesiglis and groans of l)reaking hearts 
 
 Make up the sad refrain 
 In his charnel house of buried hopes 
 
 Where pity calls in vain. 
 
 My brain is hot, my heart is cold. 
 
 The flood lieneath my feet 
 Is calling for death and me to come 
 
 In sweet embrace to meet; 
 Its surging waves will ne'er reveal 
 
 Or whisper to the shore. 
 That far beneath in its calmer depth 
 
 I rest forever more. 
 
 A wretch he lived, a fool he died; 
 
 Unbidden lie has gone 
 To answer to Him who gave him life 
 
 For the deed that he had done. 
 His Cliristless soul, embittered life. 
 
 His proud and stubborn will, 
 Kef use to liear the voice of Him 
 
 Who whispers: "Peace be still." 
 
 ALFRED W. HARRIS. 
 
 Born : Louisville, Ky., Jan. 27, 1842. 
 Mr. Harris served through the war in the 
 Union army, was captured at the battle of 
 Chicamauga in 1863. and became a prisoner 
 for seven months, when he was exelianged; 
 he rejoined his regiment, and was mustered 
 
 ALFRED W. HARRIS. 
 
 out of service -with a gallant and soldierly 
 record. After the war Mr. Harris was mar- 
 ried to Miss Margaret Heimer. and now lias 
 two daughters, botli elocutionists and teach- 
 ers in the public schools. He lias filled 
 many important public positions, and is at 
 present in the U. S. Internal Revenue serv- 
 ice at Louisville, Ky. Mr. Hairis has writ- 
 ten extensively for manj- of the leading pub- 
 lications of America, and is also tlie author 
 of several prose -works. 
 
 SUNNY SIDE. 
 Fond memory brings to me the dny 
 
 When I was loth to i)iirt 
 From tlie rural scenes not far away 
 
 Which often elieered my licarl : 
 Wliere the silvery rill ran purling on 
 
 Through wood and meadotv wide. 
 And merry children sported on 
 
 Tlie lawn at Sunny Side. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 835 
 
 -* 
 
 To the orchard I have often strayed 
 
 Amoutr the leafy trees. 
 Their heavj'-ladened branches played. 
 
 And nodded to the breeze; 
 The songs of birds, so oft and clear, 
 
 I've listened to with pride. 
 And to this day methinks I hear 
 
 Them still at Sunny Side. 
 In the lovely irarden near there grew 
 
 Flowers rich and rare; 
 The summer breezes gently blew 
 
 Their frag'rance to the air. 
 I've 'tended them with anxious care. 
 
 But all my hopes have died 
 Since last I twined gay g-arlands there 
 
 At cheerful Sunny Side. 
 The vine-clad bowers in days g'one by. 
 
 Beneath their foliage green. 
 There with my book I'd often lie 
 
 To enjoy the hours serene. 
 Could I now possess that spot again. 
 
 Where pleasure still abide, 
 I'd ever sing' a melodious strain 
 
 At cheerful Sunny Side. 
 
 WHAT I'D LIKE -A PARODY. 
 I'd like to have a cozy cot 
 Near the limits of the town ; a spot 
 
 Tlu'ee hundred feet or so. 
 With pojilar, peach and apple trees. 
 And lilacs scenting- sweet the breeze, 
 
 'Twould suit me to a "T," I know. 
 To have morning glories here and (here. 
 And big sunflowers bright and fair. 
 
 On each flower an liumble bee. 
 And round my front room window spreatl 
 Hollyhocks, some white, some red, 
 
 To cheer up mine and me. 
 I think I would so much desire 
 To hear in my backyard a clioir 
 
 Of jay birds singing sweet. 
 And when tlie fruit is large and ripe. 
 In the shade I'd sit and smoke my pipe. 
 
 Such sliould be my retreat. 
 Away from the town and its busy whirls 
 There would I rear my little girls. 
 
 (I have but two, you see,) 
 And as I've often said before. 
 If I'm not blest with any more. 
 
 How happy I will be. 
 
 BUILDING CASTLES. 
 I sit me where the firelight's glare. 
 
 Before my vision dances ; 
 I And castles fair, build high in air, 
 I Adorned with idle fancies. 
 I My wife so true, and children two, 
 1 Sit by my side unheeding; 
 
 Content arc tliey, with naught to say. 
 Some pleasant stories reading. 
 
 And fairer days shed brighter rays 
 
 Athwart my dreamy vision ; 
 Sweet prospects rife crown all my life 
 
 Through golden fields Elysiau. 
 In wreaths and curls the smoke it whirls 
 
 In shapely forms around mo; 
 From my pipe of clay I smoke away. 
 
 Redoubled joys surround me. 
 
 Amid the daze of smoke and blaze 
 
 My heavy eyelids closing; 
 As Morpheus plays in luring ways. 
 
 And sets me all a-dozing. 
 To my surprise I ope my eyes. 
 
 For some one I hear calling; 
 And rousing me, what do I .see. 
 
 But all my castles falling. 
 
 THE LONE GRAVE. 
 A lonely mound by the wayside. 
 
 Where the traveler's feet have sped. 
 The myrtle and the sweet-brier hide 
 
 From view of the strangers who tread 
 Lightly in the narrow pathwaj'. 
 
 Near the grave of the unknown dead. 
 
 A rugged tombstone marks the spot. 
 No trace of birth or death descries; 
 
 A broken vase, a flower-pot 
 In the lank gra-ss half hidden lies; 
 
 A stately poplar guards the place. 
 And points in grandeur to the skies. 
 
 The bleak winds whistle, sigh and chant 
 A requiem o'er the solemn mound; 
 
 The screecli-owl's piteous lament 
 Breaks the deep stillness all around; 
 
 The pale moon sheds its mellow light 
 Softly on the hallowed ground. 
 
 No loved ones near to shed a tear 
 Unnoticed through the twilight hours; 
 
 Or bow the head in grief sincere. 
 And strew the grave with choicest flowers; 
 
 The gathering clouds weep down their tears 
 Of tenderest love in showers. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 The dew was glist'ning on the grass. 
 
 High up the lark was soaring; 
 The sheep were grazing in the pass, 
 
 The mill-dam loudly roaring. 
 
 Within the deep and tangled wood 
 The huntsman's horn was sounding, 
 
 Afar into the shady wood 
 The foxhound's yelp resounding. 
 
*- 
 
 836 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEPaCA. 
 
 J. HOWARD WERT. 
 
 As THE authdl" of Pooms of Camp and 
 Hearth, and other works. J. Howard Wert 
 
 J. HOWARD WEKT. 
 
 has attained quite a reputation. He is now 
 principal of public schools at Harrisburgh, 
 where he is a very popular citizen. 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the Volunteer, 
 
 Who fought our Nation to save. 
 Who proudly marched, with a ringing cheer. 
 
 Where blood-stained banners -wave. 
 Three millions went to the battle-fleld, 
 
 And many never came back ; 
 And oft the dirge of their death was pealed 
 
 By the ringing rifle's crack. 
 Chokus: 
 
 Honor the men who fouglit for you 1 
 Honor the men who wore the blue I 
 Honor the patriots tried and true! 
 Our Nation's Volunteers. 
 Hurrah! hurrah! for the Volunteers, 
 
 Who fought for our nation's life. 
 Who left fond children bedewed with tears. 
 
 Left father and niotlier and wife; 
 And when you look at the land we love, 
 
 As brightly its fame api)e;irs. 
 Return your thanks to the Father above 
 For our Union Volunteers. 
 
 May the besom of fate from our bosom 
 sweep 
 
 Each one of the cowardlj* crew 
 Wlio, in foldsof their heart's pollution deep, 
 
 Scofl' the praise of the boys in blue. 
 Unworthy to dwell in our goodly land. 
 
 Unworthy of Freedom's ray — 
 A curse on the heads of tlie poltroon band, 
 
 A curse forever and aj'e. 
 But let the praise of the Volunteer, 
 
 Embalmed in story and rhyme. 
 Be loyally hailed, with a rousing cheer 
 
 To the uttermost verge of time. 
 And when the last shall be gathered in 
 
 By the pale and sicklcd hand. 
 May the freedom they boldly helped to win 
 
 Still dwell in our sacred land. 
 
 THE LAST GRAND ARMY MAN. 
 
 The brilliant sun had risen bright athwart 
 The domes and colonades of Washington. 
 In peerless grandeur lay beneath its heams 
 The mighty, bustling arteries of life; 
 And thronged those avenues a massof men 
 And women, old and young. And childhood, 
 
 too. 
 Was there with artless grace and hands that 
 
 held 
 Fair gifts of spring-time's sweetest, fragrant 
 
 flowers, 
 N'>r there alone were tlirongs and dense- 
 packed men. 
 One hundred millions, all the land across, 
 Were bringing votive oflerings to deck 
 Graves that, by time with matted sod thick- 
 clad, 
 Were ever green: hallowed by memories 
 
 grand. 
 And wet each May-lin't" with 
 
 tears. 
 But at tlie caTiitol, in honored seat. 
 Sat one. That one, with reverent awe be- 
 held. 
 Took precedence of ermincd judge. 
 
 eyes 
 Forsook the nation's President to gaze 
 Upon the feeble, age-wrecked veteran — 
 The one alone yet spared by cruel time 
 To link the living with the quiet mounds 
 Of Arlington. 
 
 And grander in the eyes 
 Of thankful nuillitudes, tliosc hoiuy locks. 
 That time-bent, pain-racked frame than ai 
 
 the domes. 
 Resplendent with the stars and stripes, 
 That reared, in massive granilen 
 
 ments 
 Of miglit resistless in the laud that he 
 H a d lo ved — h ad saved . 
 
 nation s ■ 
 
 Alii 
 
 monu 
 
 *- 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AilERlCA. 
 
 JAMES G. CLARK. 
 
 Born: Constantia, N.Y., June 28, 1830. 
 At the age of twenty-one, James G. Clark 
 drifted into tlie concert field. He married 
 early in life, and has had three children, two 
 of whom are living- — Jennie, who was mar- 
 ried iu 1880 to Hon. J. P. Jacobsou of St. 
 Paul; and James G. Clai^k, Jr., wlio is now 
 
 CLARK 
 
 connected with the Minneapolis Daily Star, 
 being- a natural journalist. Mr. Clark has 
 written numerous stories tliat have become 
 known the world over, and he has been 
 called the Tom Moore of America, combin- 
 ing as he does iu the highest degree the triple 
 gifts of poet, coiniioser and singer. His 
 work, Poetry and Souij-, was well received. 
 
 INNOVATION. 
 
 Tie mj- wrists with hempen strands 
 While brazen force around me stands! — 
 You cannot with j-our fetters bind 
 The daring impulse of the mind, 
 I Nor quench the lightning sparks of thought 
 I That upward from the scaflfold leap, 
 I To live and wait through slavery's years 
 I Till destiny's firm web is wrought — 
 I To bide their time while tyrants sleep, 
 j And prisoners pace their cells and weep — 
 I Tlien burst with power, in bolt and flash, 
 I And roaring flood and thunder crash 
 I In answer to the exile's tears ! — 
 j To work their will, above control 
 Of human customs, courts and laws; 
 So leaped the fires of Emmet's soul. 
 To burn anew iu freedom's cause, 
 I Wherever blades for freedom rise. 
 Wherever freedom's banners stream, 
 jWlierever freedom's thunders roll. 
 Wherever freedimi's lightnings gleam. 
 And man for freedom strikes and dies! 
 
 837 
 
 Still my inilse and stop my breatli! — 
 Who works with tiulli may play witli death. 
 Hang me quick and hang me high I — 
 So hung the form of old John Urown ; 
 And though tiiey cut the body down. 
 The shadow broader, higlier grew; 
 It met the seas, it reached the sky. 
 And darkened mountain, lake and town I — 
 Wherever freedom's eagle flew. 
 Wherever freedom's breezes blew — 
 From frigid north to fervid south, 
 From Main to broad Columbia's mouth — 
 The shadow towered above the world 
 Where freedom's stars in shame were furled ; 
 It turned the stars and sun to blood. 
 And poured on earth a crimson flood! — 
 The nation quaffed the bloody rain. 
 And all her first-born sons were slain. 
 
 Let me die ! my work is done! 
 The dying stars proclaim the sun 
 That weaker eyes could not behold. 
 And lower lights had not foretold; 
 Then die upon a bed of gold. 
 
 Because the grander light is born ! 
 Thehigliland rills that seaward glide. 
 May vanish in the mountain side. 
 And, sinking through the voiceless earth. 
 Within the cold, dark caves abide; 
 But naught can stay their second birth, 
 
 Or dim their resurrection morn; 
 Sometime, somewhere, in stronger tide. 
 And warmer light and broader sweep. 
 They rush to swell the distant deep. 
 That turns its awful palms to heaven. 
 That giidles with its mighty bands 
 All kingdoms, empires, realms and lands, — 
 W' ithin whose all-embracing rim 
 The fleets of nations sink or swim 
 Like fire-flies in the mist of even. 
 And on whose all-receiving breast 
 The ages lay their dead to rest. 
 
 Lead me forth ! I'm ready now ! 
 Pull the black cap o'er my brow ! — 
 You can not blind my inner sight: 
 I see the dawn behind the night , 
 Beyond the dawn I see the day; 
 And through the day I see the truth 
 Arising in immortal youth! 
 The sunbeams on her forehead play. 
 The lilies in her tresses twine. 
 The peace of God dwells in her face 
 And rolls the clouds of war away; 
 Around her feet the roses grow. 
 Her tender bosoms swell and flow 
 With healing for the stricken race. 
 And in her eyes seraphic shine 
 Faith, hope and love and every grace ! 
 The old recedes, the new descends! 
 Earth clasps the hand that heaven extends — 
 The lion and the lamb are friends! 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 ^38 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE INFINITE MOTHER. 
 I am mother of life and eompuuion of God ! 
 I move in each mote from the suns to tlie 
 
 sod, 
 I brood in all darkness, I gleam in all light, 
 I fathom all depth and I crown every hight; 
 Within me the globes of the universe roll. 
 And through me all matter takes impress 
 
 and soul. 
 Without me all forms into chaos would fall; 
 I was under, within, and around, over all, 
 Ere the stars of the morning in harmony 
 
 sung. 
 Or the sj'stems and suns from their grand 
 
 arches swung. 
 I loved you, Dearth! in those cj-eles pro- 
 found. 
 When darkness unbroken encircled you 
 
 round. 
 And the fruit of creation, tlie race of man- 
 kind, 
 Was only a dream in the infinite mind; 
 I nursed you, O eartli ! ere your oceans were 
 
 born. 
 Or your mountains rejoiced in tlie gladness 
 
 of morn. 
 When naked and helpless you came from the 
 
 womb. 
 Ere the seasons had decked you with verdure 
 
 and bloom. 
 And all tliat appeared of youi' forin or your 
 
 face 
 Was Ji bare, lurid ball in the vast wilds of 
 
 space. 
 Wlien your bosom was shaken and rent with 
 
 alarms 
 I calmed and caressed j-ou to sleep in my 
 
 arms. 
 I sung o'er your pillow the song of tlie 
 
 spheres 
 Till the hum of its melody softened your 
 
 fears. 
 And the hot flames of jiassion burned low in 
 
 your breast 
 As you lay on my heart like a maiden at rest; 
 When fevered, I cooled you with mist and 
 
 with shower. 
 And kissed you with cloudlet and rainbow 
 
 and flower. 
 Till you woke in the heavens arrayed like a 
 
 queen. 
 In garments of purple, of gold jind of green, 
 From fabrics of g'lory my Angers liad spun 
 For the mother of nations and bride of the 
 
 sun. 
 There was love in your face, and your bosom 
 
 rose fair. 
 And the scent of your lilies made fragrant 
 
 the air. 
 
 *- 
 
 And your blush in the glance of your lover 
 was rare 
 
 As you waltzed in the light of his warm yel- 
 low hair. 
 
 Or lay in the haze of his tropical noons. 
 
 Or slept 'neath the gaze of the passionless 
 moons: 
 
 And I stretched out my arms from the awful 
 unknown. 
 
 Whose channels are swept by my rivers 
 alone. 
 
 And held you secure in your young mother- 
 days, 
 
 And sung to your offspring their lullaby 
 lays, 
 
 While races and nations came forth from 
 your breast. 
 
 Lived, struggled and died, and returned to 
 their rest. 
 
 All creatures conceived at the fotintain of 
 
 cause 
 
 Are born of my travail, controlled by my 
 
 laws; [breath, 
 
 I throb in their veins and I breathe in their 
 
 Combine them for effort, disperse them in 
 
 death ; 
 No form is too great or minute for my care. 
 No place so remote but my presence is there. 
 I bend in the grasses that whisper of spring, 
 I lean o'er the spaces to hear the stars sing, 
 1 laugh with tlie infnnt, I roar with the sea, 
 I roll in the thunder, I hum with the bee; 
 From the center of suns to the flowers of the 
 
 sod 
 I am shuttle and loom in the purpose of God, 
 Tlie ladder of siction all spirit must climb 
 To the clear heights of love fioni the low- 
 lands of time. 
 
 'Tis mine to protect you, fair bride of the 
 
 sun, [is done; 
 
 Till the task of the bride and the bridegroom 
 Till the roses that crown you shall wither 
 
 away. 
 And the bloom on your beautifulcheekshall 
 
 decay ; [gray. 
 
 Till the soft golden locks of your lover turn 
 And palsy shall fall on the pulses of day; 
 Till you cease to give birth to the chiUbenof 
 
 men, [ngain- 
 
 And your forms are absorbed in niy currents 
 But your sons and your daughters, iincon- 
 
 quered by strife, l-'"'-' 
 
 Shall rise on my pinions and bathe in my 
 While the fierce glowing siilenilors of suns 
 
 cease to burn. 
 And bright constellations to vapor return. 
 And new ones shall rise fiom the graves of 
 
 the old, l^oUl 
 
 Shine, fade, and dissolve like a tale that is 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL A>4D NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 839 
 
 -* 
 
 DAVID W. MCCOURT. 
 
 Born: Waukesha, Wis., Oct 4,1859. 
 For several yenrs the subject of this sketch 
 taught scliool in WiscDiisln and Nebraska. 
 In 1880 he was married to Miss Lucy Shepard, 
 and has one son living. Since 1884 Mr. Mc- 
 Court has luacl iccil diiit i>l i y In Si. Paul, 
 
 DAVID ■R'lLLIA.M M'COL'IiT." 
 
 Minn., and resides in the pretty suburb of 
 Maealester Park. The poems of tliis g-entle- 
 nian have appeared in the St. Paul Pioneer 
 Press, Tacoma Globe and other periodicals. 
 
 OUR LAST ESTATE. 
 Here in sepulclu-al paths alone 
 
 I mark the chambers of the dead. 
 Where broken slab, a mossy stone 
 
 Reveals some long--ncglected bed, 
 Unepitaplied by slow decay. 
 Mute witness of forgotten clay. 
 I ponder o'er each name unread, 
 
 Musiiiy on time and life and death. 
 And with mute awe and reverence tread 
 
 The consecrated sod beneath; 
 For in the presence of the tomb 
 Our natures feel the general doom. 
 The monuments of wealth and pride. 
 
 The modest marble of the poor. 
 Here fall and crumble side by side: 
 
 Even fame itself is scarce .secure. 
 For Time, whose toucli is laid on all. 
 At last will level g-reat and small. 
 To be remembered in the dust 
 
 In vain man's liopes to marble reach. 
 For monuments that take on trust 
 
 His name and memories only teach 
 How vain ambition's proud endeavor 
 To keep a name alive forever. 
 Egypt's proud kings of story old 
 
 Built to their names a pyramid, 
 That after ages might behold 
 
 The splendor witli their mummies hid : 
 To-daj- we view the hands and toes 
 Of Cheops and the Pharaohs. 
 Ambition's smiles allures us on. 
 
 We grasp at pleasure, wealth, or fame; 
 The bubble bursts, and all is gone; 
 
 Not even an unrememl^ered name 
 Is left at last to say who run 
 Lite's tleet course to oblivion. 
 For this is but the common lot. 
 
 To bid adieu to every scene. 
 Fall where our names are soon forgot. 
 
 And be as though we had not been. 
 Splendid in ashes still to be 
 Vain pomp to tax their memory. 
 But worthy deeds will outlive stone. 
 
 And lofty thoughts a name engrave 
 On human hearts that will live on 
 
 When marljle turns to dust. The wave 
 Of time and change can waste not these. 
 True balsams of our memories. 
 
 A CHANGE OF HE.\RT. 
 I loved her once — no matter when, 
 
 'Twas one of boyhood's first romances; 
 We were scarce more than children then. 
 
 When love is little more than fancies. 
 It had a charm because 'twas new. 
 
 My hopes and fears I bade her tell, 
 And I believed if words were true 
 
 She loved no other half so well. 
 We grew apart — no matter how. 
 
 Young love can always find a reason 
 To break a heart, a hope or vow. 
 
 As you may learn in one brief season. 
 'Twas not that I had fickle grown. 
 
 Attracted by some fairer belle. 
 But if the truth must all be known. 
 
 She loved another full as well. 
 We meet no more — no matter why, 
 
 The world is anxious to discover 
 The burden of each maiden's sigh. 
 
 The gloom of every hopeless lover. 
 Yet if I but get back my heart, 
 
 I know a short way to forget her. 
 And 'tis not quite so sad to part 
 
 When cheered by one who loves me better. 
 
 4 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 840 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 POST OBITUM. 
 Why do we thus so fondly cling 
 
 To life and tremble over death, 
 
 And strugg-le for a longer breath. 
 If death be but the shadowing 
 
 Of portals opening to the dawn 
 
 Of life immortal farther on? 
 Why do we fear those treacherous shears 
 
 That sever Clotho's golden thread. 
 
 If, waking from the unknown dead. 
 We rise to brighter, happier spheres? 
 
 Why look beyond the shores of truth 
 
 For fountains of immortal youth? 
 How hope does cling to fond deceit; 
 
 Love gives us an immortal claim; 
 
 It looks on death and feels the same. 
 And whisperS; >• We again shall meet." 
 
 Tlius, hope's illusions to fulfill, 
 
 Our hearts outrun our reason stlU. 
 We cannot pass the boundary set; 
 
 For fairer forms and purer tints 
 
 We are but bullion in the mints 
 Of Nature, who will mold us yet; 
 
 And other life shall take in trust. 
 
 Like Phojnix, our discarded dust. 
 Suns and their systems have their day. 
 
 Empires and nations rise and fall. 
 
 For "dust to dust" is true of all. 
 And are we mortal less than they? 
 
 No! let us face the truth and know 
 
 What lies before us ere we go. 
 Draw superstition's veil aside; 
 
 No gleams of bliss where glory glows. 
 
 No immortality of woes 
 For us beyond the tomb abide. 
 
 But an eternity of rest 
 
 On Mother Nature's ample breast. 
 But in the years of endless change 
 
 Some spark of life not doomed to die 
 
 May prove thine immortality; 
 As life from form to form shall range, 
 
 Some flower may open to the morn 
 
 Through the same dust that thou hast 
 worn. 
 Eternal mystery in all 
 
 About us both in life and death; 
 
 Wo come to being like a wreath 
 Of light from darkness, and we fall 
 
 Into the shadows of the tomb 
 
 That faith seeks ever to illume. 
 
 MIDNIGHT CHIMES. 
 I love the wood with its solitude. 
 
 And I love the shoi'c with its roar; 
 I love the musical words of the birds. 
 
 And the soft, low dip of the oar. 
 1 love the dawn on the dewy lawn 
 
 And the sunset glow on the hill; 
 
 But dearer the time of midnight chimes, 
 
 When the world is hushed and still. 
 I love the morn with its hounds and horn, 
 
 And the glowing race in the chase. 
 And the quiet eve is mine to grieve 
 
 Or meet with a friendly face. 
 But the calmest season to muse or reason. 
 
 To poets and sages dear. 
 Is the quiet time when the midnight chime 
 
 Breaks solemnly on the ear. 
 Oh ! some are bold in their search for gold. 
 
 And some have a passion for fashion. 
 While some find a greater treasure in pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 And some in the tender passion; 
 But give me a book in a quiet nook. 
 
 Some volume of lore to peruse. 
 Or the poet's pen in his midnight den 
 
 To follow the flights of his muse. 
 'Tis sweet to trace' in the fields of space 
 
 The silvery bars of the stars. 
 And to open our ears to the musio of the 
 spheres, 
 
 Thrown down from their rt)lling ears. 
 There are truths to learn when their bright 
 orbs burn. 
 
 And thoughts tliat are high and sublime; 
 i'here is much to feel and much to reveal 
 
 In the hour of the midnight chime. 
 'Tis the hour when sages light up their pages 
 
 With thought that glows as it grows. 
 And truth is lighted and wrongs are righted 
 
 When the world is lost in repose; 
 And the mellow chime of the poet's rhyme 
 
 Rings out in its fullest power 
 With the inspiration for bright creation 
 
 That is born in the midnight bour. 
 'Tis the time to brood in our solitude 
 
 On the ills that are rife in this life; 
 To banish our cares in whispered prayers. 
 
 And prepare for the morrow of strife. 
 'Tis the time to sleep, 'tis the time to weep, 
 
 'Tis the time to calmly lie 
 And patiently wait thedecrees of fate — 
 
 'Tis the quiet time to die. 
 
 STOLEN AND RETURNED. 
 
 Oh! do not pout those pretty lips 
 Nor chide me with thine eyes. 
 If yielding to 
 Their tempting hue. 
 Mine own may seem unwise. 
 
 Yet if you rue the stolen bliss 
 By one who deemed it pleasure, 
 
 I will give back 
 
 The little smack. 
 And add ten-fold the measure. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 841 
 
 -* 
 
 WILLIAM EDGAR PABOR. 
 
 Born: Harlem, N.Y., May 31, 1831. 
 During Lincoln's presidency Mr. Pabor was 
 appointed postmaster of Harlem, N Y., at 
 the same time contributing- many fine poems 
 to the periodical press. In 1870 he emigrated 
 to Colorado, and liis name is associated with 
 the establishment of three of the most thriv- 
 ing towub of that state — (iret-k-j, Culornili) 
 
 9 
 
 WILLIAM EDGAR PABOR. 
 
 Springs, and Fort Collins. In 1871 he became 
 associate editor of the Colorado Farmer, and 
 since that time lia's been more or less con- 
 nected with tlie journalism of that state, 
 and has also pubhshed several agricultural 
 works. In 1888 he founded the Fruita Star; 
 in 1890 was for a time editor of tlie Daily Star 
 at Grand Junction; in the same year was 
 elected second vice-president of the National 
 Editorial association, and %also president of 
 the Colorado State Editorial association. 
 Mr. Pabor now resides in Denver in a pleas- 
 ant lioine with his wife, four sons and one 
 daughter, in Shady Side, Argyle Park, edit- 
 ing Health and Horticulture, a semi-monthly 
 devoted to fruit culture , and he is also editor 
 and manager of the Colorado Farmer. 
 
 COxME BACK. 
 Come back, I cry, but cry in vainl 
 
 Lost Youth returns no more; 
 Ships that go sailing o'er tlie main. 
 
 These may come back to shore; 
 But Youth — oh, dreams of lost delights I 
 Is quenched in nature's endless nights. 
 Come back, I cry, but cry in vain! 
 
 Lost fouth no answer yields; 
 The rose that last j'ear graced the plain 
 
 This year may flusli the fields. 
 But Youth — oh, star of life's bright track! 
 Who ever watched it trailing back? 
 Come back, I cry, but cry in vain! 
 
 Lost Youth no more returns; 
 Love, dying, springs to life again 
 
 From out funereal urns; 
 But Youth — oh, flame of strong desire ! 
 Who can relight the ancient fire? 
 The moon, in questioning, is dumb. 
 
 Sun, stars, are silent, too! 
 Where'er at Nature's shrine we come, 
 
 She whispers nothing new. 
 The ^vorld is old, the world is cold. 
 Since Lost Youth lies beneath the mold. 
 
 IF MY LOST LOVTl WOULD ONLY SMILE. 
 If my lost love would only smile 
 
 How changed, I said, the world would be; 
 Lilies would leap from out the snow, 
 Roses would on the hedges grow; 
 
 Ships, waited for, would come from sea. 
 Blown homeward from the Happy Isle, 
 To win me heaven on earth tlie while. 
 If my lost love would only smile. 
 
 Last night I saw her saintly face. 
 
 While lost in dreamland, far away; 
 But oil ! the sadness that dwelt there! 
 Tears from my eyes flowed unaware; 
 
 Her lily lips moved as to say: [place ! 
 
 Dear heart! sweet heart! you filled my 
 How can I smile again and see 
 Another's heart lie close to thee? 
 Lost love of mine, forgive! forgive! 
 
 I kiss her lips and think tlieni thine; 
 I hear her speak, and every word 
 Recalls the voice tliaf once I he;ird. 
 
 The voice of one wlio once w:is mine; 
 Who once upon this earth did live! 
 Tlie heart that now lies close to mine 
 Is dear because it seems like thine. 
 And lo! she listened and then smiled; 
 
 She smiled, and all the world grew bright; 
 She kissed me. Then her saintly face 
 Evanished into starry space. 
 
 Now lilies leap up, pure and white. 
 And roses bloom where thorns grew wild; 
 And all my hours are heaven-beguiled 
 Since my lost love has on me smiled! 
 
 -* 
 
ib- 
 
 -* 
 
 842 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 RIO DE LAS ANIMAS PERDIDAS. 
 I. 
 
 Who are these that drift before me, weaving: 
 spells euchanted o'er me. 
 That with magic power draw me where the 
 shining waters charm? 
 And what is this sound of sweetness, with its 
 fatal gift of tleetness? 
 Sound that fills me to completeness with a 
 sense of perfect calm? 
 Have I leaves of lotus eaten, even Time it- 
 self been cheating. 
 And the murmur still repeating, as it down 
 the river rolls. 
 Find that memory is sleeping, Lethe my af- 
 fections steeping. 
 And my soul in durance keeping, by tlie 
 River of Lost Souls? 
 
 IL 
 
 In a wonder born of terror I look in the riv- 
 er's mirror, 
 And behold the ghosts of error, shrouded 
 in white samite stoles ; 
 In the near light or the far light, of the 
 moonlight or the starlight. 
 Or the flashing of the car light that along 
 the river rolls. 
 Gaunt against granitic edges, dripping wet 
 amid the sedges. 
 Poising upon dangerous ledges of red bat- 
 tlemented knolls; 
 Golden locks and raven tresses, arms that 
 pulsate with caresses, 
 These my midnight vigil blesses by the 
 River of Lost Souls. 
 
 TIL 
 Lips that move but make no speeches; hand 
 that into space outreaches. 
 As when one in vain beseeches for a respite 
 from all care ; 
 And an army of white faces, filling all the 
 sylvan spaces 
 With a vision of lost graces, these ai-e 
 present everywhere; 
 As the star-rays on the river in the solemn 
 midnight quiver, 
 And a tremor, like a shiver, seems to touch 
 each wave that rolls. 
 Are they wings of lost ones, lifting? Are 
 they forms of lost ones, drifting. 
 On the sands, so soft and shifting, by tiie 
 River of Lost Souls? 
 IV. 
 In the west Sad Dolores, with Its legendary 
 stories 
 Of cliff-dweller's time-dimmed glories out- 
 lined on each cell-pierced wall, 
 Moves along where Nature's pages, bur- 
 dened with the tale of ages, 
 * 
 
 Waits the coming of the Sages who its se- 
 crets shall recall, 
 Of the time the mother taught her bright- 
 eyed and bronzed-bosomed daughter 
 That, to taste the sliiumg water as it to the 
 Suuland rolls. 
 Was to walk m Happy Islands, floating in 
 the azure Sky-lands, 
 Hovering above the Higli lands, by the 
 River of Lost Souls. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now, through pine trees tall and slender, 
 comes a rosy light and tender 
 As the young day in its splendor dawns 
 upon the hemisphere; 
 And the gho.stly shapes around me, whose 
 weird presence have spell-hound me. 
 And with eerie fancies crowned me, with 
 the darkness disappear. 
 Thus the night has its romances, and the 
 heart throbs 'neath ghost glances 
 As the midnight hour advances where the 
 fateful river rolls ; 
 Till, aU other loves forgetting, with hopes 
 once so soul-besetting. 
 Daylight dawns with deep regretting by 
 the River of Lost Souls. 
 
 PANSIE. 
 I. 
 
 " Never w;is payne but it had joye at last." 
 — Pastime of Pleasure. 
 
 We walked along the rainbowed way 
 That led us through the fields of bliss. 
 
 With song of birds and blooms of May, 
 And on our lips the lover's kiss; 
 
 While Hope her mirror held in hand 
 
 And showed us love's enchanted land. 
 
 The years rolled on ; our marriage vow 
 More sacred grew as time sped by; 
 
 Faint lines were traced on cheek and brow. 
 But love, in an unclouded sky. 
 
 Still brightly shone and made the hours 
 
 Seem born of fair and fadeless flowers. 
 
 One thing alone gave sense of •• payne " - 
 One nnfiilfilled, enchanted hope: 
 
 Once, twice — nay, thrice, and yet again 
 Through doubt an<l darkness we did grope. 
 
 And, touching di^ippointinent's hand. 
 
 Walked with it through a shadowed land. 
 
 4. Never was payne," the poet said, 
 .. But it had joye at last," and we. 
 
 Still hoping, hand in hand have sped 
 Adown the tide that sweeps life's sea. 
 
 Till, in the afternoon of time 
 
 Once more we hear the Joy Bells cbime! 
 
9^ 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 843 
 
 -* 
 
 IL 
 " Here's Piinsies — for sweet thoughts." 
 — Shakespeare. 
 We named her Pansie, for our thoughts 
 Of lier were sweet, more sweet, because 
 Her coming- was delayed so long. 
 And when, between midnight and morn, 
 March stars shone bright, tlie crescent moon 
 Shot down a ray of liglit that fell 
 Upon the threshold of our home. 
 And left behind our baby girl. 
 Such sweet content fell on our souls 
 That we went singing- all the day 
 Tiie sweetest songs that we could sing. 
 With sweetest words that we could frame. 
 The century plant will bloom at last. 
 Though waited for an hundred years; 
 And lol the baby girl, for whom 
 Our hopes went out througli weary years. 
 Blooms on us with her slij'-blue eyes 
 And nut-brown hair, at last, at last! 
 And life evolves such new delights 
 As full exceed our wildest dreams. 
 III. 
 "Thursday's cliild is merry and glad." 
 
 — Old Ballad. 
 Merrily, merrily, go the bells. 
 
 Life is now one holiday; 
 On the summer air the music swells 
 Kound us, o'er us, far away, 
 Ringing changes, blithe and gay — 
 Pain is past and joj- has swa3'. 
 How do the words of the ballad run? 
 
 Let them fall on baby's ear — 
 Mirtli and gladness from sun to sun; 
 Mirth and gladness crown life's year. 
 Blue-eyed darling, Pansie dear. 
 Child of autumn of life's year. 
 Tliere never was girl so sweet as this. 
 
 Never home so proud as ours; 
 There never could come a dearer bliss. 
 Crowning all ilie passing hours; 
 Gatlier now the sweetest flowers 
 For this Baby Queen of ours. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE PALACE OF SILENCE. 
 A monk in the Palace of Silence 
 
 Sat counting liis amber beads 
 With white and tapering- fingers 
 
 That treml)led like wind-swept reeds; 
 But never a word lie uttered. 
 
 And never a sound was thrown 
 Through the alabaster cloisters 
 
 In the amethystine zone. 
 
 Vows of perpetual silence 
 He uttered wlio walked therein ; 
 
 In the world he left behind him 
 He had cast all worldly sin ; 
 
 From his cell out into the cliapel. 
 
 From shrine back into liis cell. 
 Each walked as he meditated. 
 
 But he spoke no syllable. 
 Only the water-clock ticking:. 
 
 And only the striliing bell. 
 As they told the time of praying-, 
 
 On the solemn silence fell. 
 And this was the hourly message: 
 
 "Thou are so much nearer death. 
 Oh, monk of the rueful visage. 
 
 Oh, mortal with failing- breath." 
 Outside there were blooming gardens. 
 
 The richest that Nature knew; 
 Where the red, red rose of passion 
 
 By the saintlj- lily grew. 
 But even the birds were banished. 
 
 Lest their songs should be a sin. 
 By suggesting- thoughts of pleasure 
 
 Where pleasure had never been. 
 The only sound of disturbance 
 
 In the leafy solitudes 
 Was the tread of feet soft-sandled. 
 
 The rustle of long white robes 
 Of the monks among- the lilies. 
 
 With as white :i, face and calm, 
 Witli a body born of passion. 
 
 But a soul baptised with balm. 
 But, oh ! in the lonely vigil 
 
 Of the -weary day and night, 
 Did they seek no mocking \-ision 
 
 Of an Elim of delight? 
 Or echo of .song- or laughter 
 
 From virginal rose-bud lips. 
 Or tremulous siieech of Eros 
 
 When the moon was in eclipse? 
 In the silence of life made equal 
 
 To the silence born of death. 
 In their amethystine palace 
 
 (So the ancient legend saith). 
 In a solemn soul-communion. 
 
 With all worldly sins forgiven. 
 Each monk for the message awaited 
 
 That would waft his soul to Heaven. 
 But the palace gates are broken. 
 
 And ruined the jasper walls. 
 And within each sacred chamber 
 
 Tlie owl to his fellow calls; 
 While each votary of silence. 
 
 Each heart that was hard as stone, 
 Has into the vanished ages 
 
 Forever and ever flown. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Bet-ween the young and the old life 
 
 The heart is full of cheer; 
 But later the trail of sorrow 
 
 Brings with it doubt and fear. 
 
 *£) 
 
4<- 
 
 844 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HELEN M. WINSLOW. 
 
 Born: Westfield, Vt., APRiti 13, 1851. 
 For the past teu j^ears this lady has been a 
 resident of Boston, wliere she has been en- 
 gaged in the profession of journalism in con- 
 nection with the Boston Advertiser, Boston 
 Transcript, and Saturday Evtniin^- (iazcltc; 
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I? 
 
 My canary sings in his cage all day 
 
 Behind his gilded bars; 
 Sliut in from all that birds enjoy, 
 
 Of sun, and sky and stars: 
 The freedom, grace and action fine. 
 
 Of wild bird ho foregoes; 
 Yet 'spite of that, with happiness 
 His little heart o'er flows: 
 The world is wide 
 And birds outside 
 In happy song always abide — 
 Why shouldn't 1? 
 
 I, too, must dwell behind the bars 
 Of pain and sacrifice; 
 
 HELEN M. AVINSI-OW. 
 
 at the same time she has contributed to a 
 host of other periodicals, including such 
 publications as Wide Awake andDemorest's. 
 She is also editor of the House and Homo 
 department of the N. E. Fireside. Both as a 
 poet and journahst Helen Maria Winslow 
 is fast gaining a national reputation. 
 
 From weary heart and weary brain 
 
 Mj' prayers and songs arise. 
 Yet all around sad hearts abound. 
 
 And troubles worse than mine: 
 If aught of comfort I can bring- 
 To them, shall I repine? 
 God's world is wide: 
 If I can hide 
 
 My crowding tears and sing beside. 
 Why shouldn't I? 
 
 OVER ALL. 
 1 said — 
 
 If I covild see a light ahead — 
 Could know the ships I sent to sea 
 Were blown by Fortune's gale toward me, 
 I could believe, in matters great and small, 
 
 God watcheth over all. 
 O selfish heart! 
 
 Can'st thou not see the nobler part, 
 To bear with patience sure defeat; 
 To upward climb with stubborn feet. 
 In spite of disappointment's iron thrall! 
 
 For God is over all ! 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 '. I'll be a singer," so she said one day; 
 • ■My words shall soothe and strengthen 
 earth's rough way 
 For many a weary heart." 
 Her lines, tho' lined with all a poet's art, 
 And measured as the drum-beat's steady 
 roll. 
 Touched not a single soul. 
 God sent his angel down and gently smote 
 Her little plans; and disappointment's note 
 
 Quivered through all her life. 
 Once more she wrote; but, under all, tho 
 
 strife. 
 Of grief and bitter loss echoed so plain 
 
 Who read, shed tears of pain. 
 Again the silent, whitewinged angel came, 
 And snatching love with life's best hopes 
 away. 
 Left but a breaking iieart. 
 No longer from humanity apart. 
 She wrote, but learned ii lesson born of 
 trust, 
 And wrote because .she must. 
 Brave, lielpful words of trutli. So as wo 
 
 liidc 
 Our sclflsli griefs, and at God's will be tried 
 
 In crucible of sorrow. 
 Strength comes to point- ;i brigliter, glad t(v 
 
 morrow 
 To fainting, struggling souls; and keenest 
 loss 
 A crown may be, not cross. 
 
 —4 
 
*:<- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 845 
 
 RUFUS CYREXE M^^donaLD 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., 1861. 
 In 1890 appeared Love and Other Poems, a 
 volume of verse from the pen of Rufus C. 
 MacDouald, which has been very favorably 
 noticed by the press. He has contributed 
 
 DR. RTITtrS CrHENE MACDONAU), 
 
 largely to the Waverly Magazine, Boston 
 Transcript, Life, Boston Herald, Globe and 
 various other publications. Mr. MacDonald 
 is by profession a physician, and is still a 
 resident of his native city. 
 
 PESSIMISM. 
 
 *- 
 
 Life is but dreary! living- is only 
 A passage weary, painful and lonely! 
 Pleasure is fleeting! sorrow unending! 
 Care always greeting! joy rarely blending? 
 
 Friendship is faithless; though widely 
 
 flaunted. 
 It is false, nathless, when it is wanted ! 
 Virtue is paid for ! truth is but lying ! 
 All we are made for is to be dying! 
 Levels a mystery, which in its doing, 
 Maketh a historj^ many are rueing! 
 Life is a burden, heavy with gloom. 
 Having no guerdon saving the tomb ! 
 That is the endins, sad, of our journey; 
 That we are wending, fighting life's tourney ! 
 Of the tomb lioUow, only, we're certain! 
 What scene will follow raising the curtain? 
 
 FATE. 
 Within the shadow of a mighty tree 
 
 A floweret grew. 
 As fair and beautiful as one could see 
 
 The whole world through. 
 The birds sang love to it; the honey-bee 
 
 Assailed its heart; 
 The love-lorn zephyrs whispered plain- 
 tively 
 
 Their woes apart. 
 But vain and fruitless were their plaints 
 and sighs; 
 
 It might not be; 
 The floweret gazed, with ever longing eyes. 
 
 Up to the tree. 
 But ah ! The tree gazed only at the sky 
 
 With yearnings sweet. 
 Ne'er noticing the floweret's sigh. 
 
 Low at its feet. 
 
 IN MY HAMMOCK. 
 Swinging 'twixt earth and sky. 
 Dreaming I lie; 
 Neai'er the twinkling stars; 
 Further from jars 
 Of earthly pain. 
 Hereon my silent roof. 
 See I the woof. 
 Golden and silver shooi 
 Of star and moon 
 Woven again. 
 
 Slowly star-shuttles spread 
 Bright golden thread, 
 Sprangling the web of night 
 With shining light. 
 Till all is clear. 
 Plain is the starry loom; 
 That of the gloom. 
 Weaving mysteriously, 
 Eye cannot see; 
 Yet is it near. 
 
 OLD MEMORIES. 
 Old memories never die. 
 The gust of passions and the glow of love 
 May fade away, like dew upon the flower; 
 But 'round about the past 
 Old recollections, twining tenderly. 
 Still cling, like ivory 'round a ruined tower. 
 Old memories never die. 
 Their voices sound, within the empty heart. 
 Like echoes of some old familiar song; 
 And stir within the soul 
 Thoughts bitter, sad, or sunny bright with 
 
 joy 
 Of former days, when youth and love were 
 strong. 
 
*- 
 
 846 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 JOSEPH T. COPlTIiORNE. 
 
 born: SAN FRANCISCO, Cal., march 39, 18T0. 
 The poems of Mr. Copithorne have appeared 
 in the San Francisco Call and the periodical 
 press av.uerally. He has received a goud cd - 
 
 JOi.LPIl T. COPITHORNE. 
 
 ucation, and in 1887 graduated at St. Mary's 
 College, and still resides in San Francisco. 
 
 FANCY'S PICTURE. 
 Last eve on the green sward reclining, 
 With the moon overhead dimly shining 
 
 On mountain and lea. 
 With the wakeful, fair stars faintly gleaming 
 And tlie slumberous flow'rs brightly drenm- 
 Came Fancy to me LmJ^ — 
 
 In her garments of white. 
 As though Queen of the Niglit, 
 Before me stood in her matchless array ; 
 With a gossnmer veil. 
 That moved in tlie gale [the May. 
 
 Like the leaves of the trees in the breath of 
 She smiled, but not a word said she. 
 But soon grasping my liand, she led uie 
 
 Aloft tliruugli tlie air; 
 Ascended we liigher and liiglier. 
 Quick as the flames of Are 
 Up a chimney bii.re. 
 We alighted 'mid flowers, 
 'Mid ruins iind towers, [sea; 
 And a broad, surging river rau down to the 
 1 opened mine eyes 
 In wondrous surprise, 
 For the beautiful spot seemed familiar to me. 
 9 
 
 When, lo! as I heard the bells pealing. 
 Straight o'er me tliere came a strange feeling 
 
 I ne'er felt before ; 
 'Twas the joy of an exile returning — 
 A joy indescribable, burning — 
 
 To his fair native shore. 
 
 And the scenes 1 beheld 
 
 W ere the same as of old, [of glee ; 
 
 When I gamboled amid them with soul full 
 
 And the stream was, in truth, 
 
 Tlie same as in youth — [tlie sea. 
 
 The Shannon — the Shannon that winds to 
 
 ELFIN MARY. 
 
 Thou art a winsome maid, my lairy. 
 
 Flitting from chair to chair; 
 
 No creature of light is ever so airy 
 
 As my blue-eyed, laughing, little Mary- 
 
 My Mary with the sun-kissed hair. 
 
 As she roams along the deafening noises 
 
 Of earth seem all unbound ; 
 
 From morn till eve she glad rejoices 
 
 In tones so loud as if human voices 
 
 Mingled in one great sound. 
 
 When musing in my cozy study. 
 
 Or delving in some book. 
 
 In steals my darling busy-body. 
 
 With face, fiom toil, bedaublcd and ruddy. 
 
 And with her sweet arch look 
 
 She climbs and climbs until full seated 
 
 On my knee she rests awhile. 
 
 Nor stirs until she's kindly greeted. 
 
 Nor speaks until to her is meted 
 
 A whole-souled welcome smile. 
 
 Erewhile she breathes, with whisp'rin^ 
 
 Her tales in my listening ear, Lslowiy. 
 
 Of infant play and infant folly. 
 
 With Gertie, Gracie, Susie, Dolly, 
 
 And a host of infants here. 
 
 I smile at the quaintness of her story. 
 
 At the earnest way she told 
 
 How she had whipped her brother Aury, 
 
 Because, too proud, he seemed to glory 
 
 In being three years old. 
 
 Unheralded, thus she walks sprightly. 
 
 With her golden liair unstrung. 
 
 Into my little sanctum lightly, , 
 
 Like the ray of a summer sun that huiiMM 
 
 Plays my old books among. 
 
 Ah! honnie wee maid, what untoW pleasure 
 
 You fling within my bn'ast; 
 With joy supreme -joy without measure, 
 
 You thrill me, dimpled little treasure - 
 
 'I'reasure priceless and best. 
 May heaven shield Ihee, child, forever. 
 
 From harm's unsightly mein: 
 May it shower on thee true joy that ne% 
 Ceases, like an eternal river 
 
 That winds thro' banks of green 
 
^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 847 
 
 -* 
 
 HORACE P. BIDDLE. 
 
 Born: Fairfield Co., O., March 24, 1811. 
 For nearly half a century the poems of 
 Horace P. Biddlo have constantly appeared 
 in the periodical press of America, and in 
 six large volumes, amonf? which we specially 
 mention: Glances at tlie World, a work in 
 verse of nearly four hundred pages; Anieri- 
 
 HORACE p. BIDDLE 
 
 Can Boyliood, a long- poem of over two hun- 
 dred pages, portraying American boyhood, 
 with its surroundings as it was in the early 
 part of the nineteenth century; and in 1883 
 appeared a large volume, entitled Last 
 Poems, containing- some beautiful poems. 
 Mr. Biddle has long- since retired from active 
 work, and this scholarly g-entleman is now a 
 resident of Logaiisport, Ind. 
 
 TO THE MUSES. 
 Ye Beautiful, ye Nine, where do ye dwell V 
 And can your haunts only be seen afar? 
 May we approach ye not? O, who can tell 
 Me on what rock or laureled mount, or 
 where. 
 On flowery plain, in woods, or sliady dell, 
 On the green earth, or in the bluey air. 
 My eyes may see your beauty ; for they long 
 For vne sweet g-limpse to aid my laboring- 
 song-. 
 
 Where — in blue ether, or the burning star. 
 
 In sky, or cloud, or earth, or In the sea: 
 Above, below, here, there, or near, or far ; 
 
 In cave, on mountani-peak, or flowery lea; 
 On rock or wave, in waste or rich parterre; 
 
 In darkness, light, in time, eternity - 
 Dost dwell the True, the Good, the Beauti- 
 ful? 
 Tell me, sweet Spirit, l)reathe it to my 
 soul ! 
 
 DEARER THAN LIFE. 
 
 Brighter to me than the sun of morning, 
 
 Fairer than flowers; 
 Fresher than the dews of evening, 
 
 Or summer showers ; 
 Sweeter than the breath of zi-phyrs 
 
 Sighing in bowers, 
 
 Dearer than life ! 
 
 More welcome than the whispers of genius. 
 
 Or throbs of health; 
 Tenderer than the touch of angels 
 
 Coming by stealth ; 
 Richer than chaplets of laurel 
 
 Or- the world's wealth. 
 
 Dearer than life 1 
 
 i. livelier than the stars of midnight 
 
 Lighting- the sky; 
 ivinder than hearts of young maidens 
 
 Who love — and die; 
 i' lire as the souls of the sinless 
 
 Looking- on higli. 
 
 Dearer than life! 
 
 Till the sun pales and stars are fading. 
 
 Or cease to be ; 
 Till dews, and zephyrs, and the showers 
 
 Come not to me; 
 Till my heart and soul cease their hoping 
 
 I will love thee 
 
 Dearer than life! 
 
 THE FIRST POEM. 
 
 I've published my poem — 'tis out; 
 
 See Helicon's Reg-ister — yonder. 
 The scribblers are all in a rout. 
 
 The world is preparing to wonder. 
 
 The publishers — up and agog. 
 
 Are seeking a copy to plunder; 
 The news-boys are waiting their jog. 
 
 To carry the wonderful wonder. 
 
 The people will learn it by heart. 
 
 The crusty old critics will ponder. 
 And even the dolts of the mart 
 
 Will turn from their chattels and wonder. 
 
 A day, even thirty, soon flit : 
 No notice, no critique, no thunder? 
 
 They're jealous of genius — that's it; 
 But why don't the world stop and wonder 1 
 
*- 
 
 848 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A31ERICA, 
 
 I LOVE THEE. 
 In the deep silence of my soul 
 
 1 love thee! 
 For thou art good aud beautiful. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 Before thy beauty I am dumb. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 Yet where thou art I may not come. 
 
 I love thee : 
 Yet not for love's fulfillment here 
 
 1 Jove thee ! 
 Though I would be forever near; 
 
 I love thee ! 
 But with a love too pure for earth 
 
 I love thee ! 
 For in my soul it has its birth. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 Thou art my bliss and yet my woe. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 I must not stay and cannot go. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 Though thou hast chain'd my soul and heart, 
 
 I love thee! 
 And kiss the chain that gives me smart, 
 
 I love thee ! 
 
 Yet words can not my pain express. 
 
 I love tliee! 
 No tongue would dare my joy confess. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 My heart still would, yet may uot speak, 
 
 I love thee! 
 In lonely silence let it break. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 And with a love that cannot die 
 
 I love thee ! 
 My soul shall bear it to the sky. 
 
 I love thee ! 
 
 *- 
 
 THE POET'S GENIUS. 
 Genius was witli him at his birth, 
 
 And genius guides him on his waj'; 
 It marks him, 'midst the Sons of Eartli, 
 
 With aureoleau ray. 
 
 The Muses seek him and disclose 
 
 Their beauties to his soul. 
 Inspiring thought until it glows 
 
 As the seraphic coal. 
 
 Then poetry bursts from his lips 
 
 As blossoms from the bud, 
 As sweet as bee on Hybla sips 
 
 High o'er Deucalion flood. 
 
 His chaplet gatliers round his brow 
 Wliile years liis honors bring. 
 
 As leaves upon the laurel grow 
 And bloom in endless spring. 
 
 THE POET'S NEED, 
 Sweet lips to give liim smile for smile. 
 
 Bright eyes to answer tear for tear, 
 A loving heart to care beguile. 
 
 And true, to keep his own sincere; 
 White arms to cling around liis neck, 
 
 A breast to give him sigli for sigh, 
 A courage tliat M'ill not forsake. 
 And love that could not, would not die ! 
 Ah. give liim these and lie will build 
 
 A monument to reach the sky; , 
 Tlie briglitest star its spire sluiU guild; 
 
 Its stately columns, towering high, 
 Shall bask beneath the light of lieaven. 
 
 And throughout ages stand unriven! 
 
 THE CROWN OF THE POETS. 
 Though poor in wealth the poets be. 
 They are full rich in royalty; 
 Richer in heart and soul and mind 
 Than all the world of sense combined. 
 To laureled niount and stream they hold 
 A title never bought or sold. 
 And take from nature's heraldy 
 
 Their true nobility. 
 They wear a crown begemmed with stars, 
 That ne'er was won nor lost in wars; 
 And, uneonflned to realm or birth. 
 It rules unseeptered o'er tlie earth; 
 More royal than a regal crown. 
 Grander in beauty and leuown — 
 A crown of genius from the sky 
 
 Conferred by Deity! 
 
 CUPID IN THE KITCHEN. 
 Ah! Cupid's flames will never kindle 
 
 The fagots in the kitchen; 
 His tears, although they fill a rindle. 
 
 You cannot boil a flitch in; 
 Nor will his arrow, like a spindle, 
 
 Twist threads to put a stitch in. 
 Nor spin a web to round liim windle. 
 
 And keep tlie little witch in. 
 For he will never wear his clothing 
 
 If he the bands can sunder, 
 And, as to food, he lives on nothing 
 
 But love's delicious plunder; 
 On this he often feeds to loathing. 
 
 And sickens tor his blunder, 
 Aud then he needs nuich care and soothing:. 
 
 Or quickly he will wander. 
 The little, naked mischief-maker 
 
 Stays not for goods or money. 
 And never cares for cook or baker 
 
 If you but give him honey. 
 He is an arrant promise-breaker. 
 
 And cheats the trusting many: 
 A sad deceiver and forsaker. 
 
 And never true to any. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 849 
 
 -* 
 
 CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 
 
 Porn: Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842. 
 
 In 1862 Charles F. Adams enlisted in tlie 
 Thirteenth Kegiment Massacliusetts Volun- 
 teers, and was in the battles of Bull Run, 
 Fredericlishurg-, Chancellorsville and others; 
 was wounded at Gettysburg-, 1863, and lield 
 as prisoner for tljree days, until Federal 
 troops retook the town. He was then taken 
 to hospital at New York and Rhode Island; 
 afterward detailed in 1864. Upon his return 
 home he ag-ain resumed business, and is now 
 at the head of au extensi\-e establishment in 
 
 CHARLES F. ADA3IS. 
 
 Boston. His literary pursuits may be said 
 to have just begun, his first poem having 
 been written in 1870, and his first dialect 
 poem. The Puzzled Dutchman, 1872, appear- 
 ing in Our Young Folks, now merged into 
 St. Nicholas. From that time lie was an oc- 
 casional contributor to local papers, Oliver 
 Optic's Magazine, Scribner's and others, un- 
 til 1876, when he became a regular contribu- 
 tor to the Detroit Free Press, his first poem 
 in tliat paper being- ..Leedle Yawcob 
 Strauss." Nearly all of his subsequent pro- 
 ductions have been written for that paper. 
 Many of the poems have been adapted to 
 music, and have become very popular. Be- 
 sides the two volumes entitled "Leedle 
 Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems," and 
 Dialect Ballads, he has written many prose 
 sketches, mostly in dialect, which have been 
 
 copied in all the prominent journals of the 
 country, and in the different humorous col- 
 lections that have been published. Those 
 may form the nucleus for a future volume. 
 Mr. Adams has had numerous calls for his 
 services on the platform, and has delivered 
 many of his original productions before Bos- 
 ton audiences, by whom lie has been received 
 witli much favor. In 1870 Charles FoUen 
 Adams was married to Miss Hattie Louise 
 Mills, and has two children —Charles Mills, 
 born in 1874; and Ella Paige, b(irn in 1878. 
 
 YAWCOIi STRAUSS. 
 I haf von funny leedle poy, 
 
 Vot gomes schust to mine knee; 
 Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue. 
 
 As efer you dit see. 
 
 He runs, und schumps, und sehmashes dings 
 
 In all barts off der house: 
 But vot off dot? he vas mine son, 
 
 Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He get der measles und der mumbs, 
 
 L'nd eferyding dot's oudt; 
 He spills mine glass off lager bier. 
 
 Foots schnuff indo mine kraut. 
 
 He fills mine pipe mit Limbui-g cheese, — 
 
 Dot vas der roughest chouse: 
 I'd dake dot vrom no Oder poy 
 
 But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 
 
 Und cuts mine cane in dwo. 
 To make der sehticks to beat it mit, — 
 
 Mine cracious, dot vas drue! 
 
 I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart. 
 
 He kicks oup sooch a touse: 
 But nefer mind; der poys vas few 
 
 Like dot young- Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He asks me questions sooch asdese: 
 
 Who baiuts mine npse sored? 
 Wlio vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt 
 
 Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? 
 
 L^nd vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
 
 Veue'er der g-lim 1 douse. 
 How g-an I all dose dings eg-grsblain 
 
 To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? 
 
 I somedimes dink I schall go -vild 
 
 Jlit sooch a grazy poy, 
 Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 
 
 L^'nd beaceful dimes enshoy. 
 
 But ven he vas ashleep in ped, 
 
 So gruiet as a mouse, 
 I prays der Lord, •• Dake anyding. 
 
 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 850 
 
 LOCAli AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 DEK OAK AND DER VINE. 
 I don'd vus preacliing- vraian's righdts, 
 
 Or anyding like dot, 
 Und I likes too see all beoples 
 
 Shust gondented mlt dlieir lot; 
 Budt I vants to gondradict dot shap 
 
 Dot made dis leedle shoke : 
 " A vomaii vas der glhigiiig vine, 
 
 Und man, der shturdy oak." 
 Berhaps, somedimes, dot may pe drue; 
 
 Budt, den dimes oudt off nine, 
 I find me oudt dot man liimself 
 
 Vas peen der glinging vine; 
 Und ven liees f rendts dhey all vas gone, 
 
 Und he vas shust " toad proke," 
 Dot's vhen der voman shteps righdt in, 
 
 Und peen der shturdy oak. 
 Shust go oup to der pasc-pall groundts 
 
 Und see dhose " shturdy oaks " 
 All planted roundt ubon der seats — 
 
 Shust hear dheir laughs und shokes! 
 Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs, 
 
 Mit giothes oudt on dor lines; 
 Vhich vas der shturdj' oaks, mine frondts, 
 
 Und vhich der glinging vines? 
 
 Ven sickness in der householdt come 
 
 Und veeks und veeks he shtays, 
 Who vas id figlidts him mitoudt resdt, 
 
 Dhose veary niglidts und days? 
 Who beace und gomfort alvays prings, 
 
 Und cools dot fefered prow? 
 More like id vas der tender vine 
 
 Dot oak lie glings to, now. 
 "Man vants budt leedle, here pelow," 
 
 Der boet von time said; 
 Dhere's leedle dot man he don'd vant, 
 
 I dink id means, inshted; 
 Und ven der years keep rolling on, 
 
 Der cares and drubles pringing. 
 He vants to pe der shturdj^ oak, 
 
 Und also do der glinging. 
 Maybe, ven oaks dhey gling some more, 
 
 Und don'd so shturdy peen, 
 Der glinging vines dhey haf some chance 
 
 To helb run Life's masheen. 
 In belt und sickness, slioy und pain, 
 
 In calm or shtormy vcddher, 
 'Twas bedlicr dot dhose oaks und vines 
 
 Schuldt always gling togedher. 
 
 *- 
 
 VAS MARRIAGE A FAILURE. 
 Vas marriage a failure? Veil, now, dot dtv 
 
 pends 
 Altogedher on how you look at id, mine 
 
 friends. 
 Like dhose double-horse teams vol you see 
 
 at der races. 
 Id depends pooty much on der pair in der 
 
 traces; 
 
 Eef dhey don'd pool togedher righdt off at 
 
 der shtart. 
 Ten dimes oudt off nine dhey vas beddher 
 
 apart. 
 
 Vas marriage a failure? Der vote vas iu 
 
 doubt; 
 Dhose dot's oudt vould be in, dhose dot's in 
 
 vould be oudt; 
 Der man mit oxberience, goot looks und 
 
 dasli. 
 Gets a vife mit some fife hundred dousand 
 
 in cash; 
 Budt, after der honeymoon, vhere vas der 
 
 honey? 
 Siie haf der oxberience — he haf der money. 
 Vas marriage a failure? Eef dot vas der 
 
 case, 
 Vot vas to pocome off der whole human race? 
 Vt)t you dink dot dor oldt "Pilgrim faders' ' 
 
 vould say, [Bay, 
 
 Dot came in der Sunflower to oldt Plymouth 
 To see der fine coundtry dis peoples haf got, 
 Und dhen hear dhem ask sooch conoii- 
 
 dhrums as dot? 
 Vas marnage a failure? Shust go, ere you 
 
 tell, [renfell; 
 
 To dot Bunker Mon Hillument, vhere Vai^ 
 Dink of Vashingtou, Franklin, und "Honest ' 
 
 Old Abe" — 
 Dhey vash all been aroundt since dot first 
 
 Plymouth babe. 
 I vas only a Deutscher, budt I dells you votl 
 I pelief every dime, in sooch "failures" as 
 
 dot. I 
 
 Vas mari-iage a failure? I ask mine Katrine, | 
 Und she look off me so dot I feels pooty ; 
 
 mean. j 
 
 Dhen she say: "Meester Strauss, shust come , 
 
 here eef j'ou blease." I 
 
 Und she dake me vhere Yawcob und leedle, 
 
 Loweeze j 
 
 By dheir shnug trundlo-bod vas shust saying J 
 
 dheir prayer, i 
 
 Und she say, mit a smile, "Vas dhere some | 
 
 failures dhere." 
 
 FROM "DER VATER-MILL." 
 Dhen nottor mindt dor loaves dot's dead; dor 
 
 grain dot's in dor bin; 
 Dhey botli off dhem haf had dheir day, und! 
 
 shust vas gathered in. 
 Und ueffor mindt der vator vhen id vonce; 
 
 goes droo der mill; 
 Ids vork vas done! Dhere's bleudy more. 
 
 dot vaits ids blace to fill. 
 Let cacli von dake dis moral, vrom der klnfi; 
 
 down to der i)oasant: 
 Don'd mindt der vater dot; vast past, bud' 
 
 der vater dot vas bresent. 
 
LCCAT> AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 851 
 
 -* 
 
 JULIAN NOYESSTICKNEY. 
 
 Born: West Newbury, Mass., July 5, 1830. 
 I\ 1884 appeared Lake Wiiuiipesaukee, a 
 volume of verse from the pen of Mrs. Julia 
 Noj-es Stickuej'. Her poems have appeared 
 iu the Boston Transcript and tlie periodical 
 press generally. She was married in 1855 to 
 Cliarles Stickney of Grovehind, Mass., and 
 has a family of five children. For many 
 yeai-s prior to her marriag-e she taught 
 
 MRS. JULIA NOYES STICKNEY. 
 
 school, and was principal of the g-irl's hig'h 
 school in Haverhill, Mass. The arduous 
 duties of motherhood left little time for 
 literary work, taut ten years ag-o she ag'ain 
 actively took up her pen, and hundreds of 
 lier articles and poems yearlj' find their. way 
 into the periodical press of Boston. Julia 
 Noyes Stickney spends her summers in 
 traveling over picturesque places, and oc- 
 casionally lectures on her travels and literary 
 themes. Her winters are spent in Boston 
 in literary work, and she is now an honored 
 pupil in the Emerson CoUeffo of Oratorv. 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 Justice, thou of heavenly birth. 
 Come down and dwell upon the earth ! 
 O white-wing-ed soul, whose prophet-tongue 
 Sung when the three-fold lyre was strung. 
 And later, woke the seraph strains 
 O'er Judah's meteor-lighted plains. 
 Come sound Columtaia's triumph song. 
 And chase the gathering clouds along! 
 
 *— : . 
 
 When Freedom to Hesperia came. 
 And lit the patriot's torcli of flame, 
 Wliere dwelt thy soul, in realms afar. 
 Beyond Orion's upmost star. 
 That when the unflinching fight was done 
 Thj- spirit soared above the sun. 
 And presentation from his cave 
 Come following Freedom o'er the wave! 
 When shall our land, from sea to sea 
 O Justice, be a home for thee; 
 When shall our mountains be tlie siirine 
 For one with spirit all divine; 
 When shall our flag, unsullied, wave. 
 Above the pure, uncounted bravi'. 
 When all wlio tread our native sod 
 Shall love their neighbor and their God, 
 And man and woman, side b3- side. 
 Shall equal, breast life's rising tide! 
 Star of the east, on high im pearled. 
 Shine out upon the western world: 
 Strike seraphs, smite tlie Ij-re again. 
 Sing peace on earth, good will to men. 
 Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. 
 And wake the choirs beyond the sun. 
 As when the empyrealzenith rung, 
 And morning sturs together sung. 
 
 LAND OF IPSWICH. 
 Land where once my Alma Mater 
 
 Lured my footsteps year by year. 
 Now my soul, iu life far later. 
 
 Flies to memory's haunted sphere. 
 Thou my rapture still shalt waken. 
 
 Olden town, forever young; 
 There I am not yet forsaken 
 
 By fond youth, with silver tongue. 
 For my teachers, love beguiling. 
 
 Walk the earth, from sorrow free — 
 Land of Ipswicli, ever smiling. 
 
 Fair, enchanted ground to me. 
 Still flows on thy silver river 
 
 Winding through the woodland green. 
 And the zenith-sunbeams quiver 
 
 Where my comrades once were seen. 
 In the hall, by care unclouded. 
 
 Lit by love and beauty bland — 
 Now, in miduiglit vigils, crowded 
 
 With a band from Eden-land. 
 Alma Mater! in a vision 
 
 All thy sacred haunts appear 
 And the olden days, elysian, 
 
 Gild life's radiant sunset-sphere. 
 Land of Ipswich, still I love thee! 
 
 From the hills thy spires are seen 
 With an aureole above thee. 
 
 Lighting all thy living green. 
 Echoes wander o'er thy highlands 
 
 From celestial lands afar; 
 
 -•i" 
 
*- 
 
 852 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Once again the enchanted islands 
 Mirror back Hope's morning star. 
 
 Where by life's eternal fountain, 
 On the pearl-enshadowed shore, 
 
 We shall gaze from Zion's mountain 
 On the loved forevermore. 
 
 BROAD ARE MY LANDS. 
 Broad are my lands for all the earth is mine. 
 
 The living air, the azure dome above. 
 The emerald forest and the lonely shrine. 
 From mountain-top to the far border-line 
 That veils the realms of light and life and 
 love. 
 
 The morn is mine, from its first diamond 
 glow. 
 When stars shine pale, and Luna slumbers 
 blest 
 Upon Hesperian fields of verdure low. 
 Till glad Aurora wakes the world from 
 rest 
 With roseate glow, like Monte Rosa's snow. 
 
 The noon is mine, when from the zenith 
 glows 
 The sun, resplendenton his golden throne. 
 When zephyr o'er the stream a soft spell 
 
 throws. 
 And bears the breath of lily and of rose 
 To cheer the oriole on her nest alone. 
 
 The sunset hour is mine, when rivers shine 
 With pure gem-light, borrowed from every 
 strand. 
 When summer evening, pure, transcendent 
 
 fine. 
 Gathers tlie colors, far-off and divine. 
 That light the pearl-gates of the spirit-land. 
 
 The night is mine, when mortals slvimber 
 still. 
 Save poet-seer, and sons of pain and strife. 
 Whose souls, the dreams of those pearl- 
 portals fill 
 With hopes, that from the woes of earth 
 distill 
 The pure elixir of immortal life. 
 
 Nature is mine, upon the sapphire .sea. 
 
 Or in the heart of cataract-lighted woods, 
 Or where the purple highlands guard the 
 
 lea 
 And smiling lawn, from northern tempest 
 free, 
 Or in the thunder-echoing solitudes. 
 The homes of men are mine, where love is 
 kind, 
 Wht>re cliildrun smile, and pictures light 
 the walls 
 Almost as fair as those once more outlined, 
 
 When momory, vanished youth, in joy re- 
 calls 
 To gaze on her enchanted vision-halls. 
 
 And hope is mine that in some glorious hour, 
 
 Bej'ond the broad, cerulean sea of time. 
 My rapturous spirit, winged with rising 
 power. 
 Shall hear the bells of heaven their wel- 
 come chime 
 From mountain-tops of that supernal 
 clime. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE SEA. 
 I dreamed of the sea— the wild, wild, sea 
 
 And the sound of the ocean's roar. 
 Where the waves came dressed in a foamy 
 crest 
 
 And broke on a shining shore. 
 And my heart beat high as I turned my eye 
 
 On the waters far away. 
 And my soul grew wild like a restless child 
 
 At the sight of the salt-sea spray. 
 I sat awhile on a granite pile, 
 
 Where the billows from afar 
 Came up with a shock to the dauntless rock, 
 
 With the sound of a mighty war. 
 How the foam-flakes flew as the waters blue 
 
 To the ocean-caves ran 'round. 
 And leaping, played in a wild cascade 
 
 With a soul-enlivening sound. 
 What joy was mine, at the sun's decline. 
 
 When the bright beams smote the wave, 
 To watch the glows of a thousand bows 
 
 That seveu-hued Iris gave ! 
 I dreamed of the isles —the purple isles 
 
 That doze on the dimpled main. 
 Where the sea-birds go on a wing of snow 
 
 To an unmolested reign. 
 I saw the sail, like a spirit pale. 
 
 On the line of the distant deep, 
 Andtlie bark near by, swung soothingly 
 
 To my soul in a softening sleep. 
 Then I heard the chimes from the tar-oit 
 climes. 
 
 By the west wind borne along. 
 And the nicrinaids sung and the sea-caves 
 rung 
 
 With a soul-enchanting song. 
 And my dream of the sea— the wide, wide 
 sea. 
 
 Grew still as a summer's sleep; 
 I saw no path of the Storm-King's wrath 
 
 On the face of the smiling deep. 
 And I long for tlie wave, the roUiug wave, 
 
 I sigh for the salt-sea shore. 
 My soul grows wild like a restless child 
 
 For the sound of the ocean's roar. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 853 
 
 -« 
 
 LEON F. MOSS. 
 
 Born: Cuba, III,., Sept. 12, 1861. 
 The poems of Leon F. Moss have usually ap- 
 peared under a iioni de plume in various 
 publications, and have always been favor- 
 abl.v received. In 1883 he was president of 
 Western Nnrmiil Colleg-e at Bushnell, III. 
 
 LEUN f. MOSS. 
 
 The following year he was admitted to the 
 bar, and since that time has been engaged in 
 the practice of his profession. In 1883-4 Mr. 
 Moss was city attorney at Ipava, 111. Ho 
 then practiced at McCook, Neb., for nearly 
 four years, when he went to Los Angeles, 
 Cal., where he now enjoys a lucrative prac- 
 tice. In 1886 Mr. Moss was married to Miss 
 Effie F. Willard. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 Near on a grape vine Mabel swung. 
 That to an oak tree's branches clung, 
 And creeping higher o'er its crest, 
 A canopy of green leaves pressed. 
 Around tliat sylvan bower of ease 
 Were blooming rare wild ai.ple trees, 
 And crocuses and purple bells. 
 Geraniums in sunny dells. 
 And morning-glories, rich in hues. 
 From which the fairies sip the dews. 
 Adown the vista at the right 
 The wild plum trees were blooming, 
 And golden in the morning light 
 The mountain's crest was looming; 
 
 Close at its foot the rivulet 
 
 Dim in the distance furled and fret. 
 
 Till foaming 'neath the banks and braes, 
 
 Its ripples caught the sunshine rays. 
 
 When sparkling, glittering tliro' the briars. 
 
 It shone a living stream of fires. 
 
 With one arm circling 'round the liill 
 
 The silver lake of Laula lay, 
 
 And joining there the glistening rill, 
 
 Ketlected every burning ray. 
 
 An emerald declivity 
 
 Sloped toward tlie left, to where a brook 
 
 Flowed murmuring 'neath many a tree. 
 
 That with a dreamy rustle shook 
 
 Its foliage of gold and green, . 
 
 And sparkled with a wondrous sheen 
 
 As down the pearl-like showers flew 
 
 I )f lustrous drops of limpid dew. 
 
 Sweet Mabel viewed those beauties rare. 
 And fair, amongst them seemed more fair; 
 A radiance she seemed to gain 
 From blossoming bright May's sweet flowers. 
 
 The turtle dove's soft love refrain, 
 Foretellnig cioudj' days and showers. 
 Amid the morning brightness heard, 
 'Mid leaves, and flowers and singing bird — 
 Was it the lute of my good fairy 
 So softly sighing: "Love, tarry, tarry 
 tarry'?" 
 
 AS THE SUN SETS. 
 Glance I now where old Ladoga, 
 With a sparkling silver toga 
 Drawn around his rugged crest. 
 In his autumn colors drest. 
 Drooping down so frowning glowers. 
 Where the crouching forest cowers 
 At his foot. His visage burning 
 With an angry luster — spurning 
 Intercourse with fairer creatures — 
 He his seamed and swarthy features 
 Thinks to hide behind that crystal screen; 
 But it magnifies and shows more plainly 
 His huge form and hides the brown and 
 
 green — 
 Magnifies, and makes It more ungainly. 
 Westward glance, where southward floating. 
 Thro' the lether glisting— gloating 
 On the fair earth's pink and green. 
 Goes a cloud in wondrous slieen. 
 Gloats she on the eartli's attractions. 
 Gloats she where the sun-reflections 
 Thro' her own prismatic borders 
 Give in wondrous bright disorders 
 All the rainbow colors; where, in 
 Shadowy outlines pictured the rein,— 
 Deep adown the crystal heart 
 
 -* 
 
854 
 
 LOCAL AMD KATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 Of the lake, her shimmering- likeness blend- 
 
 eth 
 With what seems her earthly counterpart, 
 And the depths a fleecj' luster lendeth. 
 Now she sweeps tlie red horizon — 
 Curved couch the big- sun lies on 
 Just before he takes his way, 
 Carrying- the fainting day 
 To another dewy morning — 
 For refreshing- and adorning — 
 Sweeps the red liorizon lightlj- 
 With her trailing robes that brightly 
 Brush across the sun. The flashes 
 Show now purple — pink with dashes 
 Of a ciierry redness interspersed; 
 And tlie delicate pale tints that shimmer. 
 In the brightest dyes twined and immersed. 
 Like soft scintillating- wavelets glimmer. 
 Soon the cloud, a silver coating- 
 O'er her center ceases floating 
 As she draws across the face 
 Of the sun with airy grace; 
 And with silver coat and lining- 
 Wound around with beauties twining-. 
 Forms a wondrous woven garland 
 O'er the shining- gate to Star Land. 
 Thro' her broken upper edges 
 Reach down earthward golden wedges, 
 Driven thro' her margin to the sun; 
 Like a wreath of pansies and carnation, 
 A fair stripe of pink and purple spun. 
 Fringing all the grooves and elevations. 
 
 *- 
 
 IF. 
 In summer evening-'s shadow wandered I. 
 
 Where perfume-liiden zephjTS roll 
 From down the flowery mountain slopes; 
 
 where lie, 
 Stretched at their foot, sweet-scented 
 meadow lands; 
 Here oft I've lingered; here my soul 
 Hath heaid the lap of waves on dreamland 
 sands; 
 And wafted herefrom either pole, 
 Tlie music of the spheres oft heard I die. 
 Like rush of waters on far distant strands. 
 In wondrous tuneful waves of witcherie. 
 Atuned in sweetest sylvan harmonies 
 
 The fluttering leaves that round me twined 
 Beat time as liere I brt athed the grateful 
 
 breeze ; 
 And mingled came the sound of waterfalls, 
 And purl of sweet-toned brooks; behind 
 The mountain heard I music low that thralls 
 
 The senses, stealing o'er the mind 
 Like incense; 'twas sweet vesper melodies; 
 Yet, thought I, nauglit in church nor eon- 
 vent walls. 
 Nor cataract, liatli tuned these symplionies. 
 
 With pleasant, restful thoughts I listened 
 long. 
 
 I heard a shepherd wind his horn. 
 And listened to the sweetly echoed .song 
 Of shepherd lass; I heard combined the 
 sound 
 
 Of every tune of eve or morn 
 That sylvan voices give; and wreathed 
 around 
 
 Me all the blossoms that adorn 
 With colors and witli fragrance, set among 
 The leaves, most sweet the feast of beauty 
 
 crowned; 
 To swain, nor lass, nor flowers did this be- 
 long, 
 So thought I, as with closed eyes I lay 
 
 Within that woodland bower; " No man," 
 Quotli I, '-nor bird, nor bush, by night orday, 
 Makes music; it hath birth within the soul. 
 
 I know not wlience those sounds that ran 
 Within mine ears — a part, but not the whole, 
 
 Was real;" then turning saw I Pan 
 Reclining upon the sward. He blew away 
 Upon his oaten pipe — no meager dole 
 Gave he of tuneful, imitated laj'. 
 "All had I but that slender pipe!" me- 
 th ought, 
 
 • • With soulful strains I'd rapture all! 
 I'd sound the notes for coming ages; naught 
 Should list without enthralling ravishment!" 
 
 The god had ceased his madrigal ; 
 Rising- with cool, sarcastic smile he bent 
 
 The reed, and blew a sharp, low call. 
 A fairy dancing on a primrose caught 
 The note and liuiried to his feet; he sent 
 Her floating through the branches swift a8 
 
 thought. 
 From an adjoining- field she Ijionght a reed; 
 
 Whicli Pan did take, and sent his own, 
 With graceful motion and with arrow-speed. 
 In mournful cadence singing thro' the air, 
 
 Down to my feet. Witli bant'ring tone 
 He then addressed me, saying: ..Tliere's 
 thy rare. 
 
 Thy priceles boon ! Nor this alone. 
 Ten millions like it grow, to .serve thy need, 
 Within yon field! Go. pipe thy sweetest air, 
 A nd deathless strains create upon tliy reed I" 
 In vain! In vain! 1 seek for liarmony — 
 
 My jiipe is silent or but strains 
 Discordant gives. And if a melody 
 In broken music cometh from my reed, 
 
 But silonee follows, or njfrains 
 That echo my dcsiiair. My pipe, indeed. 
 
 With many a liquid note remains. 
 But di.scord ever doth quickly drown ray 
 
 gleo 
 If one melodious strain I do but lead;— 
 Music, rare, pure, divine, is not for me. • ! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 855 
 
 -* 
 
 HARRIET H. ROBINSON. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., Feb. 8, 1835. 
 In 1848 this lady was married to William S. 
 Kobiiison, a journalist and parliamentarian, 
 whose letters over the signature of War- 
 rington made that uom de plume famous. 
 Mrs. Robinson's first work, published in 1877, 
 was Warrington Pen Portraits, .i, selection 
 
 MliS. HARRIET n. ROBINSON'. 
 
 from her husband's published writings, with 
 memoir. In 1881 appeared Massachusetts 
 In the Woman SufCrag-e Movement; and in 
 1887 Captain Mary Miller, a woman suffrage 
 drama in five acts. The New Pandora, her 
 greatest work, is a dramatic poem which ap- 
 peared in 1889, and has received eulogism 
 from the press throughout America. Mrs. 
 Robinson has written prose articles on a 
 great variety of subjects — literary, his- 
 torical and also genealogical — which have 
 appeared in the leading newspapers and 
 I \ magazines. 
 
 PANDORA'S LULLABY. 
 
 Sleep, softly sleep. 
 
 Little woman-child, 
 On my aching heart — 
 
 Still its tumult wild. 
 
 Sleep, softly sleep. 
 Sleep, gently sleep ; 
 
 Of air be thy lot! 
 
 My sorrowful fate 
 O follow it not. 
 
 Sleep, gently sleep. 
 
 Sleep, sweetly sleep. 
 
 The ewe on the lea 
 And the doe hath her young. 
 
 And I, only thee. 
 
 Sleep, sweetly sleep. 
 
 Come, tranquil hour. 
 Low-laden with sleep; 
 
 Come gentle zephyr. 
 And watch o'er her keep. 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 NO SEX IN MIND. 
 Sex hath no limitations tliou need'st fearl 
 For in itself, believe me, it is naugiir. 
 The quality of mind is all. I note 
 That we, tho' man and woman, are alike. 
 We eat and drink, we sleep and wake; our 
 
 wants 
 Are all the same; we must be clothed. And 
 
 both 
 Alike must suffer if we sin. We ask 
 For justice; we are parents; all our lives 
 Are bound in one. Alone we should be 
 
 naught. 
 To us, our children dear a likeness Ijear; 
 E'en as we are the blended Hkenesses 
 Of him, the father — mother of mankind. 
 
 SONG OF THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 SEMICHOKUS. 
 
 Thou hast conquered! Rise triumphant 
 Upward toward thy being's sun. 
 
 All the world is changed, uplifted. 
 For the life that thou ha.st won. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Rise, O rise, ye souls immortal! 
 
 Break, O break, imprisoning clay? 
 Pass, ye heavenly guests, pass onward; 
 
 Hope, exultant, points the way. 
 
 SEMICHORUS. 
 
 Suffering is the great redeemer, 
 
 Joy and pain together bide; 
 'Twas to save from sin and sorrow. 
 
 The little first-born child hath died. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Rise, O rise, ye souls immortal? 
 
 Break, O break, imprisoning clay! 
 Pass, ye heavenly guests, pass onward; 
 
 Hope, exultant, points the way. 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 856 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LORENZO SOSSO. 
 
 Born : Turin, Italy, March 3, 1867. 
 At tlie age of eight Lorenzo emigrated with 
 his parents to America, and is now in busi- 
 ness in San Fi-ain'isfi). Hl- is the author of 
 
 LOHKXZO SOSSO. 
 
 A New Poet, a volume of several hundred 
 poems, which certainly are highly creditable 
 to one so compara lively young-. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE POET. 
 The poet roams from land to land. 
 
 From sea to sea forevermore. 
 While weaving- with a cunninf? nand 
 
 The web of life's divinest lore. 
 He wanders through the purple blooms 
 
 Of sunny climes and wave-girt isles. 
 Or lingers in the holy glooms 
 
 Of temples and majestic piles. 
 He listens to the sing-in.u: birds 
 
 That flutter in the golden air. 
 Interpreting their mellow words 
 
 To chants of love or hymns of prayer. 
 A Uower blossoms at his feet. 
 
 Unfolding- beauty leaf by leaf ;^^ 
 He weepeth, saying', " It is meet," 
 
 Since Beauty must succumb to grief. 
 He is of every faith and creed. 
 
 The heir of every clime and age; 
 The symbol of a living deed. 
 
 The glory of a written page. 
 Albeit there he wander naught. 
 He seeth with a prophet's eyes 
 
 The splendor and eflulgeucc wrought 
 
 Within the realms of Paradise. 
 For him each century reveals 
 
 The life that lives withouten breath ; 
 For him there is no age that steals, 
 For him there is no mortal death. 
 What is the crown of laurel leaves 
 
 That circles his transcendent brow. 
 To all the Beauty he believes 
 Was even then, is even now. 
 He dwells in an ideal world. 
 
 The beautiful is his in youth. 
 While azure banners are unfurled 
 Above him by the hand of Truth. 
 He idolizes fiery globes 
 
 That wander in the halls of Night, 
 While clinging to the sacred robes 
 That gird the Holy One of Light! 
 He seeth in a little while 
 
 With the deep vision of a seer 
 A tragedy in every smile, 
 A comedy in every tear. 
 The thunders of the battle-fleld. 
 
 The silence of the henped-up slain, 
 Have glory in themselves to yield — 
 
 Fit glory for a mighty strain. 
 He marvels not at deeds sublime, 
 
 Sublimer ones lie can create. 
 And kuoivs the deepest wail of Time 
 Is love whlcli then becomes a Hate. 
 A thousand deaths, a thousand lives. 
 
 He liveth in a living one. 
 And yet immortally survives. 
 
 Because of what his life hath done. 
 The Universe is as his shrine. 
 
 And there transcendent from above 
 Radiant, beautiful, divine. 
 His idol is supernal Love! 
 As flows the crystal of the stream. 
 As glows the radiance of the sun, 
 So beautiful becomes the dream 
 Wherein his moral web is spun 
 The flowers and the winds bespeak 
 
 Upon him of refulgent things. 
 In Nature doth he ever seek 
 
 The life that throbs, the soul tliat siiif 
 And wheresoever he may go, 
 
 In deserts calm, in bu.sy mart, 
 He wreathes annmd with Glory's glow 
 The eternal temple of his Art 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 No sweeter garland could we cull 
 
 Of God's eternal grace 
 Tlian coiinleiiances beautiful 
 
 From woman's virgin race. 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 857 
 
 JOEL MOODY. 
 
 Rorn: New Bhunswick, Oct. 28, 1834. 
 The year following- his birth the subject of 
 this sketch was brought by his pai'cats to 
 Illinois, and graduated at the University of 
 Michigan in 1858. By profession Mr. Moody 
 is a lawyer. He was a captain in the Union 
 army, and served in the Kansas Legislature 
 as representative in 1865 and 1881. For four 
 
 JtJEIj MOODY. 
 
 years be was assistant secretary of the sen- 
 ate, and is now state senator, and a regent 
 of the University of Kansas. Joel Moody is 
 the author of the Science of Evil, Junius 
 Unmasked, and a volume of poems, The Song 
 of Kansas, besides being the autlior of nu- 
 merous historic.-il papers. The Song of Kan- 
 sas is a tribute to tlie state in which he lias 
 lived more than thirty-two years, and his life 
 is a part of its history. Tiie miscellaneous 
 poems in the same work are messages of pa- 
 triotism, of friendship and love. Mr. Moody 
 has several cliildren, and resides at "The 
 Maples," Mound City. Kansas. 
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 Nature iiath her golden wedding 
 
 When the summer days are told — 
 When the autumn leaves are shoddinj 
 
 And the green is tinged witli gold; 
 When tlie .sunflower is nodding 
 
 Like lair Ceres to lier god; 
 And the Harvester is plodding 
 
 Through the smiling golden-rod. 
 
 On the st;-eam the mist is Iloating, 
 
 In the air the thistle-down; 
 On the trees wo see the purple, 
 
 And the grass is turning brown. 
 On your sight the mist is falling. 
 
 On your heads the snowy crown; 
 In the sky the stars are calling. 
 
 And your sun is slipping down. 
 And kind Nature is a shedding 
 
 O'er the fields her ripened love. 
 And her gifts for golden wedding 
 
 From ambrosial fields above. 
 If sweet Nature hath been shedding 
 
 In your lives her ripened love, 
 Then her gifts for golden wedding 
 
 Shall reward your lives above. 
 Fifty years of cloud and sunshine 
 
 Cast athwart your horoscope 
 Blendeth in fantastic combini! 
 
 All the rainbow tints of hope. 
 Fifty years, and Autumn treading 
 
 Out the vintage of the vine. 
 Brings unto your golden wedding- 
 Fifty years of aged wine. 
 Many times the mists of morning 
 
 Have obscured tlie golden sun; 
 Many clouds hung o'er you frowning 
 
 Ere your fifty years were run. 
 But the livid lightning sleepetli 
 
 Where the clouds are thunder-lined; 
 And from out tlie sliadows leapeth 
 
 Heav^eiily radiance refined. 
 
 Marriage is the truly mating 
 
 Of two souls in tender mood — 
 Always loving, nevcT- hating. 
 
 Blending man and womanhood. 
 Life thus lived, serene and purely. 
 
 And the sullen storms withstood. 
 Proves beyond a question surely 
 
 That your hearts are true and good. 
 
 FANCY. 
 O Fancy fair! that walks ethereal fields. 
 And clustering suns thy train doth sweep 
 
 on high. 
 Unto a god-illumed star draws nigh. 
 And catch the holy influence that it yields. 
 Thence from this orb, while high Olymphus 
 
 shields 
 My spirit's pure behest and phantasy. 
 Take on thy tender wings this prayer, and fly 
 To her who guides me l)y the lovo she wields. 
 Come, radiant forms that flit in heavenly air. 
 And on my favored flowers sweet kisses 
 
 press ; 
 Come in thy love and strew around my Fair 
 These blossoms and my tender care confess; 
 White lilies on her breast, and in her hair 
 Put daisies rare — on lips, my lips' caress. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 858 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WHAT IS THE WORLD TO ME ? 
 What is the world to me without 
 
 One loving- heart to cherish ; 
 Who ne'er my faiihful love will doubt. 
 
 Though other faiths may perish ? 
 For it's a phantom flitting- past 
 That says: No faith or love shall last. 
 
 What is the world to me when no 
 
 Soft lips, with their caressing, 
 Invite my soul to stay and go 
 
 Not elsewhere lor its blessicg-? 
 For it's no phantom of the air 
 That makes those lips destroy my care. 
 
 What is the world to me when those 
 Bright eyes the fairies lend her. 
 
 To light my soul to its repose, 
 Shine not lor me in splendor ? 
 
 For 'twas a phantom ol the mind 
 
 That painted Eros young- and blind. 
 
 What is the world to me if there 
 
 Be not one fond and certain 
 To veil me with her silken hair — 
 
 A soft, disheveled curtain? 
 For she's no phantom of the night 
 Who veils my soul in soft delight. 
 
 What is the world to me, although 
 My praise be world-wide spoken, 
 
 j^'ithout some one to say, I know 
 His jiledgre was never broken? 
 
 For piping- phantoms never voice 
 
 That praise which makes my heart rejoice. 
 
 What is the world to me with all 
 
 Its gilded pomp and pleasure. 
 Without some dearest one to call 
 
 My own, my heart's sweet treasure? 
 I'll have no phantom in my grasp. 
 But one soul's wealth of love to clasp! 
 
 *- 
 
 NATURE. 
 Alone witli Nature here I stand 
 
 Beneath her stars. 
 Within the landscape ol her suns 
 
 And golden bars. 
 I see the paintings of her hand 
 
 In lights sublime; 
 And in the lives of migiity ones 
 
 On scrolls of Time. 
 
 She set the pillars of the sky 
 
 With her stout hand. 
 And made the starry fields on liigli 
 
 A flaming land. 
 She made tlie world to turn for i>ie 
 
 In silent grooves. 
 And the briglit moon to burn as she 
 
 Mysteriously moves. 
 
 For me the trees that glad ray eye 
 
 Im wisdom grow; 
 For me tlie host that shines on high 
 
 In glory glow. 
 She stills the sea when storms do roll, 
 
 And waters sweep; 
 And the fierce tempests of the soul 
 
 Wlien waters weep. 
 
 What ill of earth shall e'er o'crtake 
 
 Or me befall? 
 Wiiat if I sink and suns forsake 
 
 Beyond recall? 
 1 stand eternal in her name 
 
 A spark sublime. 
 And am the radiance of licr fliime 
 
 Throughout all time. 
 
 THE MAPLES. 
 Ye village of the Maple hills, 
 
 I sing tliy song; 
 Bowed in the shadows of the past, 
 
 I plaint thy wrong. 
 Let every sense tliat beauty tin-ills 
 
 Thy praise complete ! 
 For Nature brings her gifts to cast 
 
 Them at tliy feet. 
 Ye Maples ol the towering liills 
 
 And flowery glade! 
 How thy tall trunks and branches cast 
 
 The somber shade? 
 And while my soul thy beauty thrills. 
 
 Thy shadows creep; 
 For in the shadows ol the past 
 
 My hopes, do sleep. 
 Dear Maples! now thy shimmering leaves 
 
 For loving kiss 
 Turn throljbing to the evening- breeze 
 
 With floating bliss. 
 How oft beneath thy dripping- eaves. 
 
 In summer shower. 
 Have warblers ol the summer trees 
 
 Enjoyed thy bower! 
 How doth my soul the shinimei-ing leaves 
 
 01 Memory kiss! 
 How oft my heart doth tlirobbing seize 
 
 The floating bliss! 
 When baby arms, in snow-white sleeves. 
 
 Did bless the Power 
 That spread the shadows of t he trees 
 
 For summer liour. 
 Sweet Maples ! How your saddening shade 
 
 Doth crape my head. 
 As i-everentlv T lowly bow 
 
 Unto my dead. 
 Two sister hearts are lowly laid. 
 
 Both safe and sweet — 
 "Tlie Maples " cast their shadows now 
 
 Close to their feet. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 859 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. BELLE YANCEY. 
 
 Born: Louisville, Ky. 
 This lady is the daugliter of Dr. E. Bryan, 
 iiii old iiractic'ioner of Louisville, Ky. Her 
 
 ji, K III- ha VI' I'oiistautly appeared in the 
 
 MKS. BELLE YANCEY. 
 
 press. She is also the author of several 
 novels that are being: prepared for publica- 
 tion. She is the wife of Hon. A. N. Yancey, 
 has Sehildren, and resides at Bunker Hill,Ill. 
 
 MY LADY'S JEWELS. 
 
 As from my casket g-ems I spurn, 
 
 Like tears 1 he diamonds fall ! 
 While from the sapphire's tender blue 
 Eyesg-leam, sufifused with hunger's hue! 
 
 They speak with voices all, 
 "Behold I a mine of wealth ye now out-turn." 
 Splashed o'er the cushion warm, and red, 
 
 Garnets lie like human blood! 
 They burn my hands, and seem to cry: 
 " Yc who let thy fellow-creature die 
 
 For want of warmth and food. 
 Are just as guilty as if his blood ye'd shed !" 
 Then dare I turn this little key 
 
 Upon this price of life? 
 And shut within the velvet's fold, 
 The ehanginj? opal, and the gold, 
 
 While Huugfr's rusted knife 
 Tears slow the wretch, prolongs his ag-ony ! 
 Pink corals that before me spread. 
 
 Like baby lips now plead, 
 And twisted, shining chains hold fast 
 Starved victims in their golden clasp, 
 
 Who cry aloud, .. Take heed ! [bread !" 
 These gems can buy ten thousand loaves of 
 
 THE GALLEY SLAVE. 
 "Asleep to earth, and yet awake indeed! 
 Chained to this bench, as well as to this thing 
 That permeates my frame,— called life— I'd 
 
 fling- 
 It from me, as I would a poisonous weed 
 That stabs my smarting- flesh with noxious 
 
 sting-. [death 
 
 Chained to this throttled life, this panting 
 That hangs upon my neck, with mocking 
 
 tongue 
 To gibe my youtli from which all hope is 
 
 wrong-, [breath. 
 
 And with its black'ning- lips it draws my 
 Smothering,strangiing, my quivering nerves 
 
 unstrung-. 
 
 " Ha, ha, but ye must be a princely boat 
 That human hands thus bear ye o'er the 
 
 deep ! [keep 
 
 And muscles strained in aching arms must 
 Thee bounding- like some living- tiling afloat. 
 Thou, in whose bosom such fine arteries 
 
 lea]) ! 
 Like flames the furies of his manhood rise. 
 And link with heated tongues his throbbing 
 
 brain 
 Against his fetters all his pulses strain ! 
 'Alas these bonds, alas these chains I' he 
 
 cries, [but vain.' 
 
 • Now gods, stand by! make out my strength 
 "Jo-v'e! seethe bending links bite deep this 
 
 flesh! 
 A-a-h, could I break ye, then I'd to the foe! 
 In slaying them I would more mercy show 
 Than they to us, who with each day mock us 
 
 afresh. 
 Compelling- men like mere machines to row! 
 Shut in from sight of earth, of sky, and sea. 
 Ambition bowed in shame, before me stands. 
 Hiding- her tearful face within her hands! 
 Young- Love lies dead, her white face taunt- 
 ingly 
 Brings back wrecked hopes upon the sands. 
 "Mother! O, name too sacred to breathe 
 
 here ! [heart 
 
 Then memory die! and give mo but a wooden 
 Like to this boat of which I'm l)ut a part. 
 That I may ne'er again know thought, or 
 
 fear, [start. 
 
 Nor from sweet dreams of home awake, and 
 For O, ye gods, of -what avail is this? 
 Fate rides in triumph, she hath won the day 1 
 Lashed to her wheel a trophy of the fray. 
 Then visions bright, O, dreams of youthful 
 
 bliss 
 Farewell!" The galley ship goes on her way. 
 
 -* 
 
^- 
 
 860 
 
 LOCAl. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. L. ISABELLE DORMER. 
 
 Born: Lee Co., Iowa, Jui.y 9, 1854. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Dormer have appeared in 
 the Sun Francisco Examiner, tlie Chronicle 
 aud the Call, and other equally prominent 
 publications. She has also written numer- 
 ous pruse articles and stories, and is weekly 
 
 MRS. BELLE DORMER. 
 
 correspondent for several newspapers. Slie 
 was married in 1884 to John M. Dormer, sec- 
 retary of State of Nevada, and has a family 
 of four children. Mrs. Belle Dormer will 
 very shortly publish a volume oC lier poetry 
 and prose, which will undoubtedly make a 
 very interesting and valuable work. 
 
 *- 
 
 MY BABY'S GRAVE. 
 
 There's a little grave in the rain to-night, 
 
 A little mound heaped high. 
 Where the brightest hopes of my life lie 
 dead. 
 
 For all that is fair must die. 
 
 Aud every droi) of the rain that falls, 
 
 And every siiowflake white 
 Seems freezing my very heart to stono 
 
 As they fall on his grave to-night. 
 
 For I never knew a thing to love, 
 
 To cherisl\ and liold most dear. 
 But 'twas always tlie flrst to perish and die. 
 
 And leave my life more drear. 
 
 And though tiic world may be full of care, 
 And sorrow, and sin, and bliglit. 
 
 It never yet lield a human heart 
 That was sadder than mine to-night. 
 
 SVAEET VIOLETS. 
 Ragged urchin on the corner — 
 
 Hungry eyes and naked feet; 
 Asking all to buy her violets 
 
 Who might pass the busy street. 
 
 "Lady, lady, buy my violofsl 
 
 Oh, I beg you, don't refuse; 
 Each bunch has its own sweet story; 
 
 I will tell you, if you choose. 
 
 " Tliis one grew beside a river. 
 And perhaps you'll like it best, 
 
 For the sunshine smiled upon it — 
 It is bluer than the rest. 
 
 " This one grew beside an oak tree. 
 Where a grapevine swing was made — 
 
 Where the bluebirds live in summer. 
 Where the happy children played. 
 
 • ' This the fairest of my flowers. 
 With the strangest story, too — 
 
 It was given me by a lady. 
 And her eyes, like yours, were blue. 
 
 '. And her face, though very handsome. 
 
 Wore a weary look of care. 
 And like snowdrifts kissed by sunlight. 
 
 Was her wondrous wavy hair. 
 
 " Aud she kissed this bunch of violets, 
 And this daisy's lieart of gold: 
 
 And she said she had a daughter 
 Wandering from the Shepherd's fold." 
 
 " Hush, you beggar ! Tell me quickly, 
 Did you liearthe lady's nameV 
 
 God forgive me, 'twas my motlier — 
 And she knows her daugliter's shame I' 
 
 Silver pennies, like a shower. 
 Fell about the bare, brown feet, 
 
 But the lady and tlie violets 
 Vanished from tlie busy street. 
 
 On the beach below the Cliff House, 
 Where the sand is firm and white. 
 
 Lay a handsome, slender figure. 
 Bathed in morning's ro.sy light. 
 
 All about her blonde hair falling. 
 In her liands tlie violets pressed. 
 
 On her lips the smile of childhood — 
 God had given her sleep and restl 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 861 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. EMMA THOMPSON. 
 
 Wit and Wisdom of Don Quixote, including- 
 life of Cervantes, which was published by 
 Koberts Brother, of Boston, and Sampson 
 Low & Co., of London, was from the pen of 
 Mrs. Km ma Thoiiipsoii. Aiiotlier t)f her Moi'ks 
 
 Wit and Wisdom of Charles Diclcens, will be 
 shortly brought out by the American Pub- 
 lishers' Association of Chicago. Mrs. Emma 
 Thompson has written numerous stories, 
 prose articles and book notices for the press, 
 and is the author of many beautiful poems. 
 
 TO MY FIRST LOVE. 
 I loved thee many years ago. 
 
 When the rose of spring was tliine 
 And thy pure spirit's freshest glow 
 
 Echoed Itself on mine. 
 
 I loved thee in the summer time, 
 When thy lieart was light and gay. 
 
 Ere other love and other clime 
 Bore thee from me away. 
 
 I had not thought to ever trace 
 
 A life from thee apart — 
 I liad not thought to e'er efface 
 
 Thine image from my heart. 
 
 Still thee I love, though winter twine 
 Snowy curls around thy brow — 
 
 Nor all the other loves of mine 
 Could be as dear as thou. 
 
 MY FIRST GKAY HAIR. 
 1 met the glance of her flashing eye 
 
 And the curl of her lip so proud: 
 I glanced at the brow serenely high. 
 
 And I thought, would it e'er be bowed? 
 
 Her spring of life and affection's flow 
 Passed on with a rusiiing train 
 
 Till summer song, with a weary glow. 
 Enriched the bright days again. 
 
 Now weight of tears has bowed her head. 
 No longer free her spirits swaj'. 
 
 And in her heart I silent read 
 The reason why one liair was gray. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Since first we met 
 
 The sun has set 
 On many a joy and sorrow; 
 
 Full oft a sigh 
 
 Has glided by. 
 To dwell on hope to-morrow. 
 
 Our hours gay 
 
 Have passed away. 
 And shadows o'er us gently fall; 
 
 Sweet hope is oer. 
 
 Then sigh no more — 
 Past hours we can ne'er recall. 
 
 MY YOUTH HAS FLOWN. 
 
 Age is my own ! 
 
 My youth has flown 
 Like a bird upon the wing — 
 
 A sad farewell, 
 
 A broken shell 
 For my liarp has lost a string. 
 
 Borne down life's stream 
 
 Swift as a dream. 
 Disturbing the sleeper's rest. 
 
 Where does it fleet 
 
 The dream so sweet 
 That scarcely touched my breast? 
 
 It passed me by '. 
 
 A long-drawn sigh 
 Escapes with sorrowing strain, 
 
 Will it return? 
 
 Sadly I yearn 
 To dwell on its charm again. 
 
 It floated away 
 
 Like rays of day. 
 And will come to me no more; 
 
 A pathless track. 
 
 It ne'er comes back — 
 My season of j'outli is o'er. 
 
 -® 
 
*- 
 
 862 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GHEIN ON THE DANtJBE. 
 
 Mid scenic repose 
 
 And classic renown 
 Lies Greiu on tlie Danube, 
 To fashion unknown. 
 
 Its crescent and mosque 
 
 Of old Feudal times 
 Is now banished for aye 
 
 By true Christian shrines. 
 
 Gay, with its music 
 And sweet-flowiuK rills. 
 
 Is Grein, with its castles — 
 Old Grein 'mid its hills. 
 
 In suushiue so fair, 
 
 With mountain and vales. 
 Yet more solemn at night 
 
 With legend and tales. 
 
 Of old Coburg- days. 
 
 When Prince Albert was there. 
 And gay was the castle 
 
 With merriment rare. 
 
 We ne'er can forg-et 
 The love and the grace, 
 
 The welcome with flowers 
 That first g-ave us place 
 
 Within the Grein homes, 
 
 So tender and true. 
 Nor the friendly hand-touch 
 
 Of friends ever new. 
 
 With love in their hearts. 
 
 They bade us to stay ; 
 They pressed the warm kiss 
 
 At parting: that day. 
 
 When far on the breeze. 
 We, speeding' from sig-ht, 
 
 Linger'd echoes of song- 
 That fair Summer nig-ht! 
 
 Such roseate chords 
 
 Will never more wind 
 Round the pulse of our hearts 
 
 As did those of old Grein. 
 
 *- 
 
 HER BIRTHDAY. 
 'Mid all the friends that round thee throng 
 To loving- grreet with gift and song 
 
 Tliee on thj' natal day; 
 'Mid sunny thonghts that charm the while. 
 And kindred hearts and lips that smile, 
 
 Will list my simple lay? 
 
 I would not, e'en I had the power. 
 Ask time to stay the passing hour 
 That marks a year to thee; 
 
 I'd rather send a simple flower. 
 To live its little fleeting hour. 
 And dying, turn to thee ! 
 
 Yet if I had a magic power, 
 
 I'd summon forth from fragrant flower 
 
 A fairy gift to send. 
 The rarest joys of all the earth 
 Should cluster lovingly round thy hearth. 
 And with its i.rishtucss blend. 
 
 TRUE HEARTS AROUND US. 
 True hearts around us are swelUng, 
 And daily is heard from each dwelling 
 A murmur for freedom once more — 
 Our watchword from shore to shore; 
 For our flag shall float on the breeze. 
 And our sails on the foaming- seas. 
 And a greater than deathless fame 
 Shall our champions ever claim. 
 
 From round us the pure faith of old 
 Like the wave of the ocean has rolled; 
 But the wave f i-om the shore that is torn 
 Is sure to i-oll back with the morn. 
 Then our flag shall float on the breeze. 
 And our sails on the foaming seas. 
 And a greater than deathless fame 
 Shall our champions ever claim. 
 
 Come faith to our hearts from on high! 
 Let freedom be ever the cry 
 Of the soldier, the faithful and brave. 
 When his banner shall over him wave! 
 For our flag shall float on the breeze. 
 And our sails on the foaming seas. 
 And a greater tlian deathless fame 
 From all shall our heroes claim. 
 
 A TEAR AND A FLOWER. 
 
 Strew sweetest flowers on the spot. 
 That gentle fragrance they may shed. 
 
 And drop a tear upon the lot 
 Where oft we kneel, and lightly tread. 
 
 He only asks a silent tear 
 To flow from sympathetic eye. 
 
 And begs one flower ever near 
 Upou the quiet grave to lie. 
 
 This nameless may have wished to lie 
 Where many cliosen saints are found. 
 
 Beneath that fair Italian sky 
 That covers consecrated ground. 
 
 Let fall a tear for the unknown 
 Upon the lowly, humble grave; 
 
 For auglit that thou, or I, have known 
 It shelters one of nature's brave. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, A>D NATIONAL TOKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 8(i3 
 
 COL. JUAN LEWIS. 
 
 Col. Juan Lewi.s lias written cxtcnsivelj' 
 for the periodical press, aud has a volume 
 of poems soon to be published, which is to 
 be appropriately illustrated with original 
 engravings. He has delivered dedication 
 
 COL. JUAN LE.riS. 
 
 poems at re-unions, etc., which have been 
 enthusiastically received and accorded great 
 praise by the press. Col. Lewis is engaged 
 in the United States Patent Office at Wash- 
 ington, D. C, in which city he is also chair- 
 man of the Lewis Printing Company. 
 
 I LOVE ANOTHER. 
 I love another! Is it wrong. 
 
 That I, a married man. 
 Should light of heart, burst into song. 
 And happy as the whole day long. 
 
 Declare what others ban? 
 
 I love another! Whisper? Dare? 
 
 Why should I hide my love? • 
 For such as we true lovers are. 
 Eacli heart aglow — each hope laid bare. 
 
 All other joys above. 
 
 I love another ! Oh, so proud ! 
 
 No monarch on his throne, 
 Could happier be, if from the crowd. 
 
 The high-born pressed with homage loud. 
 Than J, when comes my own ! 
 
 I love another. If her kiss 
 
 Were like the mystic ring. 
 To shield, protect from aught amiss — 
 All illsof Eld— all woes of this — 
 
 Heaven to earth 'twould bring. 
 
 And who is she? This heart of gold. 
 
 That binds itself to me? 
 A wee, wee thing, our two-year old. 
 Full bud of blessing unforetold. 
 
 That clings about my knee. 
 
 And so, although new love has burst. 
 
 Like sunshine in my life, 
 No jealous thought disturbs her first. 
 Who, always true, sweet love immersed. 
 
 Crowned, laureled mother!— wifel 
 
 LOVE AND DUTY. 
 Man hath his limits; with no wings. 
 
 To soar aloft through time and space. 
 His thought wliene'er it ujiward springs. 
 
 Will people deserts with the race. 
 
 Man hath his limits; still he keeps. 
 
 The cycling ages as his own. 
 His path leads upward to the steeps. 
 
 Where mind is monarch of the throne. 
 
 Man hath his limits; yet lie gives, 
 
 A glow of his immortal fire, 
 To all that breathes, or moves or lives. 
 
 Or lifts to heaven a fond desire. 
 
 Man hath his limits; all we know. 
 Or need to know, in paths we trod. 
 
 Is simple duty; Time's o'er-throw 
 Will find this duty Love to God. 
 
 THANK GOD FOR TEARS. 
 
 Thank God for tears! — 
 That when sorrowing the most. 
 
 Through the desolated years, 
 Aud storms lower upon life's coast. 
 
 The clouds may break thro' all. 
 And tears, blessed tears may fall; 
 
 Thank God for tears ! 
 
 Thank God for tears ! — 
 As in desert wastes the dew 
 
 The weary wanderer cheers. 
 With hope and life anew. 
 
 So tears, to souls storm swept. 
 Still are divine as wlien Jesus wept; 
 
 Thank God for tears! 
 
 -* 
 
ii<- 
 
 864 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 IT"S IN LOVE THAT I AM. 
 It's in love that I am, with ye, darlni<;-, 
 
 In love, and I wish ye were mine, 
 Yet how can I hope that my being. 
 
 With one that's so blessed may twine? 
 Ye have all the rich beauty, my darling-. 
 
 Sweet graces that come from above, 
 While I to love's duty, my darling. 
 
 Bring only an ocean of love. 
 
 It's in love that I am, with ye, darling. 
 
 Oh, accept, then, a homage like mine, 
 A heart that's all tender and bursting. 
 
 With its burden of promi.se divine. 
 Yc know I lack polish in wooing. 
 
 My phrases, at best, are but weak, 
 Tlio' my soul throb tears in the sueing, 
 
 Yet answer, my darling, oh, speak. 
 
 It's the love that is with ye, my darling. 
 
 It's the soul that is kneeling to yt)u, 
 That cries to the heart in your bosom. 
 
 For answer to mine that is true! 
 Oh, a smile on thy lips I see breaking. 
 
 Like the dawn on a roseate sea, 
 O rapture! the joy of awaking. 
 
 To a love so long liidden from me! 
 
 A DRAUGHT DIVINE. 
 O, pour for rre a draught divine, 
 
 A sweet libation freely pour. 
 The only cup thy ripe, red lii)S, 
 Which, brimming o'er with love, eclipse 
 All wines that man or god e'er sips. 
 
 Yet makes the drinker thirst for more, 
 And pledge anew to thee and thine. 
 
 O, pour for me a draught divine. 
 
 And fill the cup to overflow. 
 Nor spill one drop of nectar'd bliss, 
 Fi'om thee to me, as this — or this — 
 (The echo sweet where all joys meet,) 
 O, thrill that still asks kiss for kiss. 
 
 My cup of love that trembh^s so; 
 O, glowing lips, add flame to mine, 
 And pour for aye a draught divine. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE WEDDING DAY. 
 
 Oh, sum and crown of happy life, 
 Oh, day that dwarfs the years so small. 
 
 When merges maiden in the wife. 
 And love itself is all in all! 
 
 Great hopes that color from to-day, 
 Tho' precious tears are gemm'd to fall. 
 
 Love's rainbow spans life's arc alway. 
 For love, indeed, is all in all! 
 
 I know not how the child may love. 
 Whose ties of being yet must wake; 
 
 Unfledged for flight the snowy dove. 
 Knows not the height its wings may take; 
 
 Nor yet, how rugged man may choose. 
 In all the splendor of his power. 
 
 To live alone — and love refuse — 
 When love alone is heaven's dower; 
 
 I know not how old age may love. 
 When voices from the past may call, 
 
 But love, I know, is from above, 
 Whate'er its years, 'tis all in all! 
 
 It may be youth, it may be age. 
 Or ripened manhood's early morn, 
 
 Wliene'er tlie hour life's brightest page 
 Is golden with a faith new-born! 
 
 Oh, birthright of the chosen one ! — 
 Oh, guerdon that survived the fall. 
 
 All else maj' perish, but the sun 
 Of love outlasts! — it shines for all I 
 
 Then drink to beauty in its bloom. 
 To manly promise in its youth. 
 
 The budded rose yields sweet perfume. 
 And souls that love unite in truth 1 
 
 Oh, sheaves of fruitage! bind them fast, 
 With golden words beyond recall. 
 
 Oh, sunny skies forever last. 
 And love to each be all in all! 
 
 JACOB LUNDY BROTHERTON. 
 
 1810-1887. 
 His heart was sunsliine as he walked 
 
 The daily round of duty. 
 His soul was peace when e'er he talked 
 
 Of life, of love, of beauty: 
 Of duty toliis fellowman. 
 
 Of love for every being. 
 The beauty of God's larger plan. 
 
 The faith that grows lar-seeing! 
 
 For him these themes could cover all 
 
 Of life that's worth the living. 
 And these lie felt as of God's call. 
 
 And answered in the giving: 
 Not how to die, but how to live. 
 
 His noble life was teacliing. 
 Not liow to save, but how to give. 
 
 His [iractice — not his pivachiiig! 
 
 Oh. later Franklin! we shall miss. 
 
 For truth, tliy strong conviction, 
 Whii'h likt- thy jiresence ne'er remiss, 
 
 Set'iiied good by benediction 1 
 And si>, farewell! The sword may win. 
 
 In righteous conflict, glory. 
 But the warfare of thy life has been, 
 
 For all a nobler story ! 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 865 
 
 MRS. CLARA M.GREENE. 
 
 Born: Buckfield, Me. 
 After teaching- for awliilt!, this lady went 
 to Portland and opened a studio for drawing 
 and painting-, and during- the next three 
 years won unusual success as a portrait 
 painter. In 1873 she married Wyer Greene, 
 a merchant of Portland. Her poems gener- 
 ally have strong- dramatic quality, and con- 
 
 ■MKS. CLAKA MARCKr,r.?: (JKEENE. 
 
 sequeiitly liave l)econie very popular among 
 elocutionists. In 1889 appeared The Magda- 
 len and other Poems, a worli that has re- 
 ceived the highest enconiums of the press. 
 Slie has also written, in addition to lier 
 poems, many stories and sketches, which 
 have been published in the periodical press 
 from Maine to California. Mrs. Greene still 
 lives in Portland with her husband and two 
 dark-eyed children. 
 
 Q UESTION - ANSWER. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The sun is waning wan and old; 
 The days are brief and gray and cold ; 
 We shiver in their garment's fold. 
 A homeless dog, with dismal bark, 
 Bemoaneth twilight chill and dark. 
 The shrouded hills lie white and stark. 
 Wild sweep the snows about tlie clod. 
 The stubble soughs above the sod; 
 Tlie skies are blasting. Wliore is God? 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 A flood of light, a deep-drawu breath. 
 
 That through the being shuddereth 
 With rapturous coming back from death. 
 A flash of song, a glint of wings. 
 The starting of a thousand springs, 
 A thousand runnel murmurings. 
 Life thrills in the awakened clod. 
 The cowslips' breath, the crocus' nod, 
 The stir of nestlings — here is God. 
 
 HANNAH HOLLIDAY 
 
 Pretty Hannah HoUiday, 
 
 Going to the fair. 
 With an aureole of gold 
 
 'Round her shining hair; 
 Clothed upon with innocence. 
 
 Sweetest maiden there! 
 Gallant young Fitzpatriek, 
 
 In his jaunting-car. 
 Drew his rein, enchanted. 
 
 As men sometimes are: 
 "Pretty Hannah Holllday. 
 
 Are ye walking far-;" 
 
 " 'Tis good three miles to Kanturk, 
 
 Ye'll not refuse to ride? 
 Me car is better balanced 
 
 With one on either side." 
 How envied he the kerchief 
 
 Around her fair neck tied! 
 
 Pretty Hannah Holliday 
 
 Shook lier shining head. 
 While a timid glance at him 
 
 From her eyes she sped; 
 With her red lips half a-smile, 
 
 •' I'll not ride," she said. 
 Pleaded young Fitzpatriek then 
 
 With a lover's guile; 
 Still she shook her shining head 
 
 With her lips a-smile: 
 "Such a little way," she said, 
 
 " It is not worth me while." 
 "Faith now, lift your bonny face, 
 
 Ye're too modest far: 
 Where's the harm? Sure many a lass, 
 
 Wei) demeaned, would share 
 With me her lionest company, 
 
 Riding to the fair." 
 Pretty Hannah Holliday, 
 
 Glancing up again. 
 Eyes as full as they could be 
 
 Of what hazards men — 
 " Sure, it's not meself will be 
 
 Riding with ye then ! " 
 Leaped he lightly to the ground; 
 
 "Mavourneen, here I swear 
 Me car sIuJl carry two or none! 
 
 We'll walk to Kaiiturk fair. 
 Or ride with me and marry me — 
 
 Which will ye now? Declare ! " 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Cried pretty Hannah HoUiday, 
 
 " What folly would ye do? 
 Your shoes would get all over dust?" 
 
 Then, blushing, faltered through, 
 "May be we'd better both ride now, 
 
 Since mine are dusty too! " 
 
 VISIONS. 
 I dreamed that I — but, ah, the dream 
 
 Too vain is for the telling! 
 In vain the cooling fountains gleam 
 
 By broken cisterns welling. 
 1 dreamed that thou — oh ! that mines eyes, 
 
 The vision fond confessing. 
 Could meet thine own in tender wise. 
 
 And love's wrong find redressing. 
 I dreamed that we — O hearts that break. 
 
 Hold fast to love's sweet seeming; 
 For all is false to wiiich ye wake. 
 
 And truth is in your dreaming ! 
 
 PENETRALIA. 
 We ate drifting in dreamland, I and thou — 
 
 Thou and I on a golden tide. 
 With keel of silver and carven prow. 
 
 And liHes floating on either side. 
 There are banks of myrtle and lotus flowers, 
 
 Violet odors and slumberous musk; 
 Grapes empurpling lush green bowers. 
 
 And great pomegranates, glowitig and dusk. 
 There are waving branches of stately trees. 
 
 And amber dates in orchards of palm; 
 There are dripping combs of honey of bees. 
 
 And the wild fawn feeding without 
 alarm. 
 Here drifting in dreamland, on we float. 
 
 Thy soul and mine for one blissful hour; 
 The bulbul 'plaining her low love-note. 
 
 The soft wind kissing the passion-flower. 
 And there groweth the wonder how this land 
 
 On whose still waters our souls lie bask- 
 ing. 
 Whose pastures green upon either hand 
 
 Invite our feet, is ours for the asking. 
 Oh ! the nectarous fruitage, the rich red 
 wine. 
 
 All, all are free for the lip to prove; 
 We may gather at will, in this land divine. 
 
 Her rose of Sharon, the rose of love. 
 Nepenthe hushes our life of care. 
 
 It is drowned and gone like a tale that is 
 told; 
 We are radiant spirits in realms all fair, 
 
 Gliding for aye over sands of gold. 
 While blue over all is the wondrous heaven, 
 
 Fair clouds caressing the far-off skies; 
 I turn, and lo! is the secret given 
 Of this dream-vision within thine eyes! 
 
 AT PARTING. 
 I put mj- flower of song into thy hand 
 And turn my eyes away. 
 And turn my life from thine. 
 
 — Philip Bourke Marston. 
 
 I take, O poet mine, within my hand. 
 My hand that hath been empty over long, 
 1 take from thee thy tender flower of song; 
 This deep, swift rapture— dare I under- 
 stand? 
 Oh ! turn thou not away 
 
 Thine ejes where no lights shine 
 Till thou hast auswei-ed mine 
 Their eager question, is it aye and aye? 
 
 These passionate pink petals, fold on fold. 
 All tremulous, woulcl they to me disclose 
 Their secret my quick heart divining knows, 
 The diamond dew of love in cup of gold? 
 Turn not thine eyes away 
 
 Till u)ine have drank froiii thine 
 
 The draught that is divine. 
 And, satisfied, shall thirst no more for aye. 
 
 Until we met upon a foreign strand 
 
 My life was barren and my heart was old, 
 
 My skies were wintry and my days were 
 
 cold. 
 And hopelessly afar lay summerland. 
 Oh ' turn thou not away 
 
 Till I can understand 
 The radiance that o'erspanned 
 And brought the dawning of diviner day. 
 There draweth near the lonely eventide. 
 When lowlier fall the voices of the glad. 
 And sadder grow the souls that must be 
 
 sad; 
 The sea of change outlieth dark and wide; 
 I may not bid thee stay. 
 
 W^hat so malign as fate. 
 When two are met too late. 
 And recognize — and one must turn away? 
 
 Yet when thou goest forth to thy dark years. 
 And I walk desolate upon the strand, 
 Thy precious flower of song within my hand 
 Sliall fill my heart with rapture and with 
 
 tears; 
 Wliile underbreath I say 
 
 • • His love — his love is mine. 
 
 Unto no other shrine 
 His soul from mine sh:dl ever turn away." 
 
 And if some day it shall be mine to stand, 
 And Willi my brimming eyes es.'^ay to trace 
 The way lovi' looked ujion my marble face, 
 Thy flower of song will be within my hand: 
 None there shall say me nay: 
 
 I hold the flower in .sign. 
 
 Tlie dead will tlien be mine. 
 Nor ever more from my life turn away. 
 
 «- 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 867 
 
 MRS. MARY IVES TODD. 
 
 Born: Eddyville, Iowa, Dec 23, 1849. 
 Mary Ives Todd is an occasional writer 
 for the press, and the author of "The New 
 Adam and Eve," now in press. Her parents 
 are Mr, Homer D. Ives and Mary Eastman 
 
 MRS. MARY IVES TODD. 
 
 Ives, botli early settlers in Iowa; the one a 
 lawyer, and the other a teacher. Mrs. Todd 
 was western-bred, with the exception of a 
 short period spent with an uncle while at- 
 tending- an eastern seminary. 
 
 JUST SWEET SIXTEEN. 
 Just sweet sixteen is our Lulu to-day — 
 Ah, me! how swiftly time flies away; 
 It seems but yestreen that slie was laid 
 Within the liome-nest a tiny maid. 
 God bless our darling! 
 
 But yet to-day no such babe can be found. 
 Thn' we searcli the liome-nest round and 
 
 round; 
 Still, tho' no babe there longer reposes. 
 Are two lads and a lass sweet like roses ! 
 God bless our darlings! 
 
 And oh, yes; God bless each, ev'ry darling. 
 Wee, dimpled toddlings, with eyes sparliling. 
 Strong, sturdy lads,who for Right must flght 
 Side by side with maids sweet, true and 
 bright. 
 God bless all darlings. 
 
 AMERICA. NEW WORLD, HAIL! 
 
 America, New World, hail ! 
 
 Last uncover'd, loveliest 
 Of earth's domain, hail! liail! 
 
 Richest gift to humankind 
 By love who cares for each-all, 
 
 We gladly greet thee, hail ! hail ! 
 
 Full well's tlij' history known — 
 
 How patiently, fairest land. 
 Thou did'st await children fair. 
 
 To whom thou could'st unlock 
 Treasures rare, gifts plenteous. 
 
 Ah, gladly we greet thee, liail! 
 
 And they came at last. Usher'd 
 By him, through her, of sublime 
 
 Faith. Came and knelt upon tliy 
 Breast, and didst thy bosom kiss 
 
 And prajer to Heav'u offer. 
 And lovingly greet thee, hail! 
 
 Four hundred years since then have 
 
 Flown. A generous mother 
 Hast thou proved, America! 
 
 Freely as hast receiv'd so 
 Given from t'ly bountiful store. 
 
 As of old we greet thee, hail 1 
 
 But thy children, fair, favor'd, 
 
 Have they thy fair example 
 Followed? To one and all 
 
 As freely given as thou 
 To them? Can we gladly shout, 
 
 America's children, hail! 
 
 Alack, not yet. But as thou 
 
 Art patient as bountiful, 
 America, thou wilt bide 
 
 Their approach from afar 
 E'en they come at snail's slow pace. 
 
 Patient America, hail ! 
 
 Yet seel Heaven's messengers 
 Are in their midst. Discernest thou 
 
 Not Bellamy, late sent, with 
 A host of others, working 
 
 Prodigiously? E'en so, hail! 
 New World and Heav'n sent, hail! hail! 
 
 Yet again, see! Thy children 
 
 Are falling into ranks with 
 Quicken'd step. Aloft they bear 
 
 A banner of import like 
 Unto that life Christendom 
 
 Reverses. Hail! hasten! hail! hail! 
 
 On they come, a mighty host! 
 
 Glorious their countenance — 
 Fairer, many a time, than 
 
 'Twas of yore. Shout, ye mountains, 
 America, hail! And thy 
 
 Children, forever hail ! hail ! 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF A5IEKICA. 
 
 * 
 
 , MRS. SUE E. BECKWITH. 
 
 Born: DeKalb Co., III,., 1843. 
 
 In 1872 this lady removed to Kansas, and is 
 now a resident of that state at An Dale. 
 Her poems have appeared in the Western 
 
 *- 
 
 MRS. S. E. BECKWITH. 
 
 Rural and tlie local press freiierally. She is 
 the author of the poem A Legend of Arkan- 
 sas, which was eulogized highly and widely 
 copied by the periodical press of America. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 The days grow short, tlie season wanes 
 
 The glowing sun, whose bright rays kissed 
 With loving warmth the fiowery plains. 
 
 Seems shadowed in a vapory mist. 
 The wind in deeper, sadder tone 
 
 Is sighing through the rustling trees 
 Whose boughs a melancholy moan 
 
 Are whispering to the dying leaves. 
 All nature takes a graver hue ; 
 
 The woods a deeper sliadow cast, 
 And o'er the sky's cerulean blue 
 
 The hazy clouds float idly pnst. 
 The season wanes, and nature seems 
 
 As if composed to quiet sleep. 
 No more the grove with music teems, 
 
 The birds a charmed stillness keep. 
 O'er earth's bare bosom now is spread 
 
 A carpet soft of sinnmer leaves 
 Whose green is dyed a goldeti red. 
 
 And bare grows the maple trees. 
 The days grow short, the season wanes. 
 
 The grass is sere o'er hill and lea: 
 
 No water in the pond remains. 
 
 The stream runs slower to the sea. 
 Tiie long-spun cobwebs idly float 
 
 In feathery festoons through the air, 
 And all the while a mournful note 
 
 Seems sobbing, throbbing everj'where. 
 The brilliant summer days have flown 
 
 Of singing birds and nodding flowers. 
 Yet Autumn's beauty was unknown 
 
 In Suumier's gayest, halcyon hours. 
 So in the autumn time of life 
 
 The "Indian Summer" days will come — 
 Long days, with meditation rife. 
 
 When we shall sing glad >■ Harvest Home.' 
 
 AT SET OF SUN. 
 I boasted aloud in the morning 
 
 Of the things whicli I would do 
 To make tlie world grow better. 
 
 To make weak hearts more true. 
 I would draw my trusty saber 
 
 To break the chains of Night! 
 And scatter abroad my silver 
 
 As the stars begem the night. 
 Great deeds should my hands be doing 
 
 That would shine on the scrolls of fame. 
 And the hearts of a million people 
 
 Would glow at the sound of my name. 
 At noontide I was working 
 
 And dreaming still of fame. 
 So I founded lofty asylums 
 
 And named them with my name; 
 I sent abroad to the heathen 
 
 The "Wonderful words of life." 
 And wherever life's battles were hottest 
 
 I was foremost in the strife. 
 The evening found me weeping 
 
 Aloud in my grief and pain, 
 Wliile the tears of remorse and sorrow 
 
 Ran down my cheeks like rain. 
 Great deeds had my hands been doing — 
 
 Great deeds till set of sun, 
 And missed on each long day's journey 
 
 The things which I should have done. 
 I had refused to 1 he starving orphan 
 
 Tlie mite for his daily bread. 
 And reared with my glittering silver 
 
 Lofty hospitals instead. 
 I had seen weak soids go downward 
 
 With !i, wail of wild despair, 
 But I had no time to succor 
 
 From the tempter in his lair. 
 I had seen my own home nestling 
 
 Grow faint for a loving word. 
 And made a tlmusand speeches 
 
 Which the nuillitudcs had lieard. 
 So I cried aloud in my sorrow 
 
 At the setting of the sun 
 As they passed in review bt'fore me — 
 
 The things which I should have done. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. L. R. MESSENGER. 
 
 In 1886 appeared Fragriients From an Old 
 Inn, a volume of prose and verse from tlie 
 pen of Lillian RozeK Messenger, a resident 
 of Washington, D. C. The year following- ap- 
 peared The Vision of Gold and Other Poems, 
 a fine collection of nearlj' two hundred pages 
 
 w 
 
 ^m^^ 
 
 ■ 
 
 f^m 
 
 
 i*^^ 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 i 
 
 W^^-- 
 
 i . 
 
 vfW 
 
 MRS. LILLIAN li. MESSENGER. 
 
 of choice poems, many of which have ap- 
 peared in the leading publications of the 
 east. The Southern Cross is her latest vol- 
 ume. These works contains manj- rare gems 
 of tiiought that entitle her to a laurel wreath 
 of fame as a national poet. Mrs. Messenger 
 is one of the galaxy of intellectual stars in 
 the firmament of the national capital. 
 
 I PRESSED TO MY LIPS A ROSE. 
 I pressed to my lips 
 
 A rose. 
 Not for its beautiful lips. 
 
 But for light and joy, that nobody knows. 
 And sorrow can never eclipse. 
 I pressed to my heart 
 
 A rose. 
 Not for its heart divine. 
 
 But for the thought that above and be- 
 yond it glows — 
 The faith that is thine and mine. 
 It shall not die. 
 
 Sweet rose ! 
 Can love of the lovely die? 
 
 Goeth not life where the beautiful goes? 
 And shall not thou and I? 
 
 I placed in a shrine 
 
 My rose — 
 Shrine of soul and memory—* 
 
 And nobody knows how softly It blows 
 Life-mysteries over me ' 
 
 MY BOY. 
 
 When thy fair childhood lifted eyes 
 
 Brightest the blue skies under. 
 And heaven and earth look'd back replies 
 
 To the young soul, lost in wonder; 
 When rippling laugh and boyish way 
 
 Were fairy-like and fleetest. 
 And life and love with thee at play — 
 
 I thought thee then the sweetest. 
 Thine eyes like deep, blue wells in June, 
 
 Wild flowers and leaves scarce cover. 
 With ripples tangled in sweet tune. 
 
 Thy rose-lips murmured over. 
 When little feet and hands at rest 
 
 Like pink shells on the border 
 Of sleep's soft sea, and on the breast 
 
 Tiny palms in silent order; 
 And little knee-pants, crinkled shoes 
 
 Laid near by — the neatest, 
 Th' pockets full of what boys will choose — 
 
 I deemed thee then the sweetest. 
 Wlien tender leaves of years just caught 
 
 The rippling sunlight lying 
 Tween two and twelve-and-two, I thought 
 
 Thy laughter music's sighing. 
 When summer drifted out of springs 
 
 To larger, golden dawning. 
 Thy grand young soul heard many things 
 
 Fallen through rifts of morning. 
 
 When the proud voice clear called mother, 
 dear, 
 'Tween smiles and tears the fleetest. 
 Well — thro' tangled light and shade each 
 year. 
 All times I thought thee sweetest ! 
 
 THE PRESS. 
 Thought has its tides; on its billows high 
 
 Coming in from an ocean vast; 
 An idea glows unto man's deep eye 
 
 Till his genius holds it fast. 
 A wanderer musing alone t)ne day 
 
 Look'd over his dream, in a dream; 
 For dream followed thought in its 
 bright way. 
 
 As the sunlight follows the stream. 
 He saw in a songful brook at his feet. 
 
 When still 'neath its summer sky. 
 The tracery of leaves and flow'rets sweet, 
 
 And cloudlets hovering nigh. 
 And upon the rock in fragrant moss 
 
 Th' imprint of leaf and line 
 
 wild. 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 870 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 Of tender fern. " There is no loss 
 
 In secret Nature's design, " 
 Said he, " And her cunning art-works 
 wrought 
 
 Of her subtler mysteries, 
 Can they ever be touched by man's line 
 thought 
 
 In mosaics like to these? 
 " Shall his thought have pinion yet to go 
 
 To the bounds of the Infinite? 
 Shall it ever its wing'd chariot know. 
 
 And the dark be fringed with light! " 
 He pondered long till he fell asleep 
 
 To the music of dream and thought. 
 Time passed, . . . and men at last might 
 reap 
 
 The good which the toiler brought. 
 The Printing Press that his genius gave 
 
 To the world in a darker age 
 Was th' immortal form that Thought to save 
 
 On time's immortal page. 
 'Twas the body wing'd that Thought to hold 
 
 As life's strange riddle grew. 
 While mystic threads from the looms of the 
 Old 
 
 Were woven with the New. 
 For the spirit wrought for man's harsh needs 
 
 His royal robes of to-day. 
 Till clothed with the kingliest mind he leads 
 
 Up to Beings loftiest way. 
 Now knowledge pines no longer in night 
 
 Of prison or convent walls. 
 But goes a beauteous spirit of light 
 
 Wlierever Genius calls. 
 And the click of the types, the whirr of the 
 press 
 
 Are sounds she would rather hear 
 Than drum and clarion of War's dark stress. 
 
 The clashing of saber and spear. 
 Now the poorest son that poverty claims 
 
 Dwells freely iu her high noon ; 
 New worlds of science and art he names 
 
 With wisdom's deathless boon. 
 As far as the desert spreads its night 
 
 In the forests, or west, or east. 
 The Press to the dreary will bear its light, 
 
 And knowledge shall be high-priest. 
 Thouglit has its tides; in its ebb and flow 
 
 Doth man come forth on tlie beacli 
 From the still Unknown; and liis grand, 1 
 Know, 
 
 Must through the centuries reach 
 Tlie ideal I am; he becomes througli power 
 
 Of spirit, of mind, set- free. 
 By Science and Art; wliile the Press, each 
 hour. 
 
 Gives trutli immortality. 
 
 CHARLES P. NETTLETON. 
 
 Born: New Haven, Conn., 1865. 
 In 1888 the subject of this sketch graduated 
 in the C L. S. C. His poems have appeared 
 
 CHARLES p. NETTLETON. 
 
 in the Pacific Kural Press and other publica- 
 tions. Mr. Nettleton is engaged iu fniit-- 
 growing at Hay wards, Cal. 
 
 PRAISE. 
 "I have mined you a truth," 
 
 A poet cried; 
 " I have delved, I have dug 
 
 In dark mount-side 
 Till the gold is laid bare. 
 
 And —see! here stands 
 A great fragment of truth. 
 
 Lift thou your hands." 
 But the world thus replied: 
 
 .. We lift no hands: 
 You have done what you ouglit. 
 
 But — no commands! 
 We have felt this great trutlj. 
 
 Feeling, beett blest. 
 Shall wo buy what's our own? 
 
 Take words for test? 
 .. We will grant, if you wish. 
 
 Some debt to you. 
 Weigh yo tliis who want praise; 
 
 To us is due 
 From eacli man, slave or king, 
 
 His best. Each life 
 Interacts on eacli life; 
 
 Hence, leave praise-strife." 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 871 
 
 MRS. JULIETTE E. MATHIS. 
 
 Born : Glen Falls, N. Y. 
 For the past thirty years this lady has lived 
 in California, and her home is now in Santa 
 Barbara. She is leading- soprano in the 
 Trinity Episcopal church of that city. For 
 
 f"" ■ 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
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 ^^^^^^1^ vP^ 
 
 
 
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 ""'^^^JiP ^ 
 
 
 
 
 ■ ••,^*-/ 
 
 
 
 
 Jii. 
 
 JfRS. .TTTLIETTE E. MATHIS. 
 
 many years she was a i-esident of Ottawa, 
 111. The poems of Mrs. Mathis have appeared 
 in the Pittsburg- Clironicle, Ladies' Home 
 Journal, and other prominent publications. 
 
 FRUITION. 
 
 Oh, ye of little faith, who see 
 
 No fruit upon your nurtured tree. 
 
 No blossom on its boughs to be; 
 
 Brown, barren fields where wide and free 
 
 Ye cast the seed so lavishly, 
 
 Despair not, for if patiently 
 
 Ye follow through the wilderness 
 
 The onward-sweeping- cloud of flre. 
 
 Nor turn aside for dire distress. 
 
 Ye yet shall reach your heart's desire. 
 
 Ah, then, how short will seem the way 
 
 That once ^vas long, the sky so gray 
 
 Be filled with every gorgeous ray 
 
 That burns with gold and rose the day ; 
 
 The perfect fruit shall not decay, 
 
 This steadfast f:iith shall not betray; 
 
 Then be not weary in tlie race. 
 
 Let courage give ye strength to run. 
 
 For conquered Fate shall give ye grace. 
 
 Nor shall in darkness set the sun. 
 
 MY HERITAGE. 
 
 My realm is limited 
 
 By sight and sense alone; 
 
 My wide possessions fed 
 
 By sources onlj' known 
 To me, sole autocrat of this wide sphere 
 Wherein I live and love and must revere 
 The giver of my good, believe that He 
 Has been a bounteous Father unto me. 
 
 No house, or land, or gold 
 
 Can counted be as mine; 
 
 My treasure must be told 
 
 By sweeter word and sign. 
 Without his care my neighbor's perfect 
 
 lawn 
 Is given to my eyes, the bloom thereon, 
 The daily miracle of dewy dawn 
 When dusky shadows of dim night are gone. 
 
 The glowing coloring 
 
 Of field, hill, wood and sky 
 
 Each radiant day dotii bring- 
 
 And shining seas anigh 
 Are mine, all mine; the universe of song 
 To my enraptured ear swells clear and long. 
 How rich am I, who count such store as 
 
 these ! 
 I thank Thee, O my God, upon ray knees! 
 
 For memory's demesne. 
 
 Its shadows evergreen. 
 
 Its reveries serene 
 
 That glide so oft between 
 New sorrows, forced awhile to stand aside 
 When such fair company with me doth bide 
 My ministers, their garments rite with 
 
 myrrh. 
 Fresh rosemary, violet and lav'nder. 
 
 For love's divine domain. 
 
 Fulfillment, yea and loss. 
 
 Where all is certain gain. 
 
 Its crown nor less its cross. 
 Its bitter-sweet, its rose and rue, its pain. 
 Its holy joy that may not be again. 
 Yet what hath been is still mine own, I 
 
 ween, 
 For hearts retain the glory eyes have seen. 
 
 How can I then be poor. 
 
 Fearing no moth or rust. 
 
 Whose treasure must endure 
 
 Until my mortal dust 
 Shall fall away and I unburdened be 
 By any limitation, spirit free 
 To enter that estate where I may bear • 
 My heritage — its priceless jewels wear? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 872 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE OLIVES. 
 How sofll3- sleeps upon your silvered leaves 
 The moou-lit radiance of fragraut night! 
 How tenderly the sea-wind sobs and grieves 
 Its mournful music to the listening- light 
 Of steadfast stars, that fail not or decaj' 
 Till heaven and earth shall vanish quite 
 awaj' 1 
 
 Your holy spell descends 
 
 Upon my troubled soul 
 
 And sacredly defends 
 
 From turbulence and dole. 
 A calmness like forgiveness from your 
 
 sweet gloom drips, 
 And kisses into silence my complaining' lips. 
 Wliile watching your fair mission-tow'rs, 
 
 upon mine ears 
 Falls faintly far-off knells of dead and buried 
 
 years. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 How green the hills that gently rise! 
 How blue tlie sky that o'er it lies! 
 How rank and sweet the rosemarj- 
 In thi3 fair land of memory! 
 
 What precious tilings are garnered here 
 
 Once cherished, even yet held dear. 
 
 All overgrown with rosemary 
 
 In this sweet laud of memory ! 
 
 How many broken idols lie 
 
 Among the graves once set on hij;li ; 
 
 Bestrewn so deep witli rosemary 
 
 In this sad land of memorj' ! 
 
 How beautiful the faces there! 
 
 How sweet the lips, the eyes, the liair, 
 
 All framed in tender rosemary 
 
 In this bright laud of memory ! 
 
 How many mortals wander here 
 
 To breatlie its holy atmosphere. 
 
 To scent tlie sacred rosemary 
 
 In this wide laud of memorj-1 
 
 The phantom lips wo fain would kiss, 
 
 Recede and leave as naught but tliis — 
 
 A fragrant leaf of rosemary 
 
 From this strange land of memory '. 
 
 The home of immortality 
 
 This wondrous land must surely be. 
 
 And so T wear sweet rosemary 
 
 For your sweet sake, oh memory I 
 
 THE WAY I LOVE YOU. 
 If you should come to me in that still day 
 
 When I sliall dreamless lie upon my bier — 
 If you sliould stand beside and softly say : 
 
 " Arise, oh, best beloved, for I am here!" 
 It seems to me my heart would throb again. 
 Once more my frozen pulse would start 
 and heat. 
 
 My lips would quiver 'ueath your kisses' 
 rain, 
 <SIy breast would heave beneath my wind- 
 ing-sheet. 
 Tlien toucli me not, oh love, for how could I 
 Be dead if you should hold my hands and 
 call 
 Upon my name, who never left yoursigli 
 
 Unheeded? I should stir beneath my pall. 
 It would be harder then to stay with death, 
 Who is so true a fiiend, who gives us peace 
 For pain, such ]ierfect rest for labored 
 breath. 
 And bears us out where loving need not 
 cease. 
 So then, oh dearest friend, you must not 
 come 
 Aneartlie place where I enshrouded lie; 
 'Twould grieve me wlien j-ou wept that I 
 were dumb. 
 That I could give no answer to your cry. 
 My soul would turn back in its upward ■ 
 flight j 
 
 To comfort yours if you had need of me; 
 The bloom above be touclied with sorrow's | 
 blight j 
 
 If your distress my spirit's eyes could see. j 
 
 *- 
 
 UNRECONCILED. 
 
 It is not tliat mj' soul shall fail to find 
 
 Her own in tliat far-off, mysterious bourne, . 
 Or any influence my spirit bind 
 
 From following after her, that 1 must 
 
 mourn. ' 
 
 For this I never grieve ; I know the wide, ; 
 
 Wide universe can never furnish space 
 Enough for us, we two, ajiart to 'bide, j 
 
 Or bliud my eyes froui resting- on her face. ; 
 
 At last, at last; I seeking only this .' 
 
 From star to star adown tlie aisles of time) 
 
 And all eternity, must reach my bliss j 
 
 And hold her yet on heights that I shal'i 
 
 climb. 
 
 But now, now do my faniisherl, thirsty lip--* ^ 
 
 Cry out continually for toucli of heis. 
 My longing eyes seek her's llirough deatii'^ 
 eclipse. 
 
 No other source such tenderness confers [ 
 
 I 
 Tlie tendrils of her shining hair entwine j 
 
 No more about my fingers' soft caress; 
 The grave has robbed these hungry hands o 
 mine 
 
 Of all her sweetness, flower-like loveliness j 
 How can I be content, liow say that all 
 
 Is well, when she is buried from my sijrlit 
 It is my child for wliom I cry and call 
 
 And not an angel robed in distant liprht. 
 
 i 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 873 
 
 -^ 
 
 JOSEPH LATIMER WEIR. 
 
 Born: White House, Tenn., Jan. 24, 182L 
 After iittainiiig- the ag-e of tweniy-oue 
 Joseph completed his education at Wirt Col- 
 lege. He was engag-ed for twenty years as a 
 school teacher, and ten years of liis life has 
 
 ^ -Si. . 
 JOSEPH LATIMEK WEIR. 
 
 been spent in the practice of law. Mr. Weir 
 has filled several important positions of trust, 
 and is now engaged as traveling agent and 
 newspaper correspondent. His poems have 
 received extensive publication in the peri- 
 odical press of the South. 
 
 *- 
 
 LITTLE PAULINE. 
 Playful as a kitten, 
 
 '• Busy as a bee;" 
 A blithesome little girl. 
 
 Of fairest form is she. 
 
 •' Modest as a violet. 
 As a rose-bud sweet;" 
 
 A pretty little girl. 
 With frisky hands and feet. 
 
 Joyous as a robin, 
 
 •• Gentle as a dove;" 
 A winsome little girl. 
 
 That all delight to love. 
 
 " Bright as is a diamond. 
 
 Pure as any pearl;" 
 A gem of richest worth — 
 
 The precious baby girl! 
 
 MOTHER IS DEAD. 
 To me, what sacred thoughts these words in- 
 spire! woe— 
 What pen can paint the pain— the inward 
 The overwhelming flood of crushing grief, 
 That, like a mountain torrent's dashing flow. 
 Came rushing in upon my stricken heart. 
 When, from a missive s;i(l, I slowly read, 
 'Mid tears that flowed like falling drops of 
 
 rain. 
 The sadly solemn words, "Mother is Dead." 
 'Tis sad, indeed, to know that she is gone. 
 The home she left is wrapt in deepest gloom. 
 The sun may shine, the birds may sweetly 
 
 sing. 
 And, as before, the flowers, too, may bloom. 
 But yet, a void there'll be within tluit home, 
 A sacred vacant seat will be there still. 
 And in each saddened heart a lonely place 
 That naught but a mother's love can rightly 
 
 fill. 
 Bereaved ones around the family hearth 
 Will miss a loving mother's tender care. 
 And turning back to the light of other days. 
 When on her lap they lisped their evening 
 
 prayer. 
 May, silently musing on the happy past. 
 With anxious thoughts, by fitful fancy led. 
 Still list, as if to hear her footsteps coming; 
 Alas ! She comes no more — their mother's 
 
 dead! 
 But hope comes gleaming through the cloud 
 
 of grief. 
 And gently ope's to view a future bright. 
 What to the good is death? A transit safe 
 From earthly pain to heaven's pure delight. 
 The passing storm that leaves a sweet repose, 
 A grand transition of the soul from this, 
 Its transitory dwelling place on earth. 
 To an eternal home of heavenly bliss. 
 
 EARLY SPRING-TIME. 
 The most lovely time of all the year. 
 With soft and balmy breath is near. 
 And ringing out quite full and clear 
 The sweetest songs of birds I hear. 
 The days are mild, the nights serene. 
 And sunny slopes are growing green; 
 Along the vales, the hills between. 
 Wild flowers here and there are seen. 
 And merry children on the street. 
 Their faces bright, tlieir toilet neat. 
 With "Silvery voices " like music sweet, 
 Go tripping along with nimble feet. 
 A God of Truth, with love benign. 
 Rules all; He made tlie earth so flue: 
 'Twas He who made, with power divine, 
 The birds to sing, the sun to shine. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 874 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 F. HELEN MCGREGOR. 
 
 Born: Beckwith. Tenn., May 6, 1833. 
 
 This lady has written quite a few poems 
 which have appeared in the local press g-en- 
 erally, and have received hig-h commenda- 
 
 F. HELEN m'GREGOB. 
 
 tion. Helen McGregor received her education 
 in the county schools, and has always resided 
 in her native town. 
 
 ON BURNS' " RED. RED ROSE." 
 Tliy love was like the red, red rose 
 
 That's newly sprung in June, 
 And perished ere the melody 
 
 Of sweet " Bonnie Doon." 
 
 Yes, tlio' she were a lass as fair 
 
 As Nature ever gave. 
 Neither love nor sad despair 
 
 Could save her from the grave. 
 
 The sea still holds its water, 
 And the rocks still meet the Sun, 
 
 But where is beauty's daughter? 
 Her sands of life have run. 
 
 And thine; but may you meet again 
 On some fair happy shore. 
 
 Where roses never lose their bloom 
 And live for evermore. 
 
 THE PRISONER BIRD. 
 Go now little prisoner bird 
 
 Home to thy native tree. 
 The storm's no longer heard. 
 
 And sing in liberty I 
 
 Could I have borne to see 
 Thy bright black eyes decline, 
 
 I could in lone captivity 
 Sweet bird have made the mine. 
 
 Thy golden feathers, one by one, 
 
 I could have torn apart. 
 And drained the ruddy drops that run 
 
 Now warmly through thy heart. 
 
 But cculd I then have hoped 
 
 For succor in the storm. 
 From Him whose wisdom wrapped 
 
 In loveliness thy form? 
 
 Go then, and soon with thee 
 May my poor country swell 
 
 The joyous song- of liberty, 
 And until then farewell. 
 
 THE SWEET FLOWERS SENT ME. 
 They are here, fresh before me. 
 
 With no sign of decay. 
 To tell that from earth 
 
 They are passing away. 
 
 They are here, fresh before me. 
 And with odorous breath. 
 
 Floating 'round me in beauty 
 Are smiling in deatli. 
 
 They are here, fresh before me. 
 With no sign of decaj', 
 
 To tell that from earth 
 They are passing away. 
 
 Yes one, the white rose. 
 
 So lovely last night. 
 Is drooping and withered; 
 
 A pitiful siglit. 
 
 Like some gentle heart 
 
 Too easily tried. 
 The wiiite rose is losing 
 
 Its beauty and pride. 
 
 Yet thou lovely rose 
 For me thou'lt not bloom; 
 
 I'll see that thou Itickest 
 For no fitting tomb. 
 
 For shrined in my memory 
 Tliou still -ihalt live on. 
 
 As fresh and lovely 
 As when made my own. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 875 
 
 -* 
 
 SAiMUEL E. MANN. 
 
 Born : La whence, Mass., April 10, 1853. 
 Graduating at the age of nineteen with 
 honor at tlie Worcester Polytechnic insti- 
 tute, this poet then worked liiniself through 
 the departments of chemistr.v and mechani- 
 cal engineering:. For some years he taught 
 
 SAMUEL E. JIANN. 
 
 natural science, mathematics and drawing 
 I in the high scliool of Middleton, Conn. La- 
 Iter on Mr. Manu went to Honolulu and 
 ! worked as draughtsman and carpenter until 
 '1885. In 1883 he was married, but his wife 
 ;died one year later. Samuel E. Mann has 
 edited a volume of Florida verse, which he 
 hopes to publish at an early period. 
 
 RONDELAY. 
 lAt Waikiki, where lingers dreamy rest, 
 |And joy, as sunshine, beameth full and free; 
 Ah, there, sweet nature! would I be thy 
 guest 
 
 At Waikiki. 
 W^here breezes breathe an airy harmony. 
 Where bends the Palm and preens her 
 i plumed crest, 
 jWhile listening to the love songs of the sea; 
 
 Irhere as I lay my liead upon thy breast, 
 l^nd feel the throbbings of thy love for me, 
 |My heart shall find its grail and end its quest 
 J At Waikiki. 
 
 WAIKIKL 
 
 Beside the bay lies peaceful Waikiki, 
 
 With coral strand o'erhung by clustering 
 
 l>alnis, 
 That seem to wait with Welcome's wide- 
 spread arms. 
 Thence I, aweary of the city, flee, 
 And under algarobas by the sea 
 Find rest. Afar from fear of all alarms. 
 There every fragrant breath uiy spirit calms ; 
 Care steals away, and 1 am left thought-free 
 Beside Leahi's sunset-gilded height. 
 I look far out beyond the dimpled waves. 
 That laugh and play above forgotten graves. 
 And dream sweet dreams of silver sails in 
 
 sight. 
 On broader, brighter bays of time to be. 
 On far-off seas of love's eternity. 
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 Jnder the sand, while the years go bj-, 
 'Tis said that brave old warriors lie; 
 The dead of wars that were of old 
 When here the noise of battle rolled- 
 War-cries and shouts of victory. 
 
 Beneath these palms that tower on high 
 Dark forms like phantoms gather nigii — 
 The miglity forms of warriors bold — 
 
 Under the sand. 
 
 A thousand flashing paddles fly. 
 Ten thousand spears flash in the sky. 
 And feather helmets gleam as gold; 
 But now we see but dust and mold 
 And thoughtless hardly question why — 
 Under the sand. 
 
 DIAMOND HEAD. 
 
 Leahi, long thy grandly buttressed wall 
 
 Shall tower beside our happy island home. 
 
 Great ocean's mighty waves shall swell 
 
 and comb. 
 
 And break, and all their long lines roaring 
 
 fall 
 Dismayed. Sougliing, they sound the sad 
 recall. 
 And flee to where supporting legions roam 
 Perplexed, their em'rald ranks in surf and 
 foam 
 O'erthrown on coral rock. But thou, o'er all 
 Serene, above thy seaward trending slope. 
 While waves and winds against thee vainly 
 beat. 
 Tliou lifted high the radiant brow of hope 
 Unmindful of the passing years. Content, 
 Thou standestflrm, immovable, complete; 
 Hawaii's oldest, noblest monument. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 876 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WHAT IS OUR LIFE. 
 "Oh, what is it all when all is done," 
 When low in the valley we lie at last — 
 When this life that we live on earth is past, 
 And we have departed one by one — 
 
 When, gone are the treasures sought and 
 
 won. 
 As the flowers before the wintry blast? 
 Oh, what is it all when all is done, 
 ^Vhen low in the valley we lie at last? 
 
 Oh, sweet! are the blessings of life when 
 
 gone ; 
 How few are its days that are overcast! 
 Ah! the blessing of love, that we liold fast. 
 Our love that will live forever on! 
 Oh, what is it all when all is done! 
 
 FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 Breathe in whispers sweet and low. 
 As the voice of waters welling. 
 Of DeLeon's fountain telling. 
 
 Of its youth-renewing flow; 
 
 Breathe where wildwood blossoms blow; 
 Breathe within the violet's dwelling — 
 Breathe in whispers sweet and low. 
 
 As the voice of waters welling. 
 
 Breathe, oh, wood-wind! whisper slow. 
 Of love's waters, pain-repelling. 
 Till the heart with rapture swelling 
 Shall through love a new life know — 
 Breathe in whispers sweet and low. 
 
 A LULLABY. 
 Bye, baby, bye, my song shall sweetly flow, 
 For guardian angels gatlier nigh. 
 While rocks the cradle to and fro. 
 
 Bye, baby, bye. 
 The sun swings low in the western sky; 
 The evening heralds come and go; 
 How swift their golden chariots fly! 
 
 Blue sky above, blue sea below. 
 And blue my baby's laughing eye. 
 For sleep, sweet sleep, comes still and slow. 
 Bye, baby, bye. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life, my boy, is this: to climb 
 Up the hard waj- of time 
 From boyish years to manhood's 
 With zest- 
 
 prime 
 
 Then slowly down the; farther steep, 
 Willi faltering step, to creep, 
 And weary, to lie down to sleep 
 
 * 
 
 weary, to lie down to sleep 
 And rest. 
 
 THE SWEETEST THEME. 
 One among the poet's themes 
 This one oft the sweetest seems: 
 '• Home, Sweet Home,'" of which he sings- 
 Childhood's home, of which he dreams — 
 Vine-clad cottage, wooded hills. 
 Grassy fields and rippling streams. 
 Memory gently guides him there. 
 Leads in spite of Fancy's schemes — 
 Leads where tender love was born. 
 Smiles till joy through sorrow gleams. 
 Faith through clouds of doubt shines forth, 
 Hope reflects the golden beams. 
 There he finds again his youth — 
 Youth's fair promises redeems; 
 Counts his home a "Chidher's Well," 
 And its waters sweet esteems. 
 
 THE LAND OF DREAMS. 
 
 I wandered in a pleasant land of dreams, 
 
 Through fragrant fields, where harvests rich 
 were laid 
 
 In golden swaths by reaper's swinging blade; 
 
 I lingered on the banks of gurgling streams. 
 
 Where through its leafy gates the sunhght 
 gleams 
 
 And glimmere through interstices of sliade; 
 
 There every dewdrop is a gem displayed 
 
 Upon the brow of Beauty. Ah ! this seems 
 
 Her home. Oh would that I could under- 
 stand 
 
 Her speech, for now her voice most sweet I 
 hear, 
 
 And now her touch, as if 'twas mother's 
 hand, 
 
 I feel, and wake. Tis mother standing near; 
 
 And lo, the land of vision doth appear. 
 
 Behold! It is " My own, my native land." 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 If we cannot find a free expression 
 For the wealth of love we feel; 
 
 Of our failure making full cowfession,- 
 We will all our love reveal. 
 
 Liberty! Sweet Liberty 1 
 Tliey livt' in love who die for love of thee. 
 
 Land of all lands our own land is best; 
 Home of tlio homeless, the iKior and op- 
 pressed; 
 Home of the wanderer, in thee there Is rest. 
 
 Mati counts the golden sheaves 
 
 The reapers bind; 
 God counts the dusty liandfuls 
 
 That the gleaners find. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 877 
 
 -* 
 
 ELISABETHE DUPUY. 
 
 Born : Prospect, Va., 1868. 
 
 The poems of this lady liave appeared ex- 
 tensively in the St. Louis, Cincinnati and 
 Louisville journals, and as a writer of both 
 
 ELISABETHE DtJPUY. 
 
 poetry and prose she is g-aining quite a rep- 
 utation. Miss Dupuy is a petite blonde, and 
 resides in St. Louis, Mo. 
 
 WHEN ROSES SCATTERED LIE. 
 Hast thou forg-ot those golden days. 
 Hast thou forg-ot those woodland ways, 
 The flowers that blossomed red and white, 
 Tlie blue that arched the heavenly height, 
 The birds that caroled high aud clear. 
 Hast thou forgot, has thou forgot, my dear? 
 
 Hast thou forgot those shadowy walks. 
 Hast thou forgot our murmured talks. 
 
 The moon that silvery shone o'erhead, 
 
 What titne the day evanished. 
 The sweet caress, the tender kiss. 
 Hasttliou forgot, oli love, all this? 
 
 Hast thou forgot, hast thou forgot. 
 
 Is thine a heart that alters not? 
 Thy speech is cold, and colder still 
 Thine eyes that smite me with their chill, 
 
 And I would know, beloved one. 
 
 If thou art changed with Summer's sun. 
 
 THE TRANSITORY. 
 Thy colors, rainbow, 'gainst the gray. 
 
 Too soon they go, too soon they go. 
 In track where flees the dying day 
 
 Soon fades thy iridescent glow. 
 
 The young mid-suramer moons that sow 
 
 With gold the ripples of their way. 
 Too transient is their shining show, 
 
 But these, the angels of delay. 
 
 Sweet passions that our fond hours know. 
 More dear, more brief their tender sway. 
 
 Too soon they go, too soon they go. 
 
 INVOCATION TO SORROW. 
 Come, Sorrow, be my friend and dwell with 
 me; 
 Thou hast been true when dearer ones de- 
 nied. 
 When others failed thou has borne company. 
 Henceforth as friend abide! 
 
 Tho' grim-visaged thou art, and solemn- 
 eyed. 
 All the sweet uses of adversity 
 Thou hast taught, watching thro' the lone 
 night-tide 
 
 The beautiful, the dear, by land or sea. 
 Are faithless gone and fleeting far and 
 wide ; 
 Thou, thou alone, thy pale face turned to me, 
 Keep'st mournful guard beside I 
 
 THE DESOLATE HEART. 
 If thou, mine angel, couldst return to me. 
 Out of thy blest and changeless peace on 
 
 high. 
 This troubled heart, whose unsolaced dis- 
 tress 
 So long hath vexed the nights of loneliness. 
 Mourned old bereavement with new con- 
 stancy. 
 And given each hour the largess of a sigh. 
 No more the fool of fancies idly dreamed, 
 From sorrow's servitude should be re- 
 deemed. 
 And can it be that even all the bliss 
 In which thy golden throne is surely set. 
 Hath made thy loyal heart, beloved, forget 
 The pain, the grief, the agony of this? 
 Is it not rather that with yearning eyes 
 Thou lookest upon me from yon soft blue 
 skies? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 878 
 
 LOCAl. AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MxARY R. D. DINGWALL. 
 
 born: Calais, N. H., Apbil 23. 1844. 
 This lady was married in 1861 to Alexander 
 Dingwall, who soon after entered the service 
 of his country, and is u veteran of the civil 
 wir They have two children— Cortez Alex- 
 
 MRS. R. D. DINGWALTi. 
 
 anderand Inez Barbara; the latter a young 
 lady of sixteen, is taking a course of study at 
 the Vermont Methodist Seminary in Mont- 
 pelier Mrs. Dingwall has never been an 
 aspirant for literary honors, but has accept- 
 ed the work nearest at hand, and is pre-emi- 
 nently a home woman. 
 
 IN THE MORNING. 
 There ne'er was a night so long and dark 
 
 But at lengtli-there came a day. 
 And never a grief so deep and strong 
 
 But anon God sends a ray 
 From the silver lining of the cloud 
 
 To chase its shadows away. 
 
 T pressed my lips to a pallid brow 
 
 By the twilight zephyr fanned, 
 ..I shall look for thee at noon," she said; 
 
 But I am learning to understand 
 The long, dark days of an arctic night — 
 
 O, morn of the summer-land! 
 I came again, and I pressed her lips. 
 
 But nothing of love they told. 
 For the heart beneath had ceased to beat; 
 
 Yet the love has not grown cold, 
 
 And beyond the grave on the hillside 
 Standeth the City of Gold. 
 
 'Mid tears I took up my daily task 
 
 With a heavy heart and sad. 
 And a fear lest I grieved the father. 
 
 For 1 lacked the grace to be glad 
 When he called away to his kingdom 
 
 The truest friend that I had. 
 
 I watch for the time of his coming, 
 
 And be it early or late. 
 He will give me the strength I ask for. 
 
 The patience to labor and wait 
 Till he sends my friend to meet me 
 
 With a welcome at the gate. 
 
 So, beyond the clouds and the darkness 
 
 I count the stars in the sky. 
 
 And wait for the radiant morning I 
 
 Of the beautiful By-and-by — i 
 
 The cloudless, endless morning that brings j 
 
 The beautiful By-and-by. | 
 
 NOT ALL A DREAM. 
 It was the morn of Decoration Day, 
 And while we wrought one came who stood 
 
 aside 
 
 And smiled upon our work for those who 
 
 died 
 
 .. For you and mc," as each to each would say 
 
 The while she bound her garland or bouquet. 
 
 But when at length the last fair wreath 
 
 was tied, 
 He gently stepped unto a maiden's side 
 And said, " I seek a gift for Him who lay 
 Heaven's royal robes aside for Calvary." 
 .. A gift from me, O Lord? " she sadly cried, 
 .. I nothing have to match thy wounded 
 side. 
 And yet, O Stranger Guest, I beg Thee stay ! 
 And as they stood amid our sufferings there, 
 An angel paean thrilled along the air. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 That either for the other cared 
 Not either may have guessed. 
 
 As clasping hands they parted; 
 While across the Winter's breast 
 
 The frost-king hung his jewels. 
 And day slipped toward the west. 
 
 If either of the other thinks. 
 Why should the other care? 
 
 For twenty years have slipped between, 
 And each has other where 
 
 Found life's full share of joy and grlct. 
 Enough to do and bear. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEItlCA. 
 
 879 
 
 * 
 
 LUCILE MARIE BENTON. 
 
 Born: Thomson, Ga., April 9, 1874. 
 Miss Benton has written about fifty poems 
 which were published in the Madison Ad- 
 
 LUCILF. M.\KIE BENTON. 
 
 vertlser, Athiuta Constitution, Americus 
 Recorder and other local papers. Slie is still 
 a resident of her native state at Araericus. 
 
 OUR NATIONAL FLOWER— THE GOLDEN 
 
 ROD. 
 Gracing the hills of snow-clad Maine, 
 
 Lining the vales of Florida's plain ; 
 Growing in rich or barren sod 
 
 Is the hardy beautiful golden-rod. 
 Rocking the bee to sleep in its bower. 
 
 Humming-bird sipping its dainty flower. 
 Waving and smiling all the long day. 
 
 It stands resplendent in bright array. 
 Crowning the fields with a golden fringe. 
 
 Snatching from sunliglit a deeper tinge; 
 Wooed by the wind with a gentle kiss, 
 
 Happy art thou in thine infinite bliss. 
 Bright golden-rod we crown thee now. 
 
 As queen of all the flowers that grow; 
 And may'st thou in thy i)urity. 
 
 Sweet emblem of our nation be. 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 'Tis the mystic hour of twilight. 
 Sweet quiet reigns supreme 
 O'er all the tired face of nature. 
 I The little birds twitter sleepily, 
 * 
 
 In their nests beneath the eves; 
 
 And the shrill notes of the wliip-i)0()r-rt'ill 
 
 Echo from the neighboring forest. 
 
 Far across the meadow 
 
 Comes the faint tinkle of bells. 
 
 Blended with the lowing of the cattle; 
 
 As they wend their way slowlj- 
 
 Toward tlie old barn yard. 
 
 Far over the distant liills, the rough swain 
 
 Tired with his hard duj's labor, 
 
 Is slowly plodding his homeward way. 
 
 To sit down to a simple, but a sweet repast. 
 
 The stars twinkle out one by one. 
 
 The new moon rises in all her golden beauty. 
 
 And as night approaclies, twilight fades. 
 
 And my musings are done. 
 
 DAYS OF YORE. 
 All alone by my window I'm sitting, 
 
 In my own little cosy bower; 
 The soft shadows are silently flitting, 
 
 'Tis the dim placid twilight hour. 
 Did I say alone? nay not all alone. 
 
 For pleasant thoughts come thronging; 
 And each sweet thought has a voice of its 
 own. 
 
 Till my heart is o'erflowed with longing. 
 Shall I tell you of what I am thinking. 
 
 As the stars twinkle slowly out? 
 I am wearing a chain and linking 
 
 Each bar with a golden thought. 
 My heart is fondly backward turning. 
 
 Thro' memory's golden haze; 
 Back with a deep and tender feeling. 
 
 To the merry gladsome old school days. 
 When we two wandered liand in hand Id- 
 gether, 
 
 Down the lane whose path wound in and 
 out; 
 Gath'ring daisies in the sunny weather. 
 
 With many a merry laugh and shout. 
 I sit within the old accustomed place. 
 
 Again the busy hum of voices hear; 
 And by my side I see the sweet young face. 
 
 That in my heart I ever held so dear. 
 But now those happy days are gone. 
 
 And we who then sat side by side 
 Have drifted far apart, at last borne on 
 
 By fortune's cold and heartless tide. 
 While some have left us, far apart 
 
 In distant climes to dwell; 
 To whom with sad and breaking heart. 
 
 I bade a long and last farewell. 
 But I must wake, my dream is o'er, I rise: 
 
 And looking out into the soft pale light; 
 I hear a whisper from the midnight skies. 
 
 The stars are bidding me a sweet -good- 
 night." 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 E. EDWIN BYRUM. 
 
 Bobn: Randolph Co., Ind., Oct. 13, 1861. 
 The subject of this sketcli is a graduate of 
 theOtterbein university of Wcsterville, Ohio. 
 In 1887 Mr. Byrum was called to accept a 
 position as publisher and business manager 
 of the Gospel Trumpet, which position he 
 
 E. EDWIN BYRUM. 
 
 Still holds, and has been office editor for the 
 past two years. He is also the publisher of 
 the Shining- Light, a paper for children, 
 which is securing- quite a wide circulation. 
 Mr. Byrum in 1889 was married to Miss Rhoda 
 B. Keagy, and resides with his wife and 
 daughter at Grand Junction, Michigan. 
 
 THE LAST FAREWELL. 
 Our darling child, oh can it be 
 
 Thy Spirit's fled from earth away? 
 Oh is it true, thj' form we see 
 
 Is now as lifeless as the clay? 
 Our hearts bowed down in deepest grief. 
 
 Are yet submissive to thy will 
 Who gave to us tlie tender leaf. 
 
 Whose mission did so soon fulfill. 
 Those lips so sweet to press to ours 
 
 Now take a pallid form in death; 
 Tliy sweetness was as many flowers. 
 
 Thy love was seen in every breath. 
 An angel came and wliisptred near. 
 
 And did the summons gently bear; 
 Thou gentle bud, to parents dear. 
 
 Art called to lands more bright and fair. 
 
 Thou canst not come to us again 
 
 Nor can we ever go to thee 
 Until our work on earth began 
 
 Shall end in sweet eternity. 
 We'll prtiise the Lord who gave to us 
 
 Thy bright and shitiing life to bless; 
 We praise His name for blessings thus. 
 
 Which filled our home with righteousness. 
 And now again we bless Thy name, 
 "That thou didst see, 'twas best to call 
 Our darling little cherub home 
 
 To dwell with Thee who'rt Lord of all. 
 
 THE CROSS AND CROWN. 
 When the trials of life beset us and the way 
 
 seems dark. 
 And the pathway rough and rugged all along 
 
 the way of life. 
 Then we'll trust it all with Jesus and in faith 
 
 grow strong. 
 Till we reach our home and join the happy 
 
 throng. 
 
 We will suffer persecutions for the sake of 
 Christ, [are so great. 
 
 For His love is neverendingand His mercies 
 
 There we'll lose all sight of trouble when we 
 gain the port. 
 
 And forever dwell within the heavenly fort. 
 
 THE ROAD TO FAME. 
 
 Not all who think themselves so great 
 
 In deeds and thoughts of worldly lore,' 
 Will ever reach the highest fame 
 
 However high their minds may soar. 
 Though lifted up in self conceit. 
 
 In fancy wander on and on; 
 And lauded high witli earthly praise 
 
 They miss the mark they should have won. 
 Not so with they of humbler birth 
 
 Wliostep with honest tread along. 
 Yet climbing upward, step by step. 
 
 With merry hearts of noblestsong. 
 Who seek to aid their fellow men 
 
 And point them to the better way; 
 Wlio cheer the weary troubled lieart 
 
 And drive the darkness far away. 
 ' is not for words of earthly praise 
 
 That we should ever seek to gain; 
 But love and trutli and righteousness 
 
 Should ever fill tlie inner man. 
 The great and noblest deeds of life, 
 
 Are done witliout a tliought of praise. 
 Except to lieaven's potentate. 
 
 Who sheds His love in shining rays. 
 Then would you seek the famous way. 
 
 Begin to climb the bottom round, 
 And seek perfection ev'ry step. 
 
 And at the summit You'll be crowned. 
 
 *- 
 
«f- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 881 
 
 -* 
 
 PROF. WILLIAM G. MC/VDOO. 
 
 Born: Andersonville, T., April 4, 1830. 
 
 After teaching- for a wliile he took a regular 
 course of Latin, Greek, and Sciences in the 
 East Tennessee College, and received his 
 diploma in 1845. Mr. McAdoo was then 
 elected to the Legislature of Tennessee, and 
 the following- year he led a company from 
 Tennessee in the Mexican war. being present 
 
 PROF. WILLIAM G. m'AUOO. 
 
 at the siege of Vera Cruz and the battle of 
 Cerro Gordo in 1847. The subject of this 
 sketch tlien studied law and went into tlie 
 practice of that profession in, 1848, and tliree 
 years later was elected attorney general of 
 the seven counties comprising the Knox- 
 ville judicial circuit. In 1857 lie marricid Mrs. 
 Mary Faith Floyd, who has distinguished 
 herself in tlie literary world. After the war 
 Mr. McAdoo became school commissioner 
 and county judge of Baldwin county, Ga.; 
 and being tended the chair of assistant pro- 
 fessor of history and English literature, he 
 flUed that position for nine years. Mr. Mc- 
 Adoo now resides with his accomplished wife 
 in Nortli Knoxville, surrounded by a large 
 and choice library, devoting his time to 
 literary pursuits. Of late years his poems 
 have been chiefly in the form of sonnets. 
 Prof. McAdoo lias been keeping a careful 
 diary for over fifty years, and the contents 
 of that diary would make a most interesting 
 and valuable history of Tennessee. 
 * 
 
 TO HELENA. 
 Thro' years of fiery storm of war,— 
 Thro' cliarging columns' shock and jar. 
 And scenes of pain and blood and death, 
 The prison's damp and loatlisome brcatli, 
 Tliy worshipped image hath been borne 
 And fondly in my bosom worn; 
 Loved, pray'd for, blest, awake, in dreams. 
 Thro' darkest storms and sunniest gleams! 
 And thou art yet afar; and I 
 Pine yet, as in king years gone by 
 Once more to read in thy loved eyes 
 The thoughts that waked my bosom's sighs. 
 Oh, quick forsake thy Northern nest. 
 Sweet bird! and find a summer rest 
 Beside the blue Atlantic's foam 
 No more -no more— from me to roam! 
 
 Go, little verses! At her feet 
 Kneel, pilgri;n like, at foot of saint. 
 
 And raptures from her favor steal. 
 Or in her cool displeasure faint. 
 
 TO MARY MINE. 
 And I am loved! Unwortliy tliougli I be, 
 
 AH tlie affections of one gifted soul. 
 Like mountain torrents to the sounding sea, 
 Toward me with strong- resistless currents 
 roll. 
 Oh, thou Shalt ne'er repent it! for I can 
 
 And will be worthy of tliy noblest heart, — 
 Re thine, not only througli thy life's brief 
 span. 
 But till Eternity itself dejiart! 
 
 1 gazed upon the trembling stars last night 
 
 That twinkled o'er thy dearest sleeping 
 head. 
 And wondered if a tliousand years in flight 
 
 Could number thy jiroud name among the 
 dead. 
 And it did seem to me the jioet's word, 
 
 "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," 
 Should be illustrated, by Heaven's high 
 Lord, 
 
 By sparing thee from crossing Death's 
 dark river! 
 To me, thou'rt more than mortal— should'st 
 not die; [doom. 
 
 But if thy mortal sink beneatli Death's 
 And I, wlio am all mortal, haply lie 
 
 Beside thee, as I pray, in the still tomb. 
 Still shall thy genius live in words sublime. 
 
 Thy name in statues of undying thought. 
 Like Sappho's was in olden golden time. 
 
 With immortality on earth be fraught. 
 And I will live with thee ! Upon my knees 
 
 I swear to win illustrious name with thine, 
 And close as Abelard's with Eloise, 
 
 Eternal fame our laurels shall entwine 1 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 882 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE FLOWER LESSON. 
 As Nona— God bless her!— and 1, one bright 
 
 daj-. 
 To gatliet- wild flowers in the woodland did 
 
 slraj- 
 Where wild jasmines and crab-apple lilos- 
 
 soms were spreading 
 Charm'd bowers, and their exquisite frag- 
 rance were shedding 
 Gazing upward, absorbed by the magical 
 
 sights. 
 And odors, and the mocking-birds' song of 
 
 delights. 
 Little Nona but three years old, prattled on 
 Unheeded— my soul with my senses had 
 
 gone. 
 
 I held her dear little soft hand in mine 
 
 As we leisurely sauntered 'neath tree and 
 wild vine: 
 
 Half-waj' was 1 conscious I lieard lier sweet 
 voice 
 
 Swift to chide, to applaud, to lament, to re- 
 joice: 
 
 Half T noted her daintiest feet on the sod. 
 
 Half my thoughts were with Nature, and 
 half were with God. 
 
 And still deeper by thickety stream, and 
 througii wildwood, 
 
 Strayed abstracted old age and sweet pratt- 
 ling childliood. 
 
 The streamlet Azalea-bordered, we crossed. 
 And soon in the depths of wild Nature were 
 
 lost, 
 Wliere meek Uvularias, straw-colored, 
 
 drooped. 
 And rose-tinted Trilliums blushingly 
 
 stooped. 
 And many a quaint Orchid with bashful- 
 
 ness shy. 
 Hid in shadiest nook from old Sol's burning 
 
 eye. 
 While the prattler's sweet innocent talk 
 
 still proceeded. 
 And the ancient philosopher half heard not, 
 
 lialf lieeded. 
 
 At, length came tlie child-voice more sharp 
 
 aiul decided; 
 Remonstrated first, then imperiously eluded; 
 Pulling back with one liand, in an attitude 
 
 I'egal, 
 She arraigned me, by look, for some act 
 
 most illegal. 
 Then downward her other small white hand 
 
 she pointed 
 As solemn as Priest of tlie Most Higli 
 
 anointed. 
 Exclaiming, "See! See! There the violets 
 
 grow! 
 
 Do not tread on the flowers, for God made 
 thum, you know." 
 
 Amazed at the lesson of reverence taught. 
 
 And precocity strange of the child's start- 
 ling thought. 
 
 With soul lifted higher than Earth's frag- 
 rant bowers, 
 
 1 led her most carefully through the dear 
 flowers ; 
 
 And since that good day their bright petals 
 are preachers. 
 
 And all their sweet odors are exquisite 
 teachers. 
 
 Unveiled to my vision in newness of glory 
 
 By the saintly sweet heroine of this truthful 
 story. 
 
 THREE EXISTENCES. 
 Calm, weird Arcturus, in j-on wondrous sky, 
 Reveals to my fixed gaze, one truth untold: 
 In pre-existence, ere this life unrolled 
 As lower earths, our being's destiny 
 Of one warp woven, brighten'd life on high,— 
 Here, adverse, by sore fate, to me— the old 
 Rhymester devoid of wealth, or place, or 
 
 gold. 
 Afar from my adored, must love and dial 
 Realms of a future glory ! O, I pray 
 Eternity such as the old, restore! 
 New blest Arcturan life be mine again! 
 This earth-existence past, mj- fond soul may 
 Exalted reach her love whom I adore, 
 Sweet recompense for earthly direst painl 
 
 DREAMING. 
 
 Enfolded in my grasp, thy precious hand 
 Reposeful lay, mine own— O yes, mineownl 
 Above us smiled the blue far sky,— God's 
 
 throne. 
 Day spread her golden glory o'er the land 
 Refulgent ; all the universe seemed planned 
 Deliglits to niinister, and all things strown 
 Yet far pi'of user than was ever known 
 111 all things in heaven's blissful counsels 
 
 planned! 
 Right fondly my lips pressed the dainty 
 
 fingers — 
 Compressed, and eagerly fond lips sought 
 
 lips 
 Ecstatic and incomparable; when 
 O, dream — delusion — dream that not yet 
 
 lingers! 
 All bliss was swept by waking's harsh 
 
 eclipse. 
 My heritage, the mournf ulest of men I 
 
 * 
 
« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 888 
 
 -* 
 
 GEORGE W. D.WEBSTER. 
 
 Born: Geneva, Ohio, May 5, 1860. 
 Mh. Webster has been a g-reat sufferer 
 from rlieumutism, which hus prevented him 
 from engaging- in auj- active occupation. 
 
 He has writttMi i)-\-er a hundrofl jiocnis, nianj- 
 
 PrEOIiCE WlIiT.IAM D. WEBSTER. 
 
 of whieli have appeared from time to time 
 in Boston Transcript, Cottage Hearth, Jour- 
 nal of Education and other publications. He 
 is still a resident of the place of his nativity. 
 
 SMOKE. 
 My fire is wreatlied with garlands fair, 
 I hear a wild song in the air. 
 And make this charge in my despair. 
 
 kindred spirit of my flame ! 
 
 My red-plumed warriors dost thou tame, 
 To crown them with the poet's claim? 
 They leap up, burning for the fight; 
 Thou twinest them a laurel light; 
 
 1 hear them singing to the night. 
 
 A voice comes down my chimney flue: 
 "Thy warriors are thy minstrels, too; 
 They have my crown and spirit true." 
 
 APPLES. 
 Ye who eat apples on these winter nights. 
 Dreaming of summer with its past delights, 
 Think ye 'tis true about the apple tree, 
 That bore the fruit of immortality, 
 A taste of which the sacred Eddas say. 
 Could from the gods drive stealthy age awav? 
 * ^ '- 
 
 If true, I'll vouch some elf or Druid wise, 
 Skilled in the secrets of those northern skies. 
 To graft the immortal in tlie mortal tree. 
 Not all in vain hath plied iiis witchery. 
 For from the uuioti spring those youtiiful 
 
 dreams, 
 That,sailing up the dark and narrow streams. 
 Furl in t\m apple all their fairy sails, 
 L'ntil they spread them to the wintry gales; 
 Tiieu, cruising backward o'er thought's 
 
 ebbing tide. 
 Bear us througli many a prospect fair and 
 
 wide. 
 Where we have spent those happy careless 
 
 hours. 
 Back to the land of childhood and of flowers. 
 
 MY POET. 
 O Master! 'tis in vain I trj- to see 
 The vision that you strove, with mystic 
 words 
 Of sorrow and of love, to paint for me. 
 E'en to thj' ken, as clear as height-bold 
 bird's. 
 Methinks it still a far dim fantasy. 
 For this art thou my poet, that I feel 
 
 Thy mounting flame into my soul to shine. 
 To better life and days a latent zeal. 
 That sometime may leap up a fire divine. 
 For this art thou the chosen of the Nine. 
 That they who climb l)ut lialf way up thy 
 heights 
 Come where tlie joj- of song doth grow so 
 
 ■" fine 
 Their rapt eyes see not how the hills incline 
 To valleys rich in streams and wild delights. 
 
 LIFE. 
 How .shall I hold a thing so swift of change! 
 It is as if a painter bold siiould try 
 To catcli and fix a storm-wrecked evening 
 
 sky. 
 Now it is love, and peace, and hope's broad 
 range; 
 Now passions high with fears, dark, wild and 
 strange ; 
 A strong ambition, reaching heaven-high; 
 A weak and sickly child that longs to die. 
 How shall I keep my life through such swift 
 change? 
 O Love, great Love, thrice blessed art thou 
 for this; 
 That thou hast taught how sweet it is to 
 
 lose 
 Life for thy sake. O let me know the bliss, 
 Tlie strong, delicious thrill of those who kiss 
 Self-sacriflcc and death. Help me to choose. 
 My life and all I have, for thee to lose. 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 884 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS.MILLIE W.CARPENTER 
 
 Born: Stkphentown, N.Y., Feb. 23, 1840. 
 This lady has attained great proficiency in 
 German and French literature, and lias great 
 elocutionary and dramatic talent. In 1858 
 she was married to Cromwell A. Carpenter, a 
 merchant of her native town. Since the 
 death of her liushand and child, literature 
 
 MRS. MTLLIE W. CARPENTER. 
 
 has been her solace and support. Her poems 
 being: accepted by Lippincott's Magazine, 
 New York Citizen,Daily and Weekly Graphic, 
 Golden Age, Springfield Republican, Sun- 
 day Mercury, Boston Pilot and other equally 
 prominent periodicals. She has also con- 
 tributed numerous stories in prose to Frank 
 Leslie's publications, Saturday Evening 
 Journal and the Overland Monthly. 
 
 OFF DUTY. 
 The brightest of midsummer days 
 
 Wanes with my Festus just begun; 
 The peacock apes my sluggish ways. 
 
 And trails his plumage in the sun. 
 Why sliould I blush to own my dreams? 
 So fair this land of reverie seems 
 That cooler lieads, old, worn and gray. 
 Might lapse, like inine. off guard, astray. 
 Heigli-ho! O plodder, let me shirk. 
 For once, dull care and liateful work: 
 Let sterner wights my mantle wear, 
 And leave me to my mountain air. 
 
 II 
 The pigeons cluster on the eaves, 
 
 The brambles flirt and toss about, 
 
 The brown moth zigzags through the leaves 
 
 Of woodbine on the water-spout: 
 The alders rustle by the brook. 
 The trout leaps to the floating hook; 
 But in the shade, my thin cheek prest 
 Against the daisies, let me rest. 
 Wliat was that motto of mj' youth. 
 Of which Age vaunts the vexing Truth? — 
 " Time waits for none 1 "' Alas ! even I 
 May let no day drift fruitless by. 
 
 III. 
 The wind, astir through scents of vines, , 
 
 Breaks into ripples all the streams. 
 Till silver-like the water shines. 
 
 And rose-tints blush through all my dreams. 
 And so the day's fine work is done. 
 The rose and silver threads are spun. 
 And, soothed witli sounds of birds and bees, 
 The dreamer nods in blissful ease. 
 There lies my Festus on the grass: 
 The glow-worms with their dim lamps pass: 
 Why, Sybaris would not care to miss 
 The peace of such an liour as this. 
 
 GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART. 
 
 Good-by, sweetheart! Nay. stand there still! 
 Let these last moments have their fill 
 Of tender looks; so dainty sweet 
 Pale snow and pearlj- rose-tints meet 
 On this d(>ar face ; so softly lies 
 Mj" last kiss, fragrant, blossom-wise 
 Across the lips that still would sigh 
 'Neatli kiss and flower. Sweetheart, good-by! 
 
 Good-by, sweetheart! Your cheek is pale; 
 
 Hush, listen forth! The nightingale — 
 
 His song the salt of Love's sad tears 
 
 Wept through the world's long lapse of years, 
 
 Woos mutely into perfect flower 
 
 The ro.se that drooped in yonder bower. 
 
 An hour to love — an hour to die; 
 
 O Rose o' my heart's young dreams, good-by ! 
 
 Oh fitful heart, that used to be 
 
 Tender with Love's young troth to me! 
 
 Dear heart, sweet heart, that all day long 
 
 Once matclied the sparrow's spring-time 
 
 song. 
 Now waxing, waning, sigh by sigh. 
 Pass on, poor heart; jirond lieiirt, goixl-byl 
 
 Not yet? not go? Oli. false good-byes!- 
 Oh swect-shanied lips — oh dear blue eyes! 
 Look up, lean on me; faring so. 
 Forth to tlie world, sweet lieart, we'll go. 
 By i)rimrose paths tliat upward lie. 
 Till death shall cross life's latest sigli. 
 Breathing with blessing farewell low — 
 Good-by — good-by ! 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEIIICA. 
 
 885 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. E. A. KINGSBURY. 
 
 Born: East Hartford, Ct., April 19, 1817. 
 For the past tliirty-five years this lady has 
 lectured aud preached in most of the north- 
 ern states, and has attained a national repu- 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. ELISABKTH a. KINCSBIKV. 
 
 tation. Her poems have received extensive 
 publication in the periodical press. She is 
 now a resident of Los Angeles, Cal. 
 
 FIFTV YEARS AGO. 
 
 Tall hollyhocks and pinks and rue 
 
 And roses various and violets grew. 
 
 With other fragrant herbs and flowers, 
 
 In well kept beds and rustic bowers. 
 
 At early dawn and dewj' eve. 
 
 In snowy cap, with upturned sleeve, 
 
 In petticoat of homespun wool 
 
 And short-gown trim and clean and cool. 
 
 Our grandmother would deftly dig 
 
 Around these plants, Iwth small and big. 
 
 Their names and needs she seemed to know, 
 
 Aud this was fifty years ago. 
 
 Her checkered apron, full and long, 
 Was made of linen, good and strong. 
 Her neckerchief in many a fold 
 Lay o'er her bosom. All this told 
 The frugal housewife, nice and neat. 
 From crown of head to sole of feet. 
 And as she weeded, day by day. 
 And dug and pruned, a simple lay 
 Which to our memory is more dear 
 
 Than auglit we since have chanced to hear 
 
 Of olden times, she warbled low, 
 
 And this was fifty years ago. 
 
 The house was large; and one back room 
 
 Contained a spinning wheel and loom. 
 
 And cards for making rolls and reel 
 
 That measured skeins and little wheel. 
 
 Where she would sit with linen thread 
 
 Between her fingers, while the tread 
 
 Of her light feet kept time meanwhile, 
 
 With sweet tunes, tending to beguile 
 
 The busy hours. And at her feet 
 
 We loved to sit. 'Twas a great treat 
 
 To watch the fine thread come and go. 
 
 And this was fifty years ago. 
 
 The log behind the blazing fire. 
 
 The crane and hooks suspended higher. 
 
 The two Ijrick ovens; one inside 
 
 The chimney jamb; 'twas deep and wide. 
 
 To hold the turkeys, puddings, pies 
 
 For festal days; of smaller size. 
 
 The other stood outside the jamlD 
 
 And baked each week bread, beans and 
 
 lamb. 
 The clean and nieelj' sanded floor; 
 The corner buffet, with glass door 
 Displaying china; a rare show. 
 But this was fifty years ago. 
 Fifty long yeai-s ! Within that time. 
 We've wandered far, from clime to clime. 
 Seen many a grand and stately thing. 
 But nothing such delight would bring. 
 As one more look at that elm tree, 
 'Neath which our play-house used to be. 
 The old clock, straight and dark and tall. 
 With burnished face and silver call. 
 Telling the hours that merrily 
 On swift-winged minutes flitted bj' 
 Was prized most highly, you must know; 
 And this was fifty years ago. 
 
 IF. 
 If the morning clouds are heavy 
 
 And the wild winds fiercely blow 
 Leveling the stately pine tree 
 
 And the lilies, where they grow; 
 If the midday sun is sultry 
 
 And the earth is parched with heat; 
 If the song bird droops in silence. 
 
 With no voice for carols sweet. 
 If the night comes, dark and gloomy, 
 
 With no stars to light the sky. 
 With no gentle breezes whispering 
 
 Of a good time bye-and-bye; 
 Still we bravely trust the future. 
 
 Still with firm, elastic tread 
 Walk the path marked out before us, 
 
 Whereso'er we may be led. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 L0CA1< AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH 
 
 * Born : Warren, R. I., Dec. 22, 1839, 
 As THE author of the Zig-zag Journeyings, 
 Hezekiah Butterworth has become known 
 throughout this country and Europe, in the 
 school and in the family circle. In 1870 he 
 became connected with the Youtli's Com- 
 panion as assistant editor, a position which 
 
 HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. 
 
 he has filled for twenty years. In 187.5 he 
 wrote the Story of the Hymns, for which lie 
 received the Georfje Wood gold medal; and 
 he has since written a companion volume 
 entitled Story of the Tunes. Eleven volumes 
 of the Zigzag series of books have been writ- 
 ten by him and some three hundred thous- 
 and volumes sold. He has published two 
 volumes of verso entitled Poems for Cluist- 
 mas, Easter and New Year, and Songs of 
 History. Mr. Butterworth is withal a 
 scholar, and a pleasant and sociable gentle- 
 man. 
 
 ^ 
 
 TAMPA. 
 
 And this is Ta-mpa: yonder lies the Bay 
 
 That Spanish cavaliers 
 Enchanted saw upon tlieir unknown way, 
 
 In far and faded years,— 
 
 That to their eyes socahii and placid seemed, 
 
 So bri^'lit and woiidious fair. 
 They drifted on witli silent lips,and dreamed 
 
 The Holy Ghost was there. 
 
 Here lies a fortress old, a Held of death ; 
 
 And here, aS years increase. 
 The useless cannon hide their heads beneatli 
 
 The snow-white sands of peace. 
 
 The Gulf winds warm the orange orchards 
 stir. 
 
 And from dark trees like walls. 
 In long- festoons and tlireads of gossamer, 
 
 Tlie trailing- gray moss falls. 
 
 And ships come in from tropic seas, and go. 
 
 And sails the Gulf winds fan ; 
 And few do know, or seem to care to know, 
 
 That here that march began 
 
 That set that crown of empires in tlie West, 
 
 And gave the nations birtli 
 That stand like gracious queens, above the 
 rest. 
 
 Upon the thrones of earth. 
 
 The town is fair, and fairer yet the Bay, 
 And warm the trade-winds blow 
 
 Where lateen-sails moved on tlieir lonely 
 way, 
 Three centuries ago. 
 
 De Soto's hands lie deep beneath the wave, 
 
 Dust are his cavaliers; 
 The cypressed waters murmuring o'er his 
 grave. 
 
 The silent pilot hears. 
 
 Ill that far river where they laid him down. 
 
 Where low the ring-doves sigh. 
 And oft the full moon drops liei- silver crown, 
 
 From night's meridian sky. 
 
 And here, where first his banners caught tlie 
 breeze. 
 
 The peopled towns arise: 
 And his great faith, that piloted the seas 
 
 Ueiieatli uncertain skies. 
 
 And dared the wilds by Christian feetuiilrod. 
 
 Is strong with hope to man ; 
 And here, where touched the new world's 
 arU of (;<)<1, 
 
 Fair skii-s the rainbows span. 
 
 O Tampa, Tampa, near the Gulf's warm tide! 
 , Who would not linger here, 
 Where, on the liomes the oiange-ii-ardeiis 
 hide, 
 ,lune smileth all the year/ 
 
 tlu' autwiun nor 
 
 the 
 
 Where never com 
 spring, 
 Noi- summer's fiercer glow; 
 Where never cease the mockiiig-l>irds to sing 
 
 Nor roses new to blow. 
 
 — a 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 887 
 
 HERBERT E. JENNESS. 
 
 BoHN : New Hampshihe, March 28, 1851. 
 Mr. Jenness has acquired great pi-oflcieucy 
 iu French, German and Spanish, and has 
 traushited many fine genis of literature from 
 the German into English. He has written 
 
 HERBERT E. JENNESS. 
 
 quite extensively botli prose and verse, and 
 some of the latter have received publication 
 in the Boston Traveler, Boston Transcript 
 and the Spring-field Kepublican. 
 
 * 
 
 ETERNITr. 
 "How long- is, then. Eternity?" 
 Give heed, I'll tell you my decree — 
 If you will go down to the sea 
 And bring the water all to me. 
 
 And bring it naked-handed. 
 Take good large handsfull, even then 
 When, dearladdy, think you when 
 The labor would be ended? 
 You think the labor vain would be — 
 You '. couldn't ever drain the sea? " 
 And so think I, for ever welling 
 Are springs and brooks, to rivers swelling: 
 Unto the sea these rivers flow 
 And keep it full —forever so. 
 
 The streams are like the fleeting time; 
 The sea is like Eternity,— 
 A single drop a year may be, 
 A thousand on this dewy rhyme. 
 Now think you well, and answer me: 
 How long, then, is Eternity? " 
 
 THE BKOOKLET. 
 Thou brooklet, silver-bright and clear. 
 Thou fleetest ever by me iiere; 
 Pensive I watch thee, onward flowing — 
 " Whence art thou come, and whither go- 
 ing? " 
 
 " I come from dark and rocky glen. 
 My course lies over flower and fen ; 
 O'er my bright mirror floats benignly 
 Heaven's calm face, smiling kindly. 
 
 " So I've glad thoughts, and free from care, 
 I'm driven on, I know not where,— 
 Whoso from the rock hath called me. 
 Will ever, methinks, my leader be." 
 
 BENEDICTION. 
 
 Thou art so like a flower, — 
 
 Pure, sweet and fair thou art ; 
 I gaze on thee, and sadness 
 
 Steals softly o'er mj- heart. 
 I fain upon thy lovely head 
 
 My hands would fondly lay. 
 Praying that God so keep thee — 
 
 Fair, sweet and pure alway. 
 
 WINTER SONG. 
 How calmly and serenely, 
 Beneatli thy white-robe queenly, 
 
 Thou, Mother-earth, dost rest! 
 Where are the spring-time carols. 
 The summer-gay apparels. 
 
 And thou,— beflowered, festal-drest? 
 
 Thou sleepest now unheeding; 
 No lambs, no sheep are feeding 
 
 In valley or on hight; 
 No song-bird now is trilling; 
 No bee rich sweets distilling; 
 
 But yet in winter art thou bright I 
 
 The boughs and bushes shimmer, 
 A thousand sparkles glimmer. 
 
 Where'er the eye is turned; 
 W^ho has thy bed prepared. 
 By thee so fondly tarried. 
 
 And all so gay with gems adorned? 
 The Father, kindly caring. 
 Has woven for thy wearing 
 
 This mantle pure and white; 
 In peace tliou mayest slumber,— 
 The weary without number 
 
 He wakes to strength, to joyous light. 
 
 Soon, through the spring-time hovering, 
 Wilt thou, thy youth recovering. 
 
 Arise so wonder-fair; 
 ■ His spirit — air the blandest — 
 Floats 'round thee as thou standest 
 
 Once more with flower-crowned hair. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. W. L. HENDRICK. 
 
 Born: Richville, N.Y., Dec. 2, 18.56. 
 Fob a while young- Hendrick taught school 
 aud later was engaged by his father in 
 superintending the construction of railroads. 
 In 1883 he was married to Miss Jennie Beaton, 
 
 A woeful change is wrought. 
 
 This month of May twixt him and me has 
 sudden coolness brought — 
 
 No more he greets me with a smile and hand- 
 shake as of old. 
 
 And when we meet upon the street he turns 
 the shoulder cold — 
 
 I dare not to accost him now for blood is in 
 his ej'e. 
 
 And incoherent mutterings I hear as I pass 
 by: 
 
 But why this vengeful spirit has my neigh- 
 bor seemed to seize? 
 
 The answer is — I own the hens that scratched 
 up all his peas. 
 
 ■REV. WEBSTER TANr)E nENDItlCK. 
 
 by whom he has one daughter. For many 
 years he has preached the gospel, and in 1889 
 was ordained a congregational minister and 
 is now pastor of the Bangor church. He 
 has written numerous memorial addresses, 
 and his poems have nppeared quite exten- 
 sively in the religious mid secular press. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION. 
 I had a neighbor, good and true as any man 
 
 could boast; 
 In kindly acts and charities he was, indeed. 
 
 4. a host," 
 No unkind words or bickerings we had with 
 
 one another. 
 But, always i)leasant, always kind, I loved 
 
 him as a brother. 
 And our regard seemed nuitual; tlirougii all 
 
 this winter we:ither, 
 I've sat with him, and he with me, and talked 
 
 and smoked together. 
 I've eonsulte<l and advised with liim, have 
 
 been his trusted friend, 
 Aud deemed that on his constancy 1 ever 
 
 could depend. 
 But now that "gentle spring " has come 
 
 A TRIBUTE. 
 
 The hand of a mother! Ah, who can express 
 Its power to soothe, and its power to bless. 
 In tempest and sunshine, in toil and shade. 
 Though wrinkled and worn by the world's 
 
 strife made, 
 'Tis the truest instrument God has given 
 To reflect His love and to point to Heaven. 
 And when, at the Tliione, the redeemed shall 
 
 stand. 
 How many will bless the Mothers hand 
 That guided them there— through trial and 
 
 sin — 
 Or, perhaps, went before them, to beckon 
 
 them in. 
 
 *■ 
 
 MEMORIAL ADDRESS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 In peace and happiness to-day 
 
 We gather here among the mounds 
 Which cover heroes; come to lay 
 
 Our offerings on this sacred ground. 
 In honor of the Boys in Blue 
 
 Who fought for Union and for Right, 
 Who kept their hearts to duty true, 
 
 Tlieir sword and armor burnished bright. 
 And though the forms lie buried here 
 
 May need not this poor tribute now — 
 Still to us are their memories dear, 
 
 Thougli crowns are .settled on each brow: 
 And still we feel their influence 
 
 Upon our Country's pathway shed. 
 As here, to-day, we reverence 
 
 These silent — these— our patriot dead. 
 We come from homes M-here joy and love 
 
 Are daily guests — where children play 
 In happy freedom and are taught 
 
 To honor this Memorial Day. 
 This day — wlien uiituro all is dressed 
 
 In gay attire— with beauty crowned. 
 When field and forest look their best; 
 
 And skies are lilue, and flowers abound. 
 
 i 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 88!) 
 
 MRS. GENIE C. POMEROY. 
 
 BoKx: Iowa City, Ia.. April, 27, 1867. 
 This lady 1ms written nearly one thousand 
 poems, Diiiiij'of which have appeared in the 
 Bosti)ii Woman's Journal, Toledo liliide, 
 Seattle Press aiul the periodical press of 
 
 MRS. GENIE CLARK POMEROY. 
 
 America generally. Mrs. Pomeroy has also 
 contributed many prose articles to current 
 literature. She was married in 1886 to Carl 
 Harrington Pomeroy, a newspaper publisher 
 of Hoquiam, Washington. 
 
 *- 
 
 SADNESS 
 The night is drear, 
 And chilly blows the wind 
 
 Across the plain. 
 It stirs leaves, fallen, sere. 
 And whispers of a rain 
 
 That will be here. 
 My heart is drear. 
 And bitter breathe my sighs 
 
 In saddened strain. 
 They stir thoughts, withered, sere, 
 While in fast falling rain 
 
 I drop each tear. 
 The world is drear. 
 And sighs but in the wind. 
 
 A mournful strain 
 Falls on my listening ear; 
 The world sobs in the rain. 
 
 Her only tear. 
 
 PUGET SOUND. 
 The beautiful sound is before me, 
 Full of its changing grace; 
 
 By its tidal lines 
 
 And by various sigTis, 
 I have gradually learned to trace 
 All its feelings, moods and emotions, 
 
 As I would on a human face. 
 
 At first I saw it unmoved, unthrillcd, 
 No message, to me, it bore; 
 
 That a soul like mine. 
 
 Through unending time. 
 Was fettered from shore to shore, 
 I looked as I would at a stranger's face, — 
 
 Saw beauty, and saw no more. 
 
 But soon I took to watching each daj% 
 And my longing grew apace. 
 
 And day and night. 
 
 If read aright. 
 My thoughts, with its thoughts, kept pace; 
 The passionate, mobile waters I knew. 
 
 As we know a familiar face. 
 
 A great, wild heart is thobbing 
 Deep in its breast, I know; 
 
 Interpret its moan 
 
 'Twill answer your own. 
 With its rythmical ebb and flow. 
 As on one's own bclov-ed's face 
 
 The heart-tides come and go. 
 
 MY HEART IS A HARP. 
 
 My heart is but a harp, 
 
 Wliere play whatever melody's thy will; — 
 It beats but at thy slightest, spoken word. 
 
 And at thy bidding it is still. 
 
 Oh happiest am I, 
 
 When, idly straying o'er the quiv'ring 
 strings. 
 Thy fingers wake the harp's unspoken sound. 
 
 And tuned to thine ear it sings. 
 
 The instrument is thine 
 
 Where play with all a lover's tender art. 
 But speak me loving words, vibrates 
 
 Responsive, all gladdened heart. 
 
 But gentle are the chords, 
 
 .\nd must be wooed by words most softly 
 spoken. 
 If rude the touch or harsh the bitter tone, 
 
 Lo! the silver chord is broken. 
 
 Whate'er the melody 
 
 To thee is left the sanctity of choice- 
 Then guard thy tongue, for in my heart for- 
 ever 
 Shall dwell the echo of thy voice! 
 
^■ 
 
 890 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AlVIERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY J. REID. 
 
 Born: Wayne County, Pa., Feb. 6, 1847. 
 This lady was educated iu Brooklyn, N. Y., 
 and graduated at the Packer Collegiate In- 
 stitute iu 1865; and for some years subse- 
 quently taught in the public and private 
 
 MRS. MARY J. REID. 
 
 schools of that city. Since 1873 she has been 
 a resident of San Francisco and Alameda, 
 California. Mrs. Eeid has gained quite a 
 reputation In the educational world as a 
 teacher and lecturer to teachers. Her poems 
 have appeared in the Overland Monthly and 
 various other newspapers in California. 
 
 *- 
 
 SENT WITH MY LADY'S THIMBLE. 
 
 Go, with my love, thou fairy shield of gold 
 And touch my lady's d;iinty flnger-tips; 
 Live where thou'lt catch the music from her 
 
 lips 
 And in thy clasp her pretty finger hold. 
 When she thy satin cover shall unfold 
 And from its inwrought casket gently slips 
 Thee from its depths, and lo the window 
 
 trips 
 To see her sweet name writ thereon — be bold 
 And tell her that I treasure up a dream 
 That, she, one d;iy, witli tender, downcast 
 
 eyes. 
 Shall find a home wit bin my lonely breast. 
 Go! little trinket, may a radiant beam 
 Shine on thy surface from the amber skies. 
 Won Id that a poet's love might be confessed 1 
 
 A MODERN DEIANEIRA. 
 
 As Greeks, who saw the great Alcides quail 
 And watched with straining eyes that 
 
 awful sight 
 When to his flesh the poisoned tunic tight 
 Did cling, and nothing could man's help 
 
 avail : 
 As Greeks, who heard the mighty hero's 
 wail 
 With hearts that ached at his unhappy 
 
 plight. 
 And wondered that the gods iliis man 
 should blight 
 Because one woman's bliss had turned to 
 
 ale; 
 So have the stricken fi-iends of Carlyle stood 
 In grim despair at their old hero's fate. 
 This Deianeira dipped ber pen in blood 
 To mar a splendid fame and desecrate 
 A hearth. A fell destroyer of the good, [late? 
 Did she, like her of Calydon, repent too 
 
 THE BAKDS OF POLYPHEME. 
 
 The strangest storj' told in ancient song 
 
 Is of the mighty giant, Polyiilicme, 
 
 Whose eye was blinded by the blackened 
 
 beam [throng 
 
 The crafty "Noman" thrust therein; The 
 
 Of shaggy Cyclops, Homer drew with strong 
 
 .\nd steady hand, and still the world doth 
 
 deem 
 It worthy to be rendered as a dream 
 Sent by the Gods. The muse, delaying long. 
 Hid in Sicilian vales old Homer's Ij're, 
 Amid the sununcr-fall of brilliant flowers, 
 "For sweet Theocritus to tune again; 
 A giant sprang from out the Cyclops' den 
 Whose voice resounded 'bove the belching 
 
 fire 
 That burst from ^Etna's crown. Too many 
 
 hours 
 He dallied with the muse; a lofty rock. 
 From whence the ringing laughter, and 
 
 the clear 
 Sweet voice of Nereus' daughter one could 
 hear, [Hock, 
 
 Was liis lone seat. Forgot weie herds and 
 Deaf to all sounds e.\cept the careless mock 
 Of Galatea. Next, Virgil .saw the blear- 
 Eyed, sightless giant, like a wild beiist rear 
 His lioary head to strike with awful shock 
 Tlie Trojan's ships. As some young wife 
 dolii cling l'''W' 
 
 To lier strong sixnise, and tendril-like, doth 
 Herself in thought and speech to him. so 
 fain [iiSfi'"- 
 
 Would Ovid chant the ancli>nt hymns 
 iEtna Inid changed, yet still tiiese i)oets sing 
 Of Polypheme, dread foe of human-kind 
 
 — « 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 891 
 
 -* 
 
 DELAVAN L. PIERSON. 
 
 Born: NA'ateuford, N.Y., Oct. 27, 1867. 
 The poems of Mr. Pierson huve appeared in 
 the Nassau Literary Magazine, University 
 Majraziiie. Nassau Herald and otiier Collegi- 
 
 DELAVAN LEONAUI) I'll KsoN. 
 
 ate periodicals. He was a student of liter- 
 ature at Princeton college and is now study- 
 ing in Europe. 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 The smiling face of summer's day. 
 
 May frown with clouds before the night; 
 The bursting buds bloom fresli and gay. 
 
 Yet fade and fall with sudden blight. 
 Within a life of sunlit skies. 
 
 The storma of passion rage and roll; 
 Shut light and love from longing eyes. 
 
 And gloomy shadows wrap the soul. 
 Anon the veil is rent away; 
 
 The glowing sun reveals his form ; 
 Their silver fringe the clouds display; 
 
 The air is i)urer for tlie storm. 
 At eventide, at death of day. 
 
 The fleecy clouds present a screen 
 On which the changing tints portray 
 
 The glories of a sunset scene. 
 
 AN ARCTIC SUNRISE. 
 Enwrapped in deepest darkness. 
 
 Entombed in ice and snow. 
 Unmoved by faintest lifo-throb. 
 
 Or murmur soft and low. 
 The Arctic land of silence 
 
 Lay fixed in death-likt; trance, 
 As thougli transformed to marble 
 
 Ry cold Medusa's glance. 
 From Orient Rridal chamber 
 
 The monarch sun comes forth. 
 And darts his melting glances 
 
 Upon the k-e-bound North, 
 Wiiere Gothic bergs uplifting 
 
 Their silver spires on high. 
 Like crystalline cathedrals. 
 
 Stand pointing to the sky. 
 From couch and cloud pavilion, 
 
 He takes liis sliiniug march 
 Past gold and crimson curtains 
 
 And vast triumphal arch; 
 While death and darkness hiding, 
 
 Dare not the futile strife. 
 But flee his golden lances. 
 
 Resistless light and life. 
 In deep, unbroken silence. 
 
 He comes to break the bands, 
 The rigid frigid fetters 
 
 That lock life's hundred hands. 
 Where Nature lies enfolded 
 
 In snowy winding sheet. 
 He breathes upon her forehead 
 
 The passion of his, heat. 
 So, to her pallid features. 
 
 Returns life's mellow flush. 
 And to his royal wooing 
 
 Responds her maiden blush. 
 Meanwliile on amber castles. 
 
 The golden flags unfurl. 
 And morning spreads her banquets 
 
 In palaces of pearl. 
 
 HAPPINESS IN HARMONY. 
 
 When music swells in rich, melodious strains, 
 A magic spell of peace is spread around. 
 The soul, enchanted by the soothing sound, 
 
 Attunes its discords to the sweet refrains. 
 
 The rainbow hues harmoniously blent,[rain. 
 Where sunshine smiles across Ilie tears of 
 Arch with celestial bow tlie verdant plain 
 
 And fill the mind with heavenly content. 
 
 When graceful columns, rising toward the 
 skies, 
 Blossom in capitals, like stony flowers. 
 And bear aloft high domes and soaring 
 towers, 
 
 The harmonies of form entrance our eyes. 
 
 Two souls in sweet accord, when lost in love. 
 Beat low a sacred symphony of liearts 
 Whose harmonies, born of diviner arts, 
 
 Are echoes of tlie bliss of God above. 
 
 Superbest harmony none niaj- define I 
 That highest union of accordant life [strife 
 When earth is banished, with its din and 
 
 And human spirit blends with the divine. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 892 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE S. DORR. 
 
 Born: Wakefield, N. H., May 13, 1851. 
 In his youth Mr. Dorr leurned tlie carpen- 
 ter's trade, which he followed until 1881. He 
 then engaged in the publisliing- business, and 
 established the Carroll County Pioneer at 
 
 GEORGE S. DORR. 
 
 Wolfboro Junction, of which publication be 
 is still editor and proprietor. George S. Dorr 
 has written quite a few commendable poems, 
 and a short sketch of his life and poems ap- 
 pear in that valuable collection entitled 
 Poets of New Hampshire. 
 
 ANOTHER MILESTONE PASSED. 
 Another milestone left behind. 
 
 In the changeful race of life. 
 The race wherein the lame and blind 
 
 Struggle fiercely in the strife. 
 
 Another note within the harp. 
 The harp of seventj' strings. 
 
 Sounded with an accent sharp. 
 That still around me rings. 
 
 *- 
 
 Only touched by the player's hand 
 To be snapped, while yet the song, 
 
 To the beat of time's my.stic wand. 
 Still smoothly glides along 
 
 Swifter now than years ago. 
 The milestones pass me by, 
 
 As nearer comes the uooutido glow. 
 And fades the morning sky. 
 
 And swifter seem the golden strings 
 To break, as time flows on. 
 
 But sweeter seems the song it sings, 
 Because 'tis quickly gone. 
 
 I note with watchful, trusting eye. 
 The milestones swiftly passed. 
 
 And sometimes wonder as they fly. 
 Which one will be my last. 
 
 With thunder, rev'rent hand I touch 
 The golden harpstrings now; 
 
 Believing He who loveth much. 
 Will guide, I know not how. 
 
 WAIT AND HOPE. 
 Wait and hope, my gentle friend. 
 
 Though clouds hang thick and low, 
 And disappointments follow fast. 
 
 Where'er thj^ steps may go. 
 There is no folly half so great. 
 
 Nor half so deep despair. 
 As when we drive away all hope, 
 
 And refuse its friendly cure. 
 
 Backward on the road of life. 
 
 We cannot turn to-day. 
 Nor can we for a single hour. 
 
 Our present journey stay ; 
 Onward still we ever go, 
 
 Oiu- footsteps will not cease. 
 Though sorrow's clouds are thick around. 
 
 Or all is perfect peace. 
 
 Dark and cold your home may be. 
 
 And gloomy shadows fall. 
 But other homes will still be bright. 
 
 With cheerful love for all. 
 Somewhere the sun doth always shine, 
 
 Though you in darkness groi>e. 
 And happiness may sqon be yours. 
 
 If you only wait and hope. 
 
 Wait and hope! some gentle hand 
 
 Will ope the portal wide. 
 And you will liave the sunshine brifjht, 
 
 That now you are denied. 
 Press onward with a steady step, 
 
 Your present duty do. 
 And you will find in God's good time, 
 
 The door will ope for you. 
 
 Wait and hope! the angel bright, 
 
 Whost^ mission this to do. 
 Another lonely one nuist cheer 
 
 Ere yet she conies to you; 
 ISutthougli she tarries on the way. 
 
 Her coming yet is sure; 
 Then wait and hope, and you will have 
 
 A peace that will endure. 
 
 — 41 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 893 
 
 * 
 
 EMMA NIERCADWALLADER 
 
 Bokn: Huntsville, Ohio, Dec. 12, 1865. 
 After receiving- lier education iu the Oska- 
 loosa High school, ill health compelled her to 
 spend two years in Colorado. Miss Cadwal- 
 
 E.MMA NIER CADWALLADER. 
 
 lader then look up the profession of teaching 
 and spends her vacation ia traveling. 
 
 SOME DAY. 
 
 Some day — some day — 
 
 We fondly say. 
 And hope supplies the colors bright,— 
 Throws over all a radiant light,— 
 While 'neath the brush the canvas shows 
 A vision rare, — which rarer grows 
 
 The while we say, 
 
 Some day,— some day ! 
 
 Sometime,— sometime 
 
 A sweeter rhyme 
 Your pen will trace,— a nobler thought 
 Will spring to life,— its grandeur caught 
 From heights to which you fondly hope — 
 Led on by kindly horoscope — 
 
 Your feet will climb 
 
 Sometime, — sometime! 
 
 Somewhere,— somewhere, — 
 
 Stately and fair, 
 'You'll rear a habitation grand 
 Without compare in all the land. 
 And she you hold on earth most dear 
 Will share your Eden year by year; 
 
 Love ever there. 
 
 Somewhere, — somewhere ! 
 
 Time comes,— time goes; 
 The river flows 
 At last into the sea; the tint 
 Your canvas showed has lost its glint; 
 The rhyme and thought are unexpressed; 
 The heights toward whicli your footsteps 
 
 pressed 
 Lie far beyond your liome ne'er knew 
 That loving presence,— grasses grew 
 Above her grave, the while you dreamed 
 How much beyond the Present seemed 
 The Future's golden promise- 
 Somewhere, — some day — 
 Eternity ! 
 
 WHO CAN MEASURE. 
 
 Who can measure 
 
 Half the pleasure 
 That a teacher's life alTords? 
 
 Inspiration, 
 
 Approbation, 
 Young man, maybe, where she boards! 
 
 At half past eight. 
 
 Or else you're late. 
 You reach the school house door. 
 
 By ones and twos, 
 
 WMtli muddy shoes, 
 The children track tlie floor. 
 
 Mem'ry lingers, 
 
 Stickj' fingers. 
 Still j'ou feel about your face; 
 
 And the kisses — 
 
 Passing blisses — 
 That you took with Christian grace. 
 
 A timid knock — 
 
 Yet mighty shock — 
 The young man's come to school! 
 
 Recitation, 
 
 Consternation; 
 Children breaking every rule. 
 
 " Fred Smith got G., 
 
 You marked me P., 
 Ma says I'm as good as him." 
 
 Director's son — 
 
 Trouble begun; 
 Your chance for next term slim I 
 
 A little girl 
 
 With hair a-curl. 
 Comes sidling to your chair. 
 
 And whispers clear 
 
 That you may hear — 
 As every one who's there. 
 
 " Have you a pin"? " 
 
 Some bad boys grin ; 
 You menace with a frown. 
 
 •> My s'pender's broke" — 
 
 A little choke — 
 •' And my stockin's comin' down '. " 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 894 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. PHILIP B. STRONG. 
 
 Born: near Wyoming, N.Y., Aug, 30, 1859. 
 From the age of eighteen to twenty-four 
 Mr. Strong spent his time between collegiate 
 and theological studies at Rochester and 
 teaching at various villages of the state. He 
 then for tlif next two years prcafhod and 
 
 REV. PHILIP BUKROUCJIIS STRONG. 
 
 taught school. In 1885 he was married to 
 Miss Minnie M. Clark and took up his resid- 
 ence in Bristol, Vt., where he was ordained 
 pastor. He remained in Bristol until 1887, 
 when he was called to Malone, N. Y. where 
 he has since served as pastor of the First 
 Baptist church. The poems of Rev. Philip 
 B. Strong have appeared in Wide Awake, 
 Demorest's, Vick's, Youth's Companion, and 
 numerous otlier periodicals. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE SPINNERS. 
 'Neath the ash-tree, Yggdrasil, 
 
 Sit the Nornir, the tliree Fates, 
 Ever spinning, spinning still 
 
 (So the Northern myth relates), 
 As the ages come and go. 
 What as human life we know. 
 
 Past and present, future, all. 
 Are upon their spindles spun; 
 
 Life's events, or great or sm.all, 
 Tlirough their fateful fingers run; 
 
 There beneath the sacred shade 
 
 Weal or woe for man is made. 
 
 Now is spun a thread most briglit — 
 
 Joy and gladness some one's share; 
 Now the thre.'id, as dark as night. 
 
 Grief and anguish doth declare ; 
 So, as shine or shade appears. 
 Come to mortals smiles or tears. 
 Well indeed If in thy life 
 
 Joy doth over grief prevail. 
 If the sunny hues are rife, 
 
 And the sombre colors fail; 
 Well if e'en the sisters three 
 Spin an equal share for thee. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 Yes, boyhood's years were liappj' years, 
 
 We shall no happier know, I ween; 
 How memories start and flood the heart 
 
 As we recall each early scene I 
 But little then our lot we prized — 
 
 We envied, rather, man's estate; 
 How blest and free he seemed to be. 
 
 His griefs how slight, his joys how greatl 
 Ah, well! experience has taught 
 
 The truth since then, that young or old. 
 Life lias its care, an equal share. 
 
 Though varying and manifold! 
 Dear, ardent lad, that read'st this rliyme. 
 
 Thy boyhood's golden prime fleets fast; 
 With pleasures true thou ne'er shalt rue, 
 
 Fill up the days ere they are past. 
 Yea, fill thy youth with earnest acts. 
 
 Their wortli to theo shall time disclose; 
 For boyliood's deeds are f luitf ul seeds. 
 
 From which tlie future fortune growsl 
 And so spend life that in old age 
 
 Thou canst look l)ack and say, with joy 
 And not in tears, -'All, happy years! 
 
 Once more wlio would not l)e a boy?" 
 
 THE TONGUE. 
 "The boneless tongue, so small iind weak. 
 Can crush and kill," declares the Greek. 
 "The tongue destroys a greater horde," 
 The Turk asserts, " than does the sword." 
 The Persian ]>roverb wisely saith, 
 "A lengthy tongue— an early death." 
 Or .sometimes t.-ikes this form instead, 
 .. Don't let your tongue cut off your head." 
 .. The tongue can speak a word who.se speed, 
 Say the Chinese, ..outstrips the steed." 
 Wliile Arab sages this impart, 
 ..The tongue's great store-house is t lie heart. 
 From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung, 
 ...Tliough feet should slip, ne'er let tli 
 
 tongue." 
 The sacred writer crowns the whole, 
 .. Who keeps his tongue doth keep his BOUl 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 895 
 
 ALBERT BIGKLOW PAINE. 
 
 Bokn: New Beufoud, Mass., July 10, 1861. 
 The father of the subject of this sketch 
 served in tlie Civil Wjir us Capt. of tiie 19th 
 Iowa Infantry, iiaviiig removed to tliat state 
 when AUiert was Ijut two months old. At 
 the close of tlie war they removed to Xenia, 
 111., where younsr Albert received bia educa- 
 
 ALbERT BIGELOW PAINE. 
 
 tiun. When twenty years old he was a reg-u- 
 larly paid contributor of verses and sketches 
 to the periodical jiress. For awhile Mr. 
 Paine studied portrait painting- at St. Louis, 
 and'for three years traveled in the south and 
 southwest, pursuin? his profession as an 
 artist. Mr. Paine finally settled in Fort 
 Scott, Kansas, where he was married in 1885 
 to Miss W. F. Schultz, and is now engaged 
 in the wholesale photograpli supply busi- 
 ness, in which he has been very successful. 
 Although crowded with business cares, Mr. 
 Paine has found time for literary work, and 
 has written many fine i)oems which have re- 
 ceived publication in Saturday Night, New 
 York Weekly, Illustrated World, Dramatic 
 News, Kansas City Star, Topeka Lance, To- 
 peka Daily Capital, Belford's Magazine, and 
 the periodical press generally. In 1869 Al- 
 bert Bigelow Paine published a poem in 
 Viooklet form, entitled Gabriel, which was 
 highly spoken of by the press as a perfect 
 and harmonious poem from the pen of a 
 skilled poet. 
 h 
 
 thp: MIKUOR. 
 
 Within the glass 
 Our sliadows pass. 
 
 Like phantoms one by one. 
 But in the glass 
 Our lips can kiss 
 
 No imagre save their own. 
 
 THE GATES AJAR. 
 
 I have seen a Kansas sunset like a vision in 
 a dream, 
 
 When a halo was about me and a glory on 
 the sti'eam. 
 
 When the birds had ceased their music and 
 the summer day was done. 
 
 And a silent benediction came afioating from 
 the sun — 
 
 When the gold and inirple vapors on the 
 peaceful valleys lay 
 
 Like the final resiiiration of the dying sum- 
 mer day; 
 
 And I've gazed upon that atmosDJicric splen- 
 dor of the west 
 
 Till it seemed to me a gatewa.^■ to tlie regions 
 of the blest. 
 
 I have seen a Kansas sunrise like the waking 
 of a dream. 
 
 When every dewy blade of grass caught up 
 the golden gleam. 
 
 When every bird renewed the song it sang 
 the night before 
 
 And all the silent, slumbering world re- 
 turned to life once more; 
 
 vvhen every burst of radiance called up a 
 throng of life 
 
 And all the living, waking world witli mel- 
 ody was rife. 
 
 And as that flood of light and song came 
 floating down tlie plain. 
 
 It seemed to me those goldi'n gates were 
 opened wide again. 
 
 AN OASTS. 
 Whene'er I strive in vain to weep 
 
 O'er blighted Iiopes, or vanished years, 
 Ah, then, what would I give to steep 
 
 My soul in tears. 
 For though such tears would flow from me, 
 
 As bitter as the springs of Marah, 
 A sweet oasis it would be 
 
 In life's Sahara. 
 
 A MORNfNG. 
 A wavering, misty sweep of greenish gray, 
 A sullen landscape and the flying clouds, 
 All gray and white,— like parti-colored 
 
 shrouds — 
 A chill east wind, a sobbing drift of rain, 
 A heart that wakes to dull, returning pain 
 And so is ushered in another day. 
 
 — * 
 
896 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE ANGLEK. 
 The sun looks down on many a stream; 
 
 The stream beholds taut one bright sun. 
 And in that fair, reflected beam 
 
 It sparkles till the day is done. 
 I know beneath that limpid tide. 
 
 In those cool depths, far out of sight. 
 Uncounted trout and bass abide; 
 
 I know and yet they never bite. 
 
 I know this is us fair a spot 
 As ever liuman heart could wish. 
 
 And yet the other side, I wot, 
 Looks Uke a better place to fish. 
 
 I've said that failure is a crime; 
 
 A culpable, excuseless tiling; 
 And yet, I know that 1 must climb 
 
 The hill to-night with empty string. 
 
 1 know that truth's a jewel bright; 
 
 1 know it, and heave a sigh 
 To think that I'll go home to-nigbt 
 
 And tell a great, unholy lie. 
 
 LINES IN A DICTION AKY. 
 A feast of words collected here doth lie, 
 A wondrous feast of twenty-six rare cours- 
 A modest taste of each is all that I [es; 
 
 Mayhope to take, yet Nature's ardent forces. 
 With every morsel, hungrier than before. 
 Unsatisfied call lustily for more. 
 
 the bitter tear that 
 
 THE DRYEST DAY. 
 The soil within my fields was hot and dry. 
 
 The corn had long for water cried in vam; 
 With wistful gaze 1 watched the cloudless 
 
 When all at once the south wind seemed to 
 sigh. , . „ 
 
 .. The dryest day is just before the rain. 
 
 With hope deferred my heart had weary 
 grown. 
 But when 1 heard that soothing sweet re- 
 frain 
 Methought therefrom a ray of comfort 
 
 shone, , 
 
 As on the breeze these words came, gently 
 
 blown, . „ 
 
 ..The dryest day is just before the rain. 
 
 Then, to a thirsty little flower T said: 
 
 ..Cheer up, sweet bloom, and try to smile 
 again, 
 A better day draws near, hope is not dead . 
 Make one more effort! Lift thy drooping 
 head! . „ 
 
 .. The dryest day is just before the rain. 
 
 Oh ye to whom misfortune grief imparts 
 Despair not yet. nor fretfully complain! 
 
 But bravely check 
 
 starts. 
 And let this thought revive your fainting 
 heart, 
 .. The dryest day is just before the rain." 
 
 THE MYSTICAL SEA. 
 Oh, love, I am wandering back to-day 
 
 Through the valleys of memory; 
 They lie betwixt mountains far away 
 The mountains of Hope and Youth are they. 
 And I'm dreaming again of that night, to- 
 day. 
 By the mystical southern sea. 
 Oh, love, I loved you that far-off night! 
 
 By the mystical southern sea. 
 The breeze was light and the stars were 
 
 bright. 
 And the sea-gulls flashed in their circUng 
 
 flight. 
 As we sat alone on that far-off night. 
 
 When you whispered your love for me. 
 Oh, I kissed your lips and I clasped your 
 hands. 
 By that mystical southern sea. 
 While softly the waves were kissing the 
 
 sands. 
 And ships went a-sailing to distant lands. 
 As I kissed your lips and I clasped your 
 hands. 
 When you whispered your love to me. 
 Oh, love, a storm has swept the shore 
 
 Of that mvstical southern sea; 
 The waves still kissed as they kissed before; 
 But the ships that sailed wUl return no 
 
 more 
 And the youth and the love and the hopeb 
 
 of yore 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 UNBIDDEN. 
 I gave up making verses longago- 
 I said .. For me it is a useless thing. 
 For fate hath clipped my roving fancy s 
 wing, , 
 
 And, quenched the tlanic, it can no longu 
 
 glow." 
 Ah, foolish heart! How little do we know 
 The eav.tive bird will still unbidden Bing. 
 And though upon my heart is snappe-l 
 each string. 
 As well bid the river not to flow; 
 For when fair Nature's beauties I behol 
 Or dream upon the days that once hav- 
 t>een, , , 
 
 The sr,ark that I believed was dead and u 
 Doth glow and burn and burst to Dam 
 
 And wonis that I can scarce ^^^l''-'^'^ "["y;;;, 
 1 Leap to my lips - I cannot keep them do>M. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 897 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. M. MARIE FAIRMAN. 
 
 Bokn: Illinois, April 8, 1848. 
 This lady lias written quite extensivelj- for 
 tlif lociil ;ui<l rrliyioiis press :ni(l liiis a 
 
 MARIE FAIRMAN. 
 
 colleciioii of Bedtime Song's that she hopes 
 to publish sometime in the future. She was 
 married in 1873 and is still a resident of her 
 native state. 
 
 HOME ECHOES. 
 Come home, dear love, come home! 
 Wliy loiifrcr from us roam? 
 No beck'ning: star can brig-hter be 
 Than the household lamp that wait.s for thee. 
 Come home, dear love, come home I 
 
 Come home dear one and see — 
 The firelight gleams for thee; 
 Without tlie storm the windows beat. 
 The air is filled with snow and sleet, 
 Come lumio dear one to me. 
 
 Thy little one says come! 
 
 A joyful greeting home — 
 
 We'll >!:ither 'round the fireside hearth, 
 
 Witli many a gleeful jest and mirth 
 
 Forjfetful, the wind's moan. 
 
 Glad be thy welcome home! 
 
 No more to leave us lone. 
 
 Soon will our darling " Birdie " sing 
 
 And our lowly cot witli music ring 
 
 Papa! papa has come! 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 'Twas the home of an liumble cottager 
 
 I called at that day in my ride. 
 So cozy and tasteful the hartiiuger 
 
 I remember it yet with pride. 
 
 That the house was old, decay(!d and brown 
 Mattered not with the inmates there. 
 
 The walls were clean and with pictures hung 
 And the drapings arranged with care. 
 
 A table filled with papers and books 
 That spoke of a much refined taste. 
 
 Some bric-a-brac here and there 
 Lent charm to each nook and space. 
 
 A young wife cheery, brightsome and glad 
 In fresh lace and neat-fitting dress 
 
 Sat plying her needle with fingers deft 
 The while glancing at Baby Bess. 
 
 Fair Bess saw the summer of only a year, 
 Dainty cherub with curly brown hair. 
 
 So haiipy and winsome in childish glee 
 She played near the fond mother's chair. 
 
 Love and contentment were pictured there 
 In that wilderness sort of a place. 
 
 Some how that home scene my mind im- 
 pressed 
 So charmingly filled with grace. 
 
 A rough chestnut burr hides its kernel sweei. 
 To open you'd scarce feel inclined. 
 
 But judge not always by outward looks 
 Neither of face, nor place remind. 
 
 EDITH MAY. 
 
 Our little mischief is two years old; 
 
 I am sure she is worth her weight in gold. 
 
 Blue eyes that read your weak points right 
 
 through 
 And the merriest darling ye ever knew. 
 
 Oft wlicn in mischief, I call her •• bad girl!" 
 To .see what she'll say —this little pearl — 
 An upturned face, reply most kind — 
 •iFintiy's bad girl mammal Pinny's won't 
 mind!" 
 
 At sound of a bird she's off in a trice; 
 I'Bird suigs i)itty nice nuinima! pitty nice!" 
 Floats her voice through the door as in great 
 
 glee. 
 She finds the bird singing near by on a tree. 
 
 A bright little elf 'most liglitsome as air. 
 With glintings of sunlight on her fair liair 
 Tills wee little lass so ciiiuiing and true 
 We would not help loving, neither could 
 you. 
 
*- 
 
 898 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN JOSEPH F.FARRY. 
 
 Born; Lowell, Mass., Dec. 7, 1866. 
 John Fabry was a graduate of St. Mary's 
 college of San Francisco, and later became 
 a student at St. Ignatius in the same city. 
 
 .lOHN JOSEPH FRANCIS FARRY. 
 
 He lias written quite a few poems which 
 have been accorded quite a little praise. 
 
 *- 
 
 A LITTLE CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 When the Taylor family 
 
 Gathered 'round the fire. 
 Listening- to the stories 
 
 Of their happy sire; 
 Lovely little Samuel 
 
 Slept upon the chair. 
 There so cozy dreaming 
 Of the stars so fair, 
 Till she saw a golden 
 
 Ray of twinkling: light. 
 Fall upon the cold winds. 
 
 Sighing- through the night. 
 And adown its glory 
 
 He saw an angel band. 
 Winging fast and surging 
 
 Toward the Holy Land. 
 Then he saw them hovering 
 
 'Round a lamp-lit cave. 
 And inside a woman. 
 
 And a man so grave. 
 When he looked upon the cattle, 
 
 Near a crib of hay. 
 Breathing warmth so kindly. 
 
 O'er a Babe so gay; 
 
 He couldn't keep from crying. 
 
 Viewing all the sight; 
 While rapt sang- the angels 
 
 Hymns of sweet delight, 
 To their Infant Maker 
 
 Lying there so mild. 
 Smiling on His Mother 
 
 Like the happiest child. 
 Then His Father waked him. 
 
 To see such flood of tears; 
 Asking him what ailed him. 
 
 Full of glowing fears. 
 " Nothing," said sweet Samuel, 
 
 Wond'ring as he gazed 
 At the mournful faces 
 
 'Round him eager raised. 
 "Oh! he said in weeping, 
 
 " I dreamt a lovely dream 
 Of the Infant Savior 
 
 In lowly Bethlehem. 
 So my throbbing- heart so joyful. 
 
 Made me weep and crj-. 
 Looking- at Our Savior, 
 
 There so poor for us to lie." 
 
 I LOVE WHEN TWILIGHT BRINGS 
 THE DEW. 
 I love when twiliglit brings the dew. 
 From yonder, rosy, western blue. 
 To hear the city, evening- bells. 
 With all their magic sounds and spells: 
 Like rivulets floating- 'neath the sky, 
 Upon the distant hills to die. 
 And on the silver rolling bay 
 Where boats plow on their foamy way. 
 Oh ! yes 'tis sweet to list their roar. 
 Like billows on Pacific's shore. 
 Where golden light gleams in the spray. 
 That falls on sands to melt away. 
 Oh ! yes 'tis sweet and grander far. 
 Beneath the lone and trembling star. 
 You hear the church bells fall in line. 
 Fling out their notes in thunder fine, 
 'Till St. Ignatius' lordly bell, 
 Drojis down upon the solemn swell. 
 And raise their evening, mellow st)iig. 
 With martial music deep and long. 
 
 TO THE WINTER MOON. 
 The sky is blue and tilled with starry light; r 
 But thou, O Winter Moon that hangs o'erhead \ 
 And on these hills and cots a beauty shed. 
 How soft, and sweet yon look this biilmy 
 night, [^•'''«; 
 
 Their radiance dhiimed by fleecy clouds of 
 Till onewould think the May does softlytre.in 
 By yonder glassy stream, in cressy bed, , 
 
 Ami bay atween the hills in silver bright. j 
 But: Oh ! how soft your watery light must fall, ; 
 On ruined abbey, mossy, lone and tall. j 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIllCA. 
 
 899 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. S. ELLA SHELHAMER. 
 
 Born: TooLESBOito, Iowa, Feb. 8, 1860. 
 In her fifteenth year Ella taught school in 
 Mitchell countj-. Kansas. Her poems have 
 appeared in Saturday Night and other pub- 
 lications and many of her prose articles 
 
 AtRS. S. ELLA SHELHAMER. 
 
 liHre appeared in Wide Awake and the New 
 York Weekly. She has written over two 
 hundred poems, which have been accorded 
 high praise by press and public. This lady 
 was married in 1879 to B. W. Slielhamer, and 
 now resides in Pasadena, California. 
 
 THE PEPPER TREE. 
 
 Fern-like leaves on slender branches. 
 
 Gracefully swaying- in the breeze; 
 Fairj- blossoms, ripened fruitage. 
 
 Intermingle on the trees; 
 Berries red and blossoms golden 
 
 Swing together on the trees. 
 Lavishly she spreads her fruitage 
 
 Down upon the grassj- ledge. 
 Deftly fills the inter-spaces 
 
 Of the shapely cypress hedge. 
 Tucks away her crimson berries 
 In the pretty cypress hedge. 
 Softly sifts tlie golden sunshine 
 
 Tlirougli lier drooping fring'ed boughs. 
 Noonday lieat is all forgotten 
 
 In the cooling shade she throws; 
 Worldly cares are soon abandoned 
 
 Where the dreams' pepper grows. 
 
 ODE TO MOUNT SAN ANTONIO. 
 What arttliou, mountain old and gray, 
 
 That tliou sliould'st lilt thy hoary head 
 So far above the verdant vale? 
 Come, cast thy ermine robe away, 
 
 Speak to tlie scanty lierbage dead. 
 And bid the winds no longer wail. 
 
 Sweet Spring is tripping througli the glade. 
 
 Her thoughts echoed by tlie brooks. 
 And robed in green are all the trees. 
 That favored ones may .seek the shade. 
 
 And revel in the flowery nooks, 
 Kissed by the winds from grassy leas. 
 Deride spring not, but bid lier come 
 
 And deck thy flowing beard with flowers, 
 'Tis vain thy ragged robe to clasp 
 In icy fingers, coldly numb. 
 
 She smiles upon thee from her bowers. 
 Designing to unloose thy grasp. 
 What art thou, mountain old and gray. 
 
 That thou shouldst look with cold disdain 
 O'er sunny land and sounding sea? 
 Say, hast thou craftily put away 
 
 The treasures that we long to gain 
 Beneatli the roots of scraggy tree? 
 Then hark thou, mountain sternly grave. 
 
 We scorn thee to thy very face ; 
 We'll scale tliy battlements so high. 
 With liearts that ma.<k the trul3' brave. 
 
 And on the canyon's walls we'll trace 
 The records of the years gone by. 
 
 NO TIME TO WASTE. 
 
 "It goes so fast, this life of ours," 
 
 We have no time to waste in tears 
 And vain regrets o'er shattered powers; 
 
 But we must hasten with the years. 
 It goes so fast we may not spend 
 
 The passing hour in idleness; 
 Full soon our little da5' must end. 
 
 And idlers find it something less. 
 So swiftly flies the hour, the day, 
 
 'Tis wise to mark each moment well; 
 Do good in each that time alway 
 
 May hold for us some potent spell. 
 The years like fleeing shadows pass, 
 
 Witli hurrying footsteps we keep pace. 
 Though well we know this trutli, alas? 
 
 That time siiall one day win the race. 
 But then, though vanquished, we may feel 
 
 A joy that victors seldom know, 
 A sheavenly anthems o'er us steal 
 
 In praises of our deeds below. 
 •> It goes so fast, this life of ours," 
 
 We have no time for hate and strife; 
 But loving words, like perfumed flowers. 
 
 Make glad the rugged paths of life. 
 
*- 
 
 900 
 
 LOCAT- AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMKRICA. 
 
 JUSTIN ELISHA WALKER. 
 
 Born: Fairfax, Vt., Sept. 12, 1835. 
 
 For a while Mr. Walker studied law, but 
 eventually engaged in mechanical pnrsuits. 
 In 1847 he was married to Lucy M. Nichols 
 and has a large family of children. His 
 leisure time was always devoted to literature, 
 
 JUSTIN ELISHA WALKER. 
 
 and liis poems have received publication 
 from time to time in the periodical press. 
 Mr. Walker has taken a great interest in the 
 temperance question, and many of his poems 
 were written on tliat subject. Since 1858 he 
 has resided in Nashua, N. H., where he has 
 often been urged to take the lecture field, 
 but has steadily refused on account of hia 
 retiring disposition. 
 
 A THREE-FOLD ASPECT. 
 Flowers that bloom in evei-y field. 
 And even to the wayside stray, 
 And fragrance of ricli odor yield. 
 To cheer the weary traveler's way. 
 Are often trodden under foot 
 By tlioughtle-ss youth and careless men: 
 But if they've firmly taken root. 
 They'll spring to life and bloom again. 
 
 So men who journey life's rough way, 
 And scatter blessings as they go; 
 
 *- 
 
 Who seek to rescue those who stray. 
 And fain would share another's woe; 
 Are often crushed beneath the heel 
 Of selfish and unfeeling men; 
 But, if within true Christian zeal 
 Has taken root, they'll rise again. 
 
 Insects that flutter round the gas 
 Are lured by the dazzHng light; 
 Its burning element, alas! 
 Is wholly hidden from their sight. 
 They feel the pain the illusion brings, 
 Yet from the danger do not fly. 
 Till they have lost their tiny wings; 
 Tlien fall to earth and droop and die. 
 
 And so with men ; the social glass. 
 That deathless foe of Adam's race — 
 Witli winning smile, beguiles alas I 
 Our noblest men to its embrace. 
 They feel its fangs, its deadly stings, 
 Yet to escape they do not try. 
 Till they become a loathsome thing 
 Unfit to live; then drink and die. 
 
 The bird that flutters from its nest, 
 And seeks to fly like tliose around. 
 With broken wing and bleeding breast. 
 Will soon lie prostrate on the ground. 
 Its mates may bind the broken wing, 
 VVith tender care preserve its life, 
 'Twill always be a crippled thing, 
 Unfit to share in noble strife. 
 
 So boys who learn to smoke and drink. 
 And think it manly, noble, giand. 
 Below the brute ere long will sink. 
 Greeted with jeers on every hand. 
 Kind friends may strive to lift them up 
 And make them stand erect like men. 
 And they may dash away the cup, 
 But are tliey what they might have been? 
 
 Tlie scattered mind, half palsied brain 
 No power on eartii caii e'er I'ostore, 
 And wliat they are they nuist remain, 
 A cripiiled soul and nothing more. 
 Kind fiicnds, witli lovitigcare, may yet 
 Restore in part their morl)id taste; 
 Then, O liow keenly tliey'll regret 
 That life has been a barren waste. 
 
 Had I a voice like clarion note 
 To speak the latiguage of my soul, 
 Then all my life would I devote 
 To crying down the social bowl. 
 Till' illusion past it leaves a scar, 
 More gliastly tluin the surgeon's knife; 
 And all our happuiess 'twill mar, 
 And give us but a wasted life. 
 
»;+- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 901 
 
 -* 
 
 TRUMAN D.ROSS. 
 
 Born: Plattsburoh, N. Y., Oct. 8, 1859. 
 This gentleman is well known in Coloriido 
 as an able and forcible verse writer. He 
 moved to the west in 1880, locating- at Lead- 
 ville, Colorado, wlii-ie lie worked for many 
 
 TRUMAN D. ROS.S. 
 
 years; later on he engaged in the mercantile 
 business at Dake, Colorado. The poems of 
 Mr. Ross have appeared in the Arkansas 
 Traveler, Overland Monthly and other prom- 
 inent publications. 
 
 LET THE WORLD GO. 
 Join in a toast to the Goddess of Pleasure 
 
 (Flowers that blossom will wither I trow 
 
 Life, love and license, joy without measure, 
 Ciink all your glasses and let the world go. 
 Mad leap our pulses in rhj'thmic confession, 
 (Dead are the flowers and the autumn winds 
 
 blow.) 
 Life is a nightmare and death a delusion. 
 Pour out the ruddy wine : let the world go. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 A farewell glass at least 
 
 To penitent and priest, 
 
 As Care's gray coast-line vanished from 
 
 sight. 
 We live but to forget. 
 Let every sail be set 
 
 For the gaj- ship Pleasure's bound towards 
 the night. 
 
 Heartache and horror, with purple and pas- 
 sion, 
 
 (Soft sleep the violets under the snow.) 
 
 Life must be lived until death comes in 
 fashion. 
 
 Fill up your glass again; let the world go. 
 
 Who is it prates of a soul's resurrection? 
 
 (Snowdrifts are melting, and spring cometh 
 slow.) 
 
 Banish the thought with its gloomy connec- 
 tion, 
 
 Satan and sin for me; let the world go. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O, perfect days of youth. 
 When lite was love and truth. 
 You gleam again in Memor3's lambent light; 
 1 drop on you the veil — 
 For sin's bright sea I sail. 
 Till the gay ship Pleasure anchors in the 
 night. 
 
 Folly of Prophet, and fancy of dreamer 
 (Roses are budding in Maj-'s tender glow.) 
 All of this rant of the terrible gleaner; 
 Here's to their vagaries! Let the world go. 
 Pledge me again in those moments of glad- 
 ness 
 (Flowers are nodding their heads to and fro.) 
 Ere we go down in a vortex of madness. 
 Life, love and license rule. Let the world go. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 My skies are growing dim. 
 And a spectre gray and grim — 
 Slain Purity's sad phantom— blurs my sight. 
 The sunny days are gone: 
 While the bitter ones come on. 
 And the doomed ship Pleasure drifts into the 
 night. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 What is my love like';' I hear you ask ; 
 Give me, I pray you, a different tusk. 
 Let me tell you instead of the pearl-gemmed 
 
 cove 
 'Neath the crystalline sweep of the ocean 
 
 wave. 
 Where amber and amethyst cross the sight 
 Like fairy visions from realms of light. 
 Where strange-shaped monsters move or 
 
 sleep 
 In their home in the bed of the mighty deep. 
 Where the witching mermaid with sparkling 
 
 eye 
 Beckons tue dolphin flashing by. 
 1 will tell you a story of the sea. 
 But not what my love is like to me. 
 
*- 
 
 902 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WARD D. MUNHOLLAND. 
 
 Born: Delhi, La., Nov. 29, 1865. 
 Commencing to practice law at the age of 
 nineteen, Mr. Munholland now has a growing 
 
 V, VUD D. MUNHOLLAND 
 
 practice at Farmerville. A few of his poems 
 have occasionally appeared in the local press. 
 
 THE SUNSET. 
 A gentle zephyr shook the trees. 
 
 That spring had donn'd anew. The breeze 
 Seemed wafted from a western cloud. 
 
 That strove to hide beneath its shroud: 
 The waning Sunlight's ling'ring ray. 
 
 That ling'ring strove to hglit the day. 
 
 The zephyr touch'd me on the cheek 
 And bade me, (though it did not speak). 
 
 Gaze on its path, (a western course) 
 And view tlie grandeur of its source; 
 
 I turning looked, and there descried. 
 Fair Sunlight shrouded, as he died. 
 
 The zephyr seemed the struggling breath 
 Of Sunliglit, as lie sank in death. 
 
 Around him peace did rest, and while 
 That peace remained, a placid smile 
 
 Did light hi.s face and then unfold 
 To view his couch of burnished gold. 
 
 And on his couch thus bright h(! lay. 
 Still peeping through the cloud with day; 
 
 His cheeks did glow with fever's Hush, 
 Or crimson grow witli beauty's blush; 
 
 Which iidded light unto his eyes. 
 And spread its gold thro' western skies. 
 
 But weaker, paler, doth he grow. 
 
 His breath the zephyrs cease to blow; 
 The blacken'd cloud hath hid his eync, 
 
 Tir etherial orb no more doth shine: 
 In death he sheds no ray of light. 
 And earth is cloak'd with sable night. 
 
 FALSE LOVE. 
 
 'Tisdone! 'Tisdone! Alas, tisdonel 
 1 know not how, nor whj' ; but know 
 
 As drag the moments one by one. 
 They bear me where I would not go. 
 
 I seem to walk 'mid haunted shades, 
 Where dwell the manes of despair! 
 
 Where sorrows thicken, mem'ry fades. 
 And shrieks of torture rend the air. 
 
 Where Trouble spreads its gloomy veil ; 
 
 Where Anguish wears its darker cloak; 
 Where mingle Pain and Grief their wail — 
 
 They say, >• the vows of love are broke." 
 
 Oh, Mem'ry ! thy undying ray. 
 But faintly dawns around me now; 
 
 Ah! leave; I would not have you stay. 
 You mock with death, a living vow. 
 
 No, come; yet lend me brighter beams. 
 Even tho' thy brightest be my last. 
 
 And show me Hope,and Love's young dreams. 
 That thrilled my pulses in the past. 
 
 Lend Fancy, thy divinest light. 
 That it again the path may tread. 
 
 Where first we met; where blinded sight 
 Did vow the love that now is dead. 
 
 I felt, but one love could I know; 
 
 I swore I'd be to that most true. 
 And where I wandered it should go. 
 
 And where it slept, I'd rest me too: 
 
 Alas! I yet have known but one; 
 
 To it, alas! I've been too true, 
 I felt its light, but now 'tis done; 
 
 'Twas false, and vanished as the dew: 
 
 It set, as does the orb of day 
 When yielding unto Nature's night; 
 
 But when my staT' of love's last ray 
 Withdrew, it left a darker blight. 
 
 Its sable mantle, icy cold. 
 
 Has chilled the life-blood of my heart; 
 I cannot rend its double fold,— 
 
 My anguish, words cannot impart. 
 
 I've known but one, ah ! let me know 
 
 No other; for I could not. bear, 
 A second love to undergo. 
 
 E'en now I sink beneath despair. 
 
 I vowed to follow, but 'tis dead. 
 Another world it-wan<h'rs through. 
 
 But since my love, from this liad (led 
 E'en tho' to death, I'd Hee nietoo. 
 
 «- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND ISTATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 903 
 
 -* 
 
 BESSIE BLAND. 
 
 Born: Lynn, Mass., Dec. 8, IStvS. 
 
 This lady graduated from the Lynn Cobbet 
 school in 1880. Three j'ears later her poem.s 
 befran to appear in the periodical press. 
 
 BESSIE HI, AM). 
 
 Bessie Bland is represented in the work en- 
 titled Poets of Massachusetts, a valuable 
 collection of poets of that state. 
 
 A FACTORY GIRL. 
 
 A youthful maiden, fair to see, 
 With sweet blue eyes, and lily face. 
 With slender form of perfect grace. 
 And voice of softest melody. 
 
 While young companions gayly jest. 
 She, sitting 'mid the rest unheard 
 Wears, with each softly spoken word. 
 The gentle smile that suits her best. 
 
 As o'er her work she bends her head 
 She seems a princess in disguise; 
 The clear light of her azure eyes 
 Might well on royal scenes be shed. 
 
 There seems to rest a crown unseen 
 Upon her brow, as through the room 
 She goes,— a lovely flower in bloom; 
 A ray of moonlight, fair, serene. 
 
 In purity and gentleness 
 
 Her spirit walks from dfty to day 
 
 Along the toiler's quiet way. 
 The hours to beautify and bless. 
 
 God scatters thus His flowers fair 
 By lowly paths as well as high; 
 Tliey charm and cheer tiie passer-by. 
 And lift to a diviner air. 
 
 They 'mind us of the Garden bright 
 Where God shall gather all His own. 
 Alike from work-room and from throne; 
 For all are equal in His .sight. 
 
 O Father ! may Thy tender care, 
 May Thy almighty love and grace. 
 In station high, and lowly i)lace, 
 Defend Thy pure ones everywhere. 
 
 FAITHFUL IN LITTLE, FAITHFUL IN 
 
 MUCH. 
 Oh, tell me not that wealth and power 
 
 Must needs deprive the soul of grace, 
 A truly noble heart will keep 
 
 Its nobleness in everyplace. 
 How many pure, unselfish ones 
 
 In earth's high places we behold. 
 Who walkthrough favored paths, unspoiled 
 
 By blazoned name, or gleaming gold. 
 
 A noble and unselfish mind 
 
 In any station can be seen; 
 Alike in peasant and in lord 
 
 Appears its fair, benignant mien. 
 And one who, from a slender store 
 
 Gives willingly to greater need. 
 Is one who, given wealth and power. 
 
 Would be to man a friend indeed. 
 
 The fame and fortune fairly won. 
 
 Without oppression or deceit. 
 And used with measure just and kind, 
 
 The favor of the world will meet. 
 But in whatever walk of life. 
 
 Among the low, among the high. 
 The one who seeketh all iiis own 
 
 Unloved will live, unloved will die. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Heavy and still is the air; the lake 
 Lies silent and smooth as glass. 
 Tiie ringing voice of tlie locust sounds 
 From the depths of the way.side grass. 
 The flowers that woke in the dewy morn. 
 And lifted their heads in bliss. 
 Deprived of the zephyr's cooling touch. 
 Droop under tlie noontide's kiss. 
 The birds are silent witliin the wood. 
 In shadow the cattle lie; ' 
 
 And Nature faints, while the burning sun 
 Looks down from the sultry sky. 
 
*- 
 
 904 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. JOHN HARDENi' 
 
 Born: Near Dublin, Ind., May 29, 18.54. 
 At the age of nineteen Mr. Harden was mar- 
 ried to Miss Viola Witt, and now has quite a 
 family. Rev. John Harden has filled pastor- 
 ates in the Free Methodist Chiiroli atPaxton, 
 111. ; Ft. Wayne a I M I l-;\ .■in-.\ ill. . I ml.: .■mil in 
 
 Till joyful sounds shall rend the sky; 
 
 Let this inspire 
 
 The blood-washed choir — 
 Behold, his advent drawetli nigii! 
 
 REV. JOHN HARDEN. 
 
 1881-84 preached in the Congreg-ational 
 Church on California Ave., Chicago. He has 
 also held pastorates in St. Cliarles, 111., Ko- 
 koma and Hammond, Ind. For awhile lie 
 filled the editorial chai 'in a Chicago pub- 
 lishing house and has contributed from time 
 to time both prose and verse to the press. 
 
 CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 A merry, merry Christmas 
 To every girl and boy ; 
 The Savior's richest blessing — 
 Eternal life and joy! 
 Your voices raise, 
 To sing his praise 
 Whose birth we celebrate to-day; 
 Join angel choirs, 
 Witli golden lyres. 
 And to his name your triliute pay! 
 A merry, merry Cliristmas 
 
 To every children's friend; 
 A share of Christmas blessings. 
 
 And jileasures witliout cad! 
 Join in tlieir song; 
 The strain prolong. 
 
 BREAD OF LIFE AND FOUNT OP JOY. 
 Hallelujah! 
 God the Father, from above, 
 Sends the object of his love; • 
 Sends his Son, the living bread, 
 Savior of the quick and dead. ■ 
 
 Hallelujah! 
 Son of God, my priest and king. 
 In his flesh has deigned to bring 
 Bread that mortals cannot buy, 
 Bread to eat and never die. 
 
 Hallelujah ! 
 Bread of heaven, flesh divine, 
 Food of angels, thou art mine; 
 I have feasted. Lord, on thee; 
 Death I never more shall see 
 
 Hallelujah ! 
 Holy Spirit, living fount. 
 High thy healing waters mount; 
 From the smitten rock they burst; 
 In thy stream I quench my thirst. 
 
 Hallelujali ! 
 Bread of life and Fount of joy. 
 Both are mine without alloy; 
 All I need in tliese abound; 
 All I want I now have found. 
 
 JESUS OUR CITY OF REFUGE. 
 Blessed Jesus! thou our Kedesh, 
 
 In tlie land of Naphtali; 
 Clothe us with thy Holiness, 
 
 Soul and body sanctify. 
 Prince of life! tliou art our Shechem, 
 
 In the mount of Gerizim; 
 Ephraim's'right-liandl)lessing grant us — 
 
 Govern us as thou didst liini. 
 
 Friend of sinners! thou our Hebron, 
 
 In the land of Judali strong, 
 Abram, friend of God and Caleb; 
 
 To this friendship we belong. 
 Mighty Sa\ior! thou onr l^czcr; 
 
 Reuben found in tliy SlroiiKhold, 
 Refuge from the blood avenger; 
 
 In thy power make us bold. 
 Christ exalted! thou our Kanioth, 
 
 Dan's defense in Gilead's height; 
 We have waited thy salvation, 
 
 O, redeem us by thy miglit. 
 King exultant! thou our Golan, 
 
 In Manas.-^eh's sandy soil; 
 Fill us with thine own rejoicing- 
 Grant us passage from our toil 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 905 
 
 REV. T. S. OADAMS. 
 
 Most of tbe composition of the Rev. T. S. 
 Oadams have been hymns and such as relate 
 and nre helpful to him iu his religious work. 
 
 HEV. T. S. OADAMS. 
 
 He is a Congregational minister of quite a 
 little prominence, and has held pastorates iu 
 many prominent churches. 
 
 THE WREKIN. 
 Across the broad Atlantic's waves. 
 
 In England's sea-girt home. 
 
 Away 'mid Shropshire's lovely vales. 
 There stands a stately dome. 
 Nature lierself liath planted it. 
 
 Hath fixed it with her hand. 
 And like a lofty beacon 
 
 It overlooks the land. 
 The mind of Salop's sons to it. 
 Will turn where'er thej- roam. 
 And memories of bygone days. 
 Will ever, ever come. 
 In childhood they its crags have climbed. 
 
 And danced witli childish glee. 
 Around the ivied cottage. 
 Which they no longer see. 
 Parties innumerable tlioy joined 
 As years have quickly run : 
 
 From "Needle's Eye" and "Raven's Cup, 
 They watched the setting sun. 
 
 They gazed on landscape far and wide. 
 
 With abbeys, woods, and vales; 
 The Severn's rolling torrent. 
 
 And the towering hills of Wales. 
 
 Tlie lordly lionies and lowly cots, 
 
 Witli farms and towns between. 
 
 With Shrewsbury's towers and monument. 
 
 Together have been seen. 
 
 They rambled down the hill-side 
 
 To tlie "Lower Cottage" fair; 
 
 Lovers liave told their many tales 
 
 And friends have parted there. 
 
 And when the day they'd gladly spent 
 
 And night was setting in. 
 
 They gathered in the twilight 
 
 And sung their evening hymn. 
 
 Many liave gone to other climes 
 
 Their lot with others cast. 
 
 For reasons varied as the times 
 
 Of present and of past. 
 
 Some of these in the far-off West 
 
 Have found another home 
 
 And with our Brother Jonathan 
 
 They are content to roam. 
 
 Yet 'mid the beauty of western lands, 
 
 Noble forests and prairies still; 
 
 They never forget the days iliey spent 
 
 On Shropshire's stately hill. 
 
 ON VISITING AN OLD RUIN IN ENG- 
 LAND. 
 The ground whereon we tread 
 Entombs the mighty past, 
 O shades of mighty heroes dead. 
 Your visions on us cast. 
 Tlic chivalry and might in arms, 
 Tlie castle, lord, and kniglit. 
 The squires and ladies, war's alarms, 
 They will not back to sight. 
 The mantling ivy on the wall. 
 The sobbing wind that breathes 
 Its whispers through decaying hulls. 
 And rustles through the leaves. 
 Of trees, colossal in their growth. 
 The cedars, centuries old; 
 Each bear the impress of the past. 
 And the historj- of the liold. 
 The halls once filled with mirth. 
 And guests, and feasting great. 
 Are vacant now; around the hearth. 
 No voice of love or hate. 
 'The lonely bird builds here its nest 
 Among these ruins rare. 
 Its plaintive note, the only sound 
 That breaks ui)on the air. 
 The glory gone, the voices hushed 
 In courts and ca.stle gay. 
 Tlie crumbling arch, tlie falling stone. 
 Speaks of the swift decay. 
 Witli saddened heart we pause — 
 We tliink of those now gone,— 
 Of life,— and slowly molderiiig years,— 
 How long — ere ours is done ? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 906 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN OLIVER BELLVILLE. 
 
 Born: Spencek Co., Ind., Sept. .5, 1861. 
 Nearly two huudred poems have appeared 
 from the pen of Mr. Bellville, many of which 
 have found their way into the periodical 
 
 JOHN OLIVER BELLVILLE. 
 
 press. He has spent a greater portion of his 
 life on liis father's farm, but is now residing 
 in Evausville, Ind. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 The farmer's life, the farmer's wife. 
 The toil and care, and even strife, 
 They have to share in this life. 
 At set of sun his day's work done 
 He craves the rest his labor's won — 
 That he has won in this life. 
 
 And when at last the day has passed 
 He's g-lad to see night's shadow cast 
 Across his cares in this life. 
 Sweet sleep the drowsy goddess brings 
 Unconscious to earth's natural things - 
 To all the things in this life. 
 
 He rests 'til four, when the alarm 
 Walces him to duties on the farm. 
 And that he owes in tliis life. 
 Drowsy reluctance 'tis indeed. 
 He thinks a sin to be in need 
 And works so hard in this life. 
 
 After the plow he all day plods, 
 Over the hills and rocky clods — 
 
 The hills and clods in this life. 
 Weary he under the shade doth sit 
 To count his cares and dry his sweat — 
 His honest sweat in this life. 
 
 Each day grows warmer than the rest ; 
 He frets and swears he's never blest 
 With anything in this life. 
 The summer is past; his crop is made; 
 Here's winter's cold and autumn's shade. 
 Now to enjoy in this life. 
 
 He looks back o'er the fields he's tilled. 
 And sees how rich liis barns are filled 
 By summer's toil in this life. 
 And when the winter's rain and freeze 
 Sets in he gently takes his ease — 
 The ease he's earned in this life. 
 
 And as he sits before his fire, 
 
 "The farmers life," says he, "by far 
 
 Is most enjoyed in t'lis life. 
 
 And it is true he's nobly blest 
 
 With clotliing, food, and winter's rest, 
 
 Bj' summer's toil in this life." 
 
 A MATTER OF FASHION. 
 This world is a matter of fashion 
 
 A flimsy nonsensical show. 
 And differs so slightlj' in question 
 
 No matter wherever you go 
 You'll find a few leaders of mammon. 
 
 Society's primal red tape, 
 Wliich the multitude struggle to follow 
 
 Attempting to monkey and ape. 
 
 "The fool and his money soon parted," 
 
 How wisely the poet hath said. 
 For fashion now argues a conquest 
 
 Against home, and comfort and bread. 
 The tinsel and show that is fostered 
 
 Leaves homeless the aged and gray. 
 And turns on our streets and our higliwiiys 
 
 The lort'est of beggars each day, 
 
 Who once held the dust of the mountains 
 
 And spent it with sumptuous ease, 
 Wlio reveled witli luxury's minions 
 
 And took little note if you please. 
 Of the trutli that is found in this saying, 
 
 "Prepare for a cold rainy day." 
 Man's days lengthen out to a resting. 
 
 And Oh, then a comfort and stay. 
 
 How many are forfeiting comforts 
 
 To follow the rich in their tracks. 
 By spending their soul's only dollar 
 
 To place simple show on their backs? 
 How many are sighing for waters 
 
 To give the old mill-wheel a blast. 
 Still swung by the forebay of fortune. 
 
 Alas! but the waters have i)assed. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 907 
 
 -* 
 
 JACK CLARY. 
 
 Born: Fayette Co., Ind., June 1.5. 1868. 
 
 The subject of this sketch is a druggist by 
 profession, but has found time to write 
 
 ■JACK CLAHY. 
 
 quite a few poems for the press, although he 
 is known more as a prose writer. 
 
 SEASIDE MUSINGS. 
 I stood on the pier at sunset 
 On the shore of the boisterous sea. 
 But in no wise was 1 happy 
 Because Nellie was not with me. 
 The sea was full of bathers 
 Enjoying the close of the day. 
 But I couldn't be happy while Nellie 
 Was a thousand miles away. 
 
 The waves rolled liigh on the beach 
 
 f5etokening a storm at sea. 
 
 The petrels shrieked their dismal cries 
 
 As if they sympathized with me. 
 The sun sunk slowly from sight. 
 It seemed in a watery grave 
 And cast his last pale golden rays 
 Across the storm-tossed wave. 
 
 The plea.sure seekers homeward went 
 As the evening shades stole 'round. 
 Leaving me to lonely musings 
 And the ocean's mournful sound. 
 
 And there amid the falling darkness. 
 Which made the scene lonesiimeandweird 
 I fancied in cverj- sliadow 
 Her sweet face before me appeared. 
 
 And then in fancy I took her 
 
 In my arms egaiii as of yore. 
 
 And I kissed lier again and again. 
 
 As I had many times before. 
 
 Tlien I thought of what slie tried to say. 
 But the words I had kissed from her 
 
 mouth; 
 • • I know you'll soon forget me Jack, 
 For some little girl in the south." 
 
 But nay Nellie this Tie'er will be 
 
 Now forgive me if you will; 
 
 But the girl that's all the world to me. 
 
 Is in far away Fayetteville. 
 
 And now this much I'll tell you 
 —So give your close attention— 
 That the name of this lovely maiden; 
 Is — Ah well — too dear to mention. 
 
 FAUEWELL. 
 
 When leaving scenes we so long have known 
 That to our minds may liave grown quite 
 
 dear. 
 We think we will never forget 
 That which to our hearts is so dear 
 And friends in whose bosom 
 We b}' kindness have sown 
 The seeds of friendshiji and love; 
 Their mem'ry to us ere long have grown 
 And are cherished as gifts from above. 
 However, to the scenes where we go. 
 Fond ties soon or later bind us 
 And by them we soon are taught to know; 
 All joys were ntit left behind us. 
 
 TWILIGHT HOUR. 
 'Tis pleasant to loiter at twilight hour 
 Beneath the .somber old church tower. 
 And list to the murmuring evening breeze 
 Whispering love in the Linden trees. 
 
 Lying wrapped in youth's sweet dreams 
 And the silver flood of pale m<H>n beams, 
 I'ree from thoughts of the bu.sy day; 
 Where none are likely to pjiss tliat way. 
 
 And 'tis pleasant to roam at twilight hour 
 Till you find yourself near the old church 
 
 tower. 
 And wonder to jourself how much you'd 
 
 care 
 If bv chance another had wandered there. 
 
*- 
 
 908 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. JOHN SAMUEL NORRIS. 
 
 Born : England, Dec. 4, 1844. 
 Emigrating with Lis parents to Canada 
 when nine years of age, Mr. Norris there 
 received his education and was ordained to 
 the Christian ministry. After preaching- 
 four vears in Canadii he was called to fill the 
 
 REV. JOHN SAMUEL, NOKRIS. 
 
 pastorate of the churcli in Rochester, N. Y. 
 Since Mien he has had pastoral charge of 
 churches in many of the western states. 
 Mr. Norris has always been interested in 
 music and is tlie author of Songs of the Soul, 
 a volume of nearly two hundred pages of 
 original and selected songs. He was married 
 in 1870 to Miss E. A. flurd, and now has a 
 large family. Tlie poems of Mr. Norris have 
 appeared in the leading religious publica- 
 tions of America. 
 
 CHIME ON SWEET BELLS. 
 Let the bells chime on in the inorniTig, 
 When the shadows flee away; 
 At tlie throne of grace seek tlie Father's face 
 He will keep thee through tlie day. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Chime on sweet bells, let .ioy notes ring. 
 Chime on, chinu; on sweet bells; 
 
 Your praises bring to Christ our King, 
 Chime on, chime on sweet bells. 
 
 Let the bells chime on in the noontide. 
 When the earth is glad and bright; 
 Let the day so fair, with its beautj- rare, 
 Fill thy soul with sweet deliglit. 
 
 Let the bells chime on in the evening. 
 When tlie deep'ning shadows tall; 
 Sing a joyful lij^mn of j'our trust in Him, 
 Who Is watching over all. 
 
 AGES GONE BY. 
 Ages gone by, Bethlehem's plains 
 Echoed with joy heavenly strains; 
 Wise men from far, travelling by night, 
 Followed a star, wondrously briglit. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Rejoice! rejoice! let bells of gladness ring. 
 Rejoice! rejoice I and cheerful Anthems sing; 
 O shout for joy this Christmas morn. 
 For us, for all, the Christ was born. 
 
 Angelic choirs, flaming with light. 
 Swept their sweet lyres, sang with delight; 
 From heaven above tidings they bore, 
 Tidings of love, love evermore. 
 
 SOLDIERS BELOVED. 
 
 Soldiers beloved, we come to-day. 
 Bringing bright blosoms, sweet flowers of 
 
 May; 
 Here you are resting, since your release; 
 Yours be the glory, ours blessed peace. 
 
 Sad was the carnage, fearful the flght; 
 Bravely ye battled for God and right. 
 For home and country, for friends so true; 
 God gave you victory, soldiers in blue. 
 
 We sadly miss you, tears fall like rain. 
 For we can never meet here again; 
 Still hope upspringing soothes all our pain; 
 Hearts ever loving shall meet again. 
 
 WE COME WITH BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 We come with beautiful flowers. 
 
 The sweetest and brightest and best; 
 And tearfully, tenderly strew them 
 
 Where our heroes now quietly rest; 
 No more do the bugle notes call them 
 
 To the carnage and dim of the flght; 
 They sleep who once fought for their country 
 
 For home and for freedom and right. 
 They sleep who once fought for their couutr.v 
 
 For home and for freedom and right. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAIi AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 --i* 
 
 f«M) 
 
 JOSEPH DWIGHT STRONG. 
 
 Born: Granby, Conn., June 5, 1823. 
 The subject of this sketch graduated from 
 Williams College in 1849, and after a full 
 course of professional studies he was or- 
 dained iiastor of the Congregational church 
 in Westport, Couu. In 1853 he married Miss 
 
 JOSEPH DWIGHT STRONG. 
 
 Margaret D. Bixljy, by wliom he has seven 
 children, two of whom have wou distinction 
 as brilliant artists. In 1854 Mr. Strong re- 
 moved to California, and subsequently to the 
 Hawaiian Island, where he ministered to the 
 Church of Foreign Residents in Honolulu. 
 Four years later he was pastor of the First 
 Presbyterian church in Oakland, where he 
 now resides. Mr. Strong has filled many im- 
 portant positions in his adopted state, and 
 for a wliile was editor and publisher of a 
 monthly magazine. Since the death of his 
 wife in 1866 he has been engaged principally 
 in literary work. 
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW. 
 
 Where thick oaks the rocks were sheathing. 
 
 And the bay -tree fragrance breathing- 
 There we sat, and hand sought hand; 
 
 How the little leaves were hushing! 
 
 How the soft, sweet sun was gushing — 
 Gushing up from all the land ! 
 
 Hearts brimmed o'er with love, and treasure 
 
 Great beyond the great earth's measure — 
 
 qf 
 
 Every depth of being filled; 
 What deft speech might give revealing. 
 Or what tones could voice the feeling. 
 
 Every chord within us thrilled! 
 
 Not a look or breath mistaken. 
 Not a doubt could word awaken. 
 
 Not a thouglitof ill was there; 
 Oh from speaking eyes wliat blisses! 
 Oh from sweetest lips wliat kisses' 
 
 In what heaven we each had share ! 
 
 But now no oaks the rocks arc sheathing. 
 And no fragrant bay-tree breathing, 
 
 And the little leaves make moan : 
 • > Oh the eyes that yield no blisses ! 
 Oh the lips that give no kisses! 
 
 Oh the love that sits alone ! " 
 
 THE SCHOOL FOR MEN. 
 
 These bending skies that close earth round 
 As barred and mystic prison-ground. 
 
 Are wider far tlian all our kin; 
 For mind is here the soul of things, 
 And truth in endless anthem sings. 
 
 And God Himself hath school for men, 
 
 Brave hearts reach ont their little hands 
 And take the book that open stands. 
 
 As oracles and leaves of life; 
 They con the mystic lesson o'er 
 And read the word of things, nor more 
 
 Waste all their day in bigot strife. 
 
 They break the clasp of strata-folds 
 And find the stony page that liolds 
 
 The buried jiast of men and things; 
 They see in rock and tree and flowers 
 The holy truth, the eternal powers — 
 
 The thought from wliich all order springs. 
 
 Sweet sunbeams paint the art of God 
 On all that dots the springing sod 
 
 In colors each divinely mi.xed; 
 And their entangled lines reveal 
 The truths that grosser foims conceal 
 
 In lines eternal law hath fixed. 
 
 And force in myriad wonder-ways. 
 Now slow as years, now swift as days. 
 
 Is shai)ing out the eternal plan; 
 Breathes in the winds and moves in storms. 
 And tlirobs in all earth's vital forms. 
 
 And, God-like, thinks and feels in man. 
 
 In things we thus find holy books — 
 Vedas in stones. Bibles in Ijrooks — 
 
 The light is wise old Hermes' pen; 
 Sweet jisalms from every tree resound. 
 And in each clod the Word is found, 
 
 For God hath here liis school for men. 
 
 -* 
 
p 
 
 *- 
 
 910 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA- 
 
 JOHN W. BEEBE. 
 
 Born: Georgetown, Del., Aug. 2, 1853. 
 Removing to Elwood, Indiana, in 1873, Mr. 
 Beebe was married the followlug' year to Miss 
 Ella Thorpe. For a while he worked at the 
 trade of house. carpenter, and also taught 
 school in Indiana liuring' several winters. 
 
 JOHN W. BEEBE. 
 
 Mr. Beebe then attended the Normal school 
 at Ladoga, Indiana. In 1880 lie removed to 
 Kansas and is now located at Kingman, 
 where he has taught school and had charge 
 of two newspapers. In 1886 he became deputy 
 county treasurer, which position he still fills. 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 Speak to them gentlj'. 
 
 Treat them with care; 
 Give them the fireside's 
 
 Easiest chair. 
 They wept for you once. 
 
 Parental tears; 
 Don't let them weep now- 
 
 Smooth the gray hairs. 
 Age has its childhood. 
 
 Weakness and ills; 
 O liow a kind word 
 
 (irandmotlicr thrills. 
 Grandfather totters 
 
 By on his crutch; 
 How warm his old lieart 
 
 At friendly iDuch. 
 Speak to tliem kindly, 
 
 Banisli their fears; 
 
 Their eyes, tliough dim, are 
 Quick to shed tears. 
 
 Make their life easy 
 Down the incline; 
 
 So shall thy children 
 Make for thee thine. 
 
 MY WEST COUNTRY LOVE. 
 I love a maiden, oh, so fair. 
 
 Out in the West Countrie; 
 She has blue eyes and g:olden hair, 
 Out in the West Countrie,— 
 The bonny West, 
 The g-ayest, best. 
 The bonny West Countrie. 
 Her song is sweet as the nightingale, 
 
 Ovit in the West Countrie, 
 
 Her cheek would malce the roses pale. 
 
 Out in the West Countrie, 
 
 And shame the tint 
 
 Of sunset in't — 
 
 The bonny West Countrie. 
 
 I love this maid, and she loves me. 
 
 Out in the West Countrie; 
 
 Mayhap, you wonder who she be, 
 
 Out in the West Countrie, 
 
 Whose love, I know. 
 
 Is pure as snow. 
 
 Out in the West Countrie. 
 
 Well may I sing of this fair maid. 
 
 Out in the West Countrie; 
 
 She's three years old, the little jade, 
 
 Out in tlie West Countrie, 
 
 And cries •• papa," 
 
 And liiughs ha-ha! 
 
 Out in the West Countrie. 
 
 I loni 
 
 A TWILIGHT SONG, 
 to go and be witli tliee. 
 
 Be witli thee 
 Under the shade o' tlie greenwood tree. 
 
 Greenwood tree; 
 Close by the fountain side. 
 Close by the mountain side. 
 
 Under the sliade of the Greenwood tree. 
 There we loved in tlic long ago. 
 
 Long ago; 
 There primrose and violets grew, 
 
 Violets grew. 
 Where the world upon us smiled. 
 Where we wereliy lovo beguiled. 
 
 Loved we there, and loved so true. 
 I was young, and you were fair. 
 
 You were fair. 
 How I longed to tarry there. 
 
 Tarry there; 
 I>o()kitig in your eyes so sweet, 
 Itesting in your lovo complete, 
 
 I was young: and you were fair. 
 
 *- 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 !)11 
 
 MRS. EDITH F.WALCOTT. 
 
 Born: Hoi.den, Mass., June 6, 1856. 
 This lady has lived in many states of the 
 union, and is now living' in Oxford, Mass. 
 She devotes to litenatnre whatever time can 
 
 MKS. EDITH V. WALCOTT. 
 
 be spared from family duties, and has found 
 time to write many flue poems and sketches, 
 some of which have appeared in the Boston 
 Transcript, Grand Army Record and others. 
 
 THE AUTOCRAT. 
 Shudder, O ruler of thy millions ! Draw 
 
 Into thy secret chamber, pale with fear, 
 thou embodiment of unrighteous law! 
 
 Dost there not rise unto thy shrinking- ear 
 The groans and prayers that sound from 
 year to year 
 Along thy highways unto regions dim? 
 Tremble, O tyrant! All shall be made clear 
 When thy dark soul shall go forth unto 
 
 Him 
 Who notes and sees all things to Time's re- 
 motest rim. 
 Aye, shiver in thy palace! Turn tliine eye 
 From her, thy frenzied consort! Thoushalt 
 know 
 The lieight, the depth, the breadth of misery. 
 Dealt thee for every maddened e.xile's woe. 
 Thou Shalt feel all the weight of that fell 
 
 blow 
 I That rent a mother's anguished heart in 
 twain. 
 
 When, on her dawning senses, sure, though 
 
 slow, [slain. 
 
 Was borne the knowledge of her last hope 
 
 And that dear baV)c, cold, dead, unheeding 
 
 her wild pain. 
 
 Tremble, imperial Czar! God's justice dwells 
 
 Immeasurable, secure, outlasting time. 
 'T will lower thee to Remorse's eternal hells. 
 
 To expiate the measure of thy crime. 
 Oh! thou shalt feel how awful, how sul)lime 
 The judgment of that outraged jiower shall 
 be 
 When, in that silent, shadowy, mystic clime 
 Thou shalt do penance for eternity — 
 Praying, but all in vain, one brief hour to 
 be free. 
 O thou accursed! Canst thou close thine 
 heart [prayer? 
 
 To mercy 'gainst a mother's frenzied 
 Against youth, child and inaideii who depart 
 To awful exiie and lifelong despair? [P'l''' 
 What thousand, million years will e'er re- 
 
 The ruin of thy dread and fearful reign? 
 Nay, nay! Think not a despot hand will 
 spare 
 Till it has ceased to guide the tyrant train- 
 Till, spoiled by Time, it rots among fin-- 
 gotten slain! 
 
 And thou, O hero! Thou, whose pen sublime 
 Hath traced in words of fire the awful 
 truth — 
 Down through the ages, while endureth time. 
 Thy name shall live in grand, eternal 
 youth ! 
 Thou hast won from all hearts their tender- 
 est ruth, [veil. 
 
 Tliou hast uplifted the dark, shrouding 
 Heedless of danger, thinking but, in sooth. 
 How best thou couldst unfold the fearful 
 tale, [ful wail. 
 
 And open all earth's ears to Russia's mourn- 
 
 God bless thee, Kennan! Bless the manly 
 heart 
 That scorned not to weei> tearsof pity when 
 Unto thee that pale mother did impart 
 
 A woe to wring the hardest hearts of men! 
 The tyrant and the teaclier! Judge ye, then 
 
 O ye who preach us a Redeemer sl.iin ! 
 Which shall rank higher? Which, in heaven's 
 ken, 
 Will stand exultant in the angel train. 
 And cast his shining glance o'er valley, 
 hill and plain? 
 O exiled mother ! Last, not leiist, art thou — 
 
 The victim, the poor sacrifice for sin. 
 O mother! with thy pained-crowned, girdled 
 brow — 
 Whose soul so deep the iron entered in ! 
 
*- 
 
 912 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Exiled.heart-broken ! When there doth begin 
 That otlier life — so sweet, so rich, so blest! 
 Oh! thou shalt find beyond these shadows 
 dim. 
 Full recompense for all— calm, endless rest. 
 And those, thy loved and lost, shall cling- 
 close to thy breast. 
 Rather be what thou art — poor sad, forlorn. 
 Than he, the despot, who doth dread the 
 light. [dawn. 
 
 When thou art judged, in heaven's crystal 
 Who could but choose thy lot? For him the 
 night 
 Of pain, remorse eternal! While more bright 
 Than all the stars of evening shall thou 
 shine, [flight 
 
 Girt by the gleaming robes of those whose 
 Left angel tracks for those tired feet of 
 thine— [scenes divine! 
 
 Traces that thou shalt press to heights, to 
 
 MRS. L. H. HAMMOND. 
 
 Born: Solan, N.Y., Jan. 8, 1840. 
 This ladj' has written more tlian a hundred 
 poems which have received publication in 
 
 MRS. T.TTRANAH H. HAMMOND. 
 
 1-lie ,ocal press. Slie wiis married in 1864 to 
 Marion Hammond and now resides with her 
 husband and children in Strong's Prairie, Wis 
 
 THE SWEET LONG AGO. 
 Far away on an evergreen shore. 
 Lies tlie land of the Sweet long ago 
 Where the blossoms of spi'ing never fade 
 And the fierce winds of winter ne'er blow. 
 Cho.— Oh thou Sweet Long ago! 
 We have -wandered so far from thy shore; 
 Oh sweet land of our youth '. 
 We can never go back any more. 
 
 There is naught in that land to annoy ; 
 Dissolved are its sorrows in mists. 
 That afloat o'er the hill-tops appear 
 Like the dewdrops the sun beams have kissed 
 There are friends. Oh so tender and true 1 
 Whose brows are ne'er shadowed by care. 
 And their voices in melody sweet. 
 Echo yet from that land over there. 
 We have wandered afar from that shore. 
 And our footsteps are weary and slow; 
 But we cannot return on that path. 
 To the Land of Sweet Long ago. 
 
 A SONG OF GLADNESS. 
 Oh sing a song of gladness. 
 Ye travelers on the way ; 
 Sing with the birds tliat warble 
 Their thanks at break of day. 
 Through pleasant ways and sunny 
 
 At morning lies the road; 
 Then hasten on rejoicing. 
 And blithely bear your load. 
 Haste on toward home. 
 If you do not reach it in the morn. 
 We maj' at noon. 
 If noon-time finds us weary 
 
 We will not stop to sigh. 
 For home is just l)ef(jre us, 
 We'll reach it by and by; 
 Then sing a song of gladness. 
 
 Although the way looks drear 
 Above the clouds of sadness 
 Tlie sun is shining clear. 
 Then do not grieve; 
 ]f home is not in sight at noon, 
 "Twill be at eve. 
 Though rougher grows our pathway, 
 
 And steep the hills we climb, 
 We'll murnuir not at trials 
 That last but for a time; 
 Nor will it keep our footsteps 
 
 From straying by the way. 
 To dwell upon the sorrows 
 And sins of yesterday. 
 Tlien weep no more; 
 But keep your ejes upon the road 
 That lies before. 
 When evening shadows gather. 
 The lights of homo will glow. 
 To light the darkening pathway 
 
 Our tired feet must go; 
 Oil sweet will be the welcome 
 
 That meets us at the door! 
 And glad we'll pass the i>ortals 
 To wander never more. 
 Oil Home so bright! 
 We'll reach the land of jH-rfect day 
 When comes the night. 
 
 *- 
 
gf 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 913 
 
 -* 
 
 MEL VI N LIN WOOD SEVERY. 
 
 Born: Melrose, Mass., Aug. 5, 1863. 
 FoK a while Melvin studied law, but discon- 
 tinued its study on account of ill health. He 
 then took a tliree years' course at the Mon- 
 roe College of Oratory in Boston, after which 
 he went upon the stage. In 1888 he became 
 
 MEIjN l.N LlNW(JUl) SEVERY. 
 
 assistant editor and special correspondent 
 for several publications, and subsequently 
 edited a Boston Magazine. He has written 
 ten plays and published a worli entitled 
 Fleur-de-Lis. For the past few years Mr. 
 Severy has given lectures and instructions 
 in that art, at the same time devoting a por- 
 tion of liis time to literary pursuits. He was 
 married in 1884 to Miss Mina Howard, with 
 whom he now resides at Boston, Mass. 
 
 FLEUR-DE-LIS. 
 Bluer than Andalusian seraph eyes 
 Are the lips of thy petals, O Fleur-de-Lis! 
 Sweeter tlian breath of a maiden's sighs. 
 As fragile as thought of paradise 
 Art thou, trembling child of the sea. 
 
 0, fairer by far than Beauty's soft grace 
 Is the passion-pulse of thy stalk. Fleur-de- 
 Lis! 
 Thou art a thought from a holy place. 
 Dropped like a tear from an angel face 
 On the weeping sands of the lea. 
 Ah, worthy art thou of a saint's white breast. 
 Or the cestus of Venus, sweet Fleur-de-Lis! 
 
 And e'er shouldst thine l)c tlie name of rest, — 
 Balm to the heart that's sorely oppressed,— 
 And never a pang shouldst thou see. 
 
 O fickle Life! thy chain discordant drags 
 Its tedious, linked length of gold and lead 
 O'er fields of Pleasure, and Pain's sharp 
 
 crags. 
 Fraying Joy's silks to Sorrow's dull rags, 
 Whicli serve for the pall of the dead ! 
 
 Oh ! weep on ye sands at the tangled strings 
 That Ijind the aching heart of life's mystery, 
 Where evil depravest the noblest things, 
 Making to moan the light heart that sings, 
 And filling with woe its history. 
 
 O child of the sea thou sufferest too! 
 For the shoulder of pain wears the Fleur-de- 
 Lis! 
 Whose petals give off the scent of rue. 
 Whose thriving is of the eye's sad dew. 
 At Toulon, frowning at the sea. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 All that is fair wert thou, and chaster 
 Than the dewdrop on the lily's lip; 
 Than the grass-hid violet more modest, or 
 Ermine jealous of its fur. The pale pearl 
 In its satin cradle rocked by the Sea's 
 Rough hand, or the trembling tear on an 
 
 angel's cheek — 
 Nothing, O heart of vestal fire ! that thou 
 E'er said'st. but lips of golden altar-urns 
 Hidden in Easter's lilies might resound. 
 Nymph who explainedst poets' ideal dreams. 
 When thej' on spirit wings have left the 
 
 flesh. 
 Ordained prophets of the coming life. 
 Reach out across the years with Memory's 
 
 hand. 
 Bringing me fruit that ripens, yet ne'er falls. 
 
 LOST. 
 A sunb'eam fell across my soul, 
 And every blossoming thought 
 Its bright face turned unto its goal, 
 And its grateful radiance caught. 
 A shadow — Death — that lustre drank. 
 And smote with f ullsome breath each flower. 
 Wliile Hope, with eyelids drooped and dank. 
 Sobbed off the minutes of my hour. 
 O liard is it from glare to gloom ! 
 And bitter 'tis from gold to lead! 
 Sob off by hours mj' .sad doom. 
 And lay me, Hope, beside my dead. 
 From thee, my love, shall flowers spring. 
 And turn to sun as I to thee; 
 Yet they'll to me no brightness bring — 
 My soul put out its light with thee! 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 914 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CLARENCE HENRY URNER. 
 
 Born: New Market, Va., April V.i, 1856. 
 After receiving- his education at tlie New 
 Market Polytechnic Institute, Mr. Urner en- 
 g-ag-ed in teaching, whicli profession he fol- 
 lowed for fifteen years. He has written sev- 
 
 CliARENCE HENRY TJRNER. 
 
 eral hundred poenis, many of which have 
 appeared in the American Magazine, Out- 
 ing, Peterson's, Cottage Hearth, Arthur's 
 Magazine and other periodicals. Mr. Urner 
 was married in 1883 to Miss Ella V. Manor, 
 and now resides with his wife and family at 
 Kichmond, Va., where he is first clerk in the 
 Virginia treasury. 
 
 SUMMER AFTERNOON. 
 The summer afternoon, in splendor dressed. 
 Slopes slowly down the g-olden hills of day; 
 So listless does she drag her measured way. 
 The world has almost ceased to sue for rest. 
 Wide swings the portal of the patient west. 
 Where dewy shades their balmy charms por- 
 tray. 
 In hope to liaste the steps that long delay, 
 Yet, wonders whathelates the laggard guest. 
 With burnished hair and linibs,aiid fiery eyes 
 Still creeps the afternoon adown the slope. 
 Where palpitates with heat the languid air. 
 And streams the brilliance of the burning 
 
 skies; 
 Still gapes the eager west with sinking hope. 
 Still mourns the wretched world in calm 
 despair. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Long ere thy presence, like a radiant morn, 
 Dawned on these eager eyes thou wert my 
 
 own; 
 My heart had reared itself a peerless throne, 
 Which all aside from thee could ill adorn; 
 Witliout its love, this empty breast forlorn 
 Was once a shattered kingdom overthrown; 
 Now I may look where thou and thou 
 
 alone. 
 Art all that lives above its old-time scorn. 
 So much of life and inspiration dwell 
 Within thy form, I scarce can deem it clay; 
 The texture of thy thought reveals a soul 
 Enshrined within its kindred citadel; 
 Now, e en thine eyes may hold a will at bay 
 Which never felt a less divine control. 
 
 Our 
 
 HATE. 
 
 is now 
 
 olden path is now grass-grown and 
 
 mossed, [one, 
 
 The distance which divides the hearts, once 
 Is greater than the line from earth to sun. 
 For eye can measure that and not be lost, 
 ^'he impulse of our separate stars is crossed. 
 E'en fancy cannot point the paths they run; 
 Thine whither"? Whither mine — race never 
 
 done? 
 Both like the down of thistles tempest 
 
 tossed ! [eyes. 
 
 If e'er thy bliss should fall beneath these 
 Since Fate ordains that much is possible, 
 'Twere as the lost, when one brief glance is 
 
 given 
 Of earth-born foes, now blessed in Paradise, 
 And on a trumpet blast this last farewell — 
 Think of the hate perdition holds for 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 NO LOSS. 
 The Past comes up to muse beside the 
 
 hearth. 
 Where every ember speaks witli saddened 
 
 tongue; 
 The Golden Age's knell has long been rung, 
 The world has grown too old for fairy 
 
 mirth ; [earth. 
 
 No line of sapient gods now liaunts the 
 As in the days of old, wlien Time was young; 
 No more the Muse's tuneful harp is strung. 
 And Song below has now no second birth, 
 i'et. Truth and Beauty have not passed 
 
 away 
 To other cUmes beyond this earthly sphere, 
 To leave it darkling on some downward 
 
 slope ; 
 For earth is just as fair and bright to-day. 
 As when the race emerged from Caves of 
 
 Fear. CH°P^; 
 
 And forward looked from golden Hills of 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 * 
 
 915 
 
 RP:V. AMOS B. RUSSELL. 
 
 Born: vvoodstock, N. H., Feb. 'M, IS'^o. 
 
 After taking- a Theological course, Mr. 
 Russell in due time became a minister, and 
 is uow pastor of the M. E. cliurch at Gil- 
 manton, N. H, His poems have appeared in 
 
 REV. AMOS BRYANT RUSSELL. 
 
 the Boston Zion's Herald, Baltimore Gospel 
 Light, Concord Independent Statesman, the 
 Boston Christian Witness, and in other 
 prominent relijrious puhlications. He was 
 married in 1849 to Miss Kuth S. Watson, and 
 now has a family grown to maturity. 
 
 CHARACTER. 
 A character is built of deeds. 
 
 Proclaimed, or never told; 
 Built up of stubble, worthless weeds, 
 
 Or silver gems and gold. 
 
 A word of prayer, a kindly deed. 
 
 Or alms in plenty given 
 To friendless poor who stand in need. 
 
 Will meet reward in heaven. 
 
 A tender word, a silent tear. 
 Heartfelt and well applied. 
 
 Will lift the fallen, quell each fe;ir 
 And break the rising- tide, 
 
 Or pluck a friend f I'om out the flame, 
 
 A gem from arid sand; 
 A trophy won in Jesus' name 
 
 And graven on his hand. 
 
 THE INNOCENCE. 
 I saw, when walking through a glade 
 Encircled l)y a leafy shade 
 In hiunble modesty arrayed — 
 
 The innocence. 
 
 They stood in robes of purest white 
 And seemed enraptured with deligiit 
 Turning their faces to the light — 
 
 The innocence. 
 
 In quiet grace these groups of flowers. 
 Which owe their lives to sun and showers, 
 Soon wax ard wan in golden liours — 
 
 The innocence. 
 
 Fn uniform they stood arrayed. 
 In silent corps in field and glade. 
 Like armies when on dress parade — 
 
 The innocence. 
 
 THE COMET. 
 •• Have you seen the comet? " wrote a friend 
 
 to me; 
 To be sure 'tis a wonderful sight to see; 
 Dashing along through realms of stars. 
 Talked more aljout than Juno or Mars; 
 From tlie north, spread out o'er the empty 
 
 space. 
 His soutiiward cour.s(! you can easily trace. 
 As along the Orient skies, his tail 
 Bears him along like a mammoth sail. 
 From whence he comes and whither he goes. 
 Tell me ye sages, if any one knows; 
 For the council he keeps is wholly his own. 
 Roving at large tlirough worlds unknown; 
 Level 3'our telescope, follow liis raj-s. 
 After the wondering traveler's gaze. 
 Though I fear in the west infinitude. 
 He will hide liimself. and your search illude. 
 He that holdeth the stars in his hand. 
 And loosens old Orion's mystic band. 
 Has marked out the path of this wonderful 
 
 star 
 As he travels through space to realms afar. 
 
 -* 
 
916 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ALICE EDWARDS PRATT. 
 
 Born : Freeport, Me., Jan. 9, 1860. 
 
 In 1881 this lady graduated from the State 
 University at Berlieley, Cal., with the de- 
 gree of Ph. B. Since that time she has been 
 
 ALICE EDWARDS PRATT. 
 
 the principal of the Santa Rosa Seminary^ 
 In person she is petite, with black hair and 
 brown eyes. Her poems has received ex- 
 tensive publication in the periodical press. 
 
 THE EVERLASTING HILLS. 
 
 Above tlie tumult and bustle 
 
 Of the feverish, restless town, 
 Over the heads of the people 
 
 Who are hurrying up and down. 
 Away in the hazy distance 
 
 Against the noonday sky. 
 I can see the purple mountains 
 
 In peaceful quiet lie. 
 
 And as for a moment I linger 
 
 To gaze at their beauty sweet, 
 My ears are deaf to the clatter 
 
 Of hoofs in the noisy street; 
 And to faces of friend or of sti"Uiger 
 
 My eyes for tlie moment are blind, 
 For in "that unchangeable stillness 
 
 A blissful content I flntl; 
 
 And a feeling of inspiration 
 And courage my whole heart fills. 
 
 As I gaze at the distant outlines 
 Of the beautiful templed hills. 
 
 So, often, above the worries. 
 
 The mistakes and the sins of my heart. 
 Past tlie wearying toils and troubles, 
 
 Tlirough the teardrops that will start, 
 I catch a sight of tlie glory 
 
 Of God's eternal hills. 
 And the glimpse brings a benediction 
 
 That every murmur stills. 
 
 Though a task seem almost harder 
 
 And a Inirden heavier to bear. 
 Than I could endure unaided; 
 
 From the sacred summits there 
 Cometh help for every trial; 
 
 In time of distress a song; 
 Instead of complaint thanksgiving; 
 
 For doubtings, a faitli glad and strong. 
 
 And my ears grow deaf to the jangle 
 
 Of a world that is out of tune. 
 My eyes are blind to its sorrows, 
 
 For I know that soon — aye, soon — 
 The mists that envelope those hilltops 
 
 Will lift and we then shall rest 
 Forever amidst that glory 
 
 Which now is but dimly guessed. 
 
 AS THROUGH A GLASS. \ 
 
 A queer gray roll as wing on slender threiicJI 
 
 From yonder rose-twig; but to-morrow I 
 
 A wondrous butterfly that skims the air. | 
 
 A small brown seed asleep in earthly bed, • 
 
 But ere the summer days their course have 
 
 sped, I 
 
 A dainty flower's snowy petals fair, : 
 
 By heaven's sun kissed. To-day a robii, 
 
 where 
 
 Last month a blue egg only. Overhead ■ 
 
 A sapphire curtnin sifts the noontid.. 
 
 glare; . ' 
 
 But midnight lays tlu- swingled welkn. 
 
 And worlds are thus reveaUd when day hn 
 
 fled. 
 The chrysalis, day's l.llndi.ig light do«r 
 
 I Theegg,Vhe see,l,-thy life o.i earth (1.| 
 
 clare. ' 
 
 Thy dearest hopes are in these symbols rca( , 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 917 
 
 WILL EHRHARDT. 
 
 Born: Greensburg, Ind., Jan. 31, 1867. 
 
 The subject of this sketch has written quite 
 a few poems that have received publication 
 
 WILL EURHAHUT. 
 
 in tlie periodical press. He is still a resident 
 of Greensburg-, Ind„ where he is well and 
 favorably known. 
 
 JESUS LOVER OF MY SOUL. 
 In my fancy I can see Him, 
 
 High on Calvary's cruel spot, 
 Agonizing' tortures, bearing; 
 
 To redeem our sinful lot. 
 E irthly friends may love and cherish 
 
 From the cradle to the groal ; 
 Cut upon the Cross is spoken, 
 
 "Jesus lover of my soul." 
 
 Oft in sorrow we are sinking. 
 
 All the world seems dull and drear. 
 Pleasures once — now gone and fleeting 
 
 Bring no more their happy cheer; 
 Rut the tho't of our dear Savior 
 
 Suffering, on Golgotha high; 
 Thoughts that echo come returning — 
 
 " Let me to thy bosom fly." 
 
 N"ot a week or day is passing, 
 But some cloud of life appears; 
 
 To dispel our hopes and fancies 
 And bring forth imprisoned tears. 
 
 How temptations 'round us gather. 
 
 Often far beyond control; 
 How the passions toil for mast'ry — 
 
 " While the nearer waters roll." 
 
 How His care is watcliiug o'er us 
 
 Lest we stray bejond the fold ; 
 For He knows how weak and meagre 
 
 Is our strength in sin's stronghold. 
 Once our name upon those pages 
 
 In that books so fair on high; 
 Christ will watch our every movement, 
 
 •' While the tempest still is nigli." 
 
 When the vice, that once seemed pleasure. 
 
 Threatens to besiege our soul; 
 And our trembling limbs are useless — 
 
 Limbs that once had full control; 
 How we yearn to leave the pathway 
 
 That for years was love and pride 
 And to Him we turn our voices; 
 
 " Hide me Oh my Savior hide." 
 
 Tho' for years of life mistaken 
 
 We have tried to make success. 
 Time has come, when error floundered 
 
 On the sea of year's excess; 
 Now tho' ship has lost her rudder. 
 
 And deprived of sail and mast. 
 We can look to Christ our Captain 
 
 " Till the storm of life is past.' 
 
 After we have lost the victory 
 
 That we tried to win on earth. 
 How we realize the Treasure, 
 
 God has sent in priceless worth; 
 Yes, HeUeft his throne in Heaven; 
 
 Cause to calm the restless tide 
 And to lead our feet in pathway, 
 
 " Safe within the Haven guide." 
 
 Heavenly Father in thy mercy, 
 
 Give us grace and strength to bear; 
 All that Thou hast laid before us, 
 
 In our sorrows take a share; 
 So when we have trod our journey 
 
 And our earthly years have passed. 
 This we ask in Jesus' memory, 
 
 "Oh receive my soul at last." 
 
 SHE IS MOTHER STILL. 
 
 EXTH.\CT. 
 
 The voice that soothed the brow of care 
 
 Has ceased its mission here; 
 No more can it our trial share 
 
 No more our pathway cheer 
 But yet we know, when the mind reverts. 
 
 That it helped o'er many a hill. 
 And tho' her absence must often hurt 
 
 We know she is mother still. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 918 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LEMUEL DUNHAM. 
 
 Born: Hartford, Me., Aug. 26, 1830. 
 The poems of Mr. Dunham have appeared in 
 the Oxford Democrat, Advertiser, Record, 
 Maine Evangelist, Canton Telephone, Villag-e 
 
 LEMUEL DUNHAM. 
 
 Church, Chase's Clironicle and other publi- 
 calions. He was married in 1859 to Miss 
 Lydia A.Cummings, and still resides with his 
 family in his native state at Bryant's Pond. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE CATS THAT WENT TO LAW. 
 Dark and foreboding was the night. 
 With clouds from o'er the stormy seas, 
 When two sly cats together str.iyed. 
 And, in their ramble, stole some cheese. 
 But jealous is the feline race. 
 And thus it happened then, you see. 
 That when dividing time arrived. 
 Between themselves could not agree; 
 So, Justice Monkey living near. 
 The stolen prize to him did bring; 
 Thinking, of course, that he for them 
 Would do the fair and honest thing; 
 Divide it equally for both. 
 And, pleased to have a friendly call. 
 Would charge them nothing for his time, 
 And give his labor, fee and all. 
 With lawyer's dignity he sat. 
 And, smiling, heard their story through, — 
 I'm just the gentleman, said he, 
 To rectify this thing for you. 
 
 So he produced a pair of scales. 
 Without the least ado or bother. 
 Into one of which he threw a piece. 
 And what remained into the other. 
 Well, I declare! this lump outweighs 
 That one, and no mistake, said he; 
 Then took a bite, as lawyers do, 
 Because they did not thus agree. 
 But now the other scale went down. 
 Just as the first had done before; 
 And then to that he did the same. 
 Feigning to make an even score. 
 
 Hold ! said the cats, who now could see 
 What modern law for them was doing, 
 Give us the cheese that yet remains. 
 And we'll be satisfied, and going. 
 Not quite so fast, the 'Squire replied, 
 My fee, as yet, remains unpaid. 
 Each one owes justice to himself. 
 That rule hoids good in every trade. 
 Thus on the problem still he worked. 
 Yet failed to make the balance true; 
 At length, with gravity he said 
 The case is lost to both of you. 
 What crumbs remain are mine by right 
 Of honesty, and good report; 
 Then crammed the whole into his mouth. 
 And, bowing low, dismissed the court. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 'Tis seldom that the scales of law will to a 
 
 balance come, [one. 
 
 While yet a solitary dime remains in either 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Take my advice and heed this story well; 
 All lawsuits have, at least, a sulphurous 
 
 smell ; 
 Employ wisdom to defend your cause. 
 And keep your cheese out of the monkey's 
 
 paws. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 A little up the stream, a small cascade 
 To Naiads sang, and fairy bubbles made; 
 True hemispheres in form, with rainbow 
 
 hue. 
 As oft beheld in pearly drops of dew ; 
 Then each one started down upon the stream, 
 Danced on the wave, and smiled in sunlit 
 
 gleam. 
 All sizes here were seen, from large to small, 
 Some floated on, while others near the fall 
 Soon vanished, and were lost to human view. 
 While onward others rose to start anew. 
 But although millions thus the race began. 
 None reached the goal to which the stream- 
 let ra n ; . 
 So transient were tliey all, and brief their 
 
 stay — 
 By magic came, like magic passed away. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 919 
 
 ADELAIDE M. FULTON. 
 
 BoKN : Nova Scotia, Jan. 7, 1851. 
 After teaeliing' for six years in the public 
 schools, this hidy entered the University of 
 California at Berkeley in 1881, graduating 
 with the degree of Ph. B. in 188.5. Since that 
 
 ISt. 
 
 ! l,AIIlK M. Fri,TOX. 
 
 time slie Ikis taught in Harmon Seminary 
 at Berkeley; and at Miss West's school for 
 girls, in San Francisco. Adelaide M. Fultou 
 has also translated many fine poems from 
 the German. 
 
 NATURE AND MAN, 
 Before me lie in freedom spread, 
 
 Tlie sparkling waters of the bay. 
 The calm blue sky is overhead; 
 
 Among- the trees the breezes play. 
 Hard by we see the great round hills 
 
 Their watchful, quiet vigils keep. 
 Tliey cannot cure our many ills; 
 
 Tiiey laugh not; neither do they weep. 
 Upon the sea a white-winged boat 
 
 Moves swiftly by, a happy sight ; 
 Far out the ocean steamers float. 
 
 On shimmering waters, dazzling bright. 
 All nature is at peace — at rest. 
 
 She whispers of a love Divine. 
 Within the strife-torn h.uman breast 
 
 Shall there no calm be, such as thine? 
 We should not always seek the shade: 
 
 For light and warmth we need the sun. 
 
 Our choicest blessings here were made 
 
 For earnest seeking; not to shun. 
 If yesterday the sky was gray 
 
 And heavy mists rolled slowly on. 
 Is that a reason why to-day 
 
 We see no sunshine: hear no song? 
 Into our darkness comes a light — 
 
 Upon our sight a vision clear. 
 Faith, Hope and Love are sliining bright, 
 
 A noble trio, win them here. 
 
 EVENING SONG. 
 Now evening is creeping 
 
 On forest and field. 
 Peace softlj' descending. 
 
 Brings rest to the world. 
 Only tlie bi-ook gushes 
 
 From j'onder rock. 
 And it roars and it rushes 
 
 Ever, ever forth. 
 And no evening brings 
 
 To it rest and repose; 
 No bell for it rings 
 
 Songs of rest as it flows. 
 Ah, my heart I Even thou 
 
 Art thus in thj- strife; 
 True repose to thee now 
 
 God only can give. 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 
 Nature nnd art from one another fleeing. 
 Appear, but ere one knows it they have met; 
 Against them, now, no more my heart is set. 
 Each equally attractive to me being. 
 Only an honest effort it re(iuires! 
 
 If we, at certain times with earnest heart 
 
 And diligence apply ()\irsclves to .\rt, 
 Freclj- the soul may glow with Nature's 
 fires. 
 
 Culture must ever such conditions take; 
 
 Toward the attainment of the purest hights 
 
 Vainly the lawless, unrestrained strive. 
 
 Who will excel, must greatest elTort make; 
 
 The master shows liimself best in re- 
 straints. 
 
 And law alone to us can freedom give. 
 
 UPON HIGH MOUNTAINS. 
 Upon the high mountains lies eternal snow. 
 Upon the high souls lies everlasting woe. 
 The snow, the sadness melts no sun away. 
 Across the gleaming iceberg lies no flowery 
 
 way. 
 What about the ice like rosy-purple burns. 
 Is a dying sunbeam, as it backward turns? 
 And what as radiant lustre a glorious head 
 
 illumes. 
 Reflection of the flre is, which the heart con- 
 sumes. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 920 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. JOHN WESLEY KING. 
 
 Born: Hancock Co., III,., March 11, 1860. 
 
 At the age of seventeen Mr. King was li- 
 censed to preach, and two years later was 
 appointed assistant pastor of the Jauesvllle 
 cireuir. Later on he spent tliree years in 
 
 REV. JOHN WESLEY KING. 
 
 college and was ordained in 1887 at Eaton, 
 Colorado. Rev. John King was married in 
 1888 to Miss Eva Brundige, with whom he 
 now resides at Eaton, Colorado, where hois 
 pastor of the Congregational Cluirch. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Onr friends of earth to us seem dear. 
 Bound by the ties of nature near; 
 And to us they do truly pro%'e 
 Their love to us while here they move. 
 'Tis hard indeed for us to part 
 With those we love and those who art 
 Our friends, so true while liere below. 
 Before they from this world do go. 
 
 We weep, we mourn, our anguish flows. 
 And none, perhaps, our sorrow knows. 
 As p;irting friends bid us f;irewell. 
 Ere they on earth do cease to dwell. 
 We look into the faces pale. 
 And then iiur hearts do almost fail; 
 
 *- 
 
 For we must know our friends so dear. 
 Can stay with us no longer here. 
 
 They bid adieu; their spirits fly 
 To God, to dwell beyond the sky; 
 Their bodies only now remain. 
 And they must soon away be lain; 
 We follow them e'en to the grave; 
 And as it were in earth's dark cave 
 We lay their bodies down to rest. 
 As though it were our friend's request. 
 
 It seems we could not give them up. 
 
 As drink we from the bitter cup 
 
 Of sorrow and untold grief. 
 
 Without God's grace, that gives relief; 
 
 But by the grace of God we say. 
 
 Thou art, O God! the Living Way; 
 
 And those who trust Thee, though they die, 
 
 Pliall rest in peace with Thee on high. 
 
 De.ath conquers one, it conquers all; 
 Has conquered man ever since the fall: 
 A conqueror it still will be 
 Until the final victory. 
 And though these feeble bodies die. 
 And for awhile in graves may lie. 
 The time will come when they shall be. 
 Forever from their graves set free. 
 
 When Gabriel with trump shall sound 
 The joyful news the world around. 
 That all the dead will now be raised. 
 And God shall thereby ere be praised. 
 The dead will hear this trumpet call. 
 Which calls forth saints and sinners, all. 
 That they may rise to meet a change 
 Which seems to us, while here, quite 
 strange. 
 
 However strange the change may seem. 
 We know it is a Bible theme. 
 And that our bodies then will bo 
 Immortalized, O, God! by Thee; 
 United then body and soul 
 Will be but one while ages roll. 
 United as they then will be. 
 They'll dwell Ihrougli all eternity. 
 
 In life and death we then may sing. 
 Oh death ! ;'.read death ! where is thy sting; 
 Since Christ, the conqueror, has come 
 To saffly guide His people home; 
 Since life it is the Christ to know. 
 Why should poor nu)rtals fear to go 
 From sin and pain to mansions bright 
 To dwell with God in realms of light. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 921 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. ELLEN HOYT. 
 
 Born: Port Clinton, Ohio, June 3, 1840. 
 
 For about twenty years Mrs. Hoyt taug-ht 
 school. She has written euough poems to 
 fill a voliiiuc, which have received publication 
 
 MRS. ELLEN HOYT. 
 
 in current literature. She is a pen artist of 
 considerable ability, and resides at Gallon, 
 Ohio. 
 
 *— 
 
 EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY. 
 Our coming' here, as you surmise. 
 Is affording to you surprise. 
 But more surprised are you we ween 
 To And your years are now eighteen. 
 
 Childhood years are going fast 
 And soon are numbered with the past. 
 Soon we must need to change the scene 
 When we have reached the year eighteen. 
 
 Many bright scenes of life have fled 
 When we have reached young womanhood. 
 Many are yet in store we deem 
 When we are only yet eighteen. 
 
 Safe in our anchorage we lie 
 As year by year the hours will fly. 
 If wisdom's ways enchantment seen 
 And chosen at the age eighteen. 
 
 Our jears have with us kindly been, 
 Nothing of life's cares have we known. 
 Its future seems all verdure green 
 As seen by us at sweet eighteen. 
 
 So Time receive our thanks and know 
 As onward in the race we go. 
 Bright promises our years redeem 
 If we're allowed three times eighteen. 
 
 TO A BACHELOR FRIEND. 
 I have looked, vainly looked. 
 For a time, Oh so long. 
 For a nice, social letter 
 My mail matter among. 
 From your pen freshly written 
 With something to saj- 
 Of courts, cases, and clients. 
 And the news of the day. 
 
 But vain, vain the looking. 
 
 Your pen must be broken. 
 
 Your hopes all demolished. 
 
 Your friends all foreaken. 
 
 Your anchors cut loose with the tide to be 
 
 drifting, 
 Forsakening old fields and to green pastures 
 
 shifting. 
 
 Are you sick? sour, or smitten, ill, idle or old. 
 Mad, married, or murdered? the truth must 
 
 be told. 
 Bent, battered, or broken, if that is not right 
 Are you starting anew with life's battle to 
 fight? 
 
 Am afraid I've not guessed it though trying 
 
 so much. 
 It has all proved a failure, life's hopes are 
 
 just such. 
 But the trust in this case must be that 'tis 
 
 all well. 
 And the fault is gross negligence to your 
 
 friend ever, Nell. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 That fine old place now in decay 
 
 Has little semblance of the home 
 Where parents taught us to obey 
 
 And fit us for a life to come. 
 
 When youth's bright sunlight would be past 
 And life puts on more somber hue. 
 
 When parents take the sleep that lasts 
 And earthly dreams seem all untrue. 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 922 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. JESSIE M. BREWER. 
 
 Born: Baltimore, Md., Feb. 20, 1860. 
 In Wtl this lady was a disting-uished gradu- 
 ate of the high and normal college of Phila- 
 delphia. Five years later she was married 
 to the Rev. David H. Brewer, a congrega- 
 
 MHS. JESSIE M. HItEWKU. 
 
 tional minister, and now resides with her 
 husband and two children at Maynard, Mass. 
 Her poems have appeared in the New York 
 Observer, the Cottage Hearth of Boston, and 
 the Philadelphia Evening- Star and other 
 prominent daily and weekly publications. 
 In 1890 Mrs. Brewer spent several months 
 travelling in Europe. 
 
 CLOVER BLOSSOMS. 
 Treading, tripping-, trudging through 
 
 The fields of blowing grasses, 
 Clover blossoms everywhere, 
 
 How merrily time passes I 
 Clover blossoms white and red 
 
 Swaying with the grasses. 
 See the summer's mimic snow, 
 
 The daisy petals flying! 
 Hither, thither, everywhere. 
 
 Upon the grasses lying; 
 O'er the clover white and red 
 
 Daisy petals flying. 
 What is now the time of day? 
 
 Ask yon gray heads olden. 
 Who would guess that ever they 
 
 Were dandelions golden? 
 
 'Mong the clover white and red 
 
 Blow the gray heads olden. 
 Buttercups your story tell 
 
 And say who's fond of butter! 
 Violets arise and dance 
 
 For all the fields aflutter! 
 See the clover, white and red 
 
 Swaying with the grasses. 
 
 JUNE. 
 Hail gentle June ! all nature waits thee here, 
 The royal rose and all her court appear 
 
 To give thee brilliant welcome! 
 Their dewy jewels flash in golden light 
 And fragrant incense marks each zephyr's 
 flight. 
 
 To honor thy dominion ! 
 The music of the wedding-cliime swells sweet 
 The lily-bells and echoes soft repeat 
 
 Glad strains of love and rapture! 
 Thou art a foretaste bright of Heav'nly bliss, 
 Forgot are worldly woes, when thou dost kiss 
 
 The earth in benediction! [stream, 
 
 For then the bird, the rustling leaf, the 
 The winged things, that 'mongst the grasses 
 
 gleam. 
 All lend their sep'rate notes of harmony. 
 In grandly sweet, exultant melody. 
 
 To greet thy gracious coming! 
 Fair June, God's yearly blessing, bright and 
 
 sweet ! 
 Let mortals join in nature's praises meet. 
 
 And do thee liappy homage! 
 
 A CENTENNIAL CHORUS. 
 Arouse, arouse, ye patriots! 
 
 Let fervent praise ascend. 
 Until yon lofty heaven's arch. 
 
 With ecstasy shall rend! 
 Proclaim the joys of liberty. 
 
 Till stealing o'er the seas. 
 Far-distant lands may hear the cry 
 
 Then wafted on each breeze! 
 One hundred years of liberty! 
 
 A century of pride! 
 Bequeathed ye by your sires by 
 
 The heroes who have died! 
 Again your voice like tliuiuier's peal. 
 
 Shall honor freedom's name! 
 The glory of your n;ition and 
 
 Her fair unsullied fame! 
 Arouse, arouse, ye patriots! 
 
 The winds shall heralds be! 
 And (!Choes shall prolong the tale: 
 
 " America is free!" 
 Oh may she ever proudly stand 
 
 In freedom's bright .-ii'i-ay. 
 And n»!ver may be dimmed the li^ht 
 
 Which shines supreme to-day! 
 
 *- 
 
 — * 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 923 
 
 CMAUNCY A. JOHNSON. 
 
 Born: Dariex, N.Y.. March 1, 1818. 
 This gentleman for maiii' years followed tlie 
 profession of an artist with an office in Des 
 Moines, Iowa. Ho has written quite a num- 
 ber of poems which have received extensive 
 
 CHAUNCY ACKLEY JOHNSON. 
 
 publication in the periodical press. Mr. 
 Johnson has in preparation a Genealogical 
 Album which he hopes to place on the 
 market at an early date. 
 
 THE LOST ONES. 
 One by one the tendrils perished 
 
 That were binding heart to heart ; 
 And the thoughts that once we cherished 
 
 Only sorrow now impart. 
 
 "Voices sweet and tongues that clatter. 
 
 Dimpled hands and golden hair; 
 Little feet that pounce and patter. 
 
 Twine no more around our chair. 
 Some have wandered, some are sleeping. 
 
 Some have strayed we know not where; 
 All are hushed in silent keeping 
 
 With our empty rocking chair.— 
 Hopes and joys of life that linger,— 
 
 Are they doomed to pass away? — 
 Touched by Autumn's blighting finger. 
 
 Will they fade some other day? — 
 Let us hope there's joy in hoping. 
 
 Though we wade in silent tears; 
 In the orient golden coping. 
 
 Let us liope the dawn appears. 
 
 VOICE OF SPUING. 
 Calmly and softly the zephyrs are playing — 
 Bearing their music o'er liealher and glen; 
 And as they press forward they seem to be 
 
 saying 
 "The Dark Cloud of Winter has vanislied 
 
 again." 
 
 The torrent comes tumbling adown from the 
 mountain. 
 
 And dashing its foam to the deiitiis of the 
 seas; 
 
 O listen and hear! — from the midst of the 
 fountain — 
 
 The song of its freedom is borne on the 
 breeze. 
 
 And listen again to the notes in yon bower. 
 
 As varied and strange as the muse can im- 
 part ; 
 
 They speak to our senses of Spring's happy 
 hour. 
 
 And touch with enchantment the •• Harp of 
 the Heart." 
 
 The garden, the wild-wood, the streamlet and 
 ocean. 
 
 Uniting their voices the louder to sing; 
 
 To this season of life then we grant a devo- 
 tion, 
 
 And joyfully hail the sweet presents of 
 Spring. 
 I 1 ^ » — • 
 
 MRS. PHILOMELA T. LAMB. 
 
 Born: Freetown, N.Y., Jcne 7,18.32. 
 At the age of seventeen this lady taught 
 school, which she contiiuied until her marri- 
 age in 18.59 to Hiram W. Lamb. About a 
 hundred of her poems have appeared in the 
 periodical press. Mrs. Lamb is very fond of 
 art, and has painted many fine pictures that 
 have been highly praised. 
 
 SENTIMENT. 
 Tlioy dug a giave between them. 
 
 So cold and dark and deep; 
 And as they stood beside it. 
 
 Both were too proud to weep. 
 .\n inward shrudder chill'd them 
 
 With a momentary i);dn. 
 But they came to bury sentiment 
 
 And be themselves again. 
 In silence then each turned away. 
 
 But Oh ! it was not grief; 
 To be released from sentiment 
 
 Would be a great relief. 
 .\ll unawares they buried love 
 
 Within that cruel grave. 
 And w^hen too late would givin worlds 
 
 The little >• god " to save. 
 
*- 
 
 924 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY P. S. ARMS. 
 
 BORN : Gibson Co., Ind., Oct. 6, 1847. 
 Fob many years the subject of this sketch 
 taught school in Ohio and Kansas, and in 
 1870 went to live with her sister in Kansas. 
 
 In ISVl --li'' "n-, iiiai'i'icd t(i Willimii Arms 
 
 MKS. MARY P. S. ARMS. 
 
 and is now a resident of Beckwith, Cala., 
 where for nearly twenty years she has 
 resided in a valley where the scenery is 
 grand. The poems of Mrs. Arms have ap- 
 peared chiefly in the California press. She 
 has a family of several children. 
 
 "Poppies for beauty," the poets may tell, 
 Surely a lesson they teach us so well. 
 From mountain to ocean all the way along 
 They gladden the world like the notes of a 
 song. 
 
 They gather the sunshine their cups will 
 
 hold, 
 And freely they give us their gifts of gold, 
 From sage-grown plains from aisles of grass, 
 They look smilingly up at all who pass. 
 
 CALIFORNIA POPPIES. 
 
 Born of the sunshine and born of the dew. 
 Lifting bright faces up toward tlie blue, 
 Drinking life's fullness unmindful of gloom. 
 Radiant in color, lavish in bloom. 
 
 Blooming in May and blooming in June, 
 As iM-ight as a mid-summer day at noon. 
 Blooming at spring-tide and tlirough sum- 
 mer days. 
 Blooming when Autumn wraps nature in 
 
 haze. 
 Bordering the fields, mingling with the grain, 
 Laughingin ourdoor-yards.dottiiigthe plain 
 Down in the valleys with orange and vines. 
 I Fringing the hills smiling up at the pines. 
 
 TWO ARE BETTER THAN ONE. 
 Only one bud on a bending twig. 
 
 One bee on its honeyed quest. 
 Just one child at play on the green. 
 
 One bird in its feathered nest. 
 
 Glad is the life that is throbbing 
 In the child without thought of care. 
 
 And the bird in its nest has fashioned 
 With its treasures of straw and bair. 
 
 And the bee who knows the secret 
 Of the buds which swell in the sun, 
 
 But in our heart of hearts we know 
 This, that two are better than one. 
 
 One laborer toiling homeward. 
 Aweary when the day is done. 
 
 To the solitary hearthstone. 
 When there is but room for one. 
 
 It is sad to labor alone 
 
 From the rise to the set of sun. 
 And sad indeed is the hearthstone, 
 
 That offers a home but for one. 
 
 A child asleep in the cradle. 
 Another at play in the sun. 
 
 Joyously sings the mother 
 Surely two are better than one. 
 
 A laborer briskly turning 
 
 To his home when the day is done. 
 Thinking of wifely welcome sings 
 
 Gladly, two are better than one. 
 
 And all of our hearts make echo 
 Surely, two are better than one. 
 
 Whether birds in feathered nest. 
 Or children at play in the sun. 
 
 Or a man and a woman toiling 
 Till days and tlioir toil are done. 
 
 If they work and wait together, 
 Truly, two are better than one. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 92o 
 
 -l^^ 
 
 MRS. SARAH PROCTOR BEL. 
 
 Born: Milford, N. H., Feb. 15, 1850. 
 In 1868 this lady became a teacher, and' in 
 1880 she met and inarrird in California Prof. 
 Alphonso T'.i 1. Tlic i)oems and sketches of 
 
 MUs. SAUAH F. PKOCTOU UEL. 
 
 Mrs. Sarah F. Bel have appeared in the 
 Overland Monthly and the periodical press 
 generally. Her poems will soon appear in 
 book-form under the title of Ornaments of 
 Rhyme. She now resides in Middletown, Ct. 
 
 TO SOME POD Y. 
 Wlien the rosy light of tlie sunset 
 
 Is fading- away from the sky, 
 
 I look from my western window; 
 
 And the breeze blowing- lightly by 
 
 Seems bringing- to me. 
 
 Sweet thoughts of thee. 
 
 For the twiliglit hour is the best one 
 
 For dreaming- of absent friends; 
 And the darkening- light after sunset 
 A dreamy quietness lends. 
 My thoughts fly away, 
 As flietli the day. 
 Perhaps at this hour, my loved one. 
 
 Afar over river and plain, 
 You are wishing- that time would hasten 
 And bring the day ag-ain, 
 Tliat yt)u may tell 
 How you lo%'e me well. 
 But you do not need to tell me. 
 
 You love me and you love me true; 
 I know the proverb that •• Actions 
 
 Speak louder tlian words " ever do. 
 God bless you, I pray! 
 Forever and aj-o I 
 
 THE BOVV OF PROMISE. 
 At the close of a long and weary day 
 The rain came falling- down ; 
 The clouds were dark and the sun was hid. 
 The fields looked dry and brown. 
 My heart had been sad with thoughts of care 
 And my eyes were hea\-y witli tears: 
 The clouds are weeping-, I said to myself. 
 And smiled as I thought of my fears. 
 Because all day I had prayed for streng-th 
 And tried to hope for the best, [vain, 
 
 My work seemed hopeless; my prayers in 
 My life seemed losing its zest. 
 But then above and over the drops 
 Which were falling thick and fast, 
 A beautiful arch of colors burst forth 
 To saj- : " The storm will not last." 
 So just as the "bow of promise" lig-hts up 
 The landscape bare and brown, [heart. 
 
 The promise of God brings cheer to my 
 As the rain comes falling- down. 
 
 THE BIRDS. 
 I thre-w a handful of crumbs to the birds. 
 The little brown birds, one winter morn. 
 
 No time to waste. 
 
 They came in haste, [gone. 
 
 And eagerly pecked till the crumbs were 
 They seemed so happy and seemed so gay. 
 In spite of all the green things dead; 
 
 They hopped and flew, 
 
 (My story is true). 
 So glad to find their breakfast spread. 
 They would fly away, a dozen or so. 
 Startled at something or otlier, who knows? 
 
 Then back to tlie feast, 
 
 Witli twenty, at least, [pose. 
 
 Some friends or neighbors of theirs, I sup- 
 Going and coming so merry and free,[spared 
 They flnislied, at last, the crumbs I had 
 
 From my pantry shelf; 
 
 And as for myself, [shared. 
 
 I watched them with pleasure, glad I had 
 The crumbs all gone, my birdies flew 
 And one came straight to my window pane. 
 
 As much as to say, 
 
 .. We thank you to-day. 
 And liope you'll remember to feed us again." 
 As the little bird came with a message ot 
 A joyful chirp and flutter of wing: [thanks. 
 
 May we boar in mind. 
 
 Our Father kind. 
 And always remember our thanks to slug 
 
 -* 
 
9- 
 
 926 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EMMA A. LEHMAN. 
 
 Born: Bethania, N. C. 1841. 
 
 The poem Sunset on Pilot Mouutaiu, first 
 appeared in tlie New York Observer, thence 
 extensively copied all over the country. She 
 has published Sketches of European Travel, 
 
 EMMA A. LEHMAN. 
 
 a book of great interest, which has been fa- 
 vored with extensive notices from the press. 
 This lady is now Professor of English Liter- 
 ature and Composition in tlie oldest Female 
 College of the South, at Salem, N. C, which 
 position she has filled for twenty-five years. 
 
 SUNSET ON PILOT MOUNTAIN. 
 The shadows slanting westward now assume 
 A liazy outline e'er the evening gloom 
 Engulfs and closely wraps yon rising moon. 
 The crimson flashes of the sotting sun 
 Glow from the windows of the mighty dome. 
 As if the giant of the castle lighted up 
 His evening fires, and quaffed liis evening 
 
 cup. 
 Fantastic shadows flicker to and fro. 
 As fancy mist-wreaths, curling, come and 
 
 go. 
 The grand old Pilot stands, majestic and sub- 
 lime, 
 A kingly presence, frowning o'er the hills of 
 time; 
 
 He reigned supreme, father of myriad rills, 
 When Judah's star arose on Orient hills; 
 He stood a dread ambassador to heaven from 
 
 earth. 
 When morning stars sang chorals to her 
 
 birth; 
 His purple shadows frowned o'er rocky dell, 
 E're Tyre arose, or Priam's city fell ! 
 While Old World splendor faded into night, 
 Or New World forests hailed the dawning 
 
 light; 
 He stood alone, a mighty beacon high. 
 Telling the weary wanderer " Home is nigh." 
 
 A hoary priest he sits — enthroned in state — 
 With sacerdotal stole and jeweled plate; 
 Ruby, carnelian. topaz, amethyst, 
 Jasper, chalcedony and sardonyx. 
 Rich tints commingled, until, all aglow, 
 A violet splendor covered all below; 
 
 While far-up rocky steeps reflect the light. 
 And lambent tongue-flames leap fromhight 
 
 to hight. 
 Upon his castellated brow the evening star 
 Beams clear and bright, with glory from 
 
 afar. 
 The mist-robed hills kneel to their great 
 
 High Priest, 
 In dim confessional, from great to least; 
 
 And nature's choral anthem rings mean- 
 while. 
 Through every woodland nook and forest 
 
 aisle. 
 The wailing minor of the sad-voiced pines 
 " In Kyrie Eleison" sweetly chimes,— 
 Until the moon's soft benediction gently 
 
 falls. 
 And night's dark mantle shrouds them in a 
 pall. 
 
 The moon now beams queen regnant of the 
 
 sky, 
 A.ssumes the sceptre which the sun lays by; 
 Orion leads the brilliant, starry host , 
 With stately tread they climb the shining 
 
 cope. 
 While, in the center of this star-lit dome. 
 Thou stand'st, oh Mount! grand, beautiful. 
 
 alone. 
 
 The calm and restful strength thy presence 
 
 gives 
 Imbues nie with a now-born strength to live. 
 The everlast ing hills ! with soothing art. 
 E'er still the pulses of my restless lieart,- 
 And I am raised from earth to lieaven. 
 By strength and calm endurance through 
 
 thee given. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 927 
 
 MRS. LOUISA C. SMYTH. 
 
 Born: Union Co., O., 1&31. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 Dresden Transcript and the local press. She 
 is a member of the W. C. T. U., and takes 
 
 MKS. LOUISA C. S.MYTH. 
 
 frreat interest in temperance worls. She was 
 married in 1851 to W. C. Smyth, and still re- 
 sides at Dresden, Ohio. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 The leaves are falling one by one 
 
 Upon the frosty ground, 
 Their mission here seems scarce begun 
 
 Until in the darlsened woods them found 
 Nestling beneath the fallen trees 
 
 Or in the shady dell ; 
 O'er which they flitted in the breeze 
 
 And loved their music well. 
 Nature puts on her sombre hue 
 
 I As her brightness fades away. 
 And I that have a work to do 
 Must make no more delay. 
 For soon our time will end below 
 I And wc must then go home 
 To meet our Sa^-ior dear, or go 
 I Down to our Eternal doom. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 The land of rest and peace, 
 The ho;ne for which we strive, 
 
 How we long to be released 
 And go to our home on high. 
 
 This lite is full of cares 
 
 And sickness and unrest. 
 But every hour still leaves 
 
 Our longing souls to re.st. 
 But we will bide our time 
 
 And wait our Father's caU, 
 We that to Him resign 
 
 Who is our all in all. 
 When this short life is spent. 
 
 And our feeble bodies fail; 
 With joy we will ascend 
 
 To the realms of endless day. 
 
 FRANK D. ALLKX. 
 
 Born : Wyoming, 1a., Nov. 1867. 
 The poems of Mr. Allen have appeared in 
 manj- of the leading publications. He is a 
 thorough business man, and an active and 
 prominent journalist, and editor and pro- 
 prietor of the, Audubon County Advocate of 
 Audubon, Iowa. He has traveled for lead- 
 ing Omaha Dailies in capacity ot special cor 
 respondent, having visited the Pacific Ocean 
 four times'and viewed the principal places 
 of interest in this country. 
 
 THREE VIEWS OF LIFE. 
 "Life," cries the youthful mind, happy with 
 
 glee, 
 " Is a haven of pleasure.boundless and free, 
 A journey 'mongst blessings, comforts and 
 
 ease, 
 Almost endless it looks across its fair seas. 
 I will glide for long years in rapture's de- 
 light. 
 Aye long will it be till my sun sets at night. 
 Two score years have greeted the once happy 
 youth, truth: 
 
 He looks o'er the past, is impressed with a 
 ■• Life, I have found is not what it seemeti, 
 Nor has it gave forth the blessings I dream- 
 ed. 
 But I'll live in the future and calm may it 
 
 be. 
 Till I finish my journey o'er Ufe's shallow 
 
 sea." 
 'Tis cow an old man that looks o'er the past. 
 Aged, wrinkled and gray, his sun goes down 
 fast, [tears, 
 
 Witli hands to liis brow and eyes filled with 
 He despairingly speaks of the past bitter 
 years; [a gleam, 
 
 "Youth's visions are baseless, its hopes l)ut 
 Life's staff but a reed and life but a dream. 
 But perhaps o'er the river, on yon shining 
 
 sliore, 
 I will meet all those pleasures that I ne'er 
 found before. 
 
*- 
 
 928 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. LAURA E. NEWELL. 
 
 Born: New MAKLBOKOUGH,MASS.,rEB.5,1854 
 
 This lady is a song writer of national repu- 
 tation. Slie has a passionate fondness for 
 music.and furnishes songs to music for many 
 eminent American composers, and her songs 
 and poems are read and sung all over the 
 
 LAURA E. NEWELL. 
 
 country. Mrs. Newell has written over a 
 thousand poems, which have appeared in the 
 Youth's Companion, Arthurs's Magazine 
 and the leading publications of America. 
 She was married in 1871 to Mr. L. Newell of 
 Denver, Colo., and now resides in a beauti- 
 ful country home in Zeandale, Kansas, which 
 has been her adopted state for nearly forty 
 years. 
 
 AT NIGHT IT SHALL BE CALM. 
 At night it shall be calm 
 And peace, sweet peace prevail. 
 All, all shall be serene. 
 E'en tho' my senses fail, 
 As benedictive psalm. 
 At night it shall be calm. 
 
 At night it shall be calm, 
 'Though through the livelong day 
 I strive with hardest fate. 
 
 More grievous grows the way. 
 As laden with a balm. 
 At night it shall be calm. 
 
 Perchance the toil and heat 
 And din that comes of day 
 Shall fret my weary soul. 
 As through the wilds I stray. 
 And troubled and distressed 
 My longing lieart would rest. 
 
 Then o'er life's stormy sea 
 A sweet voice calls to me: 
 .' A little way of care. 
 Be brave, thy burden bear. 
 Rest cometh with its balm. 
 At night it shall be calm."' 
 
 No pent-up grief, nor woe. 
 Shall dim the sunset's glow; 
 No future griefs to bear, 
 No weight of want or care. 
 To some the victor's palm. 
 With peace at twilight's calm. 
 
 To me who through the day 
 Have borne the toil and pain. 
 Have striven for an end. 
 And counted losses gain; 
 How sweet the night will be. 
 From care and trial free. 
 
 Oh! welcome then the night 
 With shadows deep and long; 
 I'd greet the fading light 
 With prayer and vesper song. 
 In sweet repose to sleep. 
 No more to wake nor weep. 
 
 I'd close my weary eyes 
 
 To never wake again 
 
 Until in Paradise. 
 
 I'd join the sweet refrain 
 
 Where none a care may know. 
 
 And flowers unfading grow. 
 
 And as a trusting child 
 I'd lay me down to rest, 
 Apast earth's dreary waste 
 I'd slumber on His breast. 
 With all the storms asleep 
 While stars their vigils keep. 
 
 At night it shall be calm. 
 
 And peace, sweet peace prevail. 
 
 All, all shall be serene, 
 
 E'en tlunigh my senses fail, 
 
 As benedictive psalm. 
 
 At night it shall be calm. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 929 
 
 LILLA GIBBS. 
 
 Born: Illinois, 1866. 
 At the ag^eof fourteen her parents removed 
 to Kansas, where slie now resides at Clierrj-- 
 vale. For several j'ears she has taught 
 
 LILI>A GIBBS. 
 
 school successfully. The poems of Miss 
 Gibbs have received extensive publication 
 in her adopted state under the nom de plume 
 of Edelweiss. 
 
 BROWN AND GOLD 
 A brown head and a g-olden one 
 By the western wmdow in the sun. 
 Bending low above the page 
 Chronicled by many a sage. 
 Eager to discern the part 
 Each one left to future art, 
 Heedless of the perfume sweet 
 Showered at their very feet 
 By the scented summer air; 
 And of the meadow stretching fair 
 And giving of its precious grain 
 Loads for the farmer's creaking wain. 
 And in the sunlight's molten gold 
 Their book, the white hands listless hold, 
 As two eyes of earnest blue look down 
 Into the laughing ones of brown, 
 And the old, old story is told again; 
 Hearts, no longer content with friend 
 Claim those deeper, purer ties 
 For which naught is considered a sacrifice. 
 
 In the language lovers under.sland 
 Eye answers eye and hand clasps hand 
 As they read from Nature's spotless page 
 The story as old as creation's age. 
 
 And, fraught with all its sacred trust, 
 With all its freedom-hallowed, ju.st, 
 With all its wealth of smiles and tears. 
 With all the hopes of earlier years. 
 With all the good that Heaven may send. 
 With all she is or might have been; 
 With that appalling faith in man 
 Which she has shown since t ime began — 
 Upon the altar-fires of love. 
 Sanctioned by the throne above. 
 For weal or woe, for sun or sliade. 
 Another woman's soul is laid. 
 
 Oh, angels pure should now look down 
 'I'o render spotless the victor's crown. 
 May all the good his life ere knew 
 Combine to make him good and true. 
 May care sit lightly on his brow 
 Who dares to take that sacred vow. 
 With blessings rare since time began 
 Conspire to make a perfect man. 
 May Heaven weave for them their fate 
 And tlie bold transaction consecrate. 
 When that heart is wooed and won 
 By the western window in the sun 
 
 LIFE'S LESSON. 
 Oh life! I have learned thy lesson 
 From thy stern schoolmaster Time, 
 As step by step advancing 
 Up thy thorny path I climb. 
 And find in my onward journey 
 Thatexiierience teaches more 
 In one little practical lesson 
 Thau years of classic lore. 
 
 Oh Plato! grand thy teaching 
 
 But more thy soul has learned 
 
 In that sweet immortality 
 
 For which thy spirit j-earned. 
 
 For what were the heights of reasoning 
 
 W'hich thy patient zeal hath trod. 
 
 Did we not see in God-built nature 
 
 The love of nature's God? 
 
 Oh, pure in frosty beauty 
 
 The whole earth lies to-day 
 
 With not one spot on her bosom. 
 
 But every jeweled spray 
 
 Tinkles its tiny cymbal 
 
 Red with the sunrise fire. 
 
 And not one discordant tone is heard 
 
 In the grand terresttrial choir 
 
 Save as man makes it. Alone he stands 
 
 Upon the crag of doubt 
 
 And vainly strives with puzzled brow 
 
 To study the mystery out. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 930 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DANIEL F. HODGES. 
 
 Born: Belfast, Me., Feb. 17, 1835. 
 Between the yeur.s 1869 uiid 1878 Mr. Hodges 
 edited six music boolis published by Lee aud 
 Shepard of Bostou, Mass., and the next five 
 years lie edited five music books published 
 by White-Smith Music Pub. Co. of the same 
 
 DANIEL F. HODGES. 
 
 city. Mr. Hodges lias also written words 
 and music for a dramatic cantata, and music 
 for two operettas, published by Oliver Dit- 
 son & Co., Boston. He has composed more 
 than two thousand pages of music, and has 
 written over a hundred poems that have ap- 
 peared in the periodical press. Mr. Hodges 
 has traveled extensively in the United Stales, 
 but is now taking a needed rest and is at 
 work on a historical poem. He was married 
 in 1859 to Miss Margaret A. Calden, and now 
 resides at Pliillips, Maine, with his wife and 
 children. 
 
 *- 
 
 SIMILE. 
 The sunset falls upon the boundless main 
 Whose tireless pulse-beats throb upon tlie 
 
 shore 
 In minor cadence low. The summer breeze 
 To which the flowers have offered incense 
 
 rare, 
 Tliroughout the golden day, echoes the strain 
 In softened repetitions o'er the hills. 
 Inland, and many weary leagues away. 
 Upon a sterile hill alone pine stands; 
 
 The storms of fifty winters have been cast 
 Upon its rugged form, which, l)owedby force. 
 Gave back discordant echoes to the gale. 
 As if in indignation, at the blow. [strains 
 To-night the sea breeze which had heard the 
 Of murm'ring music on the ocean's shore. 
 Came wand'riug where the lone pine stands 
 And touched its craggy arms; and lo! the 
 
 tree 
 In sympathy, responsive, gave the tones, 
 Of unlieiird music from the distant sea.— 
 And thus with me mj- darling: rough at 
 
 best. 
 And lonely since thou sailed away across' 
 Death's silent sea: I struggle 'gainst the 
 
 storms [steals 
 
 Of ill-starred life; but when thy mem'ry 
 Across me, from the home beside the sea 
 Of grand eternity; my soul responsive 
 Goeth out in hope, and all life's rudest 
 
 thoughts are laid at rest. 
 
 NOW. 
 Kisses which fall upon the dead's mute lips. 
 Like dew on roses which the first frost nips. 
 Come all too late: [spe;ik: 
 
 'Tis better far to give them while the lips can 
 The golden chord of life at best is weak! 
 
 Ah ! do not wait. 
 Kind words in ears whose earthly powers 
 
 are spent. 
 Like sunshine on the tree by lightning rent. 
 
 Can give no balm: 
 'Tis better far to give them wliile those ears 
 
 can hear; 
 For life has much of woe, and much of fear! 
 
 And love brings calm. 
 It is too late when life's lamp burnetii low- 
 When hands once warm are chill as winter's 
 snow 
 
 To do kind deeds: 
 •Tis better here, where feet are prone to slide; 
 'Tis better now — than wait till eventide 
 
 To help their needs. 
 Ah, friends : dear friends — if any such there 
 be- tme 
 
 Keep not your loving thoughts aivay from 
 
 Till I am gone : 
 I want them now to help me on my way. 
 As lonely watchers want the light of day 
 
 Ere it is moi'n. 
 And though sometimes my heart o'er some 
 
 sore wrong- 
 Long brooding, weaves some bitterness in 
 song; 
 
 'Tis but a shade 
 Within life's text iiri- where the best are poor 
 O, close not up to many faults Love's doorl 
 I need your aid. 
 
I.OCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIUCA. 
 
 9:^1 
 
 SOPHIE REIN HART. 
 
 Born: New Yokk Citv, July 29, 1808. 
 When a child she was taken to Europe by 
 her parents, and on their return to America, 
 went to San Francisco, California, and later 
 
 SOPHIE KEINHART. 
 
 to Oakland, where they resided for eight 
 years. The poems of Miss Sophie Reinhart 
 have appeared in the Overland Monthly and 
 other publications. She now resides in Port- 
 land, Oregon. 
 
 A TWILIGHT FANCY. 
 No sound disturbed tlie evening-'s stillness, 
 AH nature lay in calm repose. 
 And as my glance swept o'er tlie prospect. 
 Strange fancies to mj' vision rose. 
 I saw the golden sun wliilst setting 
 Throw long, deep shadows 'cross the sea, 
 That, stirred as by some deep emotion, 
 Wiis heaving, panting restlessly. 
 And hills and trees in verdant splendor,— 
 Stretched out as far as eye could reach — 
 Seemed, by their lordly iieight and bearing, 
 Heroic fortitude to preach. 
 And, as I gazed, my vision clouded, 
 E.\istence seemed a dream obscure. 
 My fancy tauglit the simplest object. 
 In dress fantastic, to allure. 
 A boat came sailing o'er the waters; 
 So smoothly, gently did it glide. 
 
 Tliat it awoke but timid ripples 
 
 Upon the surface of the tide. 
 
 'Twas charming thus to watch it dimple 
 
 The sun-gilt mazes of the sea. 
 
 Whilst playful litlli; wavehas frolicked 
 
 Al)out the bark in mirthful glee. 
 
 Ensconced within, a youthful couple 
 
 Steered dreamily across the tide. 
 
 And whilst he i)liod the oars, the bark 
 
 Did swiftly o'er the waters glide. 
 
 I gazed until from out the heavens 
 
 A glittering star beamed o'er the scene. 
 
 And blossoms, kissed by balmy zephyrs. 
 
 Shed perfume on the air serene. 
 
 But woe unto the tranquil waters! 
 
 An angry storm has rou.sed the sea. 
 
 And startled, as with flash of lightning. 
 
 The j'oung pair from their reverie. 
 
 And as against the tide they battle. 
 
 It riots at these warlike signs. 
 
 And tosses high with angry howl 
 
 The boat into the dark, deep lines. 
 
 Yet storms may rage and billows threaten. 
 
 The bark keeps bravely on its course; 
 
 Nor e'er where hope and courage mingle 
 
 Can Ijoat be sunk by such a force. 
 
 And see! it's not long hid in darkness. 
 
 E'en in the light again it stands; 
 
 Then ever on the boat keeps shifting. 
 
 Shifting through the colored bands. 
 
 Now rapidly the sun is sinking 
 
 Her image mirrored in the deep. 
 
 While slowly from behind the liilltops 
 
 The twilight gray begins to peep. 
 
 Then through the gloom the land-breeze 
 
 greets them. 
 They know they've reached their home at 
 
 last. 
 The lamp of safety, beaming briglitly. 
 Assures them that all danger's past. 
 
 But, as T watched them disappearing. 
 My lieart with .sorrow pierced, sank low; 
 For fancy, e'er alert and active. 
 Portray "d this death,— light, joy— dark, woe. 
 All's past. The waves no more arc dancing', 
 The dream has fled from Fancy's Hall. 
 The sun has set in all his splendor. 
 And darkness once more reigns o'er all. 
 Yet one light, which my dream lias kindled. 
 Shall teach us, .sailing o'er life's tide. 
 To steer alike througli light .and shadow. 
 With courage, liope, and manly pride. 
 For no life's drawn without some shading. 
 And well it is it is not so. 
 Had we the joys and not the sorrows. 
 Grief would be bliss, and bliss be woe. 
 
^- 
 
 932 
 
 l.OCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 BRAINERDP. EMERY. 
 
 Born: Southport, Conn., March 35, 1865. 
 
 As A journalist Mr. Emery is well known in 
 the East, and resides in Newburgh, New 
 York. He has written about two hundred 
 poems which have appeared in the Judge, 
 
 BRAINERD PRESCOTT EMERY. 
 
 Century Magazine, Texas Siftings, Peter- 
 son's Mag-aziue, and other well known maga- 
 zines and newspapers. Mr. Emery is the 
 author of two books — In Sunshine and 
 Shadow, and In the Haunts of Bloom and 
 Bird, both of which have received an ex- 
 tensive circulation. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 His minions change green into gold, 
 They tint with crimson wood and wold; 
 
 They deck the forest in the sheen 
 Of dusky amber, and the green 
 
 Is made a carpet wide unrolled 
 
 Of leaves of purple, brown and gold! 
 
 He rubs his lamp, his minions Hy 
 To do his bidding far and nigh. 
 
 Ho riiles the world when Summer's lost, 
 Aladdin he — white-armored Frost! 
 
 UNANSWERED. 
 What hand doth pluck the roses which at 
 
 dawn 
 Ate scattered in the dewy Eastern sky. 
 And there in pink and golden masses lie 
 Until the sun's bright glow proclaims full 
 
 morn? 
 O, from what heavenly garden are they torn? 
 Have they been nurtured by Love's smile or 
 
 sigh. 
 That they so soon will lose their sheen, and 
 
 die. 
 And as they fade, become the morrow's 
 
 scorn? 
 Alas! unanswered are my thoughts, and yet 
 I cannot still their promptings when I see 
 
 The pink and golden roses flee, 
 To hide till eve, when o'er their petals falls 
 Night's footstep echoing along her lialls. 
 And stars shine faintly where the sun has 
 
 set! 
 
 O THAT HEARTS MIGHT FOLLOW. 
 
 Where the swift-winged swallow 
 
 Flies, his mate may follow, 
 
 Over land and over sea 
 
 To the plains where peacefully 
 
 Summer reigns with fruit and flower, 
 
 Not for days nor for an hour. 
 
 But is ever throned tliere 
 
 In the balmy, song-fllled air; 
 
 Where the swift-winged swallow 
 
 Flies, his mate m;iy follow. 
 
 Nesting on the self-same bough 
 
 White with blossoms as with snow: 
 
 But when to the unknown land — 
 
 Land of sleep whose wondrous strand 
 
 Meets a sea forever sleeping. 
 
 Sea whose waves are only weeping! — 
 
 Thou, my love, hast fled, I follow 
 
 Never, never, like the swallow; 
 
 But amid these fields so sweet. 
 
 Where the clover blossoms meet 
 
 In a maze of splendid flame. 
 
 Here alone 1 call your name 
 
 With an empty echo crying 
 
 Back my words, and no replying 
 
 From the lips 1 used to kiss — 
 
 Lost one, this and only this! 
 
 I am left alone to grieve 
 
 While the niemoi'ics never leave 
 
 Of the days when we logetlier 
 
 Wandered through the sunny weather. 
 
 O tliat I had wings to follow 
 
 Like thy strong wings, happy swallow; 
 
 But, my heart, take courage now. 
 
 Though thy mate has left the bough. 
 
 Yet some dny, as flies the swallow. 
 
 Thou, true heart, thy mate will foUowl 
 
 ^~ 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 933 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. JOHN WELLS BRIER. 
 
 Born: Michigan, 1843. 
 First Mr. Brier studied law, but subse- 
 quently entered the miuistry and was or- 
 dained as a Cougregatioual minister in 1873. 
 He has lectured extensively in California, of 
 wliipb state he li;i« been a resident since a 
 
 r 
 
 KEV. JOHN WELLS BKIEK. 
 
 Child. The Rev. John W. Brier has written 
 more than a hundred poems, many of which 
 have appeared in current publications. He 
 was married in 1882 to Miss Mersey A. 
 Switzerand resides witli liis wife and chil- 
 dren in Lodi, California, of which city he is 
 a prominent clergyman. 
 
 SONG TO THE SEA. 
 Ah! ocean! thou art very old. 
 Thy voice is hoarse, thy name is lioar. 
 But youth is tliine forever more. 
 And all thy streng-th can ne'er be told. 
 And, Oh, liow long-, how deep and wide. 
 The rolling of thy heavy tide! 
 We count the measure of our gain 
 Three tiiousand miles of hill and pl.ain; 
 Yet three times three is thy domain. 
 Thy mountains rise and fall at will; 
 Thy heaving breast is never still; 
 Thy throbbing heart would more than fill 
 A planet's bosom. Pluto's fire 
 Could never brook tliy chillingire. 
 Nor all his tongues of parching sip 
 The foam that gathers on thy lip. 
 
 Heaving afar, or sporting nigh, 
 
 How awful is thy majesty! 
 
 Who treads familiar on thy strand? 
 
 Who lays on thee familiar hand? 
 
 What fool essays to understand 
 
 Why the round world thy billows bind. 
 
 Why thou wert born to awe mankind? 
 
 Subservient thunders o'er thee tread 
 
 Quell'd by thy voice, more deep and dread; 
 
 And thou hast gathered in thy dead. 
 
 Since the first daring sail was spread. 
 
 The wind be raw, the black'uing sky. 
 
 The moan, the groan, the weary sigh. 
 
 And all the sails that o'er thee fly. 
 
 Belong to thee. 
 
 Thou sounding sea? 
 
 Tliy hungry billows lick the sand 
 And hiss their anger at the shore; 
 Thy jaws prolong a sullen roar; 
 Thy huge folds writhe beneath the hand 
 That binds thee ever to thy strand. 
 And yet the mist upon the hills. 
 The crowns of iris tinted gray 
 That bind the golden locks of day 
 
 Are all of thee. 
 
 Thou sounding sea! 
 
 The tropic isles where cor.al walls 
 Enclose the tranquil azure bay. 
 And holds besieging tides away; 
 Where gently rises, gently falls 
 The chiming wave at close of day; 
 The South Sea's passioned roundelay; 
 The isles where spicy breezes blow. 
 And gifts to man spontaneous flow; 
 Fruits cultured by no hand of toil; 
 The wine of jialm and cocoa oil : 
 The caverns stored with ancient gold, 
 Gems that adorned the kings of old. 
 Pearls, glowing in the mermaid's hair. 
 And jewels in the sea-wolf's lair; 
 The emerald isles, the sun-lit deeps. 
 The tombs where buried grandeur sleeps. 
 And all the worlds that yet shall rise. 
 To make thy waste a paradise. 
 
 Are all of thee. 
 
 Thou sounding sea I 
 Wlien I behold thee T am glai; 
 Vet in thy blue is something sad. 
 When forth tliou drawest all the mind. 
 To dare the wave and trust the wind, 
 A nd tempt a voyage to that clime. 
 That lies beyond the marge of time- 
 So strange the voyage, passing far. 
 Beyond the world's brief, broken day. 
 Beyond the sun's far-reaching r;iy. 
 And twilight blazoned with its star! 
 And so thou art the dreg, the lee. 
 Of tiie great mystic, boundless sea. 
 And sometimes mariners are we. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 934 
 
 LOCAT. AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. CAROLINE W. D. RICH. 
 
 Born: Byron, Maine. 
 This lady gruduated from the Cambridge 
 High School, then eutered the Seminary for 
 Young Ladies in Charleston, Mass., from 
 which she graduated in 1850. She has writ- 
 ten many beautiful poems and stories, 
 wliieh luive been ;i valuable aequisitiou to 
 
 MRS. CAROt^INE W. D. RICH. 
 
 current literature. Mrs. Rich is tlie author 
 of several books, two of which were souve- 
 nirs in verse. The residence of Mrs. Rich is 
 in Lewistoii, Me., where her husband. Prof. 
 Thos. Hill Ricli is teacher of Hebrew and 
 Biblical Literature in Cobb Divinity School, 
 connected with Bates College. 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 We gather again. 
 
 With wreaths for the dead. 
 Fit honors for them 
 
 Who for freedom have bled; 
 While the fragrance of flowers. 
 
 Forever shall be. 
 Like incense of glory, 
 
 Fi'om Liberty's tree. 
 
 Ah, little they reck. 
 
 Who stoop to entwine 
 The gift of bright flowers. 
 
 With the wild, trailing vine I 
 Earth knows not a Nation, 
 
 Whose warriors so keep 
 
 A vigil of love 
 Over comrades who sleep. 
 
 Martial music, each spring-time. 
 
 With tributes so sweet 
 And phalanx, slow-moving. 
 
 And drums' mutfled beat. 
 And veterans, war-scarred. 
 
 With their standard above — 
 Such pageants repeat 
 
 Freedom's undying love. 
 
 Though mosses may creep 
 
 Over names carved with care. 
 The grasses grow tangled. 
 
 Neglect everywhere; 
 O'er hillocks where only 
 
 The epitaphs tell 
 The legend of him. 
 
 Who for Liberty fell. 
 
 Aye, these names all may perish: 
 
 This granite, decay; 
 The mounds become shapeless. 
 
 Where children will play: 
 But the ransom our nation 
 
 For freedom has paid 
 Will never, no, never. 
 
 From history fade. 
 
 MUSINGS, 
 The evening's zephyrs softly blow. 
 By brooklets where the harebells grow. 
 While through the sunset's afterglow. 
 
 Soft and low. 
 The whispering pines sway to and fro. 
 
 O. dying day; O, fading light. 
 
 Thy purple tints, now dark, now bright. 
 
 Like joys and sorrows in their might. 
 
 Come to-night; 
 While beckoning. spirits charmmy sight. 
 
 Night's curtains shroud the pearly west; 
 The vision fades — yet am I blest — 
 Sweet peace, once more, within my breast. 
 
 Giving rest. 
 Abides with me, a heavenly guest. 
 
 WHO KNOWS. 
 Who knows how soon a rose will fade. 
 How soon a birdling first will fly? 
 Who knows how soon the dew will dry 
 Upon the grasses in the glade. 
 Where flickering shadows fitful lie? 
 Who knows where thistle-down will lodge 
 When once by zephyrs lightly tossed; 
 Or how a word breathed on the air. 
 Across the lake returns again 
 From echoing hills, a sweet refrain? 
 Amid life's wear so much is lost; 
 Will love and truth abide? Who knows? 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 935 
 
 -* 
 
 FRED D. BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 Bokn: Sphingville, N.Y., 1865. 
 The subject of this sketch received his 
 eduratiori at tlio fdimiKiii schools and gradu- 
 ated fiiim III!' liud'.ild Business College. He 
 
 FUEU D. lJL<Jl).Ml'lErjD. 
 
 is the author of ten songs, which have been 
 issued by prominent music publishers. Mr. 
 Bloomfleld is at present engaged as salesman 
 with headquarters at Jamestown, N. Y. 
 
 THE PICTURE THAT HANGS ON THE 
 WALL. 
 
 There's a picture at home that hangs on tlie 
 'Tis a picture of mother we love, [wall. 
 
 And her dear, smiling face, ever sweet wliilo 
 
 on earth, 
 Has now gone to the angels above; [while 
 I remember tiie songs she would sing to us 
 We would listen to eaeh one and all. 
 And the tears fill my eyes, while my love 
 
 never dies. 
 For the picture that hangs on the wall. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 We will keep this dear token whatever betide, 
 
 For memories sweet it recalls. 
 
 And the tears fill my eyes, while my love 
 
 never dies, 
 For the picture that bangs on the wall. 
 Many years liave gone by since we last heard 
 
 her voice. 
 And a stone marks the spot on the ground; 
 & 
 
 There we laid her to rest on the side of the 
 
 hill 
 Where the roses and lilacs abound. 
 Yes, her spirit is .safe in tliat liavon of rest. 
 Though no more will we hear her sweet call. 
 And the tears fill my eyes, while my love 
 
 never dies. 
 For the picture tliat hangs on the wall. 
 
 SLEEP AND REST LULLABY. 
 Go to sleep my little baby. 
 
 Close your pretty, sweet blue eyes. 
 For thy mother watches o'er thee. 
 
 Darling in the cradle lies. 
 How we love the little angel. 
 
 Resting in his cosy nest. 
 Lulled to sleep by song from mother. 
 
 Bye-bye, baby, sleep and rest. 
 Cho.— Go to sleep my little baby. 
 
 Darling one we all love best. 
 Lulled to sleep by song from mother. 
 
 Bye-bye, baby, sleep and rest. 
 Locks of curly, golden tresses. 
 
 On the pillow sleeps so fair. 
 And our eyes will ofttimes wander. 
 
 To the cradle while he's there. 
 Evening prayers for him breathed softly. 
 
 Treasure babj' we love best. 
 Care for him. Oh God in heaven. 
 
 Bye-bye, baby, sleep and rest. 
 
 MRS, HARRIET HOWE. 
 
 Born: Etna, Me., Aprii. 19, 1866. 
 Left motherless at the age of nine. Harriet 
 two years later went to live with her elder 
 sister in California. She received her educa- 
 tion at the Oakland High School, and later 
 accepted a posit ion as stenographer in a well- 
 know wliolesale house in Los Angeles. In 
 1888 slie was married to George E. Howe, who 
 is engagedln business in Los Angeles. 
 
 A BAY SHORE. 
 A lonjj-, low-lying stretch of marshy land 
 Cut into Titan lace-work here and there 
 By pools and straits whose silent lifeless 
 glare [stand,— 
 
 Moves not: — the menials of the tide, they 
 Rising or falling ;it its sole command. 
 A shining gleam of shore lies yonder where 
 The restless wavestheir rnurtnured mysteries 
 Unto the borders of the golden sand, [bear 
 Beyond, and stn-tching far into the West 
 The changeful sea, with liglit and shade be- 
 decked. 
 Tosses its arms and tears itself to spray 
 With surging melodies of wild unrest: 
 While golden blaze and em'rald dark, foam- 
 Are melting all in one to mist away. [flocked. 
 
 -* 
 
936 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 BYRON R. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Born: Charles City, Ia., March 16, 18T2. 
 Ukder the nom de plume of Wm. R. Byron 
 the subject of tbis sketch has contributed 
 extensively to the press of his native state. 
 
 BVKrtX R. WILLIAMS. 
 
 He is now connected with the Floyd County 
 Advocate, wliich is published in his native 
 city, but intends to take a literary course in 
 some of the leading' colleges. 
 
 THE OLD WATERING TROUGH. 
 The old trough stands beside the road 
 In a shady, g-rassy, g-reen abode; 
 For many a j'ear through cloud and sun 
 Has the water from out the old spout run. 
 And splashing- over the trough's green brink 
 It merrily cries, "Come drink 1 Comedruikl" 
 In the roadside shade the thirsty sheep 
 Plunge neath its waters their noses deep. 
 And, as they pause from a cooling draught, 
 'Mid the perfume of flower and clover waft. 
 Beside the water to doze and blink, [drink I" 
 The spout keeps urging, "Come drink! Come 
 The shepherd dog, fatigued and gaunt. 
 Laps the sweet water witli hasty pant ; 
 The while he watches with careful eye 
 The bleating- sheep which graze near by. 
 And, as he turns from the nectared sink. 
 The spout calls sweetly, "Come drink!" 
 
 " Come drink!" 
 The wearied tramp with quickened pace 
 Turns from the road with smiling face. 
 And from the spout with parched lips 
 The pure cold water he gladly sips [thirst 
 As he quits the trough with a slakened 
 A song from out his throat doth burst. 
 
 " Would men were so kind " lie sadly thinks, 
 
 To say from their store, "Come drink!" 
 
 "Come drink!" 
 
 I 
 The noble horse with hurrying feet 
 
 Swerves to the right to the waters sweet, ' 
 
 And dwells so long in the nectar bright j 
 
 That the waiting rider with spur-touch light, [ 
 
 Reminds the beast of his onward flight; , 
 
 He turns, as the water with fresh delight. 
 
 In mimic time with the spur's loose clink. 
 
 Calls after, " Come drink!" "Comedrinkl" 
 
 Forever stand, thou cool old trough. 
 
 To gladden hearts again aud oft; ' 
 
 Forever stand mid passing years, : 
 
 Through peace and sunshine, war and tears, 
 
 And may the water o'er thy brink 
 
 Forever cry, " Come drink! " "Come drink !" I 
 
 THE ABANDONED MILL. 
 Abandoned mill, thy work is done. 
 As o'er thy wheel the waters lightly run. 
 They grind no grist, they drive no power; 
 The time is past when thou each hour 
 Did'st grind the golden grain. 
 No more the farmer's jovial call 
 Doth light reverberate against thy wall. 
 Which now grown green with mossy age. 
 Doth serve but as an audience 
 To the foaming water's angry rage. 
 Thy shingles green from eaves to peak, 1 
 But serve the raindrops hide-and-seek; i 
 
 The swallows build beneath thy eaves. 
 The brown-thrush 'neath thy door-sill weavesi' 
 A home for wife and young; 
 The outcast 'neath thy roof doth find 
 A shelter from the piercing wind; ; 
 
 Or yet, perchance, doth happen fain, ' 
 
 A laughing party of young folk 
 Await within the threatening rain. 
 Thy road which teemed with travel rife. 
 Which led'st thee once a changeful life, 
 Is bordered now by flowers sweet 
 Disturbed not by the steel-shod feet 
 Wliich once'did clatter by; 
 The blood-root and the snowdrop fair 
 Do mingle pureness through the air. 
 While fragrance lends the violet, 
 Faint^tinged with the cedar's scent; 
 All make thee now a nature's jewel-set, 
 Tliou art, old mill, a picture fair, 
 A treasured place of beauty rare. 
 And if, indeed, thy work be done. 
 Thou may'st yet gl.adden many a one. 
 So picturesque art thou; 
 And if thy wheel now useless turns. 
 Thy abandoned road be decked with ferns. 
 Thou teachest if we do our best 
 Each day in honest, humble toil, 
 'Twill give us in the end — sweet rest. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 937 
 
 :;f 
 
 LUCY WILSON. 
 
 Boun: DovKii, Mich., March 13, 1855. 
 The nidther of Miss Lucy Wilson was jios- 
 sessed of qiiito a little literary ability, and 
 was the author of many fine prose artit-les 
 
 ITT" 
 
 LL'CY WILSON. 
 
 and sketches. The poems of Lucj' Wilson 
 have appeared in the Cincinnati Enquirer, 
 Sandusky Republican and the local press 
 generally. Tliis author and newspaper cor- 
 respondent is a resident of Vanlue, Ohio. 
 
 CHKISTMAS MEMORIES. 
 Of tlie dear home grathering- 
 On the Liirthday of our Lord, 
 Of loving-, kindly voices 
 Blending in one sweet accord. 
 Of Bethleiiem's wondrous star 
 Sliining on the same as when 
 The angels sang the cliorus, 
 "Peace on cartli good will to men." 
 Of wreaths of lovely flowers 
 And garliinds of fragrant jiiue. 
 Beauteous wreaths and garlands. 
 All were brought to the shrine. 
 The slirine of the Holy Cliild 
 As children their carols sang. 
 And angels watch were keeping. 
 While the world with anthems rang. 
 
 ^^VE LA COURIER! 
 Full fifty years ago to-day, where now 
 Our fair Gas City lifts licr statelv liead, 
 J — '- 
 
 (A city world-renowned before whoso name 
 All nations bow in silent reverence,, 
 There stood "a .straggling hamlet of cabins" 
 Where winds tlio purling Blancliard, whose 
 
 banks 
 Are sacred made by tramp of children's feet 
 And sound of childisii laughter. Issuing 
 Out from this hamlet upon tlie broad sea 
 Of journalism a tinj- craft set sail; 
 Her walcliword •• Democracy " ami her care 
 "Tiie Rights and Liberties of the People." 
 Tills the attempt primeval and onward. 
 Steadily buffeting the waves, .she moved. 
 Ambitious of success. Opposition 
 Swayed her not from off her course, but 
 
 tended. 
 Rather, all sail to crowd and leave behind. 
 Opposing forces that liad dared assail. 
 Faithful chrcniclerof currents events 
 A history unto herself she pi-oves. 
 From the cause of the Party she espoused 
 Never in allegiance wavering. 
 And now, as. broadened in dimensions. 
 On the full tide of prosperitj' sails. 
 
 LINES AUTOGRAPHIC. 
 
 TO A FniENU. 
 
 Accept my friendship faithful, true. 
 In pledge whereof I give my hand. 
 
 And maj- I hope the same from you 
 As all like friendships do demand. 
 
 TO A TKACHER. 
 
 Your's is a life full fraught witli power. 
 For good; you liave chosen nobly, well. 
 
 May the work you accomplish be a tower 
 Of strength of wliich tongue can not tell. 
 
 TO MY BOY FKIEND, C. P. 
 
 Child of the Summer sunlight! 
 
 I, a glorious promise see 
 In thj- dear blue eyes so bright 
 
 Of a future that is to be — 
 Of happiness, love, and fame. 
 
 Of a life nobly, truly spent. 
 Of a great and honored name,— 
 
 And thy full success heaven sent. 
 
 TO A LADY FRIEND. 
 
 I see before me a woman's face 
 
 Fraught with beauteous got )dnes8, grace — 
 
 A form of ((ueenly bearing. 
 The face of fair patrician mold. 
 And one to win, and wear, and hold 
 
 You safe in love's dear keeping. 
 May God protect Iier; may he defend. 
 And keep lier safe, my gracious friend. 
 
 Safe in His tenderest care. 
 
*- 
 
 938 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DANIEL J. SWEET. 
 
 Born: Berlin, N.Y., April 3, 1847. 
 The subject of this sketch was in business in 
 New York City for fourteen years, and re- 
 moved to Williamstown in 1873. Five years 
 later he was appointed postmaster, which 
 
 DANIEL J. SWEET. 
 
 position he still fills at Sweet's Corners, Mass. 
 Mr. Sweet was married to Miss Alice A. 
 Bulkeley in 1869, and now has a family of 
 several children. The poems of Mr. Sweet 
 have appeared from time to time in the peri- 
 odical press, and the song. The Driver^s 
 Trip, was set to music and published in 1887. 
 
 WHAT PLEASURE IT GIVES. 
 What pleasure it gives to us all. 
 
 As we gather with you to-night. 
 Meeting here Mr. and Mrs. Hall, 
 
 With hearts feeling merry and lij 
 
 :ht. 
 
 *- 
 
 We all gather here at your home 
 To show you our friendship and love 
 
 Of the purest inspiration. 
 Fresh from the fountain above. 
 
 And wishes that your pathway 
 
 May bo serene and bright, 
 Are the tributes of affection 
 
 We bring to you to-night. 
 
 Six years have passed swiftly by; 
 Death has come and iileasures too; 
 
 A babe in the grave does lie; 
 Leila's left to comfort you. 
 
 Nature says we'll pass away. 
 In our graves soon we shall He. 
 
 On the resurrection day 
 We will come forth ne'er to die. 
 
 You have walked in paths of love. 
 Together as husband and wife; 
 
 You have looked to the Lord above 
 To guide and help you in life. 
 
 The Lord being your friend and guide. 
 Your faith is anchored there deep; 
 
 He will ever be at your side; 
 At death on his bosom you'll sleep. 
 
 In your walks may flowers be strewn. 
 Happiness and pleasure appear. 
 
 May your life be like lovely June, 
 Are the wishes of many friends here. 
 
 THE DRIVER'S TRIP. 
 I hitch'd up one day my four-in-hand 
 
 To a sleigh built light and nobby; 
 I had a time to make them stand 
 
 In front of the " Transcript " lobby. 
 And there I sat up on my seat. 
 
 My heart light as a feather: 
 I whipp'd my hands and rubb'd my feet. 
 
 For bitter was the weather. 
 
 But nevertheless, I felt so nice. 
 
 That I began to laugh; 
 The order was giv'n •• to Paradise! " 
 
 With the Hon'rable Judge and Staff. 
 They finally came upon the street. 
 
 Oh! didn't they look g;iy? 
 1 at once alighted from my seat. 
 
 And led them to the sleigh. 
 
 I took up the reigns and crack'd my whip, 
 
 (The Bards look'd like a daisy) 
 But one of the leaders tried to kick. 
 
 While tlie other was somewliat lazy. 
 At last I got tliem into gear. 
 
 And started for the street; 
 1 tell you, the Bards began to fear 
 
 Their driver. D. J. Sweet, 
 
 On the street, on the corner of Eagle'n Mani. 
 
 I puU'd in on the reins; 
 I passed tiie Super, of much fame. 
 
 The happy C. B. Haynes. 
 We rode up to the Stamford heights, 
 
 Of fame and poet power; 
 We reached the place at candle-light. 
 
 The time was just one liour 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 939 
 
 FLAVIUS E. MCFADDEN. 
 
 Bokn: Embuen, Me., Oct. 30, 1845. 
 After rocciviiiK- hi.s education, this gentle- 
 man followed mercantile pursuits for sev- 
 eral years; lie then read law with his father, 
 and was admitted to practice in 1872, which 
 profession lie lias followed over since. He 
 
 FLAVII - I \l I MUH.N. 
 
 has also a natural tal. la loi inintiiig, and as 
 a poet he is the author of many fine gems, 
 which have appeared in tlie Portland Trans- 
 cript and the periodical press. He was mar- 
 ried in 1866 to Miss Harriet Atwood, and has 
 a daughter Maude, horn in 1870. 
 
 '; VOICES OF NATURE. 
 
 The sun and moon, tlie winds and waves. 
 The countless lives on land and sea. 
 The mountain hights, the ocean caves. 
 
 All tell, O God, of Thee. 
 The seething, surging ocean roars, 
 'And calmly swell the peaceful seas; 
 jrhey lash or lave tlieir rocky shores. 
 j As Thou dost please. 
 
 I'Vith uncovered heads the mountains stand, 
 JMlent worshipers in halcyon air, 
 |lowed -neath Thine all-protecting hand. 
 
 As if in prayer. 
 !'he bursting buds, the flowers in bloom, 
 [lie tender leafage of the fields, 
 |"ieh in its wealth of rich perfume 
 A grateful incense yields. 
 
 lie meekest flower in loneliest nook, 
 
 '.looms but by Thy supernal care; 
 
 Lo! every page of Nature's book 
 
 Thy loving truths declare. 
 The innumerous song-birds of the air 
 Ope to Thy praise tlieir tiny throats. 
 Filling the wild-wood everywhere 
 
 With silvery notes. 
 The wakeful brook when hushed at night. 
 The merry songsters of the air. 
 Breathes, rippling in the moon's pale light. 
 
 Its fervent prayer. 
 So Nature speaks, and all her train 
 From deep dark caverns of the sea 
 Up to the loftiest serai)irs plane 
 
 Turn reverently to Thee. 
 
 TO A WATER LILY. 
 Fair lily, o'er thy watery bed 
 All nature smiled when thou wert born. 
 So lovingly thou rear'dst thy head 
 
 To greet the morn. 
 Thy lovely form of spotless white 
 In soft unrest, like a twinkling star 
 Dropped from the dome of Heaven at night, 
 
 Is pure as angels are. 
 The pearly dewdrop chooseth well 
 Thy spotless chalice for its bower. 
 Close to thy heart in mystic spell 
 
 To spend its hour. 
 Pale guardian of the lowlier flowers, 
 Thou'rt lovelier blooming here, by far, 
 Than in their richest, rarest bowers. 
 
 Thy gaudy sisters are. 
 Sweet lily, thou shalt wither here 
 In this foul place with odors rife. 
 That humbler flowers about thy bier. 
 
 May drink thy life. 
 Thy bloom upon the shores of Time 
 Shall soon bedeck the hal's above, 
 Wliere angels' cliaplets grace the shrine 
 Of perfect love. 
 
 BE TRUE. 
 
 In the spring-time of life when the queen of 
 
 the morning [dew. 
 
 Bathes all her liright blossoms in glittering 
 
 And strews them about thee, life's pathway 
 
 adorning. Be true, be true. 
 
 When life's restless tide bears thee out o'er 
 
 its ocean, [view ; 
 
 Keep love's beacon star ever proudly in 
 
 Fondly kneel at the shrine of the pure 
 
 heart's devotion ; Be true, be true. 
 In the evening of life when in beauty de- 
 clining, [blue. 
 The star of thy being slopes adown the deep 
 And death's withered leaves with life's blos- 
 soms are twining. 
 
 Be true, be true. 
 1^ 
 
*- 
 
 940 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. LILLIAN BUSHNELL. 
 
 Born: Quincy, III., March 24, 1863. 
 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 Hampton Gazette, the Riverside Valley Echo 
 
 MUS. LILMAN H. P. BUSHNELL. 
 
 Southern California Baptist and other publi- 
 cations. She was married in 1887 to Frank 
 M. Bushnell, and resides at Riverside, Cal. 
 
 DRIFT-WOOD. 
 Down through the spring--elad valley 
 
 The river ran, deep and wide; 
 Whirling- withered branches 
 
 Away with its turbid tide. 
 And, as I watched them floating. 
 
 Helpless and hopeless tos't. 
 Like unto some shipwrecked mariner 
 
 Till they in the mist were lost. 
 I remembered having read 
 
 That life was like a stream. 
 With here and there a shadow. 
 
 And anon a sunny gleam. 
 And, 'twas said that joy and sorrow 
 
 With its ripples fled away. 
 Even as this blackened driftwood 
 
 Floated down to meet the bay. 
 And my mind was puzzled much; 
 
 I could not understand ; 
 For 1 had seen no shadows 
 
 In youth, life's "summerland." 
 Hut, in later years, I've read 
 
 Those words, with eyes of truth; 
 With eyes tliat were not dazzled 
 
 By the rosy dawn of youth. 
 
 Yes, life is like a stream. 
 
 And we that float along 
 Over its waves or ripples. 
 
 With either a sigh or song,— 
 'Twixt banks all green and grassy, 
 
 With many a sunny slope; 
 Or, strown with blackened driftwood 
 
 From many a shipwrecked Hope. 
 Are leaving behind us, scenes 
 
 We never may visit again; 
 The landscape fair of peace. 
 
 Or years of weary pain . 
 But pleasant the voyage, albeit; 
 
 Clouds along the horizon lie; 
 If Hope's bright bow of promise 
 
 Is hung athwart our sky. 
 And we know, with the loved and lovingones 
 
 Who drift from our clasp away; 
 We shall be anchored safely 
 
 Beyond the Crystal Bay. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 
 The day is bright, and golden 
 
 Fall the leaves about my feet; — 
 While fancies, strange and olden. 
 
 Throng my memory, sad, yet sweet. 
 
 There's music in the wind's low sigh. 
 As the dead leaves flutter down; 
 
 All meekly at my feet to lie; 
 Golden, red and brown. 
 
 When Hope folds her pale, cold hands 
 
 Above her pulseless breast; 
 And lies down calmly. 
 
 In her sombre garments drcs't; 
 Then 1 cry, "To love there's not one;" 
 Life seemed too short. 
 
 When blooming Hope was young; 
 But now with the bitter Past 
 
 My thoughts are wed; 
 And life is far too long 
 
 When Hope is dead. 
 
 AUGUST. 
 The hour is sultry and the breeze 
 Steals so slowly 'mong tlie trees 
 That it scarcely stirs tlie leaves. 
 
 And thou are shad'owy clouds that lie 
 
 Like snowdrifts 'gainst the August sky 
 And even tide is drawing nigh. 
 
 When silent is the streets and mill 
 
 And ujion the woody hill 
 Sings the lonely whip-poor-will. 
 
 Then the dew shall bathe the feet 
 
 Of the flowers as they sleep 
 And the moon beams guard shall keep. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 941 
 
 MRS. MARYJ.CARTWRIGHT 
 
 Bokn: Portland, Ind., Feb. 5, 1856. 
 After atteiidintr coUeg-e this lady taug-ht 
 school, wlieti she was married iu 1875 to 
 William C. Cartwriffht, by whom she has 
 
 -MRS. MARY J. CARXWKIGHT. 
 
 several childieii. About a hundred of the 
 poems of Mrs. Cartwrig-ht have appeared in 
 the periodical press, and in Sunday School 
 and Singing Books, and in slieet music form. 
 She is still a resident of the place of her 
 nativity. 
 
 THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 
 When golden-rod and asters wild 
 Were nodding in the breeze. 
 And lying- thickly all around. 
 Beneath the half-bare trees. 
 Were leaves of many a gorgeous hue - 
 Bronze, yellow, red and green — 
 (Making a mantle rich, to robe 
 The reigning Autumn Queenj, 
 I visited a graveyard old; 
 And looking here and there. 
 My eyes fell on a nameless grave. 
 Round which, with loving care. 
 Was built a simple low board fence — 
 A somewhat rude affair. 
 No granite headstone marked that spot. 
 Nor aught that could disclose 
 The name of him who slept beneath. 
 In his long, last repose. 
 
 Nor could aught tell me where he died, 
 
 I fancied 'twas 'midst foes. 
 
 For there a little emblem stood 
 
 Which threw a shining ray 
 
 Of light upon the history 
 
 Of that entombed clay. 
 
 And though of wars and battle fields. 
 
 Not e'en the slightest trace 
 
 Could tliere be seen, save that one thing — 
 
 I knew that narrow space 
 
 Before me held a soldier brave 
 
 Within its cold embrace. 
 
 What was it made the hot tears flow 
 
 And fall upon the ground? 
 
 What was it caused me thus to weep — 
 
 What clue, think you, I found. 
 
 To tell me that a soldier now 
 
 Was resting 'neath that mound? 
 
 'Twas but a little faded flag 
 
 That told the tale to me ; 
 
 But " Oh, my country's flag! " I cried, 
 
 " Thou banner of the free 1 
 
 This hero in his blanket shroud 
 
 Left all things dear for thee I 
 
 He guarded thee when all around' 
 
 Were enemies and strife: 
 
 To rescue thee marched nobly forth 
 
 To sound of drum and flfe. 
 
 And in the 'midst of shot and shell 
 
 For thee lay down his life! 
 
 He saved thy honor, glorious flag. 
 
 And now in peace serene 
 
 'Tis fitting that thy stars and stripes 
 
 Should o'er his grave be seen ; 
 
 'Tis fitting thou should guard him now 
 
 And keep his memory green 1 " 
 
 SOMNAMBULISTIC SAMBO. 
 " Hold on there ! Stop! You Sambo! 
 You're pretty slick I know. 
 But I have caught you this time: 
 Just let that chicken go! " 
 (Sambo rubbing liis eyes and trembling) 
 " My ! goodness, gracious, Massa, 
 You .skeers me half to def. 
 You waked me up so suddent. 
 Hit almos' takes my href. 
 Hit do look son o' s'picious. 
 To come dis time o' night, 
 A snoopin' 'roun' your hen-coop. 
 But den. I means all right. 
 Jes listen while I 'splains it. 
 An' den you'll unde'stan': 
 Dis niggah haint no snenk-tief 
 But an hones' Christian man. 
 Ise been a havin' nightmare. 
 An' dreamin' in my sleep. 
 An' so, sometimes 'fn' mornin' 
 I wanders 'round a lieap. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 942 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LEROY TITUS WEEKS. 
 
 Born: Mt. Veknon, Ia., Feb. 1, 1854. 
 Graduating trom the Cornell College in 1883, 
 LeRoy then took up the profession of leach- 
 ing. In 1886 he was elected to the professor- 
 ship of Greek and Latin in Wilbur College, 
 Lewiston, Idaho, and later took work in the 
 mission field at Grangeville, preaching a year 
 
 LEROY TTTUS WEEKS. 
 
 in that section. In 1887 Mr. Weeks taught 
 two years at the Colurabia River Academy of 
 Grangeville, and is now city superintendent 
 of the Osborne High School of Osborne, Kan, 
 
 SLEEPY TIME. 
 How still the trees. 
 The air how still. 
 While tvith dew 
 The roses fill. 
 Darker grow 
 The sleepy clouds. 
 While starbcams peep 
 Through sombre shrouds. 
 My soul 's at rest. 
 Hushed on the sea 
 Of undisturbed 
 Tranquility. 
 A dreamy peace 
 Swims through my brain 
 Like breath of woodland 
 After rain. 
 
 1 hear the dreambells 
 
 From afar. 
 
 My eyelids droop. 
 
 All burdens lift. 
 
 My hands relax. 
 
 My soul 's adrift. 
 
 Dieam crowds on dream 
 
 While Love and Hope 
 
 Shift the bright 
 
 Kaleidoscope. 
 
 Now I ply 
 
 Arachne's loom. 
 
 Now fold me in 
 
 A lotos bloom ; 
 
 Now float on Lethe's 
 
 Posora deep, 
 
 A wanderer in 
 
 The land of sleep. 
 
 *- 
 
 Time's roaring wheels 
 No longer jar. 
 
 THE OAK. 
 Strong armed and tough fibred. 
 No bay window hybrid. 
 But rugged and able for bearing world' 
 
 weight ; 
 Rough barked and deep rooted. 
 Storm tested and suited 
 To timber three-deckers and pillar the state. 
 
 Give us a faith like tliine | 
 
 That knows no doubt, i 
 
 Unchanging from of old ; ' 
 
 That trusts Grief's hand divine 
 
 Ry which God mines the human out 
 To get the gold. 
 
 Give us of thy sturdy strength. 
 
 Steadfast old Oak, 
 Thy stern unfaltering will; 
 That lets no angel go until at length 
 The dawn of victory "s clay be broke 
 
 On field and hill. j 
 
 Beget in us thy beauty, | 
 
 Inly fine: ] 
 
 Beneath a bark uncouth kept fair; ' 
 
 Souls grown sweet by doing duty. 
 Hearts whose jewels best shall shine 
 
 By century wear. 
 Give us of thy soothing shade. 
 
 Proud tree. 
 The Sun's fierce, burning ray 
 Has withered many a tender blade 
 That cooled the ivith in dewy glee 
 
 At break of day. 
 And when we've done a warrior's jiart. 
 
 Endured each blast. 
 And Earth her own receives; 
 Still keep us near thy mighty heart 
 And let us rest at last 
 
 'Neath the slielter of thy loaves. 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 943 
 
 -* 
 
 ROBERT B. NICOL. 
 
 Born: Hammond, N.Y., Aug. 18, 1831. 
 The subject of tliis sketcli is the editor and 
 publisher of the Milford Mail, of Milford, 
 Iowa, where lie resides with his wife and 
 
 IF 
 
 ItOBEKT B. MUOL. 
 
 family. He has written quite a number of 
 poems on popular subjects, which have ap- 
 peared from time to time in the periodical 
 press. 
 
 OUR CAVALRY. 
 This famous band, our Nation's pride. 
 
 And Liberty's, fair Liberty's, 
 How boldly to the strife they ride 
 
 For victory ! the world can see. 
 The Goddess proudly waves her hand 
 To waft the praise to every land 
 Of this heroic veteran band 
 
 Of Cavalry, brave Cavalry. 
 
 On Battle Field each g-allant son 
 
 Of Liberty, fair Liberty. 
 A pair of golden spurs has won 
 
 In victory, by fiallantry. 
 rhe world shall sing- their deeds of fame 
 jWhich every Lyric will proclaim 
 jAnd thus immortalize the name 
 
 Of Cavalry, Our Cavalry. 
 
 'Vith carbines slung and sabres drawn 
 
 For Liberty, fair Liberty, 
 Jruve Sheridan has led them on 
 
 To victory so valiantly. 
 
 ^i' 
 
 The rebel Early's noted band 
 Is scattered far througli .. Dixie's land "— 
 "The Chivalry " could not withstand 
 Our Cavalry, brave Cavalry. 
 
 The Shenandoah Valley rang 
 
 For Liberty, sweet Liberty, 
 When every valiant trooper sang 
 
 Of victory, with mirth and glee. 
 And North and South, both far and near. 
 This joyous song now greets our ear — 
 A Nation's voice is raised to cheer 
 Our Cavalry, brave Cavalry. 
 
 THE BALLADS. 
 
 My friends, I've been a soldier, 
 
 But now I roam at large; 
 I am on the list of cripples. 
 
 For which I was discharged : 
 But still to make a living 
 
 I shall do the best I can; 
 For there's something yet for me to do 
 
 Or any other man. 
 
 But to succeed at labor, 
 
 I never can again ; 
 Nor can 1 wield the sabre. 
 
 But still can wield the pen; 
 So, to write a lot of Ballads 
 
 I thought would be my plan, 
 To sell to my old comrades. 
 
 Or any other man. 
 
 I shall keep a good collection. 
 
 Of the very finest style; 
 You can make j-our own selection. 
 
 From the list I have on file; 
 Some were composed before the war — 
 
 More since the war began;— 
 I'm bound to suit the million. 
 
 Or any other man. 
 
 Six copies for a quarter. 
 
 Fourteen for twice that sum. 
 Or thirty for a dollar. 
 
 Just as your orders come: 
 So send along your money — 
 
 I will please you if I can. 
 And be your Iiumble servant. 
 
 Or any other man. 
 
 THE LAKEVILLE MITE. 
 
 Our bark wo launch again to-night 
 
 To take another cruise; 
 Our sails t)r trimmed, our freight is light. 
 
 Consisting most of news. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 944 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. V. H. DOWNES. 
 
 Born: New Brunswick, 1832. 
 Although born in New Brunswick, this 
 lady is a daughter of American parents. For 
 a while she was a compositor iu the printing- 
 office of the Aroostook Pioneer, and her 
 
 *- 
 
 MRS. V. H. DOWNES. 
 
 poems have received extensive publication 
 in the local press. She was married in 1863 
 to Henry R. Downes, and is now a resident 
 of Houlton, Maine. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF THE DEPARTED. 
 Come back! come back! I cannot stay, 
 'Tis lonely since thou'st passed away; 
 The charm that made life dear to me 
 Is broken now, and fled with thee! 
 The scenes that we have loved before 
 Ah! I can visit them no more. 
 Since thou canst not their pleasure share. 
 To me they only shadows wear. 
 Come back ! come back ! my heart is sad, 
 I cannot teach it to be glad, 
 I cannot teach it yet to see 
 If blessings still are left for me; 
 I sometimes mingle with the train 
 When mirth and merry voices reign, 
 Perchance may linger some gay thought. 
 Not even then art thou forgot. 
 
 Come back! come back! I cannot sing 
 The songs we loved —but tears they bring, 
 Our chosen themes neglected lie, 
 I only think of tliem and sigh. 
 
 The lines thy gentle fingers traced. 
 And plans thy skillful hands have placed. 
 All these remain sacred and dear. 
 Yet I am sad — thou art not here! 
 Come back ! come back ! how sad to part. 
 The ceaseless murmur of my heart, 
 I know to wish thee back is vain. 
 Thou canst not come to us again. 
 Live, gently soothing all grief 
 May bring at last some sweet relief; 
 Methinks I can no more be blest 
 Until I am with thee at rest. 
 
 MY THREE LOVES. 
 Ere cliiklhood's sunny days were passed 
 
 My heart had learned love's lore. 
 And on a wayward youth were cast 
 
 The treasures of its store — 
 Not dreaming that a change might come 
 
 Across my early dream; 
 I thought forever I'd love on. 
 
 While gliding down life's stream. 
 But fleeting years no traces left 
 
 Of that fair transient flame, 
 Lo! at another shrine I knelt, 
 
 A worshiper again. 
 The object of my homage then 
 
 Was worthy of my love; 
 The noblest of earth's noblemen 
 
 Permitted here to rove. 
 I thought my idol not of earth, 
 
 A mold of common clay. 
 But one who owned a Heavenly birth, 
 
 A star-gleam on my way ; 
 Forgetful of all else beside 
 
 The world was naught to me. 
 But that bright object, thus I loved 
 
 With blind idolatry. 
 But time still quickly onward sped, 
 
 This second dream was o'er. 
 All former fancies, hopes were fled — 
 
 And I — I loved once more — 
 An erring mortal, such as 1, 
 
 Whose failings still I see. 
 Yet there is none beneath the sky 
 
 That's half so dear to me. 
 
 MY LITTLE FRIEND. 
 I have a friend, faithful and true. 
 Whose eyes are of the mildest blue 
 And ever glistening like the dew. 
 
 Whose brow is like the winter snows, 
 Whose cheek is rival with the rose, 
 Whose voice is like the brook thatflov 
 
 Whose form is graceful as the flowers, 
 Whose presence is like grateful showe 
 Refreshing the earth's drooping bowci 
 
9^ 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 945 
 
 -* 
 
 GEORGE LEO WEBER. 
 
 Born: St. Louis, Mo., March 29, 1853. 
 After receiving: his education at tlie Christ- 
 ian Brotlier College and tlie Jones Commer- 
 cial College, Mr. Weber entered mercantile 
 pursuits, and now is the proprietor of a 
 
 GEORGE LEO WEBER. 
 
 large cig'ar factory. He was married in 1873 
 to Miss Bertha Meyer, and has one son and 
 twodaug-hters, and resides in Evansville, 
 Ind. George Leo Weber lias written about 
 one hundred poems, including- many songs, 
 which have appeared in the Chicago Cham- 
 pion of Freedom and Right and the local 
 press generally. 
 
 DADS GIRL. 
 Dad's girl, so sweet, so fair to see. 
 
 How nice she can arrange each curl. 
 And if you'll read you'll find below 
 
 A full description of Dad's Girl. 
 
 •■Her Cheeks" full bloom and rosy red, 
 
 Just as fine as you ever have seen ; 
 She'd found out how to make them so 
 
 By u.sing cosmetics and glycerine. 
 "Her Eyes" they looked most beautiful. 
 
 So sparkling, briglit like gloss. 
 Hut alas, that girl is blind in one 
 
 And with the other she's squinting cross. 
 
 "Her Nose," from the side it looks lovely, 
 But in front it resembles a Jap. 
 
 Her Ears are large, her face pockmarked. 
 And her lips swoll up and chapped. 
 
 "Her Mouth," when its closed it looks charm- 
 ing. 
 But when open, >'Great Scott," wliat .-i 
 crack. 
 Don't hai)pen near when she dr;iws her 
 breath. 
 Or you'll land right square on your back. 
 
 "Her Teetli" are white and sapolio clean. 
 
 Tliey were set and filled in with GTold. 
 When I paid forty dollars to the dentist 
 
 He said they're the best I ever have sold. 
 
 "Her Feet," they were born in Chicago, 
 From a tannery she'd order iier shoes. 
 
 The stores have none that will tit her, 
 As it took two hides for her twos. 
 
 "Her Walk," it was never imitated, 
 Everj' step that she takes gives her pain. 
 
 She's knock-kneed, bow-legged and P toed. 
 Can only walk with a crutch and a cane. 
 
 "Her Talk" and her facial expression 
 When abroad is like N>e or Von Brock, 
 
 But when home she'd get fits every minute, 
 And her face, it would stop any clock. 
 
 "Her Form" would be a perfect Greek model 
 If it wasn't for the lump on her neck. 
 
 And to dress her so no one can see it, 
 A thousand a j'ear I settled by check. 
 
 "Her Ways" are not at all like her sister, 
 Nor can she compare with her mother, 
 
 But she'll say I surely can't help it 
 If I take after the Dad of my brother. 
 
 "The Truth" is that my girl's cheek's full 
 bloom. 
 
 Eyes, nose, mouth, teeth and her I'eet, 
 Walk, talk and the rest are all falsehoods. 
 
 In short, "Dad's Girl" is perfect, complete. 
 
 THE DRUMMER. 
 
 E.\TR.\(T. 
 
 1 used to have a notion that a drummer's 
 
 life was sweet. 
 I believed to be a drummer was happiness 
 
 complete: 
 I have a different notion now than I had 
 
 eighteen years ago. 
 I used to think how nicf it w;is to make 
 
 friends where'er you'd go. 
 I knew not then I'd meet with men who'd 
 
 draw me on and say, 
 I'll give you an order next time, I'm sorry I 
 
 can't to-tlay. 
 . ^ 
 
*- 
 
 946 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN ROLAND COLGAN. 
 
 Born: Westvilt.e, C, Oct. 27, 1830. 
 For several years Mr. Colgan was a teacher, 
 but since 185V Las been constantly in the 
 ministry in central, western and northern 
 Ohio. He was married in 1859 to Miss Catlia- 
 
 Go publish tlie news on the banks of the Nile 
 Where Christiau invention has ne'er cast her 
 
 smile; 
 Go tell it to India whose millions are bound 
 To the gods they adore till a better is found. 
 
 Let Britain be glad, and Columbia as well; 
 Let nations about them the joy only swell; 
 The >.Lion" be spokesman to all the great 
 
 powers; 
 The "Eagle" pipe forth "The invention is 
 
 ours." 
 
 Rejoice all the world, for the day seemeth 
 
 nigh 
 When the peoples of earth shall all "see eye 
 
 to eye:" 
 Each people a power for God, in its place; 
 All peoples united as one, in the race. 
 
 When the honor of one is that of the whole; 
 
 International compact the shield of each 
 soul; 
 
 And the serf of the east, or the slave of the 
 west 
 
 Finds freedom backed up by the public be- 
 hest. 
 
 Speak on, new-born Wonder, your whisper 
 is low. 
 
 But infantile power is destined to grow; 
 
 And soon the round world will be list'ning 
 to thee. 
 
 Thou child of Columbia, the land of the free. 
 
 JOHN ROLAND COT.OAN. 
 rine Boyers, and now resides with his family 
 at Pioneer, Ohio. The poems of the Rev. 
 John Colgan have appeared in the Western 
 Christian Advocate and in various news- 
 papers and magaz ines. 
 
 THE ATLANTIC CABLE. 
 Ho, blue-mantled Neptune, old god of tlie 
 
 sea. 
 The steed we call lightning is harnessed for 
 
 thee. 
 Though long we have waited, but waited in 
 
 vain 
 To be thus united with land o'er the main. 
 To-day it is done ! Let the message go f (>rth 
 From the south polar sky to the "Bear" of 
 
 the north; 
 Down deep in old ocean, where sails are un- 
 known, 
 With electrical speed is tliy chariot drawn. 
 Go tell the glad tidinss, whoever may hear. 
 Declare it afar and to all who are near. 
 From threshold to house-top, from dungeon 
 
 to throne. 
 Republic and kingdom through lightning are 
 one. 
 « — 
 
 TOBACCO. 
 If you will, blind to disaster. 
 
 Drain the gumption from your brain; 
 If your appetite is master: 
 
 You a slave beneath its reign; 
 If no effort can redeem you 
 
 From the plight you now are in. 
 Neither love nor hate reclaim you. 
 
 Then push onward in your sin. 
 
 If you chance to liave a shilling. 
 
 Find a store without delay; 
 Your tobacco-box needs flUing.— 
 
 Casli on hand, so you can pay. 
 Now you have it, start the dripping. 
 
 Let the juice begin to flow. 
 Incisors cutting, cuspids nipping. 
 
 Molars grinding fast and slow. 
 
 If within a car you're riding. 
 
 Don't forget the "Indian weed," 
 In its service still abiding, 
 
 Give your appetite its feed. 
 Keep the spurtinf; flow in action. 
 
 Spurting left and spurting right, 
 Spurting on without ct)ntraction. 
 
 Spurting morning, noon and night. 
 
*— 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 947 
 
 * 
 
 ROSWKLL DERBY, JR. 
 
 Born: Vokk Township. O., Feb. 4, 1854. 
 For five years Mr. Derby was secretary and 
 attorney at law for tlie People's Mutual Life 
 Insurance company at Wakemaii, Ohio. He 
 is now engaged ia seed growing' at Florence, 
 
 ROSWELL DEEiBY, JK. 
 
 Ohio. Roswell Derby lias written several 
 liundred poems, many of which have ap- 
 I)eared in tlie periodical press. He was mar- 
 ried in 1880 to Miss Ella Grumman, and now 
 has a family of several children. The poems 
 of this gentleman will be published in book- 
 form at an early date. 
 
 THE GOLDEN CHAIN. 
 
 Now broken lies the golden chain 
 Around my lieart Love truly laid. 
 Forever know the endless pain 
 Not e'er to mend this cluiin was made. 
 
 If found another in its stead. 
 Know that it is not made of gold: 
 Tis counterfeit, not good as lead, 
 No tongue but one true love e'er told. 
 
 Thougli in some dazzling scene you rove, 
 Wliere Art and Fancy truly glow; 
 Know all the dazzling first is love. 
 Then chains tliat liind jour heart to woe. 
 
 MABLE ROSE. 
 In th' first days of Autumn 
 'Twere lovely to see. 
 
 '.Vheu hearts were made happy and glad; 
 My sweet Mable Kose was called from me. 
 And my heart bleeds lonely and sad. 
 Vet Shalt thou live in the nieni'ry of me, 
 
 sweet one. 
 Thou slialt live in the memory of nic 
 
 Far art tliou gone sweet one. 
 
 Forever to stay ; 
 Between, the Dark Kiver rolls. 
 Darkness be mine 'though thine is the day. 
 And sorrow my heart deeply tolls. 
 Yet shalt thou live in the mem'ry of me, 
 
 sweet one. 
 Thou shalt live in the memory of me. 
 
 THE EARLY FLIGHT. 
 Ah! little birdie! 
 The ground is white; 
 Too soon tliou hast made 
 Thy northeily Hight; 
 As thinking of sunsldne 
 That you once saw. 
 You fled to the nortli 
 At the earliest thaw. 
 Tired of your exile 
 You hast'n'd away. 
 Your home in the north 
 With loved ones to stay; 
 Your Affections at once 
 You flew to meet; 
 Now fettered thy j)ride 
 In the rain and the sleet. 
 Oft in our window 
 We e>-r as thee; 
 While following Hope 
 We rush as blindly 
 To a mightier north 
 Fond hopes to greet; 
 And as oft' our pride 
 We find wrapped in the sleet 
 
 SILENCE. 
 Silence, the secret d.igger to the soul I 
 More stern than Death or dampness of tlie 
 
 grave ; 
 What wildness bring, what pain beyond 
 
 control. 
 What torment to the lite that Hope would 
 
 give! 
 Silent, O Fate! .voii frown upon my Hope; 
 No look, no glance futurity can be; 
 The buds are set and shall they tlirive and 
 
 ope'. 
 Or Silence, slow, consume them secretly? 
 Silence, most stern and unrelenting! whence 
 And who shall lift thy shadow from thee, 
 
 whole? 
 O God! pity those who hold in silence. 
 Untold, the secret longing of the soul. 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 948 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF ASIERICA. 
 
 MRS. NARCISSA I. SIMMONS. 
 
 Born: Macomb, III., Sept. 12, 1838. 
 The writings of Mrs. Simmons have appeared 
 in tlie Gospel Advocate, Apostolic Guide and 
 
 MRS. NARCISSA 1. SIMMONS. 
 
 the local press. This lady was married in 
 1860, has quite a family and resides at Flip- 
 pin, Kentucky. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 When called of God from friends and home. 
 Kindred hearts and sacred ties. 
 Dread not to tread thy path alone 
 Endure the cross and win the prize. 
 Many trials may assail, 
 Persecutions throng your way, 
 Satan's hosts around you rail. 
 Yet trust the Lord from day to day. 
 And when your message from above 
 Must to a dying world be told. 
 Is not the gospel peace and love — 
 Not party spirit dark and cold. 
 In love and meekness then proclaim 
 Sweet truths from God's own Holy word. 
 Tell how the Lamb of God was slain, 
 Kntombed in death's lone dark abode 
 Hose from the dead our living Lord. 
 O! may the gospel's cheering ray, 
 From earth to heaven light up the way 
 Tell how fh(! King of glory gave 
 His life, poor fallen man to save 
 Kmorged victorious from the grave. 
 
 Go where the spirit bids thee go. 
 Oh! have no doubts: oh, have no fears! 
 Seed of the heavenly kingdom sow; 
 Plead with poor guilty man with tears. 
 Entreat them to believe his word. 
 Lead them to our triumphant Lord. 
 
 BLIGHTED LOVE. 
 Since first we met long years have flown. 
 
 But ne'er can I forget 
 When first on me thy dark eyes shone; 
 
 They haunt my memory yet. 
 What music in each deep rich tone! 
 
 Oh ! how they thrilled my heart 
 With a power till then to me unknown, — 
 
 But we were doomed to part. 
 
 O do not say that we must part! 
 
 Those words I cannot bear. 
 They would only sink my broken heart 
 
 Still deeper in despair. 
 Oh! must my heart go desolate! 
 
 Through this cold world alone. 
 And wilt thou say it was too late 
 
 When first we met, dear one ! 
 Or wilt thou bind some spirit bright. 
 
 All loving to thine own. 
 Who like some angel of delight 
 
 Would make thy heart her throne. 
 Oh ! let me rest low in the grave. 
 
 Ere the trying moment come; 
 The evergreen above me wave 
 
 In token of my home. 
 Yet my home shall not be in the the tomb 
 
 When earthly ties are riven, 
 My spirit free from doubt and gloom 
 
 Shall soar away to heaven. 
 And when thou art done thy bright career 
 
 I shall meet my heart's first love 
 Beyond this world so dark and drear, 
 In a land of light above. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Tliough friendship like a genial ray 
 
 Of sunshine on tlie morning dew 
 With sacred gems ilhunes my way 
 
 And gilds my path with roseate hue — 
 And though the ularioii notes of fame 
 
 Or wealth with subtle art 
 In halls of wisdom sound my name 
 
 Tliis would not satisfy my heart. 
 
 Tliere is a bright eternal clime. 
 
 All cloudless and serene. 
 Beyond tlie transcient scenes of time. 
 
 Beyond death's cold turbid stream. 
 'Tis there my treasure and my trust 
 
 In sacred keeping given. 
 Are not devoured by moth nor rust 
 
 But are secure in heaven. 
 
 * 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 !)4y 
 
 JESSIE EDGERTON. 
 
 BORX: NEAR Barxesville, C, July 12, 1845. 
 Jessie Edgertox has always taken pleasure 
 in reading- and composing poetry. Over a 
 liundred of his poems have received publica- 
 tion in the periodical press. He is secretary 
 of the Columbiana Handle Co., a larg-e firm 
 
 JESSIE EDHEHTON. 
 
 doing business in Columbiana, Ohio, in wliiuh 
 city he resides with his wife and family. For 
 years he has been an active Prohibitionist. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 I lore the quiet hour that flings 
 The twilight from its sable wings. 
 And stills the wild-bird's carolings. 
 The hour that opens wide the gates 
 Of night, behind whose bars and grates 
 The dim, imprisoned darkness waits. 
 The hour when duskj- shadows creep 
 Around rue growing dense and deep 
 Till over all the l)lack waves sweep. 
 I love the hour when on my eye 
 Beams out in the o'erreaching- sky 
 The lamps that God has hung on high. 
 The liour that brings the glad release 
 From day-time care; the world's surcease 
 Of labor and its hour of peace. 
 A breathing spell in the wild chase 
 Of pleasure, the exciting race 
 For gold and lionor, power and pace. 
 A time to brush the dust away 
 From hands and feet that all the day 
 
 Were toiling in the world's higiiway. 
 A time to rest the weary brain. 
 That worn with toil and full of pain 
 Comes to the quiet night again. 
 The welcome night! how sweet and blest 
 To nature wearied and distressed. 
 Comes her great panacea, rest. 
 Deep be the slumber that she brings. 
 Bright be the dreams that from her wings 
 Fall on us, sweet tlie song she sings. 
 And every grace the couch adorn. 
 In those dim chambers of tlie morn 
 Where strength from weariness is born. 
 
 ONLY A TRAMP. 
 Only a tramp, in tlie glare and heat 
 Of the summer sun in the dusty street! 
 Only a tramp, with a dingy pack. 
 And a threadbare coat on his weary back. 
 Only a tramp, and soiled and brown. 
 He made his way through the busy town. 
 Only a tramp, and wealth and pride 
 Looked and " passed on the other side;" 
 And childhood paused in its merry play 
 And shrank from the passing form away. 
 • Only a tramp." the housewife said, 
 .\s she turned away from his plea for bread. 
 I >nly a tramp! but he felt the smart 
 ( »f the taunting words in his human heart. 
 And bitterly sighing he turned again 
 ■Po liis heartless journey and life of pain. 
 But there where the railroad meets the street 
 Was stayed the tide of passing feet; 
 And horror palsied the bravest limb 
 And eyes with fruitless tears were dim. 
 For a truant baby had strayed 
 To the railway track and calmly played 
 With the rails, with the pebbles white. 
 Piling tliem up in the sweet sunlight; 
 And the fast express was thundering down 
 At fearful speed to the busy town. 
 Fruitless the driver's skill to stay 
 The flying train on its headlong waj'. 
 Fruitless the shrill alarm to friglit 
 The little one from his pebbles white. 
 But out from the crr)ssing of the street 
 Dashes a man with flying feet. 
 Each, silent watcher held his Ijreath, 
 In that fearful race for life or death. 
 Till the truant babe was safely thrown 
 Beyond tlie rails as the train swept on. 
 The child was safe! but rods away. 
 Bleeding and lifeless the rescuer lay. 
 Only a tramp! but forever new 
 Is our love of manhood brave and true. 
 And the mother, that iiight,who fondly prest 
 The living babe to her g-ratef ul breast. 
 Will ne'er forget as the seasons roll, 
 That hungry tramp with a hero's soul. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 950 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. M. M. WINESBURG. 
 
 Born: near Wheeling, W.Va., April, 15, 55. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 New York Graphic, tlie Illustrated Com- 
 panion and other publications. Many of lier 
 soiijrs hiive been s^et to music, and quite a 
 
 MRS MAGGIE M. WINESBURG. 
 
 few short stories and sketclies from her ]wn 
 have received publication. Slie was married 
 in 1875 to Samuel Witiesburg-, and has one 
 child living. She is now engaged on two 
 serial stories. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 Sunset in the western skies. 
 With crimson hues it the liorizon dyes; 
 Soft fleecy clouds like drifts of snow 
 Is tinted witli a golden glow, 
 While clouds that towers like a moiintiiin 
 
 gray 
 Is streaked vitli a gold and crimson ray. 
 
 A beautiful sight is these sunset skies; 
 A soft mystical glow on all Nature lies. 
 The floating clouds with tlieir golden bands. 
 Seem like a glimpse of the heavenly lands; 
 And we seem to see the pearly gates. 
 Behind whose portals our loved one waits. 
 
 When the sun of our lives shall sink to rest. 
 May it be as bright as your golden West; 
 Will our clouds of sorrow roll away? 
 Leaving only tlie gold beliind the gray. 
 By the grace of Christ wlio died for all, 
 A brighter light can around us fall. 
 
 EACH HAS A PLACE. 
 We should not repine o'er our lot in life. 
 Nor yet boast of what we have done; 
 For the Master lias given a task to each 
 Fallen and erring one. 
 Has set a task and allotted a place. 
 For everyone to fill. 
 And he that pei'forms his task aright. 
 But does his Master's will. 
 
 We often wonder why that we 
 Must toil so hard to attain 
 The chosen field of labor which 
 We with a single leap would gain. 
 But a wiser mind knows what is best. 
 And before we climb up highci-, 
 A more important place of trust to fill. 
 We must be tried with fire. 
 
 He may have set us humble tasks. 
 
 So that we might realize 
 
 The vastness of his mighty works. 
 
 Before we gain our prize; 
 
 And remember wlien we gain the heights 
 
 Tliat we have only done his will. 
 
 And filled the place on earth that He 
 
 Has allotted us to fill. 
 
 A PERFECT SUMMER EVE. 
 
 Tlie sun has sank in misty splendor 
 Down behind yon mountain higli; 
 
 A brooding stillness sweet and tender 
 Seems to waft o'er earth and sky. 
 
 But listen o'er yon distant mountain. 
 Wrapped in mystic shadows dim, 
 
 A gentle breeze is softly sighing 
 Low and sweet an evening hymn. 
 
 As the gloom and shadows deepen, 
 A tremulous light floods the valley wide. 
 
 As veiled with clouds that soft and fleecy. 
 The queen of night o'er mountain glide. 
 
 Fantastic shadows dance and quiver 
 Wliere the mystic moon-lights fall: 
 
 While darker shadows seem to cluster 
 Around the base of yon mountain tall. 
 
 The nu)on-lit;lit kisses the lippliiig waters 
 Till it sparkles like a diamond bright ; 
 
 Wliile amid the grass that nod and quiver. 
 Flash a thousand liny lights. 
 
 The only sound that breaks the stillness 
 
 Of llus i)erfect dewy eve. 
 Is the gentle breeze, like strains of music. 
 
 Floating through the leaf y trees. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 951 
 
 MRS. BLANCHE KRUSE. 
 
 Born: Ithaca, Ohio, April 15, 1865. 
 
 Blanche de Arches is a pianist and has 
 written quite a n umber of poems and dramas. 
 Her beautiful waltz song-. Softly Thy Name 
 I'm Repeating', was set to music and pub- 
 lished in T<S6. and has become very popular. 
 
 .MRS. BLANCHE KRUSE. 
 
 Thl8 lady graduated from the Chicago College 
 of Music in 1886, and the same year she re- 
 ceived the championship gold medal at the 
 Cincinnati Exposition as the champion lady 
 pianist of tlie state. Miss Bhinche De Arches 
 was married in 1890 to Geo. W. Kruse, and 
 now resides in Fort Recovery, Ohio. 
 
 *- 
 
 SOFTLY, THY NAME IM REPEATING. 
 
 Darling, the day hath no gladness. 
 
 While we thus linger apart. 
 Moonlight and starHght bring sadness. 
 
 Thou art the light of my heart. 
 Here in the darkness entreating. 
 
 Longing, my dear love, for thee. 
 Chc— Softly, tliy name I"m repeating. 
 Come tliou my love, come to me. 
 Come tliou my love, Oh come to me. 
 What tho' the world be deceiving, 
 
 Round us tho' sliadows may lie! 
 Safe in eacli other believing. 
 
 Bravely, love oti j-ou and I! 
 Darling, the world thus defeating, 
 
 Hope liveth on glad and free. 
 
 Darling, the springtime and flowers 
 
 Tell us of liiirvest to come. 
 Ripening thro' long summer hours. 
 
 Waiting tiie ghid harvest liume. 
 Hasten! the time, ah 1 'lisfleeliug. 
 
 The harvest, love, waits for thee. 
 Proudly as ever I'm dreaming, 
 
 Dreaming my darling of thee. 
 Visions of hope now are beaming, 
 
 Bright as the dawn o'er the sea. 
 List! how my fond heart is beating. 
 
 With love is beatmg for thee. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY SAINTED MOTHER. 
 How fondly the dreams of my hom« 
 
 Come back to my sorrowing breast. 
 As I sit in the twilight alone. 
 
 And dream of its love and its rest; 
 Of the midnight that fell on my path. 
 
 As I saw my life's guiding Star 
 Like dew pass away from the sun before day 
 
 To that bright realm of glory afar. 
 In tlie midst of dear friends I'm alone. 
 
 For the shadows and darkness of night 
 Have shrouded mj' pathway in gloom. 
 
 And left of its liope but a blight; 
 For she's gone, never more to return. 
 
 The dearesi that God ever gave. 
 And all from above now left me to love 
 
 Are the flowers that bloom on her grave. 
 But I'll wait for the breaking of day. 
 
 And wait till the angels shall come 
 To bear me in chariots away. 
 
 To mother, my rest, and my home; 
 Yes, I'll wait for that glorious dawn. 
 
 Wait till the morning shall come. 
 And there with the loved ones aye. 
 
 In Heaven's bright mansions we'll roam. 
 
 SAMUEL BURLEIGH MILTON 
 
 Born: Washington. D. C, June 30, 1860. 
 While still a youth Mr. Milton published a 
 small school paper. He has written mostly 
 prose and several fine serial stoi-ies have ap- 
 peared from his pen. Mr. Miltoti has been a 
 correspondent for several loading dailies and 
 is at present engaged in journalism and the 
 publishing business at Redfleld, S. D 
 
 A VALENTINE 
 Beautiful Valentine! 
 
 Chosen by me; 
 Heart of my heart — life of my life — 
 
 Sweetheart art thee. 
 Sweetest of girls! 
 
 W.imaidy too; 
 Pure as an angel - heart just as true— 
 
 Sweetlieart to woo. | 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 952 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ELIASBOYNTON. 
 
 Born: Petekboro, N. H., Nov. 30, 1833. 
 After graduating- at the Peterboro Academy 
 Elias Boynton taught school in that city and 
 in Delevan and Lisbon, Wisconsin. About a 
 hundred poems liave appeared from the pen 
 of this poet, many of wliiuh were written by 
 
 ET.IAR BOYNTON. 
 
 request and for i)ublic gatherings, wliich 
 have always subsequently ai>peared in the 
 periodical press. Mr. Boynton has been 
 justice of the peace, surpervisor and town 
 clerk in Lisbon, Wisconsin, where he is en- 
 g-aged in mercantile business. He has also 
 been secretary of the American Boynton 
 Association, wliich annually meets in Boston 
 or some other eastern city. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 Eiirth takes back its precious gem, 
 Mortality repeats itself by turn. 
 Each org-anization must surely die. 
 Life at longest, is but a sigh 
 Industrious, frngiil. she done what she could. 
 Never weary of doing good. 
 Eternal rest, a rich reward. 
 Heavenly Element! Spnik of lite! 
 Age seemed brightening for a useful strife, 
 Little innocent! Is this your calling? 
 Budding and withering, coming and going? 
 Eternal Parent! thy goodness and worth. 
 Reminds the wayward thesuretyof death! 
 Taking purity fnim the sins of eartli. 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF INTELLIGENCE. 
 This Temple of Intelligence is abandoned to- 
 day; 
 A matchless soul enters the boundless wave 
 With suppressed emotion at this funeral 'ar- 
 Our hearts recoil at the open grave! [ray, 
 A thrilling voice hushed! A great mind van- 
 ished! 
 Mysterious death closes a brilliant career. 
 At the meridian of life ourliopes are banlsh- 
 While a distant city mingles her tears, [ed, 
 Speaker, scholar, patriot and guide; 
 Our city's champion in the intellectual field. 
 Counselor and peacemaker, with a religious 
 
 side ; 
 A wortliy classmate of President Garfield. 
 
 The child and statesman his influence feit. 
 The church his thoughtful rules; [dwelt, 
 A vigilant searcher where improvement 
 We tremble for our city schools. 
 The world is better for lives like this. 
 That separate evil from good; 
 Belief and Faith may be a bliss. 
 When lives develop this food. 
 
 JESSE D. WALKER. 
 
 Born: Elkhart Co., Ind., May 5, 1852. 
 When two years of age the parents of Mr. 
 Walker removed to Linn county, Iowa, where 
 the subject of this sketch resided until 1888, 
 when he removed to Californi.i. The poems 
 of Mr. Walker have appeared in Literary 
 Life, Ballou's Magazine and other publica- 
 tions. He was married in 1875 to Miss L. 
 Prescott Harvey, grand-niece of Prescott, 
 the historian. Mr. Walker is engaged in 
 mercantile pursuits in Santa Ana, California, 
 where he resides with his wife and family. 
 
 FAREWELL TO DREAMS. 
 Farewell, O song and vision! 
 In forest vales elysian 
 
 I wandered far with thee; 
 Farewell; O dreams of morning: 
 The storm-cloud utters warning. 
 
 And night comes o'er the sea. 
 We may not dwell forever 
 On the islands in the river 
 
 Of the lands of dreams. 
 The sunlight of to-morrow 
 Will cast on joy and sorrow 
 
 Its full and eipial beams. 
 The lofty and the lowly 
 Shall be forgotten wholly 
 
 In days that are to hv. 
 O Time! thou art an ocean. 
 Of temiiest and commotion. 
 
 And all are lost in thee. 
 
 •i- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 953 
 
 -* 
 
 HARRY C, BURNS. 
 
 This grentleraan ht^s written many fine poems 
 for the periodical press. Many of these po- 
 ems were written for Grand Army reunions 
 
 HARRY C. BURNS. 
 
 and for special occasions. During- the war 
 he .served in Company H, 14th Pennsylvania 
 Cavalry, of Pittsburg-, in which city he still 
 resides. 
 
 NINETEEN HUNDRED. 
 The year, perhaps, we'll never see, 
 
 In nineteen hundred; 
 But our fair land will still be free. 
 
 In nineteen hundred; 
 The world nia.v come, with Are and flame, 
 Tliey'U find us ready, just the same; 
 We'll send them bacli, not as they came, 
 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 
 Our starry flag- will float on high. 
 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 O'er hearts that do not fear to die. 
 
 In nineteen hundred; 
 Ere Freedom's sons will take the yoke. 
 They'll die within the battle smoke. 
 With steady arm and sabre stroke. 
 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 
 The law shall rule our happy land. 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 
 Nor bow before a traitor band. 
 
 In nineteen liundred; 
 The Nation's arm siiall strike for all, 
 And who oppose iis right, must fall. 
 Their coward faces to the wall. 
 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 
 Then give three cheers for Liberty, 
 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 And three times three for unity. 
 
 In nineteen hundred; 
 Let those who live to see the fray. 
 Unto the God of battles pray. 
 For right, not might, will win the day. 
 
 In nineteen hundred. 
 
 THE EXILES' FAREWELL. 
 
 See the tear-dimmed eyes 
 
 And the pleading face 
 Of the parting friends 
 
 Of a noble race; 
 While they stand in gloom. 
 
 And Heavenward gaze 
 With a silent prayer. 
 
 And a song of praise. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 As the exiles s.iiled 
 
 From the rock-rilibed shore. 
 Many fona farewells 
 
 Back the breezes bore 
 To the long loved friends 
 
 Tliey no more might see. 
 For they sailed away 
 
 To America. 
 
 As the noble ship 
 
 Through the waters flew 
 With the hero hearts 
 
 Of this exile crew, 
 Tliere were willing hands. 
 
 As the sails unfurled. 
 And the vessel sped 
 
 To another world. 
 
 Many lengtliened days 
 
 And the morning- came. 
 While the glad shout land 
 
 Like a leaping flame 
 O'er tlie bowed hearts rose. 
 
 They were slaves no more 
 And the chains were cjist 
 
 Upon freedom's shore. 
 
 * 
 
^- 
 
 -* 
 
 954 
 
 LOCAT< AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ANNA K.THOMAS. 
 
 Born: Augusta Co., Va.. March 9, 1847. 
 This lady has led an eventful life and has 
 traveled in many of the states of the union. 
 She was married in 18T3to Ansell M. Thomas, 
 and in 1881 settled in Battle Creek, Mich., 
 
 MRS. ANNA KEAGY THOMAS. 
 
 where she now resides. This lady has always 
 been active in temperance work. Mrs. 
 Thomas has contributed both prose and 
 verse to the Musical Million, Gospel Trum- 
 pet, Cincinnati Christian Standard and in 
 many other relig-ious and temperance publi- 
 cations. 
 
 ODE TO A SPRAY OF WILD ROSES. 
 Thou sweet, frail child of earth we greet 
 Thy smiHng grace with gladsome heart— 
 The tears, which night weeps gently o'er 
 The grave of day's departed beams. 
 Hung dewy pearls about thy form. 
 And fresh with morning's early breath 
 They linger yet to give us cheer. 
 We bless the little eyes, that sought 
 Tliee in thy quiet bower, and looked 
 With pleasure on thy beaut'ous tint — 
 We bless the little feet that led 
 The way through tangled, trackless shrub. 
 To reach the place of tliy abode — 
 We bless the little hand that snatch'd 
 Thee from the thorny fate that bound 
 Thy spotless, stainless life to earth — 
 God bless the little heart that felt, 
 And loved thy modest worth, and paid 
 Due homage to the charms which drew 
 
 Her fondly to thy side, to kiss 
 
 Thy blushing cheek — but ah. too soon. 
 
 Thy petals, one by one, shall fall 
 
 From out the tiny cup, which binds 
 
 Their fragrant lives in one grand scheme. 
 
 And leave, at last, a crownless stem 
 
 To bloom again, no more— no more? 
 
 Aye, but thy mem'ry dear shall live 
 
 Again, so, too, the love that cull'd 
 
 Thee in thy native dell, and placed 
 
 Thee near the couch of her who gave 
 
 It birth shall glow a living flame 
 
 While ceaseless rounds of ages roll — 
 
 The cruel fiend which lield the cup 
 
 Of pain, to parch'd and fever'd lip 
 
 Dropt quick, the pois'nous draught and fled 
 
 At thy approach ; and in his stead 
 
 A calm and holy peace reign'd o'er 
 
 Tlie tortur'd form. So not in vain 
 
 Is thy short life— thj- mission done. 
 
 Go rest thee in the quiet tomb 
 
 Which nature carv'd ; but e'er thou go'st 
 
 Breathe into the tender life of 
 
 Her who bore thee from thy wild-wood 
 
 Haunts — nobler service to perform — 
 
 Thy own sweet spirit's mystic pow'r 
 
 That she may tread with joyous step 
 
 The peaceful path of wisdom's way 
 
 And find at last, when pluck'd from earth 
 
 A grander sphere, a higher life I 
 
 A DECLAMATION. 
 
 These enchanting rhetoricals 
 And fine metaphoricals 
 
 All tinctured with eloquent lore. 
 May serve for embellishment 
 To tliose who have relisli lent 
 
 To gilded belles lettres' full store. 
 
 But a modest, shy school-maiden. 
 Coy, timid and blush-laden. 
 
 Bedecked with confusion and fear. 
 Has not the facility 
 And lacks the ability 
 
 Delectable points to make clear. 
 
 Now decrees of the faculty 
 With seeming alacrity 
 
 Enlist lad and lassie perforce; 
 So here's a predicament — 
 To solve it I'm fully bent, 
 
 We'll borrow Ideas — of course. 
 
 So these prosy rhetoricals 
 And dull metaphoricals 
 
 Compact in my brain shall all be; 
 We'll buy a capacity. 
 Then there'.s no necessity 
 
 To trouble our neighbor, you see. 
 
 *- 
 
 -® 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 955 
 
 ELISE BEATTIE. 
 
 Born: Newbury, Vt., Feb. 37, 1858. 
 This ladj' received her education at tlie 
 State Normal School at Trenton, N. J. She 
 lost lier father the first j-ear of her birth, 
 and was left motherless in 1873. Since 1876 this 
 lady has i-esided in Athiiita, Ga., where she 
 
 ELISE BEATTIE. 
 
 learned the profession of a stenogra- 
 pher. The poems of Miss Beattie have ap- 
 peared in the Constitution and Atlanta 
 Journal of Atlanta, Ga., and various other 
 publications, and is the author of a volume 
 of poems entitled Echoes, which was pub- 
 lished in 1873, and received high praise. 
 
 *- 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 A clouded summer sunset 
 
 Its broken radiance shed 
 O'er ancient cross and column 
 
 In the city of the dead. 
 It moved in sliadowy splendor. 
 
 And lit with tender gold. 
 Words of love and sorrow, 
 
 A hundred summers old; 
 Words half unseen, and hidden. 
 
 Filled with the rotting mold. 
 And my heart was stirred witli pity 
 
 For griefs a century old; 
 When lo, a passionate weeping 
 
 Jarred on the quiet way. 
 As a mother bent in anguish 
 
 O'er her baby who died to-day. 
 
 Then down, from tlie golden sunset. 
 Or ui) from the lotting mold. 
 
 There joined that motlier's weeping. 
 Tears a century old. 
 
 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 The winter wind went wailing 
 
 Through the leafless trees, 
 It sobbed upon the mountain. 
 It moaned along tlie leas; 
 And we, all safely sheltered 
 
 From the " wolf-month's " wrath. 
 Pitied those so lonely 
 
 In the storm-w ind's path. 
 The scene was all of winter. 
 
 But winter at its best. 
 And we welcomed, laughing, 
 
 A bright and pleasant guest; 
 Yet he brought a story 
 
 From fair, tropic l)owers, 
 A tale of love, not glorj-. 
 
 From tlie Land of Flowers. 
 A sad and simple storj-. 
 
 Doubtless many more 
 Came to that fair city 
 
 Ere the plague was o'er. 
 Of two lovers plighted 
 
 In the sunii7ier days. 
 And the sunlight blest them 
 
 In the fragrant ways. 
 Then the plague came, scourging 
 
 The wretched and the blest, 
 And he plunged his arrow 
 
 Into love's warm breast; 
 And the lover languished 
 
 Through sad day and night. 
 Till, at last, recovery 
 
 Made the world all bright. 
 But brief, alas, their gladness. 
 
 For the poison breath 
 Touched the maid — she faltered 
 
 In the arms of death. 
 rash and fated lover, 
 
 Was it worth thy while 
 To gain thine own death-pang 
 
 For a maiden's smile? 
 True love asked no questions. 
 
 But liastened to her side. 
 He saw her — kissed her — faltered — 
 
 Was it fnmi joy he died? 
 
 I.' ENVOI. 
 
 The winds of winter wliistled 
 
 All about us still. 
 The winter sunlight lingered 
 
 On the barren hill; 
 Yet did there tremble to us. 
 
 Through our careless ease, 
 A maiden's plaintive weeping 
 
 ' Neatlt blossomed orange trees? 
 
 -* 
 
POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MY FATHERS PORTRAIT 
 
 O youthful, fair and noble face. 
 True scion of a lofty race. 
 Eves of this same glorious hue 
 once swept the broad, empyreal blue 
 In Scotland's days of old romance , 
 Of armored knight, with sword and lance. 
 Or visor doffed, shone softly bright. 
 On maideu face, with love alight. 
 Yet fled that gay and gallant scene. 
 Years and seas now intervene; 
 Fled, those large ancestral halls. 
 And now from .tern old Derry s walls. 
 They flash, these ejes of radiant brown. 
 ' On foes a full defiance down. 
 And through the years, whatever the cause, 
 Tbese eyes have gazed on 1^°"°^'^ ^'^^^J, , 
 And drawn their glances, high and bught. 
 From steady eyelids on the right. 
 O youthful, fair and noble face. 
 Eight hundred years have lent thee grace 
 Oh youthful eyes, in full hope seeing 
 The glory and the use of being- 
 Alas, alas thy race should close, 
 Before thy sun to zenith rose. 
 Yet father not in vain thy life. 
 Not vain thy strong and noble strife. 
 No " fitful fever," ended well. 
 No broken fount, from which upswell 
 waters salt, and full of tears. 
 Wrung from the eyes of dying years. 
 A struggle-but the triumph's sure. 
 \ single night the tears endure, 
 ihe life vou gave will still be true. 
 
 Your child is faithful unto you. 
 And on her heart will ever bear 
 Those you loved with tender care. 
 Your work be mine, and, when 'tis done, 
 When o-er my grave the shadows run 
 They with thine own shall meet, and be. 
 In God's grace, changed happily, 
 And in the heavenly country bright. 
 Behold, one ray of glorious hght. 
 
 AS BONNIE RUTH GOES BY. 
 The day-dawn pure, confessing 
 
 Her love-song to the sky. 
 Gives richer sense of blessing. 
 
 As bonnie Ruth goes by. 
 The perfume of the Maying. 
 The murmur of the bees, 
 And all sweet things are staying 
 
 For bonnie Ruth's decrees. 
 Azalia of the mountain. 
 
 Sweet violet by the lake, 
 The lily of the fountain 
 
 For bonnie Ruth awake. 
 A glance from brown eyes tender. 
 Half daring, and half shy- 
 
 The morn has dearer splendor. 
 
 As bonnie Ruth goes by. 
 The red rose' pure completeness 
 
 Of scarlet petals' tips 
 Is dim beside the sweetness 
 
 Of bonnie Ruth's red lips; 
 The fairies in the gloaming 
 
 Earth's whitest thing do seek— 
 Naught whiter find they, roaming. 
 
 Than bonnie Ruth's soft cheek. 
 Life's passing days grow sweeter. 
 
 Its purposes more high. 
 And all our life completer. 
 
 As bonnie Ruth goes by. 
 
 MY MOTHERS FACE. 
 The sunshine of the summer noon 
 Lighted all the quiet room. 
 And it touched, with tender grace. 
 The youthful, fair and noble face. 
 That they hid from human sight. 
 When my own eyes deemed the light 
 But a plaything to be kist. 
 Caught and held in baby fist. 
 All unknowing of the time 
 When those rays, divine, sublime. 
 My sad eyes would wish were dark. 
 In the grave-dust hid. their spark. 
 Tender scene, yet full of power. 
 It lighted labor's weary hour. 
 Yet through the toiling of to-day. 
 I had a dream of far away. 
 Beside that youthful, noble face. 
 Rose another, full of grace. 
 Eyes of heaven's softest blue. 
 Just as pure, and just as true. 
 And the smile that in them lay 
 Lighteth still my path to day. 
 The mother's smile, divinely given 
 Twas naught of earth, 'twas all of heaven 
 ( \n& still the sun rays went and came. 
 On pictured face, on gilded frame. 
 But round her face, so saintly fair. 
 A halo trembled in the hallowed air). 
 O parents dear, though sore bereft. 
 Your noblest part to me is left; 
 All your goodness, and your truth. 
 All the sweetness of your youth. 
 All the struggles of your life. 
 Where you conquered in the strife; 
 All the glory and delight 
 Yours for aye on heavenly height. 
 AH the hope to meet you there. 
 In that clearer, purer air- 
 All is mine, and only waits 
 Death's touch up..n the life-barred gates 
 To bo mine without alloy 
 In a world of perfect joy. 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 957 
 
 REV. G.W. KILDOW. JR. 
 
 Born: Bloomington, Md., Feb. 22, 1866. 
 Young Kildow has traveled extensively in 
 nearlj' every state of the union, and is now 
 resirliog at NashvUle, Tenri., where he is a 
 
 mmmmmmmmmmi 
 
 UEV. U. W. KILDOW, JK. 
 
 Presbyterian minister. His poems have ap- 
 peared in the Richmond Herald, and others. 
 
 *- 
 
 TO BEN A. 
 
 When Aurora rises up. 
 
 Heralding the god of day. 
 Then up from my couch I rise 
 
 And my thoughts flee far away. 
 Far away to other lands, 
 
 Where a lovely maiden dwells. 
 With a bright and happy smile 
 
 And a voice like mellow bells. 
 And when Phoebus, in his car. 
 
 Drives Old Sol thro' eastern sky, 
 Then again my soul desires 
 
 On the wings of love to fly 
 To this maid of tender heart, 
 
 Far awaj' o'er land and sea. 
 To this maid of form divine 
 
 Who, I trust, loves only me. 
 And when Sol, down western skies 
 
 In his robes of state descends. 
 Then again to that fair clime 
 
 All my soul in rapture tends; 
 Yes, desires its way to wend 
 
 To this maid so true and pure. 
 For in Cupid's toils I'm bound 
 
 And her beauty doth allure. 
 
 And when Luiui treads the skies 
 
 In her robes of starry night, 
 Then again my soul desires 
 
 To mount up and take its flight; 
 Thro' the regions ot llie air. 
 
 Far away o'er land and sea. 
 On the wings of love to fly 
 
 And bow down, fair maid, to thee. 
 
 KETHOSPECT. 
 I am thinking to-day of my youth. 
 
 And the castles I built in the air; 
 When the world was a world of truth 
 
 And deceit was a thing most rare. 
 Of the maiden I fondly loved, 
 
 A vision of beauty and light, 
 In whose presence I strangely was moved 
 
 And filled with a sense of delight. 
 Of the men of my youthful dreams 
 
 Who were pillars of love and truth. 
 But Ah! I have learned many things 
 
 Since those halcyon days of youth. 
 Then the world was a world of love, 
 
 'Twas a Garden of Eden fair, 
 Filled with flowers, thro' which to rove. 
 
 Breathing perfume upon the soft air. 
 But to-day as T sit and dream. 
 
 Under the blue of the sky. 
 About me on every hand 
 
 My youth's air-castles lie. 
 Shattered and sundered by time. 
 
 By the lapse of a score of years. 
 By winds from a stormy clime. 
 
 By blasts from the vale of tears. 
 And the maiden T fondly loved 
 
 Is laid away in the tomb. 
 And over her grass-grown grave 
 
 The roses and lilies bloom. 
 And the years of which I dreamed 
 
 With her as my loving wife 
 Have been passed willi a heavy heart. 
 
 And a lonely saddened life. 
 And the pillars of love and truth. 
 
 The men of my youiliful dreams. 
 Have swindled me oft since my youth. 
 
 With deceit and cunning schemes. 
 And the world of blooms and flowers 
 
 Has been filled with sneers and scorns. 
 And my beautiful blossoming bowers 
 
 Have been filled with thistles and thorns. 
 And instead of glory and fume 
 
 And positions of honor and trust. 
 Scarce any havi- heard of my name 
 
 And I still plod along in the dust. 
 But out of the darkness and clouds 
 
 Comes a ray dispelling my night 
 As thro' a rift I perceive 
 
 The heavens resplendent with light. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 958 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL fOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MATTHIAS SHEELEIGH. D.D. 
 
 Born: Charleston, Pa., Dec. 29, 1821. 
 After teaching- for some years in Pennsyl- 
 vania and New Jersey, Mr. Sheeleigh pur- 
 sued a course of study in Pennsylvania 
 College, Gettysburg, and in the Lutheran 
 
 MATTHIAS SHEEIiEIGH, I). D. 
 
 Theological Seminary at the same place. In 
 1852 he entered the ministry and has filled 
 pastorates at Valatie, N.Y., Minersville, Pa., 
 Philadelphia, Pa., Stewartsville, N. J.; and 
 during the last twenty-one years at Fort 
 Washington, Pa., in a pastorate consisting of 
 two congregations at Whitemarsh and 
 Upper Dublin. In 1859 lie was married to 
 Miss Sabina M. Diller, and now has a family 
 of several children. Dr. Sheeleigh lias writ- 
 ten about one thousand poems which have 
 appeared from time to time in current 
 literatnre. He has also published several 
 works in prose on various sub.iects; and 
 since 1860 has efficiently edited the Lutheran 
 Sunday-School Herald. Dr. Sheeleigh has 
 gained a national reputation as a poet and 
 author. 
 
 THE VAST WORLD. 
 How grandly built this glorious circling 
 
 world ! 
 Such breadth of vale and rolling hills in 
 
 view. 
 The snow-capped heights, with clouds about 
 them furled; 
 I And lofty dome of bUie! 
 
 And hence to utmost rim of skyey glass 
 Stretched out abroad from this extended 
 
 shore, 
 Tlie restless, heaving waters of the ocean 
 
 mass. 
 With voice of ceaseless roar. 
 
 All these in endlessness of wonder wrought. 
 Of varied form and grace of hue and tone, 
 Stand out before nie a stupendous thought 
 From Heaven's exalted throne! 
 
 A SUMMER MORNING. 
 I'm sitting on this beauteous morn, 
 
 'Mid fields of corn. 
 Where gladsome hills all forest-crowned. 
 In gentle-shaded summer hue. 
 On skies of blue. 
 The vallej' clasp around. 
 
 Astir the robes of trembling trees, 
 
 Breaths of the breeze 
 Upon the cheek in fondness fall. 
 And from the spaces everywhere. 
 The echoing air 
 The birds make musical. 
 
 Amid such life in this pure sun. 
 
 Feeling as one 
 With things of God's great goodness rife, 
 A pulse of joy and love awakes. 
 And music makes 
 Unto the source of life. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE SENTINEL OF POMPEII. 
 There stood he at his post of duty fast. 
 When first was heard the mountain's warn- 
 ing sound; 
 As louder broke beneath, above, around, 
 The thunder's voice and sheets of lightning 
 
 cast 
 Tlieir glare o'er all the sky till shrank aghast 
 The stoutest hearts, yet steadfast was he 
 
 found; 
 While earthquake throes rocked all the solid 
 
 ground 
 Each terror still surpassing far the last. 
 While from the sky clouds of destruction fell, 
 The very city with its pomp and life, 
 To wrap and bury, like as though the knell 
 Of time were rung, firm stood he 'mid the 
 
 strife: 
 Now, ages gone, as comes to light his jiost 
 
 again, 
 See still his form a tyjie of faithfulness 
 
 remain ! 
 — * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 959 
 
 TPIOMAS ROMAN MORE. 
 
 Bokn: Saxta Bakbaka, Cal , Sept. 27. It!j6. 
 Gkaduating from the Auu Arbor High 
 Schoul. young More then atteuded the 
 Michigan University. At the end of a year, 
 however, he was called home to Cahfornia 
 
 TH(>M.\S ROMAN MOKE. 
 
 because of the death of his father, and he 
 had the double misfortune to lose his mother 
 one year later. He is now kept busy looking 
 after his ranches and stock; he is very fond 
 of horses, on which he is a great authority. 
 In 1880 he was married to Miss Mary B. Den, 
 and now has a family of several children. 
 
 *- 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 Italian skies no longer soothe my heart. 
 And though they be as l)lue and full of rest. 
 Their quietness can mollify no part 
 Of this deserted soul, and on my breast 
 No longer sleep sweet niem'riesonce so blest. 
 Of thee Inez. When I thy name recall 
 My soul with madness doth upstart in quest 
 And struggles to be free from every thrall 
 That held me once when thou wert all to 
 
 me — my all. 
 Come wing'ed spirits of the great unknown. 
 And take with thee my soul, but leave be- 
 hind 
 The power of grief to this deserted, lone 
 And broken heart to its had fate resign'd. 
 That it might wander like a wounded hind 
 That seeks the densest forest there to die. 
 Yet warning on its way whom it may find. 
 
 I call upon thee spirits of the sky 
 To free me from this world of insincerity. 
 Perchance ye think that 1 shall soon or late 
 Forget the love 1 bore to sweet Inez. 
 And once again love stronger llian I hate; 
 But that can never be, since dire distress 
 Has wounded my sad soul and happiness 
 Is but in heaven, for the magic wand 
 No longer comes, as once, to my redress. 
 So take my restless soul to thy fair land. 
 Whose varied pleasures are by augels ever 
 planned. 
 
 1 seem to liear thy voice to-night Inez, 
 And once again with open heart and soul 
 1 stand before thee full of happiness. 
 And by that magic spell that did control 
 With wondrous power, my existence whole, 
 I feel myself surrounded. From the skies 
 Sweet spirits come and urge me to be goal. 
 I kneel before thee and with ardent sighs 
 i do confess my love and thou dost bid me 
 rise. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 Sweet, living sleep; thou wert my constant 
 
 friend. 
 What have I done? wlierein did I offend? 
 That thou shouldst now forsake me when I 
 
 And 
 Thou hast the power to soothe my wandei^ 
 
 ing mind? 
 Forgive me, kind and tender friend, forgive. 
 And if I wronged thee, let no longer live 
 Thine anger!— for I love thee as a friend 
 From whom I would not part, much less 
 
 offend. 
 How well do I remember when a child, 
 I wandered through the forests dense and 
 
 wild; 
 And when my limbs would ache thou cam'st 
 
 to me 
 And wrapped in thj' mantle till I'd be 
 No longer weary and, from suffering free. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Though thy joys seem without end, 
 Thou canst not thy sorn)w find. 
 That must come to thy false lieart 
 Ere thou from tliis world depart. 
 Tliou shall feel thy friends forsake thee, 
 And no spirit shall awake thee. 
 Till th(ni art beyond that power 
 That hath held thee to this hour. 
 I have loved thee and would die 
 To save thee from thy destiny. 
 But that power thatcliained me here. 
 Loosens not its grasp of fear. 
 So intent is its desire. 
 So unmerciful its ire. 
 
*- 
 
 -*<: 
 
 960 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 MRS.MARY H.HUNTINGTON 
 
 BOBN : Oswego, N.Y., 1840. 
 In 1863 this lady was married to Capt. I. L. 
 Huntington. Mrs. Huuting-ton is in the 
 millinery business, but spends her leisure 
 nionifiits in writing- poetry, ;ind in jiainting 
 
 MRS. MARY H. HUNTINGTON. 
 
 and music. Her poems have been written 
 on special subjects, and liave received ex- 
 tensive publication. Mrs. Huntington is now 
 a resident of her native state at Watertown, 
 where she is very popular. 
 
 LITTLE ACORN. 
 I'm nothing but a little acorn, 
 
 Not much bigger than a bee; 
 But mama Oak-tree tells me that 
 
 I will grow as big as she,— 
 
 I can't see how —but she says some way 
 
 I will pop out from my shell, 
 A little sprout will greet the sunshine, 
 
 Starting up, and down as well. 
 I'll keep growing, bigger, higher. 
 
 Spreading out my branches wide; 
 And will never stop to wonder 
 
 Till T .stand up by her side. 
 
 Then I'll look down on ray sisters,— 
 
 For there were a lot you see,— 
 Some who said they knew they couldn't 
 
 Ever sprout and be a tree. 
 So they never made an effort,— 
 
 Did not try .>and try again;" 
 
 There was nothing that could make them, 
 Though nature taught their duty plain. 
 
 But I am happy as I can be — 
 Keeping laws of God and man — 
 
 Now, can't you learn a lesson from me 
 Growing upward all you can? 
 
 CONEMAUGH. 
 
 Pent up high, amid the mountains. 
 
 The death-agent lay in wait. 
 Till with a crash the miglity fountain 
 
 Opened wide the fatal gate. 
 
 High toward Heaven it leaped in madness 
 
 Ere it struck the mountain side. 
 With a voice of many earthquakes. 
 
 All man's puny strength defied. 
 As the mighty waves plunge downward, 
 
 Crushing, smasliing in their flight. 
 Gullying out their paths of ruin. 
 
 Naught they leave but death and blight. 
 Surging high, the angry waters 
 
 Grasped our loved ones here and there. 
 Hurled them out amid the wreckage, 
 
 Echo only answers — where? 
 Where's our darling, from the cradle? 
 
 Where the mother, wife and child? 
 Where the husband, son and neighbor? 
 
 Where our homes in which love smiled? 
 Crushed and dying, torn and bleeding. 
 
 Struggling there 'mid life and death. 
 In the mass of floating debris — 
 
 Grasping, gasping for their breath. 
 Calling vainly names of loved ones, 
 
 Clinging to a dear one's form; 
 Prayers that ne'er before were uttered 
 
 Rose amid the wreck and storm. 
 Oh, that night of awful horror I 
 
 Oh. the wailings of despair 1 
 Fire and darkness did surround them, 
 
 Shrieks of dying filled the air. 
 Groans for help when none could succor: 
 
 Prayers to God, who did not save 
 From the dreadful death by fire. 
 
 Or the foaming, strangling wave. 
 Soon the gloom of night o'ershadowed; 
 
 Soon the dying groans were liushed; 
 Chaos reigned thnnigliout the valley. 
 
 As the waters on>vard rushed. 
 Leaving naught but desolation, 
 
 Broken hearts, and lost hearthstones; 
 Shattered lives without protection — 
 
 Father, hear their piteous moans! 
 As they look to Thee for refug-e — 
 
 The .sole source wlience aid can come — 
 Help them bow in meek submission. 
 
 And humbly say, "Thy will be done." 
 
 *- 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 961 
 
 MRS, BELLE H.SHORTRIDGE. 
 
 Born: Cactus Hill. Texas. 
 
 This lady was the first white child horn in 
 Wise county, Texas, and at the reunioti of 
 the pioneers she is g-enerally requested to be 
 present and given a place t)f honor. She has 
 written several hundred poems of merit 
 
 MRS. BELLE HUNT SHORTRIDGE. 
 
 which have appeared in the Dallas News, 
 Fort Worth Gazette, Mirror, Galveston News, 
 Times, Democrat, the New York Sun and 
 various otlier publications. As a prose 
 writer she has gained a wide celebrity. It is 
 understood that Mrs. Belle Hunt Shortridge 
 is engaged in recording the History of Texas 
 in ante bellum days. 
 
 * 
 
 FOREBODING. 
 Last night I idly drew thy face 
 Against the lamp-lit wall; 
 Outlined upon a paper white, 
 A profile — that was all. 
 And yet, to-day, as here it lies 
 Upon my desk, so still 
 That calm, familiar, silent face — 
 I feel a sudden chill — 
 I think " so would my darling lie 
 If she were cold and dead." 
 The fine-cut face, the tender mouth, 
 The broad, high, white forehead, 
 So lie the long dark lashes on 
 The pallid cheek — ah me ! 
 
 It is a gruesome fancy, dear, 
 
 And fraught with agony! 
 
 I cannot write, nor read, nor think, 
 
 Witii tliy dead face so near. 
 
 I am a foolish creature I Ves — 
 
 A woman is a (lueer 
 
 And utisolvfd problem, and her nerves 
 
 Sensitively attuned. 
 
 To draughts blown from the spirit world. 
 
 Too easy — far — to wound. 
 
 But, easy too, to cheer and thrill 
 
 So — chide me not, for this, 
 
 It is a foolish fancy, well — 
 
 Dispel it — with — a kiss ! 
 
 LOVES DEFIANCE. 
 What! here again with tliy mocking eyes. 
 Thou beautiful wraith of a buried past! 
 Thou half-guessed breath of a pressed white 
 
 rose. 
 Of a summer too fleet and fair to last. 
 
 Ah, me! since then I have learned so much 
 Of the ways of the world and the ways of 
 
 men, 
 I had dreamed I was stoical, worldly-wise, 
 I did not think I would stumble again. 
 
 I have told my heart that it all was best. 
 My heart has looked in my eyes and smiled — 
 A smile incredulous, sensuous, rare. 
 Till it, somehow or other, my faith beguiled. 
 
 I had stood by the bier of that sweet old love 
 And watched it die as a mortal may. 
 I had closed its eyes with a reverent touch. 
 And folded the still white liands away; 
 
 And I smiled with the death dew lingering 
 
 yet 
 On my finger tips; I was sore beset 
 With the horror that some one would see and 
 
 know 
 That my idol was clay '. I cannot forget. 
 
 Though I have forgiven. Ah ! living or dead, 
 Or buried, or thrilling with life's red wine. 
 Thou art my love and my own heart's blood. 
 Thou art mine own and I am tliine! 
 
 See! 'tis a miracle, solve it who can, 
 A woman's heart is a wonderful thing! 
 The world is its kingdom, it reigneth su- 
 preme. 
 And Love is its vanquished rose-yoked king. 
 
 Come to thy throne in my heart's deep core. 
 
 Kiss me straight on tlie lips anew; 
 
 Down on your knees and homage pay 
 
 To the woman who conquers a man like you. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 962 
 
 LOCAI- AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 CHARLES CASE PARSONS. 
 
 Born: Florence, Ohio, March 17, 1820. 
 The subject of this sketch was married in 
 is.VZ. but is now a widower with a familj' of 
 
 LIFE. 
 Say what is life with all its charms. 
 
 Its beauty and its g:low; 
 Say ye who rest on pleasure's arms 
 
 Or drink the stream of woe? 
 
 'Tis like the fragrant rose of May 
 That witliers in its bloom. 
 
 For beauty ne'er can shun decay 
 Nor triumph o'er the tomb. 
 
 'Tis like the sun so bright. 
 Cheers us through all the day, 
 
 Then sinking midst the night. 
 His glory dies away. 
 
 So man in all his gaudy pride. 
 With haughty steps moves on 
 
 Till lost in life's o'erflowing tide, 
 His flattering hopes are gone. 
 
 Life is a scene of toil and care. 
 
 Of pleasure mixed with pain, 
 'Tis light and fleeting as the air 
 
 And all its joys are vain. 
 
 CHARLES CASE PARSONS. 
 
 four living children. He has written quite a 
 few poems that liave appeared from time to 
 time In the local press. 
 
 The sons of wealth and power 
 Shall slumber in the grave. 
 
 None can escape the fatal hour 
 Nor might nor wealth can save. 
 
 The needy with the rich must fall 
 
 And yield their gasping breath, 
 The silent grave is made lor all, 
 
 And all are born in death. 
 Then why should we aspire to wealth 
 
 And gain the gold we love, 
 Since we must leave it all ourselves. 
 
 And go so pool- above. 
 
 A AVOED TO THE BOYS. 
 Wake up your thoughts, wake up your soul, 
 Survey this globe from pole to pole. 
 To what employment will you bow. 
 Pursue the arts, or hold the plow? 
 
 By a just and strict attention, 
 The plow appears a high Invention; 
 Your wealth arises from the clod. 
 Your Independence from your God. 
 
 Now if the plow supports the nation 
 And men of every rank and station ; 
 Let high officials to farmers bow. 
 And never speak against the plow. 
 
 Let our young men please think of this, 
 For wheat and corn won't come amiss; 
 It will help make a happy home. 
 And money you will have to loan. 
 
 Too many seeking for position 
 Leaves the farm in bad condition. 
 I hope you'll see this great mistake 
 And go to work, be wide awake. 
 
 Your wealth will come from work and care, 
 And, if faithful, you'll liave a share; 
 And when you're laid away to rest. 
 You will be counted 'mong the best. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 The spring of life is past. 
 
 With its budding hopes and fears; 
 And the autumn time is coming, 
 
 With its weight of weary years. 
 All our joys and hopes are fading. 
 
 Our hearts are dimmed with care; 
 And youth's first dreams of gl.-idnes^. 
 
 Have perished darkly tliore. 
 When bUss was blooming near us. 
 
 In the heart's first burst of spring; 
 While many hopes could cheer us, 
 
 Life scorned a glorious thing. 
 Like the foam upon the river, 
 
 Wlien the breeze goes rippling: e'er; 
 Those hopes have fled forever. 
 
 To come to us no more. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 963 
 
 -* 
 
 CLARA PIERCE. 
 
 Born: Wiek Village, Mass., Sept. 5, 1859. 
 In 1875 Clara removed with her parents to 
 New Bedford, Mass., where she hiis resided 
 ever since, with the exception of a year 
 
 CLARA PIERCE. 
 
 spent in Florida for her health. Her poems 
 have appeared in the Sunday School Herald 
 of Dayton, Ohio, New Bedford Standard and 
 Mercury, the Portland Transcript, Cottage 
 Hearth and other publications. 
 
 TO MRS. FRANCES L. MACE. 
 "Only waiting-," sweet the cadence 
 
 Of the faitli-inspiring- words. 
 Like some low feolian measure. 
 
 Thrilling as the song of birds. 
 Breathing hope in every sentence; 
 
 Throbbing pulses join the strain. 
 Hearts bowed down with weight of anguish 
 
 Rise in rapture o'er their pain. 
 "Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown; " 
 E'er we hear the longed-for welcome 
 
 To our bright eternal home. 
 Even now we catch the radiance 
 
 Of the promised land afar. 
 And a sweet prophetic vision 
 
 Rises up, as bar on biu-. 
 Falls the soft and plaintive innsic 
 
 Like a benediction down. 
 Till our everj' cross forgetting. 
 
 We perceive the waiting crown. 
 
 Jordan's flood no more a])palls ifs. 
 
 Undismayed we seek its tide; 
 Straining eyes o'erlook the billows 
 
 Surging darkly at our side. 
 For we only see the glory 
 
 Of the Land beyond the wave. 
 What to us the sting of dying? 
 
 What the victory of the grave? 
 Hark! Tiie nnisic throbs no longer. 
 
 Trembling hands and tear-wet eyes 
 Pay their sweet and holy tribute. 
 
 As the liymn in silence dies. 
 
 FANCY'S VISIONS. 
 I live in a world of fancy, 
 
 A world that is all nij' own, 
 From the emerald turf beneath me 
 
 To the blue of the arching dome. 
 
 Bright flowers in my pathway springing, 
 
 The song-bird's tuneful lay. 
 The throb of the music ringing. 
 
 Glad all my joyous way. 
 
 The fountain's crystal watei-s 
 
 In their marble basin dash: 
 Each drop is a tiny rainbow — 
 
 Their brilliant colors flash. 
 
 The waterfall swift leaping 
 
 Adowu the rocky heiglit. 
 Is lost below in waters 
 
 Of sparkling beauty bright. 
 
 The stately river, sweeping 
 
 In majesty and pride 
 Through meadows green, and forests. 
 
 Becomes old i)ceaii's bride. 
 
 The lofty mountain lifting 
 
 Its crested head to heaven. 
 Shook by the thunder's cannonade, 
 
 By lightning's flashes riven. 
 
 The clouds that float above me. 
 
 The very air I breathe. 
 Have power around my iieart-strings. 
 
 And through my life to wreathe 
 
 Sweet thoughts and glowing visions. 
 
 That never shall depart. 
 Till death with icy fingers 
 Has chilled the throbbing heart. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I fain would grasp my idle pen 
 
 To wiiile the weary time. 
 And heiigt! my wandering fancy in 
 
 With rude uncertain rhyme. 
 But what to-*iay shall be my theme? 
 
 Whose praises shall I sing? 
 The knights of Arthur's table round? 
 
 The fairies' magic ring? 
 
964 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. BELLA T. RUTH. 
 
 Born: Lone Tkee, Iowa, Aug. 28, 1864. 
 In 1883 this lady was married to Dr. C. E. 
 Buth, an eminent physician, who for a time 
 was professor of anatomy at the Keokuk 
 Medical College, Iowa. The poems of Mrs. 
 
 MRS. DELT.A T. RUTH. 
 
 Ruth have appeared in the Muscatine Daily 
 Journal and other publications. She now 
 has a family of three children, and resides 
 in Muscatine, Iowa. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 Oh ! for the days of our childhood, 
 
 The days that we ne'er can forget. 
 And fondly we dream of tliem ever. 
 
 And sigh witli a lasting regret. 
 
 Regret that we cannot live over 
 Those bright halcyon days of the past. 
 
 When we thought not of care,but of pleasure. 
 For it seemed that joy always would last. 
 
 When we dreamed that the beautiful flowers. 
 
 Strewn around, made our patliway so 
 
 bright. 
 
 And we thought not of the trials and sorrows 
 
 That miglit change all its brightness to 
 
 night. 
 
 And we grasped witli a liand so tenacious 
 The treasure we deemed so secure. 
 
 And we wakened to find it had vanished 
 Like others that were equally sure. 
 
 We think of the hills and the valleys 
 Where we roamed with delight wlien a child 
 
 And we tenderly dwell on the murmurs 
 That we heard in the forest so wild. 
 
 And we'll never forget the sweet songsters 
 Where'er they've been seen or were heard, 
 
 Nor the brooklet that sparkled so gaily 
 As it echoed the song of the bird. 
 
 Alas ! for the dreams and the fancies 
 Of youth's morn, when its borders we reach, 
 
 For we dimly foresee in the distance 
 The duties and life-work of each. 
 
 We can only distinguish the outlines. 
 And we are hurried along with the throng, 
 
 But we realize then witli misgivings. 
 That we've started, and must go along. 
 
 How wisely our Heavenly Father, 
 Kept the future veiled safely from sight. 
 
 For the knowledge might slacken our labors. 
 And our souls left to grope in the night. 
 
 So we try to be cheerful and happy, 
 As poor mortals like we ever can. 
 
 And to do as our Savior commanded 
 To work out his glorious plan. 
 
 But still to our minds retrospection, 
 (Try to do and to hope as we may,) 
 
 Comes with childhood's and youth's recollec- , 
 tions, 
 As slowly we go on our way. - 
 
 I 
 
 * 
 
 *- 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The problem of life is a mystified one. 
 Of ups and downs and uncertainty ever. 
 And with all we can do, or might have done 
 Witli all that others may do and endeavor. 
 The race is still human, our foibles the same 
 Our cares will be manifold and bear theoU 
 name. 
 
 W'e may drift about on tlie ocean of life. 
 We may float along with the tide. 
 And seem to foi-get that our journey is rife 
 With sin and dread sorrow whicli go side b 
 
 side; 
 But we're startled at last from our dee 
 
 letliargy 
 And realize more tlie perils at sea. 
 j? 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 965 
 
 MRS. ANN E. MAINS. 
 
 Boiin: Sutton, Vt., June 7, 1840. 
 This lady tvas married in 1863 to Geo. H. 
 Mains, the publislier of the Wakemaii Press, 
 of which publication Mrs. Mains was for a 
 jiumhpr of xcais ;issi.stant editor. She has 
 
 MKS. ANN E. MAINS. 
 
 written quite a few poems which have ap- 
 peared in the periodical press, and still re- 
 sides in Wakemau, Ohio, with her children. 
 Mrs. Mains is very fond of flowers, of which 
 she has quite a large variety. 
 
 DEAD HOPE. 
 I stood beside a silent bier. 
 
 Spread with a sable pall. 
 No other mourners gathered near 
 
 In the dim lighted hall. 
 
 Friends of my youth had tied away, 
 And all the dreams of yore 
 
 Were but as idols made of clay. 
 Cherished by me no more. 
 
 Ambition that my bosom stirred 
 When youth was fair and bright, 
 
 Down the dark corridors of time, 
 Had vanished from my sight. 
 
 And love long since had folded up 
 Her silken wings and tied; 
 
 Now the last drop had filled the cup. 
 For Hope, fair Hope was dead. 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Unto your keeping, mother, is lent 
 
 A casket of jewels r;ire. 
 To wreathe for your head a diadem, 
 
 Tliat no otlier brow may wear. 
 
 To your hand is given the task to shape. 
 And mold their form to your rvill, 
 
 Shape tliem to fit the place in your crown. 
 The Master wished them to till. 
 
 Do well your task, lest in other years. 
 
 Their radiance shall grjw dim, 
 And the Master shall lake thy work in hand. 
 
 He gave you too for Him. 
 
 Sure He will ask them of you again. 
 
 It may be later or soon. 
 Some He may want at even-time. 
 
 And some before it is noon. 
 
 And some in the brightness of morning, 
 
 He recalls ere scarcely given. 
 To place them, safe, for the tiny pearls, 
 
 In your mother-crown in heaven. 
 
 THE SONGS OUR MOTHERS SUNG. 
 The .songs our mothers used to sing. 
 
 In old times long ago, 
 Down through the fleeting years will ring 
 
 In cadence soft and low. 
 We hear the soothing cradle hymn 
 
 That hushed us oft to rest. 
 When evening shadows gathered dim. 
 
 In the fast fading west. 
 Our head was pillowed on her breast, 
 
 A sacred resting place. 
 And round our form tier arms were pressed. 
 
 In a close, fond embrace. 
 What memories the songs l)riug back. 
 
 From out the dreamy past, 
 Sliedding soft radiance on the tnick 
 
 Our feet are treading fast. 
 Where'er our weary heads may lie. 
 
 On thorny pillows i)ressed. 
 We hear in dreams the lullaby. 
 
 That hushed us oft to rest. 
 Then, mothers, sing the simple lays 
 
 Your children love to hear. 
 Tliat they perchance, in other days 
 
 May help sad hours to cheer. 
 The songs niay prove a bond to stay 
 
 Their feet from evil ways. 
 When tlicj' have wandered far away 
 
 From home and happy days. 
 Yes, mothers, sing the songs again 
 
 You oft have sung before; 
 The soothing, cheering, soft refrain 
 
 We fain woiild hear once more. 
 
 gi- 
 
 « 
 
5-- 
 
 966 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS.LIZZIE CLARK HARDY. 
 
 Born: St. Lawrence Co., N. Y. 
 At an early age this lady became a teacher 
 and voluminous magazine and newspaper 
 writer, and lier poems and slsetclies have 
 appeared in Frank Leslie's, Scribner's, Wav- 
 erly, Chicago Tribune, Advance, House- 
 
 iili>. I.l/.zn. (I. AUK HAliDV. 
 
 keeper, and numerous other publiciitious. 
 Many of her poems liave been used as recita- 
 tions in public, while others have been sec 
 to music. In 1871 she was married to Joseph 
 M. Hardy and is a resident of Red Cedar, Wis. 
 
 MY NEIGHBOR. 
 Love your neighbor as yourself — 
 
 Thus the Good Book readeth; 
 And I glance across the way 
 
 At my neighbor Editli, 
 Wlio. with garden-hat and gloves, 
 
 Til rough the golden hours 
 Of tlie sunny summer-morn, 
 
 Flits among hor flowers. 
 Love your neighbor as yourself — 
 
 Winsome, blue-eyed girlie. 
 Golden gleams of sunny hair, 
 
 Dimpled, pink and pearly. 
 As I lean upon the stile 
 
 And watch her at her labor. 
 How nuich better than myself 
 
 Do I love my neighbor? 
 Love your neiglibor as yourself — 
 
 How devout I'm growing! 
 
 *- 
 
 All my heart with fervent love 
 Toward my neighbor growing. 
 
 Ah ! to keep that blest command 
 Were the sweetest labor. 
 
 For with all my heart and soul 
 Do I love my neighbor I 
 
 HAUNTED. 
 There are spirits abroad in the air to-night, 
 1 can hear the sweep of their wings. 
 There's a weird gleam in the moonlight white 
 And a whisper of wonderful things. 
 You might think perhaps 'twas a summer 
 
 breeze 
 That is murmuring such mystical rhymes; 
 Through the quivering sprays of the linden 
 
 trees. 
 Or the boughs of the sighmg limes; 
 But I know it's the rustle of spirit wings. 
 For I hear them whisper such wonderful 
 
 things. 
 There's a faint perfume in the air to-night 
 That is borne from the Isle of Dreams, 
 On the glittering pinions and garments white 
 That glint in the moonlit gleams. 
 You might say perhaps, 'twas the mignonette 
 In its nook by the garden wall ; 
 Or the heliotrope with night dew wet. 
 Or the oleander's ball. 
 But I know it is wafted from fairy wings 
 For I hear them whisper such wonderful 
 
 things. 
 There are wonderful spirits abroad to-night. 
 They are telling me strange, sweet tlungs, 
 And I dip my pen but I cannot write. 
 For the sweep of their silver wings. 
 Such beautiful poems and wordless psalms. 
 Such symphonies quaint and rare. 
 Such glittering pinions and fragrant balms 
 As are borne on the haunted air. 
 For the spirits are holding a revel to-night, 
 And I poise my pen but I cannot write. 
 
 ROSES RED AND MIGNONETTE. 
 Oftentimes a rare, sweet memory 
 
 Thrills me with a vague unrest. 
 As I watch the purple shadows 
 
 Drop from out the amber west; 
 And I wander to the garden. 
 
 With the night dew gleaming wet. 
 Gathering — in a fragrant cluster- 
 Roses vvd and mignonette. 
 In a fragrant, dewy cluster — 
 
 Just as in the long-ago 
 Dainty fingers often twined them. 
 
 Wit h quaint words and laugliter low — 
 Quaint, sweet words and girlish laughter,— 
 
 Golden gleams of sunny hair. 
 Lustrous eyes and drooping lashes, 
 
 Star-white face — oh, memory rare! 
 ••J 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 967 
 
 REV. J. K. MASON, D. D. 
 
 Born: Bethel,, Me., Sept. 30, 1817. 
 This gentleman received his education in 
 Bowdoin College and Bangor Theological 
 Seminary, and was ordained a Congrega- 
 tional minister in 1849. He was married the 
 same year to Miss Susanna R. Twitchell, by 
 whom lie has several children now grown to 
 
 REV. JAVAN K. MASON, D. I>. 
 
 maturity. The Rev. J. K. Mason has filled pas- 
 torates at Hamden Congregational church 
 for sixteen years; Thomaston for thirteen 
 years; nine years at Fryeburg, and is now 
 pastor of the Congregational church at 
 Herndon, Va. This minister has also been 
 chaplain of the Maine State prison; over- 
 seer of Bowdoin College for twenty-flve 
 years, and also one of the class examiners, 
 besides serving on other important commit- 
 tees. In 18T3 Mr. Mason was tlie Maine 
 commissioner in the International Peniten- 
 tiary Congress held in London, after the ad- 
 journment of which he made the tour of 
 Europe. He has also been honored with 
 other positions of trust. 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 " What IS Life?" 
 
 'Tis a vapor; 
 
 Once appearing; 
 
 Soon dispell'd; 
 Yet upon it hangs a Future, 
 Now but partialis' unveil'd. 
 
 Then improve it; 
 
 Make it n.seful: — 
 
 Waste it not in idle dreams; — 
 
 For the moments — 
 
 Swiftly passing. 
 Bring you to th' Eternal Shore:- 
 
 Near that Future, 
 
 Jesus helps for — 
 You will dwell in Evermore. 
 
 RECEPTION SONG. 
 Savior and dearest friend. 
 On whom mj' hopes depend; 
 
 Thou lamb divine; 
 I come to thee to-daj'. 
 To follow as I maj\ 
 O, let me ever say. 
 
 Thine — wholly thine I 
 
 I take thy cross — to bear; 
 And would thine image wear 
 
 Thro' life's dark way. 
 Let me behold thy face. 
 And live in thine embrace; 
 Nor fail of thy rich grace. 
 
 Be thou my stay I 
 
 My heart to thee I give. 
 Help me for thee to live. 
 Almighty One! 
 Do thou my soul inspire. 
 Fill me with holy flre. 
 To lift thy banner iiigher. 
 
 Till victory's won. 
 This day I thee confess, 
 And humbly trust thj' grace; 
 
 Incarnate God. 
 O lead me on I pray ; 
 Keep me from sin's foul way; 
 Wash all my guilt away. 
 
 In tliinc own blood. 
 Accept the praise I bring. 
 While to thy cross I cling — 
 
 Borne for a world ! 
 How gloriv)U3 is tlie throne. 
 Whereon •• Thou art sat down: " 
 O welcome me — thine own I 
 
 Jesus — my Lord. 
 
 FOR A LADY'S ALBUM. 
 I'm a book ! and I've pages fair. 
 Having lids tliat are tinted witli colors rare; 
 T am wliite, nor black, nor red, nor green. 
 And shall afford no sanctum for anyone's 
 spleen. 
 
 Nor a line for a flatterer's pen. 
 
 I'm a gift! and I've language true. 
 From a heart transparent as crystal dew. 
 lam yellow, nor brown, nor gray, I weeu. 
 And contain no corner for anything mean; 
 Nor a page for what is vain 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 968 
 
 -« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MARY ELLA NOBLE. 
 
 Born: Louisburg, N. C, Jan. 3, 1865. 
 The subject of this sketch follows the pro- 
 fession of school teaching, and is a resident 
 of Athens, Ga. Her poems hav.e appeared in 
 
 MARY EliliA NOBLE. 
 
 the Atlanta Constitution, the New Orleans 
 Picayune, the Richmond Dispatcli, and other 
 publications. Miss Noble hopes to publish 
 her poems in book-form in the near future. 
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 With visions and fancies, 
 
 Mj- restless brain dances. 
 And builds me a castle so fair and so fine : 
 
 Of hopes it is builded. 
 
 With dreams it is gilded, 
 This castle of air in the summer sunshine. 
 
 Like as perfumed odors 
 
 Tlirough ivory pagodas, 
 Tliat float from tlie gardens of spices and 
 myrrh;— 
 
 Are the dreams full of glory. 
 
 That liglit up each story, [her. 
 
 And fill all my castle with sweet thouglits of 
 
 I see with each vision 
 
 Of pictures Elysian, [blur: 
 
 Just one that is perfect without blemish or 
 
 It hangs on each ceiling. 
 
 Of worshipful feeling. 
 The glorified picture I paint me of her. 
 
 As silver bells ringing, 
 
 A sweet voice is singing. 
 
 That thrills through my bosom and all my 
 heart stirs; — 
 
 And the rapturous longing 
 
 Says to whom 'tis belonging, [hers. 
 And I know the sweet voice and its music are 
 
 And I am her vassal 
 
 Who lives in this castle. 
 And she, my dear sovereign, whose rule can 
 not err: 
 
 Her wish is my pleasure. 
 
 Her heart is my treasure, — 
 This castle >> Sans-souci " is builded for her. 
 
 Will it fall with the gloaming? 
 
 With the night that is coming? 
 Oh ! Prophet of Amours, Oh ! say'twill not be. 
 
 For if it fall over, 
 
 I pray that it cover, 
 I pray that it cover my darling and me. 
 
 THE FAR PASTURE. 
 Tliere are Water-cress and Brindle and Bess, 
 But where is my Bonnie Kate? 
 
 Though I am to mind her, 
 
 Nowliere can 1 find her. 
 And now it is growing late. 
 Over the meadows and through the dark 
 
 shadows 
 1 have sought her long and well. 
 
 At last I have found her. 
 
 Tall grasses around her, 
 Adown in the fragrant dell. 
 Siie had gone astray, and had lost her way 
 In the clover-blossoms white: 
 
 The cool, sweet clover 
 
 Had tempted her over 
 To the pasture far to-night. 
 I tenderly led her, through valley and 
 
 meadow,— 
 (To lead and not drive seemed but right.) 
 
 'Twas the sweet, white clover 
 
 That tempted her over. 
 And who of us always does right? 
 And the strangest feeling is over mestealing. 
 And seems through the shadows to come,' __^ 
 
 As beneath the wide bars 
 
 And the silvery stars, 
 Bonnie Kate and I go home. 
 The damp dew is falling, dear voices are 
 
 calling:— 
 I too, have strayed off from tlie right;— 
 
 For the sweet, white clover 
 
 Has tempted her over, 
 I'm i!i the far jtasture to-night. 
 But oh! will Ho blame me, or seek to reclaim 
 If I call to liim now will He come? [me? 
 
 And over tlie meadows. 
 
 And tlirough all the shadows, 
 Lead His poor wanderer home? 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 9(i9 
 
 MOLLIE MARTIN. 
 
 Born: Knawha Co., W. Va., Jan. 17, 1844. 
 This lady has written poems on various sub- 
 jects—sacred hymns, songs of home, tem- 
 perance and patriotic sonjis, which have ap- 
 
 MOLLIE MARTIN. 
 
 peared in Peterson's Magazine and the peri- 
 odical press. She lias also taught school. 
 
 ODE TO CHARITY, OR CHRISTIAN LOVE. 
 Sweet Charity, fair angel guest. 
 
 Come in and bide with me. 
 Sit thou enthroned within my breast. 
 
 Bid selfish feelings flee. 
 Cho.— Come in, come in, come in. 
 
 Thy peaceful reign begin. 
 Come in, sweet Charity, come in. 
 
 Come in and bide with me. 
 Then chords of sympathy will wake. 
 
 My heart with pity glow. 
 I'll freely give for thy sweet sake. 
 
 Will I thy alms bestow. 
 I'll aid the suffering, help the weak. 
 
 The sorrowing cheer and bless. 
 Unto the erring kindly si)eak. 
 
 And my own faults confess. 
 
 MY LITTLE PLAYMATE. 
 
 I'm thinking of a playmate. 
 
 Who made my childhood blest 
 Within tlie fjuiet cliurchyard 
 
 She peacefully doth rest. 
 Light as the winged zephyr. 
 
 Free as the birds of air. 
 We roamed the hills and valleys 
 
 When summer skies were fair. 
 
 Sweet little brown-eyed Effle, 
 
 Her heart with love did glow. 
 She seemed to live f<jr others, 
 
 That's why I loved lier .so. 
 That sw(>ct unsc'lflsh being, 
 
 Was like a cIutuIi bright. 
 That winged hei- llighi from Heaven, 
 
 To guide my feet aright. 
 Tliroughout the joyous summer 
 
 She wandered by my side. 
 And like a gleam of sunshine 
 
 Into my life did glide. 
 Oh, friend so true and faitliful. 
 
 Oh, playmate kind and dear. 
 Blest with thy sunny presence. 
 
 Heaven seemed very near. 
 Her little feet grew weary 
 
 Along life's rugged way. 
 She laid her down to slumber. 
 
 One lovely autumn day. 
 A strange uneartlily beauty 
 
 Over her features spread. 
 Then up the golden gateway 
 
 On snowy wings she sped. 
 Where night-winds softly whisper. 
 
 And stars their vigil keep. 
 And streamlets gently murmur 
 
 We laid her down to sleep; 
 While I life's storms liave breasted 
 
 Througli all these weary years. 
 My playmate dear has rested 
 
 Secure from grief and fears. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 My beloved Christian .Mother. 
 Who had trained my feet to tread 
 In the peaceful patli of virtue. 
 Now is numbered witli the dead; 
 What a i>ang tioili rend my Ixisom 
 Wlien I see lier vacant chair. 
 Then I turn my tlioughts to Heaven, 
 For I know my mother's thert^. 
 
 Now my patliway will be lonely, 
 Cliords of sadness shade my brow; 
 None to share my joys and sorrows. 
 For I have no Mother now. 
 Safely o'er tlie waves of Jordan 
 Thou was borne on pini>ns white 
 To tliat pure celestial region 
 Where the skies are always bright. 
 
 Farewell kind and loving Mother 
 Since the Savior saw it best 
 For to call thee home to heaven, 
 There to mingle with the blest. 
 When life's toils all are over 
 Then I hope with thee to meet. 
 Where the tree of life is blooming 
 We will join In converse swevt. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 970 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GARDINERS. PLUMLEY,D.D. 
 
 Born: Washington, D. C, Aug. 11, 1827. 
 This gentleman is a clergyman, well-known 
 in the relig-ious world. He has composed 
 many poems and also composed music for 
 many of his hymns. Besides heing- pastor at 
 
 GARDINER SPRING PLUMLEY, D. D. 
 
 Greenfield Hill, Conn., Dr. Plumley writes 
 constantly for the press, and is editor of the 
 Learner and Teacher, an educational maga- 
 zine published in New York City. Tlie poems 
 and hymns of G. S. Plumley, D. D., F. S. S., 
 have received extensive publication in the 
 religious and secular press ot America. Mr. 
 Plumley was married in 1850 to Miss Emily 
 Augusta Fisher, daughter of the celebrated 
 artist Alvin Fisher. 
 
 DOLLY. 
 
 LADDIE'S LETTER. 
 
 Dear Aunt Emma:— Papa and Mama 
 Came back from their journey in May, 
 And they brought in their carriage so far 
 A dear little lamb all the way. 
 
 Such a beautiful lamb you ne'er saw. 
 Her fleece is as white as can be ; 
 Wlien she wants to come in she will paw. 
 And stamp on the door-step for me. 
 
 On her neck a red collar she wears 
 With a bright silver plate for her name: 
 It is Dolly, and quickly she hears 
 When we call her to join in our game. 
 
 She fears not to eat from my hand 
 Oats, lettuce, grass, clover and hay. 
 And I think you would sa}' it is grand 
 If you could but see us at play. 
 
 She plays '• tag " with us down by the creek. 
 
 But the funniest caper of all 
 
 Is that as we play " hide and seek " 
 
 She hunts all around when we call. 
 
 But this morning we've all been so sad. 
 
 And crying to think we must part; 
 
 I never knew lambs could be bad. 
 
 And I'm svire it will quite break my heart. 
 
 For Dolly begins to grow wild. 
 And to knock down poor Rollo and me; 
 And acts like a real naughty child. 
 So Papa says we'll have to agree — 
 
 To send her away to be sold. 
 
 And to-morrow the farmer will come 
 
 To take her away to his fold ; 
 
 With his sheep must be Dolly's new home. 
 
 AUNT EMMA'S REPLY. 
 
 Dear Laddie:— I'm sorry to hear 
 Tliat Dolly is going away. 
 For from what your note tells me, T fear 
 You will all miss her much in your play. 
 
 Besides, when one leaves a nice place 
 Where Ills home has been pleasant and bright 
 To see him sent off in disgrace 
 Is surely a pitiful sight. 
 
 But how would you like it, my child. 
 If Papa to dear Laddie should say: 
 You are growing so naughty and wild 
 That I'm going to send you away. 
 
 I am sure you are far more to blame 
 Than Dolly so active and strong, [name. 
 
 Though she comes when you call out her 
 She knows not, like you, right from wrong. 
 
 Were you thus sent away, 3-ou would roam 
 Thirsty, tired and hungry for food; 
 And if only once more safe at home. 
 You would promise, I'm sure, to be good. 
 
 And the reason you're not punished so 
 Is because your dear parents are kind; 
 They hope that as older you grow 
 You'll learn to do right and to mind. 
 
 You ought then to love them each day 
 More and more for their kindness to you. 
 And to Jesus sincerely to pray 
 That He all y(nir .sins will subdue. 
 
 Lamb of God! He will prove to the end. 
 Ever gentle, and loving, and mild. 
 The Refuge, the Guide :uid the Friend. 
 And Savior for each little child. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAT^ AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 !t71 
 
 HORACE MCINTYRE. 
 
 Quite a few poems have appeared from the 
 pen of the subject of this sketch. Mr. Mc- 
 
 HORACE M'INTYRE. 
 
 Intyre is a resident of Ainsworth, Neb., 
 where he is engagred in publishing. 
 
 THE JOY OF KNOWING. 
 Dark and glooms' were the days, for sad 
 
 were liis surroundings. 
 When an angel in her ways, touclied liis 
 
 heart to quick reboundings, 
 He could not tell from whence she came, for 
 
 silent was her coming. 
 But he softly breathed her name in his lieart 
 
 song's soulful humming. 
 
 Eagerly he sighed in wonder at the mystic 
 
 message pouring. 
 Soft as zephyrs —deep as thunder — from a 
 
 distant storm cloud roaring. 
 Then again to silence lapsing. In his heait a 
 
 prayer upheaving. 
 Bore his soul away enraptured — mortal foi- 
 
 immortal leaving. 
 
 Back again, to earth returning, all, he pon- 
 dered, is not venal- 
 Adding fuel to the burning yearning in liis 
 
 station regal. 
 For, while power to him w.as granted, all his 
 
 mandates would be vain. 
 Save his life be all recanted and at Jesus' 
 feet be hiin. 
 
 Tenderly another message by his angel 
 
 Love is given, 
 Bearing unto Iiim a pressage of that iiappi- 
 
 ness in heaven. 
 That ' twas given witli assurance of a heart 
 
 as pure as rare. 
 Pressed his life beyond endurance, unto 
 
 bliss beyond compare. 
 
 " Hold," lie cried, " your beauty smites me 
 
 with a force I can't withstand; " 
 " Hold," my conscience almost blights me: 
 
 by your kindness I'm unmanned. 
 " Why sliould you to me, a stranger, such 
 
 rare sympathy reveal? " 
 " Why should you entail such danger as 
 
 with wayward souls conceal? " 
 
 But through tears and smiles she beckoneii 
 "Come up higher, you're not lost!" 
 
 "Time to you my friend is reckoned; but a 
 dark vale must be crossed." 
 
 Then with innocent expression she explain- 
 ed how it was done, 
 
 And wiih frankness and confession viewed 
 her Ijattles lost and won. 
 
 Then a mist aro.se before him. for liis eyes 
 
 were dimmed with tears. 
 And a shadow hovered o'er liim, mingling 
 
 doubt and hope and fears; 
 And lie i>rostrate fell before her, "For my 
 
 joy I look to thee — 
 " Be my guide," did he implore her. But to 
 
 Jesus pointed she. 
 
 " All my hopes have fled." he faltered, " for 
 I am, alas, so weak; " 
 
 "AH my ways .she deftly altered, now I die- 
 she will not speak; " 
 
 "Weak and vile and sad, forsaken, broken 
 hearted, bruised and sore; " 
 
 "By her liand my faitli is sliaken, all her 
 kindness I deplore." 
 
 " Chide me not," slie faintly pleaded, •• for 
 
 I'm weak as well as you; 
 " Moral strength I've sadly needed-Jesus is 
 
 my All. my True — 
 " To liis guidance I command you. turn to 
 
 him yet while you may, 
 "And my fervent prayers I lend you— will 
 
 you not?— I pray you, pray." 
 
 Silence reigned supreme, but in liis heart he 
 felt that all was well; 
 
 On his brow the warmest beam of angel sun- 
 shine ro.se and fel'; 
 
 Tenderly it firmly drew him toward the 
 Realm of endless day; 
 
 And the very hand that slew him tunes his 
 harp and lights his way. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
•J.- 
 
 9^ 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LOU VALERIA WILLSON. 
 
 Born: Pulaski, Mich., Sept, 23, 1866. 
 
 Many of the poems of Miss Willson have ap- 
 peared in Peterson's, Saturday Night, Cot- 
 tage Hearth, Detroit Free Press and other 
 
 L,Otr VALERIA WILLSON. 
 
 publications. Besides writing poems she is 
 the author of several stories and sketches 
 which have found their way into print. 
 This artist and writer resides with her par- 
 ents in Jackson, Mich. 
 
 IT NIPS US A'. 
 At yester morn it was nae cauld. 
 
 At e'en it seemed nae caulder; 
 But as the mirky nicht cam' on. 
 
 The frost it then grew Vjolder, 
 An' nipped the bonny posies a'. 
 
 Poor, chittering posies! nipped them a', 
 
 Ah weel, ah weel ! 'Tis ever sae 
 With flowers an' men. Sae surely 
 As days are bricht an' suns are warm. 
 An' we dwell maist securely. 
 
 The frost conies on an' nips us a'! 
 Baith blooms an' men it nips us a' 1 
 
 *- 
 
 MOTHS, BEWARE. 
 Her eyes are blue, of gold her hair; 
 She has a face divinely fair,"— 
 Oh yes, T know. 
 
 •' Her cheek just shows a tint of rose I 
 Red lips the whitest pearls disclose," 
 
 Just so, just sol 
 You love this daintj' maiden fair? 
 
 Beware ! 
 To be " her slave " you're nothing loath? 
 You'll singe your wings, my pretty moth. 
 Take care ! 
 
 "Her form displays a witching grace. 
 That matches well her flower-like face," 
 
 Oh yes, I know. 
 "Her smile is like a sunbeam bright," 
 She is, you say, "your life and light." 
 
 Ho, ho! Just so! 
 You think to win this maiden fair, 
 
 Beware I 
 Girls often are such fickle things — 
 You foolish moth, you'll Singe your wings. 
 Take care ! 
 
 She smiles, you say, and smiles on you. 
 And love beams from her eyes so true. 
 
 Ho, ho ! I know ! 
 To all, the candle gives its light, 
 All bask within her smile so bright. 
 
 Oh, j'es, 'tis so! 
 And though she is divinely fair, 
 
 Beware ! 
 Full many a victim has she slain. 
 Think of your wings, oh moth, so vain. 
 Take care I 
 
 And as to smiles, you silly elf. 
 She's laughing at your foolish self— 
 
 Ho, ho! 'tis so! 
 The merriment she scarcely tries 
 To keep from out her laughing eyes. 
 
 My friends, I know. 
 Avoid those curls of golden hair- 
 Beware ! 
 Avoid those merry eyes of blue, 
 Or with scorched wings your fate you'll 
 rue. 
 
 Take care I 
 
 What now ! What means that look of woe? 
 And was I right? And is it so? 
 
 Pray let me know! 
 We liave not: met tliese many days. 
 The motli has felt the candle's blaze? 
 
 Ho, lio! just so! 
 Well, limp away, for lights more fair 
 
 Are there. 
 The harm is slight, 'Us very clear. 
 Your wings will grow again, no fear. 
 And then, beware! 
 
 I 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 973 
 
 -* 
 
 W.SCOTT GARNER. 
 
 Born: Pkeston Co., W. Va., Jan. 16, 1848. 
 
 Mr. G.\rner was educated at Kingwood 
 Academy and is now engag-ed In the publish- 
 ing business and as editor of his publica- 
 tions. Ho lias writti'ii over ;i huiulieil poems. 
 
 W. SCOTT GARNER. 
 
 many of which have appeared in the Pitts- 
 burgh Christian Advocate, Preston County 
 Journal, Grafton Sentinel, Kingwood Herald, 
 Garner's Herald and other periodicals. Mr. 
 Garner was married in 1881 to Miss Mary Kay 
 of Niles, Mich., and now resides with his 
 wife and children at Tunnclton, W. Va. 
 
 ONE POET. 
 He sat within his lonely room, 
 
 A prey to grief and care; 
 His brow was veiled in deepest gloom. 
 
 And stamped by wan despair. 
 Yet on his noljle features slione 
 
 Tlie light of love and truth. 
 For life's grand [lassion he had known. 
 
 Though still in manhood's youth. 
 
 Disease liad stolen from his cheek 
 Health's badge of roseate hue. 
 
 And dimmed the luster of his bright 
 And sparkling eyes of blue. 
 
 Yet intellect held firm her throne, 
 
 And genius wove her spell. 
 Which happier hearts would gladly own 
 
 And coming ages tell. 
 
 Fame's laurel wreath had ceased to charm. 
 
 His early hopes had tied; 
 The one bright being he liad loved 
 
 Was numbered with the dead; 
 Aud so he turned from earthly life 
 
 With weary heart and brain. 
 And sought the rest that follows strife — 
 
 That frees from care and pain. 
 
 Thus fade the poet's dazzling dreams 
 
 Of lionor, love and fame — 
 Shattered by Fate, at one fell stroke, 
 
 The shrine that held his name! 
 But in that land unknown to men. 
 
 Those dreams shall live anew I 
 Each bud of thought shall bloom again 
 
 Brighter than erst it grew! 
 
 FIGHT BRAVELY. 
 Fling your banners on the air I 
 
 You must flght the battle through 
 Life is full of an.xious care — 
 
 Wonder not it comes to you. 
 
 Breathe your prayer for victory 
 Wliile you're standing mid the strife! 
 
 Swear eternal fealty 
 To the higher aims of life! 
 
 Step with both eyes bent above 
 On the world's l)road battle-fleld; 
 
 Dare to do and die for truth — 
 Never once the battle yield! 
 
 Heed not what the world may say 
 
 To your inner self be true! 
 And when dawns that better day, 
 
 God and men will honor you. 
 
 Let the sland'rer's venomed tongue 
 Do its worst to blight your fame — 
 
 Scandal's foulest drops be wrung 
 On the shrine that holds your name! 
 
 Still look upward ! Heed them not ! 
 
 Rally where yotir standard waves! 
 You shall live when they .'liall rot 
 
 In their loul, forgotten gr.ives. 
 
 Stand for truth, and do the right! 
 
 See! the high command is given! 
 Join you to this righteous flght. 
 
 As you value God and Heaven ! 
 
9f 
 
 974 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JENNIE H. RASMUSSEN. 
 
 Born : Denmark, Oct. 2, 1867. 
 Jennie was brought to this country when a 
 babe, and now follows the occupation of 
 bookkeeper at Albert Lea, Minn. Her poems 
 
 JENNTE HELENA RASMTTSSEN. 
 
 have appeared in tlie Interior of Minneapo- 
 lis, Enterprise and Standard of Albert Lea, 
 and other publications. 
 
 *- 
 
 YOUTH. 
 Youth is pleasing-, youth is charming. 
 
 There is something, O, so free. 
 In its movements, in expression. 
 
 Bubbling out from inward glee. 
 At^G can charm us for a moment. 
 
 When it does itself forget, 
 Bui it lacks the gentle lightness. 
 
 Of a heart for joy just set. 
 Youth is richness, youth is glory, 
 
 Wrapped witliin, celestial bliss. 
 Spanned by heaven's and earth's affection, 
 
 Circled by the Maker's kiss. 
 Love and kindness, all spontaneous 
 
 Bursting out from inward store. 
 Has no bound, no form, no measure. 
 
 Empties out yet still there's more. 
 Youth where virtue reigns exclusive 
 
 Knows no self-created sin. 
 Has not reached to the painful knowledge 
 
 Of a rebel liost within; 
 Freely acts from inward motives. 
 
 Does not stop to calculate. 
 
 Often utt'ring truths so precious. 
 
 Truths that chide and animate. 
 Youth's a blessing, heavenly blessing 
 
 For reflection, dark and deep. 
 When the youtli matures to manhood 
 
 And the sins seem grim and steep. 
 Then O childhood! blessed childhood! 
 
 Wafts a peace naught else can bring, 
 Breathes a rest almost unearthly. 
 
 Borne as on angelic wing. 
 
 IF 'TIS ONLY THEE. 
 I will not mind, dear Father, 
 What grievings I may meet. 
 The many thorns and briars, 
 That hurt my tender feet. 
 If 'tis only Thy hand that leads. 
 I will not mind the suff'ring. 
 What weights that o'er me roil. 
 The racking pains of body. 
 Or wrestlings of the soul. 
 If only Thy will be done. 
 I will not mind the darkness, 
 The cloud that liides Thy face; 
 That veils those loving smiles. 
 And sends me gloom in place. 
 If only Tliou art smiling above. 
 E'en though the i-od be lifted. 
 And falls with crushing blows, 
 I'll rise and call it blessed. 
 To feel these earthly woes. 
 If 'twas only Thy hand that smote. 
 The world may try to turn me. 
 Lay snares for many a fall, 
 But I will gain my object, 
 And conquer over all. 
 If only Thy arm upliold me. 
 
 GRIEF. 
 O, is there a mortal, who's onward in years, 
 That does not carry a grief? 
 O, is there a heart with feelings at all. 
 That has not sighed for relief? 
 We look at their faces — the mirror of hearts. 
 And what a difference we see, 
 Some carry their sorrows so silent and calm, 
 Approving it so should be; 
 Others so lightly and carelessly chase 
 Their grief and sorrow away. 
 They do not allow one hour of their life. 
 To pass in gloom and dismay. 
 O, life is a problem we can not explain. 
 Eternity only will tell [tress, 
 
 The why and tlie wlierefore of mortal's dis-; 
 And show 'twas inliniti-ly well; 
 So wise is tlie mortal and nol)le is lie, 
 Whose fate 'tis to carry a grief. 
 Who can smile at the clouds that threaten i ^ 
 And in waiting find a relief. [storm 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMERICA. 
 
 975 
 
 ARTHUR E.SMITH. 
 
 Born: Granvillk, N.Y., June 15, 1&\H. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Smith have appeared in 
 Peterson's Magazine, New England Home- 
 stead, American Kiiral Home, Cliicago Led- 
 ger, Albany Journal, .Arkansas Traveler, 
 
 ARTHUR E. SMITH. 
 
 Christian Nation and numerous other pub- 
 lications. He has written over six hundred 
 poems, manj- of which have received very 
 high praise from the press and public gener- 
 ally. Mr. Smith is engaged in mercantile 
 pursuits in the state of New York at Belcher. 
 
 THE BONNY MAIDEN. 
 Sweet summer send your softest gale 
 
 To greet a lover's ear, 
 For there is coming up the vale 
 
 A bonny little dear; 
 The daisies blossom 'neath her feet. 
 
 Wild roses by her path. 
 While thrushes answer — oh, so sweet — 
 
 Her merry, merry laugh. 
 
 Ye sunbeams play across the lea; 
 
 Ye willows fondly sigh; 
 For there's no fairer maid than she 
 
 Who now IS drawing nigh. 
 Her sparkling eyes are like the dew 
 
 Upon a wild-wood's flow'r. 
 And o'er her cheeks of crimson hue 
 
 Aye smiles like sunbeams pour. 
 
 Sweet sing yo bro<jks within yon glade, 
 
 A melody divine. 
 For there's no fairer rural maid 
 
 Than bonny Nellie mine; 
 Ye zephyrs kiss liei' lips rose-red 
 
 And fan her lily brow; 
 Ye gentle violets hang your heads. 
 
 And low before her bow. 
 
 Sweet summer send your softest gale 
 
 To greet a lover's ear. 
 For there is coming up the vale 
 
 A bonny little dear; 
 She's coming now to meet her love 
 
 Beneath the trysting-tree. 
 While voices from the maple grove 
 
 Make joyful melody. 
 
 BENEATH THE FOREST'S SHADE. 
 Beneatli the forest's shade I rest. 
 
 Wearied by the noon's sultry heat. 
 And hear the br<?ezes from the west 
 
 Amid the tall pines singing sweet. 
 
 Above me in the heated sky 
 
 Like a huge ball hangs the bright sun : 
 While over all the mountains nigh 
 
 The haze of not)n-tide settles down ! 
 
 Oh, glorious is the realm outspread. 
 The realm o'er wliicli fair summer reigns 
 
 The wooded hills, the skies o'erhead. 
 The meads and broad extended plains! 
 
 There o'er its channel deep and wide 
 The streamlet seeks the distant west; 
 
 And o'er it softly the warm winds glide. 
 Tossing in ripples its silvere<l breast. 
 
 I would that life would Vie as sweet. 
 Always at this noon-tide liour; 
 
 But joy must die as at my feet 
 Must die sometime yon lovely tiow'r! 
 
 I would that life would glide :is smooth 
 Betwixt its channels lus yon stream. 
 
 And that life's sunset hour would prove 
 To all more fair than iwet'sdreaui ! 
 
 THE OLD THYSTING TREE. 
 When the dewdrops are falling 
 
 O'er the green. gra>sy plains. 
 And the night-birds are chanting 
 
 Their gladstmie refrains,— 
 Then I think of the maiden 
 
 So dear, dear to me,— 
 And I go forth to meet her 
 
 'Neath the old trystiugtree! 
 
 Cho.— Oh, the maiden I love. 
 So loving is she ! 
 There's joy when I meet her 
 'Neath the old trysting tree'. 
 
*- 
 
 976 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 M. VICTOR STALEY. 
 
 Born: Omro, Wis., Dec. 19, 1866. 
 In 1880 the subject of this sketch removed to 
 Oshkosh, where he received the rudiments 
 of his education. He lias since studied at 
 Lawrence University of Appleton.Wis., earn- 
 
 M. VICTOR STALEY. 
 
 ing- the necessary means to do so during 
 vacation time. The poems of Mr. Staley have 
 appeared in the Chicago Ledger, Home Jour- 
 nal, the Oshkosh and Appleton papers. 
 
 THE AGE OF REASON. 
 When this world awakes to reason. 
 
 Shall the worth of man be told ; 
 Not by jewels and silken garments. 
 
 Nor the glitter of his gold ; 
 But by noble deeds of kindness, 
 
 Actions pure, and free from sin. 
 Then shall every wrong be righted — 
 
 Right shall conquer, trutli shall win. 
 
 Then no more shall kings and princes. 
 
 Men of wealth and titled names. 
 Claim the homage of tlie people. 
 
 While they live a life of shame; 
 Then no more shall they be honored 
 
 As the foremost of their time. 
 While their hearts are black as midnight. 
 
 And their souls are steeped in crime. 
 When this world shall wake to reason. 
 
 He who struggles for tlie right, 
 Down wliose pathway deeds of kindness 
 
 Cast tlieir rays of golden liglit; 
 
 He who speaketh words of comfort. 
 Hearts to cheer when dark the days. 
 
 Shall receive the people's blessings. 
 And the world's unstinted praise. 
 
 DELORA. 
 Oft have I stood by the purling stream, 
 'Neath the leafy shade of the forest tree. 
 Where warbled the birds in their merry glee, 
 And watched with pleasure the golden gleam 
 Of the waning sun as it sank to rest 
 Behind yon hill that towers in the west — 
 That rises just west of Azora. 
 
 Azora, whose waves of peaceful blue 
 Ripple gaily along the pebble shore; 
 While they whisper low of the days of yore. 
 Recalling to mind one whom I knew — 
 One whom I have watched as she gamboled 
 
 free. 
 As she laughed aloud in her childish glee; 
 She, my fair-liaired darling, Delora. 
 
 But ten short summers of added bloom. 
 Had deftly imprinted its beauty there. 
 On the face and form of that elfin fair. 
 When cruelly dark yawned the silent tomb; 
 And I missed the form I was wont to see. 
 And the merry laugliter of childish glee. 
 The innocent glee of Delora. 
 
 My heart is sad for 'neath yonder mound. 
 Now, almost kissed by the murmuring 
 
 stream. 
 Tinged fair with the glow of the sunset 
 
 gleam. 
 Where the wildwood flowers in beauty 
 
 abound. 
 Lies the slender form of that fair young 
 
 maid. 
 Yet, never shall out from my mem'ry fade. 
 The remembrance of sweet Delora. 
 
 THE SPIRIT QUEEN. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 And she did as he had bade her. 
 Ruled for years the tribes around. 
 Till the Manitou, her spirit 
 Called to happy hunting-gnninds. 
 On the shores of the •• Capole," 
 Smiling in its verdure green. 
 There her tribe laid her in splendor. 
 As became their Spirit Queen. 
 On the night of her interment 
 O'er her grave a storm arose. 
 And the spirits from the waters 
 Placed a rock o'er her repose; 
 While, for many years her people. 
 O'er her mound of tender green. 
 Said peace-offerings to their idol, 
 Waii-wc-tee, the "Spirit Queen." 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 977 
 
 EMERSON C. HOUSTON. M. D. 
 
 Born : Friendship, Me., Feb. 17, 183L 
 After attending' the Oxford Academj", Mr. 
 Houston studied medicine at Cleveland, O. 
 Dr. Houston has written about two luiiidred 
 poems, many of which have apjieared under 
 
 *£^-»f% J|f^. 
 
 I'll .-''N i>'IL.\l\:, Hi JT^l c i\, M. D. 
 
 a uom de plume. The title of his longest 
 poem is Fountain Dell, a romance in twelve 
 cantos. Dr. Houston follows his profession 
 of physician and surgeon at FuUerlon, Neb., 
 where he resides with his wife and family. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 Sweet home of my childhood I greet thee with 
 
 tears, 
 How blest were the hours at the heart h 1 
 Restrospective views of those innocent years 
 Show my happiest moments on earth. 
 My heart glows at sight of the old house at 
 
 home 
 And throbs like the waves of the sea ; 
 Will anyone thinking, " 1 wish he would 
 
 come," 
 Be waiting and watching for me? 
 
 My fond heart received its first lesson of love 
 From a kind mother's eloquent kiss; 
 Nor do I believe even angels above 
 Could have tasted more exquisite bliss. 
 The crystalline tears of my infantile years 
 Were tenderly soothed on her knee, 
 
 Will she in the hall, when my footsteps she 
 
 hears. 
 Be waiting and watching for me? 
 
 My venerable father who loved ine before 
 Mj" tongue learned a sentence to frame I 
 Gave his last blessing to me at the door, 
 And tenderly uttered my name — 
 Tho' burden'd with j-ears will he cordially 
 
 come 
 With welcome familiar and free. 
 And say, he has long at the dear happy home 
 Been waiting and watching for me. 
 
 How sweet 'twere to greet the glad group at 
 
 the hearth. 
 In childhcod so trusting and true! 
 My sisters, whose hearts are as pure as the 
 
 earth 
 In the days of its infancy knew; 
 My l)rothers who led me about by the hand. 
 And shared in my innocent glee. 
 And know that each one of our family band 
 Were waiting and watching for me. 
 
 How sweet is the thouglit, 1 am coming once 
 
 more. 
 The friends of my childhood to greet. 
 O say, will they meet me as erst at the door. 
 With welcomes as cordially sweet. 
 How wild my heart tlirobs with delicious 
 
 delight I 
 What objects familiar I .seel 
 Will every dear friend who expect me to-night 
 Be waiting and watching for me? 
 
 A STORM ON THE PHAIRIES. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 'Twas a wild, dark night, and the dreary blast 
 Came howling over the prairies vast; 
 For the storm king came in his icy car. 
 O'er the Arctic sea. fn^n the polar star. 
 Like a demon sent from the shades of death 
 To congeal the heart with his frozen breath. 
 
 'Twas a sudden change, when we bade adieu 
 To the garden city, and glad withdrew 
 From the busy street, jiav'd wliite with snow. 
 Every heart was light, as the bounding roe. 
 Then the engineshriek'd outashrillfarewell. 
 Our laugh rang clear as a golden bell. 
 
 We had come from where the Atlantic waves 
 Have a land that never was curs'd by slaves; 
 Aud one from the State of the evergreen 
 
 pine. 
 Where the "hundred lakes" in her lap 
 
 recline. 
 Who had bathed in Mansfield's o'erbanging 
 
 cloud, 
 Climb'd Alleghany and the Alpines proud. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 978 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE COLEMAN. 
 
 Born: Parke Co., Ind., May 15, laSO. 
 
 In 1852 Mr. Coleman removed to Glendon, 
 Iowa, where lie has resided ever since. For 
 nine years lie was a member of tin' cmitity 
 
 THOMAS MOORE COLEMAN. 
 
 board of Supervisors, seven years justice of 
 the peace, and has been county surveyor 
 and held other positions of trust in the 
 religious and political work of his county. 
 
 REAL TREASURES. 
 How often men fret over losses they feel. 
 And think they are heavy and staggrer and 
 reel, 
 
 And many times fall: 
 When nothing worth having or keeping is 
 
 lost. 
 Like a ship in a storm they're driven and 
 tossed. 
 
 For nothing at all. 
 Rut bits of dross. 
 Exceedingly small. 
 
 'Tis not the real loss that worry us most, 
 Many times out of our casket jewels are lost, 
 
 And we notice it not. 
 The heart's best affections so of t'n are soured 
 Impulses generous for good are devoured. 
 
 While anger is hot; 
 
 Humanity lowered — 
 
 Real treasures forgot. 
 ^ 
 
 Real treasures last ever,willgive us real joy. 
 That nothing can sever, that nothing can 
 
 Thy never take wings [cloy, 
 
 And leave us alone — they give sweeter relief. 
 Are much better than gold, for never a thief 
 
 Can rob us or bring 
 
 Sorrow and grief ; 
 
 They give us no sting. 
 A good deed or kind word, a generous 
 thought, [sought 
 
 Is worth more than money, had better be 
 
 Than silver or gold. 
 The one who treasures these up is richer far 
 Than the millionaire riding in mammon's 
 bright car, 
 
 He sorbid and old. 
 
 So soon stript bare. 
 
 Is poor witli his gold. 
 
 And yet the scramble for some bauble goes 
 
 on [throne. 
 
 With the beggar as well as th' king on his 
 
 The real is unsought. 
 And those jewels that shine as stars in the 
 
 skies. 
 By most are considered too unworthy to prize 
 
 Not giving one thought. 
 
 To the flimsy disguise. 
 
 In which evil is sought. 
 
 But give me the real gems that never will 
 
 fade. 
 So that when gold and fame and wealth have 
 decayed, 
 
 I shall have treasures in Heaven. 
 
 For though you siiould have all the baubles 
 
 of earth [birth. 
 
 With these only you are poorer at death than 
 
 Your happiness riven 
 
 And nothing of worth. 
 
 For all you have given. 
 
 Strive for riches that last, consider that best 
 
 Which strengthens the good and gives con- 
 science sweet rest. 
 
 Then blessings will come. 
 
 And light to your pathway though earth be 
 dreary. 
 
 With Jesus for a guide, loving and cheery. 
 Tliough trials do come. 
 You may be weary. 
 But will safely reach liome. 
 
 There safely lioused beyond niortahty's 
 shore, [more 
 
 Where sickness and .sorrow cati reach us no 
 And deatii none can sever; [bliss. 
 
 There with our loved ones in perfection of 
 
 In a beautiful world tirighter than this, 
 To leave it never. 
 Where God our Savior is. 
 We'll live forever and ever. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 979 
 
 GEORGE BUTLER GRIFFIN. 
 
 Born: New Yokk City, Sept. 8, 1840. 
 Aftkr receiving liis education at Columbia 
 College, Mr. Griffin studied engineering. 
 After working at tljat profession for several 
 years he returned to his native state.'studied 
 law and was admitted to the bar in WH). For 
 a time he was employed as a historical writer 
 
 UEOUGE BUTLER GRIFi'IN. 
 
 in the Bancroft Library. He has held several 
 prominent positions as civil engineer, and 
 was chief of staff to James B. Eads while 
 getting a concession for a ship railway across 
 the isthmus iu Mexico. Mr. Griffin has trav- 
 eled extensively in Europe as well as in North 
 and South America, and is a profound classic, 
 English, Spanish and French scholar, and a 
 thorough historian. He is first vice-presi- 
 dent of the Historical Society of Southern 
 California, of which he was a founder. Mr. 
 Griffin has a pleasant home in Los Angeles, 
 with a botanical garden filled with exotics 
 and plants rare cand curious. He has col- 
 lected a choice and excellently selected libra- 
 ry of more than three thousand volumes. 
 His eldest daughter, Eva, is developing a re- 
 markable talent for sculpture, and has 
 modeled some verj- Une busts from life, and 
 the portrait of Mr. Griffin, here given, was 
 taken from a bust modeled by her. 
 
 LOS ANGELES. 
 O queen of all the summer lands. 
 White-gleaming 'mid the ebon bands 
 
 That filly wreathe thy brow's swart tint, 
 
 The bridal blossoms ever glint 1 
 
 For thee the balmy western breeze. 
 
 To perfume of the orange trees 
 
 Upon th.e verdant hills that stand, [strand 
 
 Grouped 'round thy throne, of Ind'a far 
 
 The odor weds. All through the night. 
 
 With music like the laughter light 
 
 Of merry girls, is frequent heard 
 
 The song of some half-dreaming bird. 
 
 Ah, who would dwell 'mid Gul's perfumes, 
 
 Or where the feeble lotus bhwms 
 
 Upon the wcarietl senses pall. 
 
 And through an air as lanquid fall! 
 
 Or who that's free to work his will 
 
 Would brave the winter's biting chill 
 
 In lands that gird the farthest pole. 
 
 Where icy terrors freeze the soul! 
 
 Give me to dwell with thee, my queen ; 
 
 And, when to all th' endearing scene 
 
 I needs must close these loving eyes. 
 
 To me the life of paradise. 
 
 Lacking thy smile, will seem but tame — 
 
 And Eden only iu the name. 
 
 A CRADLE SONG. 
 Far out in the glowing west 
 
 The laughing waves of the se.n. 
 As the sun sinks to his rest. 
 
 For a kiss leap merrily : 
 And the mocking-bird's low strain 
 From the tret^tops come again — 
 So sleep, my baby, sleep. 
 The fiowers in the garden beds. 
 
 Like the children, are at prayer. 
 And their vesper odor spreads 
 
 As a benediction there; 
 While the night-wind's tender sigh 
 Ls my darling's lullaby — 
 
 So sleep, my baby, sleep. 
 Now the gentle harvest moon 
 
 Climbs in the brigliteningeast. 
 And the stars come one by one. 
 
 Afloat 'mid the silvery mist — 
 Angel wards, a watch to keep 
 O'er all little ones asleep — 
 
 So sleep, my baby, sleep. 
 
 A GOLDEN-WEDDING-DAY SONG. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 'Twa-i then her witching eyes 
 With hues of tropic skies 
 
 Seemed to glow; 
 Now wrinkles hide them quite, 
 'neath eyebrows that are white 
 
 As the snow. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 980 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 THOMAS ALDIN CRABTREE, 
 
 Born: Franklin, ^Ie., March 17, 1830. 
 At the age of twenty-three Mr. Crabtree 
 commenced teaching- school. He is now en- 
 
 THOMAS ALDIN tltABTREE. 
 
 gaged in evangelistic work and lecturing- on 
 temperance, and resides in Bangor, Maine. 
 
 LEGEND OF MT. DESERT. 
 
 The chief stood on the mountain's height, 
 
 As shadows long betoken night; 
 
 His red riglit hand was raised high, 
 
 As if he beckon to the sky. 
 
 His robe he wrapped around his breast. 
 
 His dark eye scanned the glowing west, 
 
 Then in a voice of thunder bold. 
 
 The glory of his nation told! 
 
 ..I'm Chief Conaught; there's none so great. 
 
 My trusty braves my mandate wait. 
 
 And mountains high and rolling sea. 
 
 Shall ever own my sovereignty! 
 
 ..The sable's coat my robe shall be. 
 
 And shining pearls from out tlie sea 
 
 Shall gem the plume upon my head, 
 
 And sparkle on my downy bed ! 
 
 " My trusty arrow, and my bow. 
 
 Shall send destruction to the foe,— 
 
 With thongs I'll bind his puny liands, 
 
 And scar liis tlesh with burning brands. 
 
 ..His writhing form I'll huigh to see. 
 
 His dying song shall music be,— 
 
 His ashes with my red right hand, 
 
 I'll scatter on the ocean's sand." 
 
 Just then, the sun, low in the west. 
 
 His mantle drew, and sunk to rest. 
 
 And then like light a rolling tide 
 
 Of darkness wrapped the mountain's sidel 
 
 The wild winds roared, and darkness deep. 
 
 Soon wrapped each vale, and craggy steep. 
 
 While down the rugged mountain's side 
 
 Was heard the rolling rushing tide! 
 
 Amazed he stood, this vaunting chief. 
 
 He knew not why; but darkest grief 
 
 Poured in his soul a torrent deep — 
 
 He trembling, lost himself in sleep! 
 
 In dreams he wandered sad, alone, 
 
 His food tvas herbs, his rest a stone. 
 
 His kindred and his warrior band 
 
 Had wandered to the spirit land! 
 
 The green plot where his children played. 
 
 The mountains green and flowery glade,— 
 
 His bark that fioaied in tlie bay,— 
 
 And all things else had passed away. 
 
 In dreams he saw a waving hand. 
 
 And kindred in the spirit land 
 
 Were calling, calling, .'Come away,— 
 
 Come to this land of brightest day I" 
 
 ..I come," he cried, ..behold your chief. 
 
 Long have I wandered here in grief."— 
 
 He leaped away in slumbers deep 
 
 And headlong plunged the mountain steep! 
 
 The sun rose smiling from the sea. 
 
 The sea-bird sung with wonted glee. 
 
 The red deer leaped upon the hill. 
 
 But Chief Conaught in death was still! 
 
 MY OLD, OLD HOME. 
 
 My old, old home— I love thee still — 
 Each rock, each nook, each bounding rill. 
 The wide old field, and flowery lea. 
 Bring back my youthful days to me. 
 Though other hands, thy bounties reap. 
 And other eyes their vigils keep.— 
 A sigh, I wipe the falling tears, 
 Remembrance of receding years. 
 The little laughing, sparkling brook,— 
 Where oft I've dropped my line and hook. 
 Is laughing still -- no older grown. 
 Though many, many years have flown! 
 The old oak tree I used to climb. 
 Is standing yet; though scathed by time, 
 The road, th.at leads down to the mead. 
 Is overgrown with grass and weed. 
 My mother's voice no more I hear 
 In tuneful song.s, botli loud and clear. 
 And kneeling at the old arm-chair. 
 No more 1 hear her evening i)rayer. 
 But sometimes, in a fancy dream. 
 Bright vistas ope to the unseen,— 
 Angelic songs float on the air. 
 And mother's voice is mingled there. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 981 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. JULIA CLARKECHASE. 
 
 Born: Neosho, Wis., April 9, 18.%. 
 
 Julia and her youngest sister.Medora Clarke 
 published a volume of poems called Drift- 
 wood; these ladies are well kuowu in west- 
 ern literary circles as the Sister Poets of 
 Wisconsin. At the age of twenty-two Miss 
 Julia was married to Lieut. Geo. N. Chase of 
 
 *- 
 
 MHS. Jl'LIA CLARKE CHASE. 
 
 the U. S. A., who for the last four years has 
 been aide decamp on Gen. Howard's statf. 
 Mrs. Chase has lived in Milwaukee, Chicago, 
 New York City and San Francisco, and has 
 constantly contributed to the press of those 
 cities. She has had but one child, Thoring- 
 ton Clarke, born in 1879, who won the West 
 Point class cup of '87, and who promises to 
 be a fine violinist. Mrs. Julia Clarke Chase 
 has written about one thousand poems, be- 
 sides a great deal of prose, stories and 
 sketches for children. Several of her longer 
 poems have won the highest praise from J. 
 G. Holland, P. D. Aldrichand literary critics, 
 and have received extensive publication in 
 the press. She numbers among her ancestors 
 Samuel Huntington, a signerof the Declara- 
 tion of Independence, and Theodore Grace 
 Greenwood, Richard Henry Stoddard, James 
 G. Clarke, and other literary stars of the 
 present day. Mrs. Clarke's residence in 
 future will be Los Angeles, Cal. 
 
 DESPOILED. 
 
 Down in the dust and Mie grime and the heat, 
 Cruelly Hung there to die in the street. 
 Lies a wood-violet tender and sweet. 
 Who in his selfishness bore thee away. 
 Frightened and silent one ominous day, 
 Only to leave thee droop and decay? 
 No one will cherish thee now, broken flow'r. 
 Recklessly torn from thine icstival bow'r 
 Only to pleasure some eye for an hour. 
 Up at her window a maiden I see 
 Looking regretfully down upon thee, 
 Feeling thy fate and her own to agree. 
 Innocent blossom and innocent maid, 
 Torn from the woodland, the fragrance and 
 
 shade. 
 Thrust in the filth of the city to fade. 
 
 NIL ANXIETAS. 
 I've lived a life of summer hours 
 Amid the butterflies and flowers; 
 Alike the sunshine and tlie rain 
 Seem tuned to pleasure's sweet refrain. 
 My heart is always light and free,— 
 The days so glad and bright to nie. 
 Why should 1 brood o'er future ill 
 The while for me the gods distill 
 The sweets of life, in flowing draught. 
 As pure as moi'tal ever quaffed? 
 No, let my fate be what it may, 
 I'll drink the nectar of to-day. 
 No echo of a minc>r key 
 Shall haunt me with a melody 
 To hush the music of my soul; 
 The seasons, in tlieir onward roll. 
 Shall grant the only boon I ask. 
 Within the rays of k)ve to bask, 
 A life sincere to live and die 
 Without one bitter tear or sigli. 
 
 LITTLE JACK. 
 A winter day hung o'er the earth 
 And filled our childish hearts with mirth, 
 For on the newly fallen snow. 
 The sunbeams lay like gems aglow- 
 Along the lake shore by the mill. 
 We children coasted on the hill. 
 
 And with our voices full of glee. 
 We woke the echoes plad and free. 
 My heart was full of selfish pride. 
 As down the long hill's sunny side. 
 With merry shout I gayly sped, 
 Upon my brightly painted sled. 
 And toiling up the hill once more, 
 I heard a plaintive voice implore: 
 
 .. Oh, Harry ! let me have a ride?" 
 I rudely pushed the boy aside. 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 982 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKHICA. 
 
 SAMUEL LEANDER WHITE. 
 
 Born: Gboton, Mass., ApkilQ, 1828. 
 After taking a course in penmanship, ma- 
 thematics and bookkeeping- In Comer's Com- 
 mercial College of Boston, Mr. White entered 
 mercantile pursuits. In 1859 he was married 
 to Miss Nancy P. Barker, and soon after re- 
 
 SAMHEL LEANUKK WHirrJ. 
 
 turned with his wife to his old liome in Gro- 
 ton. Three years later Mr. White removed 
 to Leominster, Mass.. where he worked in a 
 piano manufactory for eiglit years; then re- 
 moving to Boston he again entered a piano 
 establishment where he worked for eleven 
 years. Mr. White is now residing in Wake- 
 field, Mass., where he is quite a prominent 
 church member and a deacon m the First 
 Baptist Churcli. 
 
 THE BIUDS. 
 And now the bluebirds' flute-like notes are 
 
 heard. 
 While yet the wasting snowdrifts can be 
 
 seen; [wings. 
 
 Thrice welcome! lovely bird with azure 
 Thou bringest Spring ere eartli is clotlied 
 
 with green. 
 Perched on some budding shrub near by 
 
 the door, 
 The sparrow sings his cheerful little tune; 
 His dress is plain, and modest are his ways. 
 But sweet his song as fragrant airs of June. 
 The "robin-red-breast" chants liis praise at 
 
 eve. 
 
 In yonder tree toward the setting sun; 
 While flocks of blackbirds on the river bank. 
 Their daily evening concerts ha%'e begun. 
 Fast, fast the feathered songsters now 
 
 arrive. 
 And nature's music all the air pervades; 
 The mavis cheers the farmer at liis toil. 
 The wood-thrush sweetly sings in forest 
 
 glades. 
 
 To me, in youthful days, this warbler seemed 
 Like some lone minstrel from celestial plains, 
 Wlio, longing for his angel home afar, 
 Relieves his heart in sweet, yet plaintive 
 
 strains. 
 Down in the mead M'here growing grasses 
 
 wave, 
 "Robert of Lincoln" pours his joyous notes; 
 Mhile soaring far above in morning's light. 
 The meadow lark on rapid pinion floats. 
 At eve the night hawk, cleaving azure 
 
 depths, 
 Witli booming sound, sweeps downward 
 
 'neath the hill. 
 While yonder in the dusky woods is heard. 
 From eve till morn, the loud-voiced whip- 
 
 poorwill. 
 How sweet to wander in the quiet woods. 
 And listen to the thousand warblers there; 
 To breathe the fragrant odors of the pines. 
 And lift our grateful hearts to God in 
 
 prayer ! 
 How cheerless would the lovely spring-time 
 
 be, 
 How silent all the hills, the vales, the fields. 
 Without the charming nuisic of the birds. 
 Without tlie joy their loving mission yields! 
 
 VOX POPULl. 
 
 From the cold wilderness of northern Maine 
 
 To California's genial skies. 
 
 From Oregon to fields of sugarcane, 
 
 I hear tlie people's earnest voice arise. 
 
 "O give us honest men to rule," tliey say,— 
 "True men who never can be bought with 
 
 gold — 
 Puie men whose acts will bear the light of 
 
 day. 
 Whose noble aims their daily lives unfold." 
 
 How sad, how soul-depressitig is the sight 
 Of men engaged in strife for office, or for 
 
 pelf; 
 W^ho liave not moral st I'englli to do the right. 
 But worship at the sordid shrine of self! 
 
 iiWhere shall we find a man of honest make," 
 The patient, suffering people still implore, 
 "Shall we like Diogenes a candle take 
 And search America from shore to shore?" 
 
 *- 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 •»Si8 
 
 REV.GKORGE R.KRAMER, 
 
 Bokn: Baltimore, Md., Mav »'6, ISJO. 
 The poems of the Rev. George R. Kramer 
 have appeared quite extensively in the Port- 
 liind Arfrns, Rrooklyi 'rinii'<. :uiil the pcriod- 
 
 HEV. GEOKGE KOBEKTS KKAMEK. 
 
 ical press generally. As pastor of the Brook- 
 lyn CJuion Ave. Baptist church, this g-entlj- 
 man has gained a national reputation as an 
 eminent divine. He was married in 1865. 
 
 SITTING IN THE AUTUMN TWILIGHT. 
 
 Sitting in the Autumn twilight 
 
 Of the sad November day. 
 Thinking of the happy moments 
 
 Which with summer passed away. 
 Thinking of the golden sunshine 
 
 Of those bright and blessed liours, 
 Calling up that form of radiance 
 
 That faded with the flowers. 
 Gleaming waves of roaring ocean 
 
 Breaking on the shining sand, 
 Mem'ries of the isles and gardens, 
 
 Edens of the sea and land. 
 Mournful winds the leaves now tossing. 
 
 Wail the splendor which had fled. 
 And o'er the fields and through the forests 
 
 Hymn the requiem of the dead. 
 Silver clouds in glory floating 
 
 Gilded with the sunny rays. 
 Dreaming as we saw your beauty 
 
 Of the coming brighter days. 
 
 Hoping in the fields of verdure 
 
 All our hopes, alas, were vain — 
 Faded like the leaves now scattered 
 
 By the cold Autumnal rain. 
 Singing yet of fadeless grandeur 
 
 When the leaves shall never fall. 
 Hearing voices of the Blessed 
 
 At the Resurrection call — 
 Christian Hope sings of a Summer 
 
 That shall never pass away — 
 Singing in the Autumn twilight 
 
 Of the sad November day. 
 
 THE DEMON OF THE NOON. 
 Now comes the hush of noon ; a sabbath hush 
 In summer time; upon her throne this hour 
 Sweet silence sits. Yet many sounds ate 
 
 beard, [sounds 
 
 But such as stillness ne'er invade; those 
 Which welcome find within the realm of peace 
 And quietude. The dreamy buzz of bees — 
 Hymns of the birds— Harps of soft forest 
 
 winds— [rocks, 
 
 And singing brooks which glide o'er mossy 
 Are but the n:lnister.sof Silence; not 
 The rivals of her reign. 
 Oh ! let me linger and enjoy this calm — 
 III sin more. My soul is peaceful, like 
 Yon lovely stream. I feel no tempter near,- 
 No! darkness is the hour to fiends belongs; 
 In gloom their wings they flap; the light they 
 
 shun — 
 Their deeds of evil cannot stand the day. 
 Oh! let me while away, in reverie sweet, 
 An hour. All foes are far, I know no fear, 
 "At noon His flock may surely rest,"so sings 
 The royal Hebrew bard. 
 What fancies steal upon my trembling soul? 
 Enchantment — witchery around nu- creeps. 
 Resisting, passive, tell me wliich ani I? 
 Now see — on gleaming boughs before me 
 
 swing 
 The gay, forbidden fruits! 
 I do so well remember now, that while; 
 The pestilence in darkness walks, so grim: 
 Destr\iction in the noonday wastt»s. 
 Ah! yes. the life it saps — thesoul it wastes— 
 The fleiid. indeed, is in the di rkness camped. 
 Yet to an angel of the light, himself [noon. 
 Transforms, and thus he walks in shining 
 O, Christ! upon the verge of sin I stand. 
 And tremble o'er the deep ami awful gulf. 
 Me keep in innocence. Me keep in life. 
 My will I shall not praise. I look to Thee. 
 I whirl above the flood — I have no strength ! 
 I reel above the fire — I know no will 
 Safe! Now I rest amid the pastures green — 
 A poor, weak sheep; yet how secure I am! 
 All honor to "the Everlasting .\rms." 
 
*- 
 
 984 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AIMERICA. 
 
 MRS. OLGA LOUISA STURM. 
 
 Born : Germany, Jan. IS, 1846. 
 Mrs. Olga Sturm was educated at Cleveland. 
 Ohio, and in 1869 was married to Bernard 
 Sturm. She was left a widow in 1880, with a 
 
 MRS. OLGA L0tns.\ STURM. 
 
 family of four children living-. The poems 
 of Mrs. Sturm have appeared in the Cleve- 
 land and Boston papers, and the periodical 
 press generally. 
 
 THEMES FOR SONG. 
 Oh, sing me a song of the morning, 
 
 A free and gladsome lay ! 
 Oh, sing of a bright and glorious dawn 
 
 That swept the shadows away ! 
 Oh, sing of the breezes, gentle and mild. 
 
 That follow the winter's chill. 
 Of the happy time when the violet blooms. 
 
 And the woods with melody thrill! 
 Oh, sing me a song of triumph, 
 
 A clear, exultant strain. 
 Of faith, which could o'er shattered hopes 
 
 To loftier heights attain ! 
 Oh. sing of love which had power to bless. 
 
 Yet with its latest breath. 
 Of hearts that sank with unwavering trust. 
 E'en into the arms of death! 
 
 A POET. 
 Among the singers of the land. 
 
 You will not find his name enrolled. 
 For how he hoped, aspired, and strove. 
 
 Has never to the world been told. 
 He was a poet, though. 
 His life was lowly, full of care. 
 
 And toil and hardships were his lot. 
 He had his hearth, his love, his God, 
 For fame and honors cared he not 
 Yet was a poet he. 
 The gathering storm, the sunset glow. 
 
 The little flow'ret, at his feet, 
 Had pleasures for him, all his own. 
 That made his life of labor sweet. 
 Was that no poet's soul? 
 Naught had he learned of music's art. 
 Yet tones to him a language spoke. 
 Which, deep in his impassioned soul, 
 
 A yearning, lingering echo woke. 
 He heard with poet's ear. 
 For him were whispers in the brook. 
 
 And voices in the storm wind's moan. 
 Soft breezes sighing through the trees 
 
 Had language for him, all his own. 
 Which stirred his poet's soul. 
 Storms gathered round him at the close, 
 
 And o'er his path, swept gale on gale. 
 Yet, steadfast, with ne'er faltering trust 
 
 He passed into the shadowy vale. 
 His was a poet's death. 
 
 GO DRY THY TEARS. 
 Go, dry thy tears, be brave, and still plod on, 
 The way is dark and steep, and tears are 
 
 blinding. 
 Thy heart is faint, thy meagre strength 18 
 
 gone. 
 Thou flnd'st thy path through thorny hedges 
 
 winding. 
 And storms grow frequent with the passing 
 
 years. 
 
 But, dry thy tears! 
 
 Yes, dry thy tears, let none thy weakness 
 
 The world is stern and hard, and tears 
 
 ' If in life's fight thou would'st victorious be, 
 Put on the semblance, which she recognizes, 
 A sturdy front, kept to thyself thy fears. 
 And dry thy tears! 
 
 Ay. dry thy tears! Thou hast not time to 
 
 weep. 
 Thou hast thy work to do, for grief no 
 
 leisure. 
 What though thy progress slow, but courage 
 
 keep. 
 Thou Shalt :it length the weary distance 
 
 measure. 
 And reach the goal where thy horizon clears, 
 So, dry thy tears! 
 
 *- 
 
 :i]| 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 986 
 
 GILBERT S. BAILEY, D. D. 
 
 Born: Dalton, Pa., Oct. 17, 1822. 
 
 Aftkk graduating from tlio Oberliii College 
 of Ohio, lie started a select school at Waver- 
 ly, Avhich soon grew into Madison Academy 
 with one hundred students. Resigning this 
 charge he was ordained to the ministry and 
 the same year married Mi^s Saruh E.Buuuell. 
 
 GrLBERT S. BAILEY, D. D. 
 
 He has one daughter and five sons grown to 
 maturity — Mrs. Eulalia A. Brink, his daugh- 
 ter, whose husband died in California, is a 
 teacher in Pomona; Prof. G. E. Bailey, Ph. 
 D., liis eldest son, is geologist and professor 
 of Metallurgy in the South Dakota School of 
 Mines, Rapid City; Wayland Bailey, A. M., 
 is in the United States Signal Service; How- 
 ard Uailey, a civil engineer, died in Colton, 
 Cal.. December 23, 1889; Charles A. Bailey 
 lives iu Pomona, engaged in musical pur- 
 suits and fruit business; Will C. Bailey is 
 editor and proprietor of the Colton News. 
 The Rev. Gilbert S. Bailey has filled pastor- 
 ates at Canterbury, on the Hudson; Spring- 
 field, Tremont, Pekin, Metamora and Mori-is, 
 Ills., besides holding numerous other posi- 
 tions of trust. Mr. Bailey is the author of 
 several volumes, and about twenty treaties; 
 and he has written numerous poems which 
 have appeared from time to time in the peri- 
 odical press. Dr. Bailey and his wife live in 
 Pomona, Cal., and both are very zealous Chris- 
 tians. 
 
 HERE AND THERE. 
 Hero we toil and weep and groan. 
 There no pain is ever known; 
 Here we languish, gasp and die. 
 There we dwell with Christ on high. 
 Here we grope in gloomy night. 
 There we shine in endless light; 
 Here life's deepest sorrows bear. 
 There in Christ's own glory share. 
 Here temptations sore annoy. 
 There we live in endless joy; 
 Here our sins and guilt distress. 
 There we have Christ's righteousness. 
 Here our Savior bled and died. 
 There He reigns, the gloritied; 
 Here we serve our Lord and King, 
 There His endless praises sing. 
 
 METHUSELAH. 
 Methuselah was but a boj- 
 
 When he was forty-seven; 
 I wonder if he skipi)ed and played 
 
 As boys do now at 'leven ! 
 Was he liis mother's pet and pride. 
 
 His pockets full of candy? 
 Did he do chores, drive up the cows. 
 
 And whistle "Doodle Dandy?" 
 Catch flsh with pin-hook in the stream 
 
 That ran down through the meadow? 
 And slide down hill in wintertime 
 
 And sometimes bump his head? oh I 
 When he chased squirrels. bares and things 
 
 With sling-stones on the hot run. 
 How nice for him if he had had 
 
 A dt)uble-barrelled shot suul 
 I wonder if he went to school? 
 
 Had books, and pen and paper? 
 Was teacher kind, or cross and stern 
 
 If he once cut a caper? 
 Was Hebrew, Syria or Clialdee 
 
 The language of his study? 
 Did all his thoughts run clear and bright, 
 
 Or were they sometimes muddy? 
 Did fractions, roots and puzzling sums 
 
 Torment his brain, or lead on 
 To squares and cubes until he found 
 
 The Parallelopipedon? 
 He did not use the filthy weed 
 
 Like urchins now a puffing 
 The cigarette, with strut and swell. 
 
 Their brains with smoke a-stufflng. 
 He did not ride on railroad then. 
 
 But made his journeys, walking; 
 Nor did he speak through telephone. 
 
 But did his own pl.-iin talking. 
 The steamboat did not course its way 
 
 Across the briny ocean, 
 He paddled liis own canoe about 
 
 Where e'er be took a notion. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 986 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 His fattier uever paid a dime 
 
 For telegraphic message, 
 Nor two cents postage when he wrote. 
 
 Nor fifty cents expressage. 
 
 His mother had no queer machine 
 
 To mend his ragged breeches, 
 Her loving Augers patched the hole 
 
 With just the nicest stitches. 
 At hundred years, a nice young man. 
 
 He thought he'd go a courting; 
 His beard was growing finely then ; 
 
 A mustache he was sporting. 
 A sprightly lass of ninety years 
 
 Had set his heart a flutter; 
 But still he wisely looked about 
 
 And thought of bread and butter. 
 
 No haste to wed, like modern swains, 
 
 He thought the matter over. 
 And kept on courting eighty years. 
 
 And lived that time in clover. 
 The wedding came, no hasty match. 
 
 He though he'd take the chances: 
 The dudes slie did not try to catch 
 
 Nor go to balls and dances. 
 
 At age one hundred eighty-seven 
 
 He saw liis first boy baby. 
 He trotted Lamech on his knee 
 
 And sung " Hi-doo-da-da'^-." 
 
 Then at throe hundred sixty-nine 
 He welcomed grandson Noah, 
 
 And lived vi'ith him who built the ark 
 About six hundred more. 
 
 How did they get the daily new?? 
 
 Base bull, prize fights and 'lections? 
 No daily press nor telegram 
 
 To tell i:f bank defections. 
 But hold a bit: Methuselah 
 
 Could tell a wondrous story: 
 Three centuries and a third he lived 
 
 'Fore Adam went to glory. 
 He heard the tale from Adam's lips 
 
 And told each generation 
 Of man's creation and his fall! 
 
 How sad was the narration! 
 
 In his last year the work of Noah 
 
 On ark was nearly ended: 
 But he went liome to glory just 
 
 Before the flood descended. 
 
 We live less yeiirs than men did then. 
 
 But we are living faster; 
 Our years compress ten into one 
 
 In service of the Master. 
 Then speed our time and speed our work. 
 
 Till rest from toil is given: 
 We hail the day that calls us home 
 
 From toils of earth to joys of heaven. 
 
 MRS. ETTIE C. STAMBAUGH. 
 
 Bobn: Ashtabula, O., Nov. 6, 1844. 
 
 In her sixteenth year this lady was mar- 
 ried to W. D. Stambaugh. She has taught 
 school in Illinois and Nebraska, and hn^ 
 
 MRS. ETTiE CROSS STAMBAUGH. 
 
 written about fifty poems which have ap- 
 peared in the local press. Mrs. Stambaugh 
 is now a resident of Herman, Neb. 
 
 MAMA'S PET. 
 Mama's pet just one year old. 
 Eyes of blue and curls of gold, 
 Cheeks with little dimples in. 
 Rosy mouth and double chin; 
 Fingers into mischief creoviing. 
 Little feet their company keeping. 
 Running here and running there 
 Never minding when nor where. 
 Mama's i>et and Papa's joy 
 Tliis our lueeious darling boy. 
 
 Savior Dear, a watch can keep 
 O'er those little tottering feet. 
 Guide them safely. Father do. 
 All tlieir weary journey through, 
 And at hist a rest prepare 
 In Thy Kingdom bright and fair 
 For our little darling boy. 
 Mania's pet aiiil Pajia's jo.v. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKIIICA. 
 
 987 
 
 MARINER J. KENT. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., May 26, 1846. 
 
 When eighteen years of ag-o Mr. Kent en- 
 tered the United States service. At tlie 
 close of the war lie commenced his journal- 
 istic career, and has since been on the staff 
 of the Gazette and the Chronicle, of Wash- 
 
 MARINEK J KENT. 
 
 Ington, U. C. ; the Sun, Times, Star aiul 
 Bradstreet's Journal, of Now York City; 
 Times, of Chieag-o; Golden Era, Post and 
 Examiner, of San Francisco; Herald, and 
 Life of Los Ang-eles; and he is now known 
 in newspaper work as special and edi- 
 torial writer. Mr. Kent has written (juite a 
 number of fugitive poems, which have been 
 a valuable acquisition to current literature. 
 
 « 
 
 THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY. 
 Thankss-ivin' day! Ah! yes, fur some; 
 But not for we'uns of th' slum — 
 Not for me, a wretched an' batter'd man. 
 Tatters an' rags, with rusty can 
 Drainin' th' soured lees, in fear. 
 From til' emptied bar'ls for beer. 
 Great God! how my sodden brain burns, 
 As mem'ry to a bright an' past time turns; 
 Time when my heart wuz! light an' free, 
 When I watched, with boyish glee. 
 
 Th' roastin' turkey, as it brownin' glint, 
 With mother's famous stufliu' in't. 
 
 What ails me? T'aint nouse to think 
 
 When a feller's over th' brink 
 
 So fur that there's no gittin' back agin 
 
 When th' slough he's layin' in, of sin. 
 
 Is so deep an' wide an' so black. 
 
 There's no hope of flndin' th' right track. 
 
 Ah! happy those Thaiiksgivin' days. 
 
 Those joyous days when with boyhood's 
 
 amaze. 
 When with abidin' appetite, 
 I waited, longin' fur a bite 
 Of roasted turkey, brown an' rich in tint. 
 With mother's famous stuflin' in't. 
 
 Wl)at's th' use fur me to recall 
 
 Lost youth's fair hopes an' manhood's fall'? 
 
 To bring back th' days of a better life 
 
 Before evil, weakness an' strife. 
 
 Ere trickery, debauchery an' siiam 
 
 Had made me th' vile thing I am. 
 
 What, crying? Crying like a chit? 
 
 Where's th' can? I must drink! I must forgit 
 
 Th' dear, th' olden pleasant ways; 
 
 Forgit th" old Thanksgivin' days, 
 
 Forgit th' turkey, brown an' rich in tint. 
 
 With mother's famous stuffln' in't. 
 
 THE BLACK FLAG OF HUNGER. 
 
 Bathe poverty in bloody sweat ! 
 Lust of gain thy task hath set. 
 Reek at night; lot each to-morrow 
 See the faint and paliid rise. 
 Drain the aloes of sacrifice; 
 Steep with care thy soul and sense; 
 O'er thy lowly home of sorrow, 
 'Mid disease and pestilence, 
 Black floats the flag of luinger — 
 Symbol of the woe and want. 
 Signal of the pauper's gaunt. 
 Oh, the binding and the grinding 
 Of the toilers starving under! 
 
 Still lave thee, wealth, in pleasures new! 
 
 In rich robes of fairest luic 
 
 Deck thy dainty form and tender. 
 
 Safe from touch of toil and strife; 
 
 L^nniixed with thy rod wine of life, 
 
 The .sour dregs and bitter lees. 
 
 Yet. in the pall of splendor. 
 
 Near thy home of dreamy ease. 
 
 Black floats the flag of hunger — 
 
 Token of the people's woe. 
 
 Harbinger of justice slow. 
 
 Take ye warning, ere the dawning. 
 
 O men of might and pli.nder. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HART VANCE. 
 
 Born: Memphis, Tenn., March 7, 1852. 
 For several years the subject of this sketch 
 attended the Indiana University, after which 
 he took up civil engineering. For a while he 
 was a reporter, and also taught school. 
 Since 1873 he has filled many positions of 
 
 HART VANCE. 
 
 trust, as civil engineer and surveyor. Since 
 1880 he has been a member of the American 
 Society of Civil Engineers. He was married in 
 1887 to Miss Myra Lomax and has two children 
 
 IDENTITY. 
 A tender awe, an imminence of tears, 
 Boded our meeting, and our hand-clasp starts 
 The old heart-fire, but a formal i)hrase, that 
 
 parts 
 Our souls more fatally than all the years. 
 Is either's greeting. Placid wont inheres 
 In voice and aspect, and our very liearts 
 Are quenched with modern dignities and arts. 
 Memory recoils, and no romance appears. 
 A boy and girl bent down at once one day 
 To pluck one wildflower, and her bondless 
 
 hair 
 Was softly blown across his face, and lie. 
 Lifting his eyes — love's blazon — caught a 
 
 ray 
 Of Heaven through hers, and both glowed 
 
 spell-bound there — 
 Are tve these two? Or have they ceased 
 
 to be! 
 
 *- 
 
 JOY. 
 Through shadowy sleep her eyes appear. 
 
 And heaven seems half-bespoken. 
 Her sweet lips, warm and fond, drew near, 
 
 Touch — and the dream is broken. 
 Whenever I seek a dewy wood 
 
 In May, she flits thereunder, 
 A spellful doubt of solitude — 
 
 A passion and a wonder; — 
 Something escaped from happy dreams. 
 
 Still nearly overtaken.— 
 Now here her fairy covert seems, — 
 
 I come, — and 'tis forsaken! 
 Now there she waits with arms outstretched 
 
 A phantom that the dew leaves, 
 A subtler beauty somehow sketched 
 
 In sunshine under new leaves; 
 But still the phantom will not brook 
 
 Pursuit, approach, or beckoning. 
 Nor even the shadow in my look 
 
 Of memory, doubt, or reckoning. 
 When thought, in brief exalted moods. 
 
 Its mortal cumber loses. 
 She whispers through my solitudes 
 
 The spells of all the Muses ; 
 But when T turn for nearer bliss 
 
 To lips as sweet as dreaming. 
 The mere conception of my kiss 
 
 Dispels the lovely seeming. 
 Anon I find her at my side. 
 
 Amid some gay throng's shifting, 
 And life's last shadow seen: s to bide 
 
 Just her fair eyelids' lifting. 
 I bend above their shy eclipse 
 
 Of all my hopes and holies. 
 They rise and their apocals'pse 
 
 Is greater than my soul is. 
 Surcharged with new delights, my heart 
 
 Their culmination misses. 
 Left sad for some divinest part 
 
 Not compassed with its blisses. 
 And lo ! my spirits rallying while 
 
 Has dimmed the empyreal presence:— 
 The glowing of the seraph's smile 
 
 Exhales the seraph's essence. — 
 O phantotn, have I any good 
 
 Of thee with all tliy sweetness? 
 Still leadost thoi;, not understood. 
 
 Toward some divine completeness? 
 Am I the stronger that pursuit 
 
 Makes life one upward hastening? 
 Is our desire, forever moot, 
 
 A true behoof of chastening? 
 O joy, just once with me — and youth — 
 
 Transcend this mere suggestion !— 
 Or is it, that thine utmost truth 
 
 Is an eternal question? 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIUCA. 
 
 989 
 
 JAMES M^CAULEY. 
 
 Bohn: Cecil Co., Md., Aug. 2S, 1809. 
 This K^ntleinan is a land surveyor by pro- 
 fession, and now chief judge of Orphan's 
 court. He has contributed quite exteusive- 
 
 Up betimes, nor lot tlie sun. 
 
 Find you sleeping or at play, 
 Sleep enough when life is done, 
 
 VVor'k to-day. 
 Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower. 
 
 Seize the moments wliile you may. 
 Nor idly pass one sunny hour. 
 Work to-day. 
 
 HENKV CLAY. 
 He needs no monument, no marble pile, 
 'Tis vain thus to commemorate a name. 
 That must endure in noble grandeur while 
 His country lives— the temple of his fame. 
 
 JAMES M CAlI.l 1 . 
 
 ly both [irose and verse to current literature. 
 Mr. McCauley has been county surveyor, 
 register of wills, member of the legislature, 
 and five times elected judge. 
 
 HOPE. 
 When storms arise, and tumults jar. 
 
 And wreck thy mortal form, 
 There is a bright, a lovely star 
 
 That shines above the storm. 
 'Tis hope that buoys our spirits up. 
 
 Along the checkered way. 
 And when we drain the bitter cup. 
 
 It points a brighter daj\ 
 Though all the ills of life stand by. 
 
 It proffers still to save. 
 And wlien the shades of death are nigh. 
 
 It looks beyond the grave. 
 
 WORK TO-DAY. 
 
 Youth's the time, youth's the season, 
 
 Learn and labor wliHe you may, 
 Hear the voice of age and reason, 
 
 Work to-day. 
 Labor hard in mornings prime. 
 
 Hasten on without delay. 
 Make the most of early time. 
 Work to-dav. 
 
 REV. DAVID F.PIERCE. 
 
 Born: South Britain, Conn., April 2T,184(1. 
 In 1871 Mr. Pierce was married to Miss Eliza 
 Bradley. In 1888 he was ordained as a Con- 
 gregational minister, but had been a minister 
 for many years prior to that time. Rev. 
 \ David French Pierce has written enough 
 poems to fill a large volume, which he hopes 
 to publish in book-form in the near future. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 O mighty scene of nature, 
 
 WJiose solemn-sounding power 
 Rebukes man's pride as nothingness — 
 
 The shadow of an hour. 
 The eye of man, astonished. 
 
 Beholds the deep profound. 
 And the spirit melts with faintness 
 
 At the thvinder of thy sound. 
 
 The tongue of man is feeble; 
 
 Words cannot paint tlij' praise; 
 O tliou unrivalled wc)nder. 
 
 Vocal through countless days — 
 The smoke of thy vast torrent 
 
 From the deep gulf ascends. 
 On the viewless ether rising. 
 
 Till witli the sky it blends. 
 Fit type of a mighty soul. 
 
 Whose giant power jiours forth 
 A never-ceasing stream of thought. 
 
 Resounding through the earth; 
 As roar of lesser torrents 
 
 By thine are cast in .shade. 
 So in his presence lesser lights 
 
 Grow dimly i)ale, and fade. 
 The soul of man with .sometliiug 
 
 Of earth claims kinship here; 
 Behold, what 'tis most moves him, 
 
 And such will be his sphere. 
 But thou, the lone and j>eerless. 
 
 What soul of man may claim 
 In thee a kindred emblem. 
 
 To shadow forth his fame. 
 
*- 
 
 990 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AilERICA. 
 
 ROLAND ALBERT NICHOLS. 
 
 Born: Shalersville, O., Aug. 1, 1865. 
 After receiving' his edueatioa at the Hiram 
 College, Rolaud has been engaged in teach- 
 ing, and also as a minister, which latter pro- 
 fession he intends to follow. His poems 
 
 ROLAND ALBERT NICHOLS. 
 
 have appeared in the Toledo Blade, Cleveland 
 Plain Dealer, Christian Standard, and the 
 local press. In 1889 Mr. Nichols was married 
 to Jennie F. Sefton, and now resides in Hi- 
 ram Ohio. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Full many a shipwrecked sailor 
 
 Has lived on a shore unknown; 
 Full many a desert traveler 
 
 Has walked o'er the sands alone; 
 But of all earth's desolation 
 
 And bitterness T ken. 
 The dregs are for him who lives alone 
 
 Among his fellow-men. 
 
 *- 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 A boat on Niagara drifting, 
 Merrily gliding along. 
 See it joyously ride 
 O'er the silvery tide. 
 How beautiful, free and strong! 
 
 But lookl the boat's in the current. 
 Tossed at the sport of tlie wave. 
 By the mad waters lashed. 
 
 'Gainst the cruel rocks dashed, 
 'Tls helpless and naught can save. 
 One moment it pauses and trembles; 
 One moment and all is o'er, 
 The short voyage ended. 
 To ruin descended, 
 Engulted 'midst Niagara's roar. 
 O you who are carelessly drifting: 
 Dark, treacherous currents are rife. 
 Soon the rocks will appear; 
 Soon will ruin be near; 
 Beware of an aimless life. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 Only an idle moment. 
 
 Only a thoughtless son. 
 Spurning a mother's counsel. 
 
 And the work of ruin begun. 
 Onlj' a small beginning, 
 
 "A glass tor friendship's sake," 
 That will lead him on to his ruin. 
 
 And manj' a teardrop make. 
 Only a mother weeping 
 
 For a reckless, wayward son ; 
 All of her bright hopes shattered 
 
 And fading, one bj' one. 
 Only a bar-room quarrel; 
 
 A fight that began in fun. 
 The fatal blow is given. 
 
 And the fearful work is done. 
 Only a heart-broken mother. 
 
 Homeless, and roaming the street. 
 Only a newly made grave. 
 
 And there is the picture — complete. 
 
 THE POSITIVE MAN. 
 I lionor the po.sitive man. 
 
 The man with a mind of his own. 
 Who, having a thought will express it, 
 
 A purpose, will dare make it known. 
 
 E'en though our opinions may differ, 
 
 I hold him a true, noble man. 
 Who stands for right as lie views it. 
 
 And scorns to do less than he can. 
 
 The world rejects and despises 
 The man of weak purpose and heart, 
 
 Wlioseonly claim on humanity 
 Consists in his being a part. 
 
 But he who adversity strengthens. 
 Whom trials and hardships assail. 
 
 Yet who stands for Tight and his purpose. 
 At last over all will i)revail. 
 
 And after a life long and useful. 
 Spent in doing for men what he can, 
 
 Tlie world will rcsjiect and will honor 
 The strong and the positive man. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 991 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. IDA F. WATERMAN. 
 
 Born: near Galesburo, III., May 4, 1855. 
 
 When sixteen years of age Ida began teach- 
 ing scliool, which profession she followed 
 for eighteen years with great success in the 
 public schdoN cif I'lwii ;ui(l Dakota. She 
 
 MRS. IDA FEUKIS W ATE R.MAN. 
 
 emigrated to Dakota in 1883, and the follow- 
 ing year was married to F. B. Waterman, 
 and now resides with her husband, son and 
 daughter at Frankfort, S. D. Mrs. Water- 
 man has written about a hundred poems, 
 which have received extensive publication 
 in tlie periodical press. 
 
 *- 
 
 A TRIBUTE. 
 The little home beyond the bridge 
 
 Is lonely now and still; 
 With saddened hearts we pass it by. 
 
 Or softly cross the sill. 
 
 Our dear grandparents both are gone, 
 No snow-white cap is there. 
 
 There's not a picture on the wall. 
 Nor even his empty chair. 
 
 The liitle room where mother passed 
 Her days when he was gone. 
 
 Bears not a trace of her dear hand. 
 For strangers fill the liome. 
 
 Her face was ever fair to see, 
 Her voice so sweet to hear. 
 
 No heart so warm and tender. 
 No life so full of cheer. 
 
 A kind word ever on her lips. 
 So full of God's own grace; 
 
 Our dear, old-fashioned grandmother. 
 With her sweet love-ligliteiied face. 
 
 We see her setting by tlie stove 
 With her bible on iier knee. 
 
 Or slowly tottering to the door. 
 To welcome you or me. 
 
 The little hand so soft and warm. 
 With a welcome sougiit your own; 
 
 While lovingly you print a ki.ss 
 On the cheek like eider-down. 
 
 Her memory is dear to us. 
 
 And sliall be to the end; 
 None knew her but to love her. 
 
 And be her life-loug friend. 
 
 A RAMBLE. 
 Vvc been taking a ramble to-day, cousin. 
 
 To the old house on the hill, 
 AndtowitnessthechangesTime has wrought 
 
 It made my heart stand still. 
 
 1 cannot picture to you, cousin. 
 
 A sight of that dear old place. 
 With walls torn down and roof sunk in. 
 
 As it stands there in disgrace. 
 
 T wandered about the yard, cousin. 
 And climbed the old rickety stair. 
 
 And fearful lest it should tumble down, 
 I took each step with care. 
 
 For they creaked and groaned beneath my 
 weight. 
 
 And my heart beat fiister, too. 
 As T thought of the many, many time 
 
 I had climbed the same with you. 
 
 And my thoughts went back to childhood 
 days. 
 
 As they oft had done before. 
 And how I longed to see your face 
 
 Appear in the kitchen door. 
 
 Ah, never again, I truthfully said. 
 
 As a tear stood in my ej-e. 
 And slowly turning my steps away, 
 
 I bade the old place good-bye. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 992 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MARY AUGUSTA M'MAKIN. 
 
 Born: Philadelphia, Pa., Aug. 30, 1833. 
 This lady is the daughter of Andrew M'Mak- 
 in, formerly editor and proprietor of the 
 Philadelpliia Saturday Courier. After gradu- 
 ating she was for a time associated with her 
 father in editing the Woman's Department 
 of that publication, under the pen name of 
 
 MARY ATTGUSTA M'MAKIN. 
 
 Bessie Beechwood. She also contributed 
 occasional short stories to Peterson's Maga- 
 zine and Frank Leslie's publications. For 
 some years this lady was engaged in teach- 
 ing and in literary work for the American 
 Baptist Publication Society. Miss M'Makin 
 was secretary to the first Regent of the 
 Mount Vernon Ladies' Association. Subse- 
 quently she was appointed to a position in 
 the Treasury Department at Washington, 
 which she still occupies. 
 
 *- 
 
 WHO IS IT? 
 
 A dainty maid 
 
 In freshest verdure decked, 
 Her golden head 
 
 With flitting sunbeams flecked, 
 The fairy dyes 
 
 Of apple-blooms her cheeks 
 And in lier eyes 
 
 Blue myosotis speaks. 
 Rich daffodils 
 
 Her sunny tresses crown. 
 
 Frost lingering chills 
 
 The breezes round her blown 
 Hope in her mien, 
 
 So sweetly, shyly gay,— 
 How name her? Queen? 
 
 No, only May, sweet May 
 
 COLUMBIA'S CHOICE. 
 There's a murmur and stir in the garden bed, 
 A contest troubles that peaceful nook; 
 Pink and white and j'ellow and red 
 Shake their bright heads with an anxious 
 look. 
 
 Who shall win in the coming choice? 
 Who be borne on the nation's shield? 
 Who will come at Columbia's voice 
 From mountain or brook side, from valley 
 or field? 
 
 Whom will she place in her girdle strong 
 When she gathers her children for fun or 
 
 fray? 
 Who will bloom in the festal throng. 
 Wreathing her banners with bud and spray? 
 
 Fair Arbutus, as shy as sweet. 
 Shivers to think of the surging crowd; 
 But sturdy Daisy would fain compete 
 And the gaudy Sunflower laughs aloud I 
 
 The mountain Ash, unawed by storms; 
 The Violet shrinking beneath her shade; 
 The Water Lily, whose vestal cliarms 
 Would shame a nation for strife arrayed. 
 
 Many and fair are the buds and blooms 
 That national honors so warmly crave; 
 Among the proudest the sunny plumes 
 Of the Golden Rod serenely wave. 
 
 >• Peace, rash blossoms! " Columbia cries, 
 " Nor like humanity waste your powers. 
 Sliall we for an emblem spoil our eyes 
 Wliile all the flowers on earth are ours? 
 
 ..Tlie Lily of France and tlie English Rose, 
 
 The Shamrock, the Thistle (that strange de- 
 vice ' ) 
 
 The German Corn Flower and, from the 
 snows, 
 
 The Switzer's Alpine Edelweiss. 
 
 II Bind them up, with a score beside. 
 And mingle sprigs of the Northern Pine. 
 Wlio dares question my lionest pride 
 In tliis bright cluster, and all are mine! 
 
 " Quarrel who will for a single flower. 
 No lance I break in a needless fray; 
 The sweets of earth are Columbia's dower; 
 She wears on lier bosom the wliole bouquet." 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 993 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARY E. WARREN. 
 
 Rohn: Galway, N.Y., March 14. 1829. 
 This lady lias beeu a member of tlie liaptist 
 churc'li at Fox Lake, Wis., for thirty years. 
 She is a prominent member of the W. C. T. 
 U., and has been actively engaged in the In- 
 dependent Order of Good Temphirs fui' ihir- 
 
 *- 
 
 HARVEST OER. 
 Again our harvest toil is o'er. 
 The sheaves are garnered dry. 
 Now, we may rest from weary toil 
 And lay our reapers by. 
 Our horses too may rest again 
 And nip sweet clover tops. 
 And brush the flies with dignity 
 From off their dappled coats. 
 The farmer fills his easy chair 
 And looks upon his fields 
 With satisfaction beaming forth 
 For what his labor yields. 
 
 The wheat and tares together wait 
 
 The thresher's noisy wliis. 
 
 And thus the wheat he'll separate, 
 
 The tares leave foi the Are. 
 
 God's harvesters are too at work. 
 
 His agents never tire. 
 
 Death always has liis sickle bright 
 
 When for us he inquires. 
 
 We are God's sheaves, his wheat and tares. 
 
 Together we are growing. 
 
 And when he will us separate 
 
 Is not for human knowing. 
 
 Among the wheat let us strive to be. 
 
 And wlien chill death shall come 
 
 We will go with him to meet our friends 
 
 In our upper and better home. 
 
 MRS. MARY EVA LIN WARR?;n. 
 
 teen years, and has heeu Grand Vice Tem- 
 plar three times. Mrs. Warren has pub- 
 lished three books, two in pamphlet form 
 entitled Our Laurels, and Little Jakie; and 
 one large volume entitled Compensation, a 
 temperance storj- founded on fact. This 
 lady was married in 1847 to George Warren, 
 a farmer, and now resides at Fox Lake, Wis. 
 She has three sons now grown to manhood. 
 The poems of Mrs. Mary E. Warren have ap- 
 peared extensively in the temperance papers 
 and the local press generally. 
 
 A BACKWARD GLANCE. 
 We started for home at a brisk round trot. 
 The sun had gone, but we heeded it not. 
 The moon had appeared, and bright over all 
 Was relieving the gloom of night's darken- 
 ing pall. 
 I turned around for a backward glance 
 And gazed upon nature's lovely expanse, 
 A neat little cottage of oaken shade 
 Looked cheeringly down from the green hill 
 
 side. 
 A beautiful orchard, with hickories a few. 
 Lay back of the cottage and full in view. 
 The beholder enraptured gazed on the fair 
 
 scene 
 By the aid of the moon in liis silvery sheen. 
 Tall poplars in front of this bright little 
 home [to roam 
 
 Seemed •• towering " their lieads as if trying 
 Amid the bright in tlie heavens so blue. 
 While drinking new life from the perfume 
 
 laden dew. 
 Broad fields and rich groves — proofs of 
 
 God's lavish hand — 
 Encircled this home of a bright happy band. 
 Happy children were sporting around in tlie 
 
 yard — 
 Their plejisant "Sire" stood watching as if 
 
 to keep guard. 
 Their dear mother, whoever is thoughtful 
 and kind, [in mind- 
 
 Appeared cheerful and happy and contented 
 A blessing to all she has proved lierself there. 
 Ought she not to be hai'py with her dear 
 
 ones all near ? 
 A bright cheerful daughter, with sweet win- 
 ning ways. 
 Completed the picture, and I ceased to gaze. 
 I turned with a sigh and left the fair scene. 
 While wishing each glance on the past as 
 fair might have been. 
 
 ■^ 
 
MB PELTON was the first superintendent of 
 schools in San Francisco, hut since then he 
 has seen a great deal of troubleand has been 
 very greatly harrassed by the loss of a part 
 of hifproperty. Mr. Peltnn's ubihty as_^ 
 
 L\, 
 
 JOHN COTTER PET.TON. 
 
 poet is well known on the ^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ly gentleman and has res.aea ^^^^ 
 
 rifvears on his ranch at inetrieu-, 
 ot yeais blessed with a wife 
 
 Diego county, Cal. tie i^ u . ,^.,..„ taken 
 If rare literary taste, who has alwaj s taKen 
 iVrlt nterest in his poetical works Mk 
 PeTton hopes to publish his poems tn book 
 
 form in the near future ^ 
 
 WHAT THEN? 
 uWhatamI?" 1 sigli. 
 As the world goes by. 
 But a lamp just dimly burning. 
 Convenient, 'tis true. 
 For a moment or two; 
 But the light out-blown, 
 And the spirit out-flown - 
 
 What then? 
 Extinguislied the flame. 
 Forgotten the name — 
 Wliat then? 
 
 With a still reckless ken. 
 
 The world hastens by. 
 
 Without tear or a sigh. 
 Nor tarries to ask, "What then? 
 
 But hastily lispeth ..adieu,-good-bye 
 Then onware speedeth its whirling. 
 Aye, small is one bee. 
 In the world's vast hive. 
 
 Where each for himself, 
 
 (For lucre or pelf,) 
 Is ever so eagerly stirring. 
 
 But a sand is he '. 
 
 In the depths of the sea! 
 
 If a billion were gone, 
 As many were born — 
 While the world whirls on 
 With its reckless ken, 
 Nor thinks "what then?" 
 But onward keeps its whirling. 
 Nor with tear or sigh. 
 But still rushes by, 
 W^ith a hasty good-bye. 
 And on, and on keeps whirling — 
 
 And then — What then? 
 Not the tongue of mortal — 
 Naught but infinite pen 
 Shall answer this query 
 
 Quite safely: ..What then? " 
 But as time flits by 
 We live and we die, 
 (We scarce know for what, or why., 
 And then? God knows, what then? 
 Yet rush we along, 
 •Mid the world's giddy throng; 
 Nor tarry nor tire 
 
 Till the lamp of life 
 Doth final expire; 
 Nor stop we for a moment 
 
 To ask or_to_think-" What then? 
 
 NIL DESPERANDUM. 
 Mv weary, toil-worn, murmuring friend. 
 Let JaUh^nd hope with patience blend. 
 
 And keep your colors flymg. 
 If grudging fate small bounties send. 
 And grov'ling life few pleasures lend. 
 
 There's little use in sighing. 
 While 'long life's thorny path you wend- 
 
 (0ft rough, there's no denying) - 
 No tears nor plaint will matters mend 
 Nor soothe nor smooth its rugged trend - 
 
 Then where's the use in sighing. 
 If fortune deals with sparing hand. 
 Your meager wants supplying. 
 If she sore toil and care demands. 
 Nor yiekls one jot her stern den.ands. 
 You nothing gain by sighing. 
 
 If sorrow lays her heavy hand 
 
 And severs rude love's holiest bands. 
 
 You gain no strength by pinmg. 
 If wreck bestrew life's stormy strand 
 And grief shall hasten out its sands. 
 
 You better naught by sighing. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 995 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. FRANCES REYNOLDS. 
 
 BoKN : Mt. Cakmel, III., Dec. 4, 1853. 
 In 1879 this lady married Mr. A. Reynolds, 
 editor and publisher of the Mariposa Ga- 
 zette, which paper she has edited and man- 
 aeed «uf eo^sful' y since tlio death of her hus- 
 
 Mu- > I, 1 M_l - V Khi .Mil li^ 
 
 baud. She has a collection of about seventy 
 poems which have appeared in tlie Overland 
 Monthly, San Jose Mercury, Mt. Carmel Reg-- 
 ister, San Francisco Call, and other publica- 
 tions. Mrs. Reynolds has a son and daugh- 
 ter, aged ten and six years respectively. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 Cool blows the wind across the lea. 
 
 Low sings the lonely whippoorwill; 
 Soft flutters tlie leaves on the old oak tree, 
 
 A moment rustling, a moment still. 
 I wait for one wlio ne'er will come 
 To meet me, as in days gone by, 
 I wait while she's dreaming 
 Under the gleaming 
 Stars of the southern sky. 
 The August moon comes o"er the liill. 
 Giving a radiance, pure and rare. 
 More plaintively tlie whip-poor-will 
 
 Breathes out his .song on the soft air. 
 And "mid tlie memories that will rise, 
 Of nights like this, forever fled. 
 My soul with sorrow 
 Longs for the morrow 
 To rest me with the dead. 
 
 A cloud hatli wrapped the pure white moon 
 (As clouds so long have wrapped my soul,) 
 No ray of light conies througli the gloom, 
 
 And fearful peals of lliunder roll. 
 Ah! niemorj- comes with inithl'ul page, 
 M()ie<lrcad to me than voice of doom. 
 Of cruel words spoken, 
 A fond heart broken, 
 A fair form silent in the tomb. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 All the world is warm and glowing 
 
 With the vivid gold and green. 
 And the mottled brown and crimson 
 
 Of the autumn's regal sheen. 
 And the air is filled with splendor. 
 
 Music lading everj' breeze. 
 Caught from rustling gold-edged banners. 
 
 Fluttering- on the forest trees. 
 
 The hills are robed in softest colors. 
 
 Wrapped in fllmj', purple mist. 
 The vales are rosy hued and golden. 
 
 As downy peach by sun's rays kissed. 
 Royal robed purple asters. 
 
 By the v.-ayside sway and nod. 
 With the crimson tufts of sumach. 
 
 And the flaunting golden-rod. 
 
 All the orchard trees are bending 
 With their wealtli of red and gold. 
 
 Giving more abundant fruitage 
 Than the flowers of spring foretold. 
 
 In the field the quail is whistling. 
 With a cheerful, daring sound. 
 
 And the timid, frightened rabbit 
 Leaps the path with graceful bound; 
 
 Apple-cheeked country maidens 
 Laugh and sliout in wildwood free. 
 
 Supple-sinewed lads are shaking 
 Treasures from the chestnut tree. 
 
 Blessed time of Indian summer. 
 
 Born from the midsummer's sun. 
 Fitting us for blasts of winter. 
 
 By love's victory newly won. 
 Giving us last, lingering visions 
 
 Of the golden warmth and light. 
 Of the summer and its glories. 
 
 Crowned with blessings rich and bright. 
 
 A JUNE ROSE. 
 I wonder if in thy tenderest feeling 
 Thou wilt guess the secret I most dread re- 
 vealing. 
 Like perfume from water-lilies stealing. 
 
 Just as they close. 
 Thou art fairer than the loveliest flower. 
 And richest graces are thy dower. 
 On bended knee I own thy power, 
 
 O sweet June rose. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ADA SMITH NICUM. 
 
 born: Richmond, Ind., Feb. 8, 1864. 
 Mns NiCUM is the daughter of a noted phy- 
 Mcian She was married in 1882 to W. V. Nic- 
 um! and now resides in Cincinnati. Ohio, with 
 
 ^JL- 
 
 MRS. ADA SMITH NICTTM. 
 
 her husband and daughter. She has written 
 many fine poems and several prose articles, 
 which have appe ared in the periodical press. 
 
 SOLTLOQUY. 
 The lingering sunset still is bright. 
 
 But comes apace the tailing night, 
 A lonely minstrel of the wood 
 
 Ts singing to the solitude, 
 Through dogwood blossoms late I stray. 
 
 Ah! wonderful the charms of May 1 
 Sing little minstrel, do thy best 
 
 To drown the music of the rest. 
 Where violets flood tlie turf with blue 
 
 And evening fills their cups with dew. 
 I'll ponder on the wicked fate 
 
 That robbed me of my promised mate. 
 Angel now bathed in heaven's rays. 
 Gone with those dear departed days, 
 Could I but reach thy realm sublime 
 
 To dwell with thee, nor reckon tune. 
 As with one voice we'd praise our king. 
 And heaven's enchanted carols sing. 
 Lord of all beings, throned on high, 
 
 O let thy dcath-angel swiftly fly. 
 And bear this btorm-tossed soul to rest, 
 Where it shall linger doubly blest. 
 
 Ye laughing riverlet bounding high, 
 
 Why mockest thou my weary sigh. 
 
 Thou art nigh bubbling o'er with fun. 
 
 But I, my race of joy have run; 
 Thou ripplest on to some great sea, 
 
 I, fain would reach eternity. 
 Pale, pale the moonbeam's waning light. 
 That kisses the darkness of the night. 
 Soon o'er the hili and budding brake. 
 
 The morning light begins to wake. 
 For down the vale.chimes from the tower 
 
 Ring up to me the midnight hour. 
 Earth is wrapped in a vale of dreams, 
 And my bereavement — jest it seems. 
 
 TO LOUISE OF SAVOY. 
 Fair, nobly fair, Therese Louise, 
 
 True daughter of the blood. 
 Thy eyes like bluebells dropped in snow. 
 
 Thy hair a golden flood. 
 Thy form so perfect in each line. 
 
 By angels coveted. 
 A child in years, in stature tall. 
 
 Lithe as a willow bough. 
 With heart full ripe in tender love 
 Would thou wert 'mong us now. 
 That tender heart so cruelly crushed. 
 
 Wrecked by a marriage vow. 
 The chill of death clung to thy gown; 
 
 Thy tears fell all the while. 
 When 'mid the pomp of Bourbons great. 
 Thou wore'st the bridal veil, [stood. 
 Wrapped in despair the bridegroom 
 
 With ne'er a word or smile. 
 The vision of f;iir Genevieve, 
 
 Stood sadly by his side. 
 Forsooth thou wert his princess, she. 
 
 His darling peasant bride. 
 And o'er her grave, though wed to thee, 
 
 Prince Lamballe wept and died. 
 Princess Therese Louise de Lamballe, 
 
 Thy brave deeds, nobly done, [heart. 
 Have strengthened many a fainting 
 
 Guided an erring one. 
 A beacon bright thy name remains. 
 
 Till time her sands shall run. 
 Tnou lived'st in a wicked age 
 
 When crime and carnage ruled. 
 Thy sweet young voice that cheered the 
 doomed. 
 Thy haixl their temples cooled. 
 Thy noble lieart surrendered life. 
 For love as't had been schooled. 
 God's peace be with thy sainted dust. 
 
 Though scattered far and wide. 
 E'en (luiet grave denied, in wliich 
 
 Thy broken heart to hide. 
 Daughter of Savoy, naught but woe 
 Thy portion as a bride 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 997 
 
 -* 
 
 SYLVESTER FOWLER. 
 
 Born: Williams Co.. O., March 2, 1S53. 
 As EDITOR of the Pottawatomie County 
 Times of Louisville, Kan., Sylvester Fowler 
 has grained quite a reputation as a forcible 
 writer. He has eontrihuted poems to the 
 Topeka Capital, Kansas City Times, Chicago 
 
 feiLVES.TER FOWLER. 
 
 Ledger, New York Tribune and other equally 
 prominent publications. Sex and Otlier Po- 
 ems is a small volume from the pen of this 
 editor and poet, which has received extensive 
 notice. Mr. Fowler was married in 1880 to 
 Miss EUzabeth Shaw, has three children, and 
 resides at Louisville, Kansas. 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 There hangs a picture in ray room, 
 
 A battle-clouded sky. 
 Cannon that belch athwart the gloom, 
 
 And charging cavalry. 
 
 The field of Austerlitz — the sun. 
 Smoke-swathed, but dimly shines. 
 
 The peasant-prince, NajKileon, 
 Leads on tlie thinned lines. 
 
 The scourge of Europe, on his face. 
 
 Implacable and stern 
 As hate, the excitement of the chase 
 
 Most clearly 1 discern. 
 
 Blood-tinctured is the battle plain. 
 Gore streams a risiiitr flood. 
 
 In the picture — oft 1 fear 'twill stain 
 The walls o' the room with Vilood. 
 
 Another picture I possess — 
 
 Though wealth is not my boast 
 I love art's treasures none the less — 
 
 The last I value most: 
 Pine woods, :i cabin, (true such scenes 
 
 Are common) liills beyond 
 A lake, and Thoreaii hoeing beans 
 
 By Walden Pond. 
 
 MILTON W. REYNOLDS. 
 O pioneer! 
 Or there or here. 
 Or far or near. 
 It seemeth clear 
 
 Thy tireless brain 
 
 Must still remain 
 Active: we liave no fear 
 For tliee, tliough dark and drear 
 Thy path, and sad the bier. 
 And iiot the falling tear; 
 Eternity's new year 
 
 Will find for thee some work, 
 
 Who never yet didst shirk, 
 O pioneer! 
 
 Beautiful was his soul. 
 And clean as whitest light — 
 
 He never reached a goal 
 By treachery to right. 
 Or liomage paid to might; 
 
 No servile fawner lie. 
 
 On bended knee. 
 
 He never warped the truth 
 
 In any cause forsootli. 
 
 Untarnished on his page 
 
 It shone to shame the age; 
 
 His manly gentleness 
 
 Grew never less. 
 
 He pitied all distress. 
 
 And to the needy gave 
 From out his scanty hoard 
 More than he could afford. 
 
 To succor and to save. 
 
 Tliouph folded are the hands. 
 
 In Oklaiioma lands; 
 
 Though closed the kindly eyes, 
 
 Tliat beamed with sympathies; 
 
 Though idle the swift i)en. 
 Keener at times than saber. 
 
 His name so long has been 
 .-VUied with thou^fhts of labor. 
 
 As student, satirist. 
 
 Self-poised diplomalist, 
 
 Eiiuipped journalist. 
 
 Philosopher, that we 
 
 Believe intuitively 
 
 That somewhere still he strives. 
 For good that shall incre.ase. 
 For i>rogress, knowledge, peace. 
 
 And better, nobler lives. 
 
 *- 
 
998 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LUCIUS P. HILLS. 
 
 Bokn: Bennington, N.Y., June 16, 1844. 
 Left an orphan at the age of eleven, Lucius 
 shortly afterward removed to a farm, when 
 in 1861, at the age of seventeen, he enlisted 
 in the 10th New York Cavalry, going through 
 three years of active service. In 1869 Mr. 
 
 LUCIUS p. HIliLS. 
 
 Hills entered the law department of the 
 University of Michigan, graduating in the 
 class of 1871, and practiced successfully in 
 northern Michigan. Since 1875 he has made 
 his home in Atlanta, Ga., where by judicious 
 investments he has accumulated quite a 
 little property. The poems of Mr. Hills have 
 appeared in the Buffalo Express, the Atlanta 
 papers and other publications, while many 
 of them have been written for private reci- 
 tations. 
 
 THK MAID OF CHRISTIAN HILL. 
 
 'Twas Sabbath morn, the sun shoue bright, 
 And sacred quiet reign'd around. 
 While bands of worshippers obeyed 
 The tolling church-bell's solemn sound; 
 As idly strolling through the town, 
 I crossed the river, passed the mill, 
 And wandering aimlessly along, 
 I reached the foot of Christian Hill. 
 
 As up the slope I slowly strayed, 
 1 met a maiden, wonderous bright. 
 
 In whose dark eyes the sunbeams played 
 With ever shifting, changing light; 
 With form and face of perfect mold. 
 Displaying nature's utmost skill; 
 A flower of rarest beauty, formed 
 To deck the brow of Christian Hill. 
 
 Often in poem or romance 
 
 I've read of maids divinely fair. 
 
 With eyes whose hue was heaven's own blue. 
 
 And sunlit waves of golden hair; 
 
 Of these let poets madly rave. 
 
 And sing iheir praises as they will, 
 
 I'll ne'er forget the dark brunette. 
 
 Whom first I met on Christian Hill. 
 
 No poet's pen could e'er describe 
 The nameless magic of her grace. 
 No artist's pencil could portray 
 The charms that centered in her face; 
 Her smile was bright as morning light. 
 Its witching beauty haunts me still. 
 And bids me ever bless the fate 
 That led my feet toward Christian Hill. 
 
 In happy visions of the night 
 
 Her radiant face I often see. 
 
 And with the morning's breaking light 
 
 Her image still revisits me. 
 
 Or, when meandering through the tow 
 
 With what wild joy my pulses thrill. 
 
 If on the street I chance to meet 
 
 That dnrk-eyed girl of Christian Hill. 
 
 I know not what strange power it is 
 Which thus my wayward lieart can move, 
 'Tis surely more than friendship's spell. 
 And yet, I dare not name it love; 
 But this 1 know, where'er I go 
 No other love my soul can fill. 
 Since I have seen fair beauty's queen 
 Who sits enthroned on Christian Hill. 
 
 But time is passing swiftly by 
 And these bright days will soon be o'er. 
 When I shall leave these happy scenes. 
 Perchance to visit them no more; 
 But when in distant lands I roam. 
 Life's sterner duties to fulfill. 
 Fond memory will revisit oft' 
 One little cot on Christian Hill. 
 
 Fair girl, where'er my path shall lead, 
 Wliile life is mine, thou hast a friend. 
 And e'en upon my dying bed 
 One prayer for thee shall still ascend; 
 And when above my grave, shall sing 
 The nightingale and whippoorwill. 
 My lingering spirit still shall haunt 
 Thy sacred home on Christian Hill. 
 
 *- 
 
 -1 
 
-* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKT.S OF AMEKK'A. 
 
 i»it9 
 
 MxARY GRACE MAHOXEY. 
 
 Born; Ikkland, 18{i0. 
 As THE author of Murmaduke Donver and 
 Other Stories.Miss Mahoney ah-eady occupies 
 a prominent place in the world of literature. 
 
 r 
 
 ^tif^ . 
 
 <«?^' 
 
 ^ 
 
 MAHV (iKACl-: MAIKINEY. 
 
 Her poems have appeared in tlie San Fran- 
 cisco News Letter, Arg-us, and Call. She 
 emigrated to this country in 187.5, and is now 
 engaged as a typewriter in San Francisco. 
 
 *- 
 
 MY PICTURE. 
 
 Do you want to see my picture. 
 
 The one I love the best? 
 It comes when dying sunbeams 
 
 Lead nature to lier rest. 
 The bacliground to my picture 
 
 Is a movmtain towering high, 
 Wliose rugged peaks are softened 
 
 III outline 'gainst the sky. 
 Tlie stars look briglitly downward, 
 
 I see them in the lake, 
 And of its silvery whiteness 
 
 A magic mirror make. 
 With giant limbs extending. 
 
 Behold my noble trees. 
 Their branches gentle bending 
 
 To softest perfumed breeze. 
 Tlie flowers have closed their dainty cups 
 
 And trj' to hide from sight. 
 The moonbeams touch the tree-tops 
 
 And i>aint them gli.stening white. 
 
 Oh, Artist! ean'st thou jiaint me 
 A scene like this of mine, 
 
 Can'st make the dewdrops glisten. 
 The silvery moon to shine? 
 
 Oh, paint me little flower-cups, 
 Whose perfume flll the air, 
 
 Bedew their lovely petals — 
 Display their beauty rare. 
 
 The stars — my living diamonds — 
 Those brilliant eyes of night— 
 
 Can'st draw their shape. Oh, Artist! 
 Their colors, too— their light? 
 
 The brush divine that painted this 
 Is not to mortals given — 
 
 The colors and the Master Hand 
 Are only I'ound in Heaven. 
 
 FLOWERS FOR THE FAIR. 
 
 Flowers are fit for the young and fair, 
 Roses and lilies and jasmine, 
 Blue forget-me-nots, daisies bright, 
 Wreatlie them together with golden hair. 
 Match young eyes with those blue-bells sweet 
 Shade the cheeks with carnations bright. 
 Take those blossoms of satiny white 
 And lay them against some bosom fair. 
 Take them away, for I would not place them 
 Over a heart that is chill and dr(>ar. 
 Ivy is fittest to wreathe with ruin — 
 And wreck of a life that is soulless here. 
 Take them away for they breathe a tale 
 In soft, low accents that cruelly steal 
 Into veins that are cold and chill — 
 Opening wounds that I fain would heal. 
 Know you a peaily dewdrop lies 
 Deep in the heitrl of that fair white rose? 
 Oh, could it but fall on my weary heart 
 Like rain to the burned and parched sod. 
 For my i)ain is that of a banished soul 
 That thirsteth for a sight of God. 
 
 VENICE. 
 In Venice, when the sinking sun 
 In blushing beauty seeks the West, 
 When purple sh;idows softly blend 
 Their colors with the deep blue sea, 
 A sound conies stealing near and near. 
 Until it rests within my heart. 
 And of its pulses seems a part — 
 The singing of the Gondolier. 
 
 When tender flowers droop and swoon 
 Beneath tiie perfumed pall of night. 
 And trembling trees show leaflets white. 
 All silvered by the pale moonlight; 
 Now faint and far, now deep and clear, 
 A lingering memory ever dear — 
 The music of the Gondolier. 
 
 -* 
 
1000 
 
 LOCAI- AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. STEPHEN B.CARTER. 
 
 Born: Brooklyn, Conn., Sept. 2, 1839. 
 FOR three years Mr. Carter worked as an 
 iron molder in one of the foundries of West- 
 minster, when he resumed the work of 
 teaching. In 1879 he was ordained a min- 
 
 REV. STEPHEN B. CARTER. 
 
 isterof the Congregational church, and luis 
 filled pastorates at Bkonk. and at Westmin- 
 ster where he is still engagred in preaching. 
 TheRev. Stephen B. Carter was married in 
 186.5 to Miss Louisa Button, and now has two 
 children -Edwin, born in 1870; and Annie, 
 in 1873. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Glorious Hope! forever cheering 
 Wanderers o'er life's thorny way. 
 
 By its pure and holy gleaming 
 Pointing to a better day. 
 
 Often to the heart when riven. 
 When naught else can give relief; 
 
 Does it tell us of a future. 
 Free from trials, pain and grief. 
 
 How it cheers the soul when smitten 
 Rudely by atHiction's hand. 
 
 Or when cast by howling tempest 
 Lonely on some foreign strand. 
 
 'Tis the star which breaks the darkness 
 Of lone sorrow's cheerless night. 
 
 Telling us a bright to-morrow 
 Waits us with its cheering light. 
 
 What tho' clouds may round thee gather. 
 Trials cluster round life's way; 
 
 Still it bids us hope to-morrow. 
 May be brighter than to-day. 
 
 Let its pure celestial radiance. 
 Though dark storms of trouble rise. 
 
 Point us all when life is ended 
 To that home beyond the skies. 
 
 THE HARVEST GOD. 
 
 Hark! The harvest call is ringing, 
 Sounding loud from God and man; 
 
 Bidding us to grasp the sickle, 
 And be reapers in the van. 
 
 'Tis God's harvest and His vineyard, 
 Will ye not be helpers there? 
 
 Can ye, can ye idly slumber. 
 Deaf to every frantic prayer? 
 
 See the tyrant waves his banner. 
 Filling earth with fear and dread; 
 
 Blasting peace, dethroning virtue, 
 Laying thousands with the dead. 
 
 Onwiird still the demon marches. 
 Blighting earth with sin and shame. 
 
 While his ruthless hands are dripping 
 With the blood of victims slain. 
 
 Aye, behold them gashed and wounded, 
 Steeped in infamy and vice; 
 
 On the wine-god's altar bleeding 
 Lays the broken sacrifice. 
 
 All along our country's borders. 
 From across the briny wave. 
 
 Comes one wild, deep wail of anguish. 
 Calling upon us to save. 
 
 'Tis the cry of orphans sobbing. 
 Wild with agony and pain; 
 
 And the widow's wail grows wilder 
 Over every victim slain. 
 
 Rise to crush the demon monarch. 
 Be to earth his scepter Hung; 
 
 Broken be his cn)wn which glitters 
 With the hearts by sorrow wrung. 
 
 Haste to gather up the harvest. 
 Let no sheaf neglected be. 
 
 Till as reapers home returning. 
 Ye can shout mankind is free. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1001 
 
 EDWIN MOORE BRYANT. 
 
 Born: Gai,veston, Texas. Nov. 27, 184.5. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Rryant, wliicli number 
 about a huii'Jred, bave appeared in tbe Hous- 
 ton Transcript, Galveston News, and tlie local 
 
 EDWIN MOOUK BHVANT. 
 
 papers of Texas generally. For a while he 
 was a sailor, but is now engaged on a farm 
 at Corpus Christi, Texas. 
 
 MOONLIGHT OF THE WEST. 
 In the silent midnight. 
 
 Watching wci\k and weary. 
 In the lonely sick room. 
 
 All was dark and dreary. 
 To tbe patient watcher. 
 
 Thus deprived of rest. 
 But for the bright moonlight. 
 
 Of our lovely west. 
 
 Oh indeed 'tis cheering. 
 
 All is briglit as day. 
 As tlie silvery moonbeams 
 
 Kiss our lovely bay. 
 Shine o'er hills and vallej's, 
 
 In their verdant dress. 
 Universal comfort. 
 
 Moonlight of the west. 
 
 Through her cloudy canopy. 
 
 Brightness ever bringing. 
 While the murmuring night wind. 
 
 Music sweet is singing; 
 Sad a,nd weary mortals, 
 
 With their cares oppressed. 
 Bless tbe silvery moonlight, 
 
 Moonlight of the west. 
 
 On joy and sorrow shining. 
 
 Alike on bond and free. 
 Upon the lonely mariner. 
 
 Tossed on the stormy sea. 
 And gives the lonely traveler. 
 
 Sweet dreams of home and rest. 
 Cheered by the silver moonlight 
 
 Of our lovely west. 
 
 Oh indeed I prize it. 
 
 And wiien 1 shall be 
 From eartldy troubles summoned 
 
 To dread eternity. 
 The wind, my only requiem. 
 
 In some wild grove I'd rest. 
 Beneath the silvery moonlight, 
 
 Moonlight of the west. 
 
 A LITTLE PUAIRIE FLOWER. 
 Accept my winsome friend of me. 
 
 My thanks for this sweet flower — 
 So tyi)ical of youth, and thee. 
 
 (Emblem of childhood's hour 
 No costly garden-bed, I ween. 
 
 Could give it greater power; 
 Unrivaled on its native green, 
 
 A simple Prairie flower. 
 
 Plucked from the prairie everywhere, 
 
 Ad<irne<l with crimson liues. 
 The glorious colors that compare 
 
 With art's most costly views: 
 No hand of man bestowed on them 
 
 Simplicity or power — 
 Sweet nature's simplest diadem. 
 
 The lovely Prairie flower. 
 
 Soon will its fragrance fade and be 
 
 With life's brief season o'er: 
 But may 1 liope long life for thee. 
 
 To gather many more — 
 And may swiH't innocence ;ind truth 
 
 Attend your latest hour. 
 Renewing each bright charm of youtli. 
 
 Sweet, lovely Prairie flower. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1002 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV.KIAH B. GLIDDEN. 
 
 Born: New Castle, Me., April 19, 1819. 
 In 1857 Mr. Gliddeu decided to take a theolo- 
 gical course at Bangor Theological Seminary, 
 whicli h»> foinplptoil in 1860. and was ordained 
 
 a (■(.iiur'-ij:iiiun;il iiiii!i>tfi • H'- has tilled 
 
 REV. KIAH B. GLIDDEN. 
 
 pastorates at Westmoreland, N. H., Enfleld, 
 Conn., Redding, Conn., and Mansfield Center, 
 Conn. In 1884 Mr. Glidden was a member of 
 the state legislature. He has contributed 
 numerous articles of literary, religious and 
 historical nature to the periodical press, to- 
 gether with several short stories which have 
 always been well received. He was married 
 in 1842 to Miss Caroline A. Hitchcock, by 
 whom he has several children. 
 
 AUTUMNAL EMBLEMS. 
 
 A thousand bright and pleasing tints 
 
 Adorn the autumn painted leaves, 
 As sparkle stars in varied glints — 
 
 Emblems of life's ripened sheaves; 
 For many pure and shining gems 
 
 Of love adorn our earthly way. 
 And shimmer in tlie diadems 
 
 Of heaven's bright eternal day. 
 
 But if like the first stricken leaf. 
 We often bear the Master's rod, 
 
 Know we well tliat all our grief 
 Comes from a loving, gracious God. 
 
 He tries us oidy to refine. 
 
 As roughly taken from the earth 
 Lapidarians cut the gems 
 Before the owner knows their worth. 
 
 If as the leaf we all must fade. 
 
 If strength and beauty both must wane. 
 Brighter glory shall crown each head 
 
 When freed from sorrow, care and pain, 
 For Autumn's colors rich and rare. 
 
 Are emblems of the life above. 
 Where every soul is young and fair, 
 
 And every thought is tinged with love. 
 
 REV. C. P. FLANDERS. 
 
 Born : New Hampshire, Nov. 25, 1834. 
 After graduatingin 1861 Mr. Flanders spent 
 some years in teaching, first at the Spring- 
 field Wesleyan seminary and Female college, 
 and afterward at Bellows Falls: then at 
 Passaic, N. J., and finally at the New Hamp- 
 shire Conference seminary. Rev. C. P. 
 Flanders has been preaching since 1867 and 
 is now pastor at North Truro, Mass. He was 
 married in 1864 to Miss Mary M. Barrows, and 
 has three children living now grown to 
 maturity. 
 
 THE TWO ARTISTS. 
 
 A famous artist day by day 
 Wrought carefully and patiently: 
 Sometimes in hope, sometimes in fear. 
 He wrouglit for many a weary year. 
 Till on a canvas blank and bare 
 He limned a face, so sweet, so fair. 
 So pure, it seemed to mortal eyes 
 A visitant from Paradise. 
 As came the wise men from afar 
 To Bethlehem, led by a star. 
 To see the Christ, drawn by its fame. 
 So men to see this picture came: 
 And while they gazed, upon them fell 
 A lioly influence like a spell. 
 
 Another artist day by day 
 Wrought carefully and patiently. 
 His instruments were vi)ice and peu. 
 And generous deeds; iu liope and fear 
 He wrought for many a weary year. 
 At last he won the liearts of men. 
 Through him the wicked changed their ways; 
 From i)rofaM(^ lips rose songs of praise: 
 Doubt, greed, ;ind envy slirunk away 
 Like snow before tlie breath of May; 
 And Christian graces grew like fiowcrs 
 Refreslied by summer's genial sliowers; 
 And all around fear and distress 
 Gave place to hope and hajipiness. 
 These men were gifted ai'tists. Well, 
 Wliicii was the greater, who can tell? 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
m- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 ]()03 
 
 -* 
 
 REV.AMOSJUDSON BAILEY. 
 
 Born: Chicago, Ills., June 9, 1843. 
 At AN early ag-e the subject of this sketcli 
 removed with his parents to Palatine, wliero 
 he learned telegraphy. He then spent Ave 
 years in Wbeaton College, and three years in 
 the Chicag-o Theological Seminary. Mr. Bai- 
 
 REV. AMOS JUD80N IJAILEY. 
 
 ley was ordained as a Congreg-ational min- 
 ister in 1871, and has since filled pastorates 
 at Bloomingdale, Union Grove, Hennepin, 
 Waukeg-an, Lalie View, Illinois; and at Mon- 
 roe, Wis.; and Og-den, Utah, where he is at 
 present located. The Rev. Amos J. Bailey 
 has been eminently successful in his religious 
 labors, and has many warm friends and ad- 
 mirers. He has a wife and several cliildren. 
 
 *- 
 
 AN ADDRESS OF WELCOME. 
 Every life needs some refreshing 
 
 From the springs of other lives; 
 And to eacli there comes a blessing. 
 
 Who another soul revives. 
 True, thn' seeming contradiction. 
 
 Giving most is getting most; 
 And liy facts more strange than fiction. 
 
 Every guest may jn-ove a host. 
 Witli the jesting and the laughter. 
 
 Or with logic grand and grave. 
 As with wheels, or 'neatli church rafter. 
 
 Honest he who prov(>s a knave. 
 Tlie fools are wi.sest keeping still. 
 
 The wise by silence may be fools; 
 
 Convictions having, conscience, will. 
 Use who can, but be not tools. 
 
 On the Utah field of battle. 
 
 In this bivouac of life; 
 Truth must be for cannon's rattle. 
 
 Love the hero in this strife. 
 Days or years it may not matter, 
 
 Harvest comes where seed is s(jwn. 
 Other harvests, rich, may flutter; 
 
 Patient wait — as rich our own. 
 Wit and wisdom — let them mingle. 
 
 Care forgotten by to-day. 
 Those are stnnigest whose hearts tingle 
 
 With the pleasure of the way. 
 Clieery hearts are much the strongest,— 
 
 And the work demands full strength; 
 Sunny days are far the longest. 
 
 Clouds to-night do add their length. 
 Of thy knowledge liiing the gravest, 
 
 Wiien the hour to bring be come, 
 Of thy wisdom if thou savest. 
 
 Thou has made e-xperience dnmb. 
 Harvest hours we only s„dden 
 
 Wlien we pluck the bud ere blown ; 
 Other liearts we help to gladden 
 
 By the sunshine of our own. 
 Bring your light and let it glisten. 
 
 Bring yinir logic and your lore; 
 If you speak of if you listen. 
 
 Welcome to this council floor. 
 
 CLOSE OF AN EASTER SERMON. 
 O world withdraw; O heaven come near; 
 
 Decay and deatli depart forever. 
 My Lord is risen. I need not fear. 
 
 No death from me my Christ can sever. 
 The dust of earth to earth may f;ill 
 
 As leaves that on tlie trees do qtiiver; 
 My soul shall answer to God's call. 
 
 And rise again to meet life's Giver. 
 New life in Christ my soul hath found, 
 
 A life no cold of death can sliiver; 
 Some leaves may tremble to the ground — 
 
 Life's tree grows either side the river. 
 Tlie liand that reached my soul in death, 
 
 Reached from a tlirone forever vernal; 
 The God who gives the body l)reath. 
 
 Gives to tlie spirit life eternal. 
 Tlie grave may claim its little clod. 
 
 And yet to die is no disaster; 
 We rise again to he with God 
 
 Since death is conquered by our Master. 
 O death to .sin ! O life in Thee! 
 
 O freedom from sin's power and prison ! 
 'Tis life alone in Christ to be; 
 
 With Him who die, with Him are risen. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1004 
 
 m 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. FLORENCE G.VARNEY. 
 
 Born: New Sharon, Me., March 5, 1854. 
 After graduating from the Wendell Insti- 
 tute in 1874 Florence continued as assistant 
 in the same school until her marriage in 1876 
 to Tli<)iuas Varnej', of Windham, Mu., where 
 
 MRS. FLORENCE O. VARNEY. 
 
 she now resides with her husband and fam- 
 ily. Some of Mrs. Florence Varney's unpub- 
 lished Lullabies have been set to music by 
 M. B. Sargent,a well known music composer. 
 
 *- 
 
 AN EARLY PICTURE. 
 One picture sketched by Memory's pea 
 So on my heart has grown. 
 That though I walk the ways of men 
 I see this path alone — 
 It crosses o'er a sandy stream 
 Through bridge with covered dome, 
 Until it leads — as in a dream — 
 Up to my early home. 
 No stone is missing from the wall 
 Where once the squirrel frisked. 
 Ready I answer to my name 
 By baby sister lisped ! 
 The maples by the picket gate 
 Are standing just the same; 
 A school boy iiasses all too late 
 To answer to his name. 
 The very school-house; where the girls, 
 Or boys — now grown-up men — 
 Rejoiced to pull my snarly curls — 
 But I forgave them then. 
 
 I see the busy swallow search 
 
 A place to build her home. 
 
 And find it by the Belfried church '. 
 
 Too soon, alas, she'll roam — 
 
 For merry lads and lassies, dare 
 
 That dizzy height to climb; 
 
 And by then- careless mirth, to scare 
 
 This bird of Summer time. 
 
 And if from out that country home 
 
 Comes no familiar form; 
 
 Yet clearly on my heart has grown. 
 
 The place where I was born. 
 
 DO WE FORGET? 
 Although the winter nights are long. 
 
 And hushed the sound of silver stream; 
 Do we forget the wild bird's song. 
 
 Or Summer noon-time's golden gleam? 
 'Though long the path from youth to prime, 
 
 And seldom blows the cardinal flower; 
 Do we forget Love's Summer-time 
 
 Because of storms or passing shower? 
 Then not of Lenten eves we'll sing. 
 
 While slowlj' grows the violet; 
 Each winter brings a fragrant Spring; 
 
 Life's Easter comes? Do we forget? 
 
 WHEN WILLOW-TKEES BLOOM. 
 A memory sweet of other days 
 
 Comes back with the willow-tree's bloom; 
 My little child with grown-up ways 
 
 Plays agaui in my silent room. 
 She rocks "kitty-willows" to sleep 
 
 With the words of that childish tune, 
 " Praying the Lord her soul to keep " 
 
 Softlj- sounds her motherly croon. 
 So now when the graceful willows bloom, 
 
 I remember her answered prayer, 
 I whisper low, with smiles, "Ah soon 
 
 Sweet child, I will meet you up there." 
 
 SEVEN TIMES THREE. 
 The buttercups glint in the sunlight. 
 
 Tall daisies sway forward andtro; 
 The mother-bird croons in the twilight 
 
 A lullaby gentle and low. 
 The breath of the clover and grasses 
 
 Comes sweet on tlie breezes of June; 
 A school boy sings as lie passes 
 
 Tlie first line of an olden tune. 
 Do they tell us the roses will wither? 
 
 The nibin forget her soft nest? 
 Cold winds sweep up from the river [rest? 
 
 On whose green tianks we once loved to 
 Each season hath joy in its dawning,— 
 
 Tlie dear Lord sendetli to each; 
 And the hope of girlhood's bright morning 
 
 Finds in womanhood utterance of speech. 
 
* — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 Km 
 
 REV. JOHN WAUGII. 
 
 Born : Enoland, Makch ~1, 1814. 
 This g-entlcman is a Presbyterian niiiiistor 
 and resides in Cohocton, N. Y. He was mar- 
 ried in 1843 to Miss Charlotte Kogers. In 1888 
 lie published a volume entitled Messiah's 
 
 i;i;v. .loHN WAUtiii. 
 Mission, a similar work to Paradise Lost. 
 The poem is an Epic of the Savior's mission 
 and deeds, unique in its desig-n and execu- 
 tion. It is in nine boolss and exhibits a 
 wealth of erudition, geological, methologi- 
 cal, and biblical learning. 
 
 *- 
 
 ABODES OF WEAKNESS. 
 
 FROM MESSIAH'S MISSION. 
 
 The air is tainted as we pass along 
 
 With fetid odors on its wings, and sounds 
 
 As from Lazar-house of pain, are borne 
 
 In still increasing meaning to tlic ear; 
 
 As near at liand and through a battered door 
 
 The Abodes of Weakness meet the half closed 
 
 ej'e; 
 On narrow couches, which Indulgence laid, 
 The victims lie in utter helplessness. 
 Where Vain Regret, Weak Purpose and False 
 
 Trust, 
 Followed by Lying Hope, obsequeous wait; 
 Wliero wakeful Memory, with broken vows. 
 Offended Right, and Conscience stirred to 
 
 wrath. 
 Glide after them, executors of law. 
 With soft, yet steady and unfalt'ring tread. 
 
 Here lie tlie former heroes of the world. 
 The men of might, the Anaks of their age. 
 The mighty hunters of renown and power. 
 Whose breath was empire; whose ambition 
 gain; [^«lf. 
 
 Whose motive, pleasure; and who worsliiped 
 As if 'twas man's sole mission in the world 
 To feed his senses, pamper every lust. 
 And serve all other deities but God. 
 
 Here sighs arise— not from devotion's search ; 
 Here tears are shed — not from repentance's 
 
 pain ; 
 Here prayers are ofTcrcd— not for innocence; 
 Laughter is liere — but not of conscious 
 
 mirth; [God; 
 
 Thought wanders everywhere — but not to 
 Sorrow is here — but not for guiltiness; 
 And change is here — but not from wrong to 
 
 right 
 Made hence unchangeable in rectitude. 
 Amid the gloom's repulsiveness, we see 
 Foreboding shadows bounding every life. 
 Passing from couch to couch of woe-struck 
 
 forms. 
 The eye is pained by what it would not view. 
 Sons of the morning cast to deepest night. 
 
 Jubals are here, who can no longer touch 
 The harp or organ with a cunning hand: 
 Nimrods, whocan no further speed the chase 
 Or near proud Babels on wide Shinar's plain; 
 Samsons, whose eyes are out, and cannot 
 
 bring 
 The mocking pillars of their Dagon down; 
 Asahels, whose feet, once like the iKuinding 
 Refuse their office, weak as infancy; [roe, 
 Ahithophels, in counsel .sought as gods. 
 Neglected lie with no consulting throng; 
 The Absaloms, that stole the hearts of pride. 
 Receive no recognition and no praise; 
 Goliaths mighty once in Shocho's vail. • 
 Rest with their giant sons unmeet for war. 
 Swords, shields ;ind spears and breastplates 
 
 cast away — 
 Authority is here, but gives no sign 
 Which waiting minions understand or fear; 
 And Enteri)rise, with glowing eyes, now 
 Finds no advent urers to lieed liis call, [dim, 
 Ambitiot), wearied hiis laid down his roll. 
 And zeal, and courage, baffled, t-ink to i-est. 
 Dim are those eyes once set upon the jirize; 
 The voluntary nerves are quite unstrung 
 And late obedient muscles will not move; 
 The wills, once strong, are paralyzed in 
 
 power. 
 And what was will not, is made cannot now! 
 There as they lie, an un.seen hand is seen 
 Inscribing on tlie walls portentously, 
 .. Ye sold yourselves for nothing, yet the pay 
 Though long delayed,was ever sure to come." 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1006 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 J. MALCOLMSON DUKES. 
 
 Bokn: Charleston, S. C, Sept. 37, 1856. 
 In his youth Mr. Dukes studied law and 
 was elected county attorney of Bandera 
 county. Since that time Mr. Dukes has been 
 
 
 J. MALCOLMSON DUKE'S 
 
 principally engaged in real estate and mort- 
 gage loaning. He has written more than a 
 liundred commendable poems, and in 1885 
 won a money prize from the dailies of Sau 
 Antonio, for best Carrier's Address in verse. 
 In 1888 he was married to Miss Lula Smith. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE THANKSGIVING LAY. 
 
 To-day I shall die ; my last gobbling 
 
 In life I must use to inveigh 
 
 Ag.iinst man. who 'too long has been hobbling 
 
 Witli death and destruction our way ! 
 
 We are birds of great worth to our nation; 
 
 Sliall we let this extinguisliment last? 
 
 We are needing strict class-legislation 
 
 Or must soon become birds of the past! 
 
 To-day is the Nation's Thanksgiving, 
 
 And mankind all over the land 
 
 Will return, for the blessings of living 
 
 Their praise to the Bountiful Hand. 
 
 Tliey are gleefully counting their blessings 
 
 And running them over like beads,— 
 
 While their cooks are preparing the dressings 
 
 For the day's diabolical deeds! 
 
 The Saint in his closet is praying. 
 
 His eyes scarcely lifted on high; 
 
 And the Sinner at church is a-saying 
 
 His prayers, with a spurious sigh; 
 
 They are making fine show to be grateful 
 
 And good — but I know the deep sin 
 of their hearts, for to-day by the plateful 
 They'll devour the choice of my kin ! 
 I have seen them — theliypocrites! — kneeling 
 With faces all unctuously sad! 
 But I know, while to Heaven appealing 
 That their hearts are resolved on the bad! 
 For from President down to poor cobbler. 
 While dev(mtly to Heaven thej- pray. 
 They've but bloodthirsty thoughts for the 
 They ruthlessly murder to-day ! [gobbler 
 They beseech that the choice gifts of heaven 
 Descend like a dew on their path 
 And fill up their souls with sweet leaven- 
 But mercy not one of them hath! — 
 For after they've sent up a good pile 
 Of prayers, they will cruellj- tread- 
 Each one — with his ax, to the wood-pile 
 And chop off the poor turkey's head 1 
 Tliey will pray an eternal prolonging 
 Of lives much more harmful tlianours; 
 That Heaven preserve them from roasting 
 When death shall determine tlieir powers- 
 While the cooks in the kitchens are seated 
 In houses all over the town 
 To see that the ovens are heated 
 And the turkeys all done to a brown! 
 Should anhcathen — desiring dinner — 
 Devour a cliristian or two. 
 He's pronounced a most damnable sinner 
 And decried for his criminal gout! 
 Yes ! they hold up their hands in great horror 
 At the deptli of the cannibal's sin. 
 Yet instantly turn round and Ijorrow 
 His taste — when the turkey's brought in ! 
 They ■will all against Woodshed and killing 
 Their kind most indignantly howl- 
 But when' tis the turkey in question 
 Commit all these murders so fowl! 
 And wiU— with liypocrisy able! 
 In soft sanctimonious tones. 
 Even offer a grace o'er the table 
 At wliich they are crunching our bones! 
 They profess to subdue every passion, 
 (And probably do where that tends 
 To offer no check to >• the fashion," 
 The palate, or personal ends.) 
 They're above all morality murky, 
 From selfishness utterly free- 
 Yet should they want turkey, its turkey ! 
 (Though they "never .say turkey'i"" tome!) 
 Alas that such people are living! 
 That turkeys must suffer such cross 
 As the fraud of the people's Thanksgiving, 
 Its crime and its cranberry sauce! 
 1 sigli forthe day when the Nation- 
 No longer as heartless as stone- 
 May hold its Thanksgiving oblation 
 And let the pooi- turkey alone! 
 _ * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 1007 
 
 MRS. LIZZIE UNDERWOOD. 
 
 Bokn: FoiiT Madison, Iowa, April I, 1845. 
 In 1873 iliis lady was married to Rev. I. M. 
 Underwood, and now resides at Payton, Va., 
 with lier family. Over a hundred of her po- 
 
 MRS. LIZZIE HARDING UNDERWOOD. 
 
 ems have been published — some in music 
 books and others in the Religious Telescope 
 of Dayton, Ohio, and the periodical press gen- 
 erally. 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 One sweet thought comes o'er me gently 
 stealing. 
 
 As I sit alone; 
 Thoughts of home and home's bright joys re- 
 vealing. 
 
 Sorrow's unknown. 
 
 I'm a pilgrim here; my days are fleeting — 
 
 Flying swiftly by. 
 To-day with pain or pleasure hearts are beat- 
 ing. 
 
 To-morrow we die. 
 
 To-day we waste our time and talent sighing 
 O'er joys that's past; 
 
 To-miirrow in our winding sheet be lying — 
 Taste joys that last. 
 
 To-day with tireless watch we're weeping 
 
 O'er our silent dead; 
 To-morrow friends bend o'er us sleeping. 
 Weep in our stead. 
 
 To-day with friends of earth we're meeting. 
 Meeting but to p:irt; 
 
 To-morrow frleuds in heaven be greeting. 
 Ever licart to heart. 
 
 AFTER. 
 
 After the darkness, cometh the light. 
 After the shadows, the sunshine bright. 
 
 After the storm-cloud, beautiful calm. 
 After the wounding, the healing balm. 
 
 After the sorrow, pleasure's adorn; 
 After the weeping, joy's blessed morn. 
 
 After the false one, sweet friendship true; 
 After the frost-king, heaven's own dew. 
 After the winter, summer's glad hours, 
 After the sharp thorns, love's sweet 
 flowers. 
 After the river, the gate of gold, 
 
 After the dying — the bliss untold. 
 After the battle — vict'ry will come; 
 After the death-sleep — waking at home ; 
 After the parting, meeting above; 
 After tliat meeting, nothing but love. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP'S WREATH. 
 Friendship twines a wreath for thee, 
 
 Beauteous may the wreathing be. 
 Unsurpassed in Flora's bowers. 
 
 Humility's sweet-hued flowers — 
 Richly dwell in thy young heart. 
 
 Myrtle (love) a generous part. 
 Adorn thy pathway to the tomb. 
 
 Nor then forget, for thee, to blcMim. 
 
 *- 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Why is it in this world of ours. 
 Sunshine, then shade? 
 
 Wliy is it that the sweetest flowers 
 Bloom but to fade? 
 
 Why is it that the best-h>ved friends 
 
 Meet but to i>art? 
 Wiiy is it that these partings here 
 
 Pain each true heart? 
 
 Ah! were it in this world of ours 
 
 Sunshine ever. 
 If earth's fairest, sweetest flowers 
 
 Faded never; 
 
 If f lieudship's closest, fondest ties 
 
 Need never part ; 
 Or If these weary partings here 
 
 Paln'd not the heart ; 
 
 Then might we not forget and stay, 
 
 Content with this. 
 And by our lovely dreams of c;irth 
 
 Miss perfect blis-;. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1008 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LIZZIE EVELYN FLORENCE. 
 
 Born: Edom, Texas, Feb. 4, 1866. 
 
 This lady received her education at the Mills 
 Point High School, and the Baylor Universi- 
 ty at Waco, Texas. She has written ahout 
 fifty poems, many of which have appeared in 
 the Guardian, of Waco, Texas; Texas Baptist 
 
 LIZZIE EVELYN FLORENCE. 
 
 and Herald, of Dallas, Texas; Mills Point 
 Chronicle, and many other publications. 
 Personally Miss Florence is very petite, with 
 golden brown hair and dark blue eyes. She 
 is now residing at Grand Salina, Texas. 
 
 CAN THIS BE LIFE? 
 
 This ceaseless struggle from day to day — 
 
 This striving for what we ne'er attain; 
 
 Watching the years p:iss slowly away. 
 
 And bearing a heavy weight of pain: 
 
 Can this be life? 
 
 This burial of fond liopes, once bright — 
 This i)lacing of all things sweet away; 
 
 This bitterness, far darker than night — 
 This bidding farewell, the last bright ray: 
 Can this be life? 
 
 Gazing into eyes — like cornflower's, blue; 
 Finding your ideal — your king 'mongst 
 men; 
 
 The dreaming of dreams that ne'er prove 
 
 true. 
 And winning only the" might have been:" 
 Can tills be life? 
 
 Watching the sun go down in the west; 
 Thinking sad thoughts when the shadows 
 fall; 
 Growing so weary — longing for rest; 
 Enduring the common lot of all: 
 Can this be life? 
 
 Fighting a battle with your own heart; 
 
 Bearing the woe of a woman's lot; 
 Striving, so bravely, to act your part. 
 
 And learning to •• wait and murmur not:" 
 Can this be life? 
 
 O, can this be the •> fair summer day," 
 That the poet so blindly called life? 
 
 Tliis sorrow and pain, from day to day, 
 And a constant, inward, bitter strife — 
 Can this be life? 
 
 THE PURPOSE. 
 
 Behold, how bare are the bushes to-day! 
 
 With no hint of the flowers they bore; 
 Nothing to tell how gorgeous and gay 
 
 Were spring time roses, in days of yore. 
 
 These old, brown stems — how little they 
 tell 
 
 Of days that are gone.'days that were fair; 
 Of the flowers that I loved so well. 
 
 And fragrance that once ladened the air; 
 
 Only thorns— where once the roses grew; 
 
 Winter's cold instead of summer rain; 
 Chilling winds — where wooing breezes 
 blew; 
 
 In my heart ades'late sense of pain: 
 
 For my life is cold and bare and sere, 
 And filled with the woe of winter's blight: 
 
 Nothing is left of the old dreams dear. 
 Or of the old days l)eautiful light. 
 
 But 'tis best that youth passes away 
 After one lingering moment's bliss; 
 
 That night speedily follows the day. 
 And morn's freshness, at evening, I miss; 
 
 Best tliat spring-time roses do not last; 
 
 For death, I know, must come to us all; 
 And, maybe, with life's fragrance all past, 
 
 I'll not mind to respond to the call. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKK A 
 
 1()U9 
 
 JOSEPH LAY STEVENS. 
 
 Born: Mapleton, Minn., April 4, 1860. 
 The poems of Mr. Stevens liavo received 
 
 Iiublii-;itinii in the inTiudiciil ju'css. He is 
 
 .JOSEPH LAY STEVENS. 
 
 still a resideut of Mapleton, where he is en- 
 gaged in farming. 
 
 LONGING FOR SUMMER. 
 Ah my heart is full of longing. 
 Longing for the summer; 
 For the sunshine and the showers. 
 For the green leaves and the flowers, 
 Gladdening all the fleeting hours 
 With the charm to them belonging. 
 Thoughts of tliese come o'er me thronging. 
 Till I'm weary with the longing. 
 
 Longing for the summer. 
 Ah my heart is weary wail ing. 
 
 Waiting for the summei'; 
 Blow March winds witli frantic fury. 
 Break old Winter's icy glory. 
 Tell (mce more the old, old story. 
 How the birds again are mating. 
 Merrily their homes creating; 
 Yes I'm weary with the waiting. 
 
 Waiting for the summer. 
 Ever I am thinking, dreaming. 
 
 Dreaming of the summer; 
 Then no breezes drear and biting. 
 No bleak prairies uninviting 
 With the gray of winters blighting, 
 I But the joy of song is beaming 
 
 On the face of nature, .seeming 
 All to me but dreaming. 
 
 Dreaming of the summer. 
 Why should I be thus repining 
 
 For the days of summer';' 
 Even now the sk.\ grows lii'igliter, 
 Day by day the snows are lighter, 
 And the winding river's wliiter; 
 Now the sun is undermining 
 All the landscape's winter lining. 
 Yet I cannot help repining 
 
 For the days of sunnner. 
 
 HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 With the dawn we give the greeting, 
 
 Happy New Vear! 
 With the old year yet retreating, 
 
 Happy New Year I 
 Laughing, sliouting, each one trying 
 First to give and last replying. 
 Mingled with the old year's dying, 
 
 Happy New Yearl 
 Dear old homes to-day united, 
 
 Happy New Year! 
 Kindred love to-day requited, 
 
 Happy New Year ! 
 Enemies to-day forgiving. 
 Prodigals to-day returning. 
 Hearts for love and home are yearning, 
 
 Happy New Year! 
 Bring ns hope and peace and gladness, 
 
 Happy New Year! 
 Banish pain and care and sadness, 
 
 Happy New Year! 
 Let once more a firm endeavor 
 Turn our waj's from evil ever. 
 All the world a leaf turn over, 
 
 Happy New Year! 
 
 SPRING. 
 Oh joyous Spring! wlien fleeting clouds and 
 
 silver rain 
 Bring back green leaves and flow'rs and 
 
 wake the birds again. 
 When echoes .sound, and bursting buds i>er- 
 
 fume the air, [midnight fair; 
 
 When dews are on and motmlight makes the 
 Oh time of promise! scattered seeds in fur- 
 rows lie. [on high. 
 We plow, we sow. then wait and trust in Him 
 Oh quiet wood! oh varieil landscape, fen and 
 
 field ! 
 What charms are there, what sweet delights 
 
 their haunts do yield! 
 There on the hillside feed the meek -eyed 
 
 cows and sheep, [keep 
 
 And in the valley by, the frogs in chorus 
 Tiieir revels In the nijiht, undaunted by the 
 
 howl [the owl. 
 
 Of some lone cur, or startling challenge of 
 
 *- 
 
 -•£ 
 
*- 
 
 1010 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHARLES H.SCHROEDER. 
 
 Born: Boeuf Creek, Mo., March 16, 1858. 
 After studying- the normal course at the 
 University of Missouri for thi-ee years, 
 Charles first taujilit at New Haven in 1884 as 
 principal, and later at Augusta, :M(i., fur four 
 
 CHARLES H. SCIIROEDF.R. 
 
 years, and has since been principal of vari- 
 ous schools. He is the author of a pastoral 
 tale entitled Enos and Aurelia. Mr. Schroe- 
 der can compose in German as well as in 
 English, and his poems have appeared in the 
 leading publications of his state. He was 
 married in 1885 to Miss Delphine Kenish, and 
 now has two children —Blanche and Kalph. 
 
 THE EVERLASTING MONUMENT. 
 
 To make a monument that lasts for aye. 
 Brush but the dust of selflsliiiess away, 
 Remove the sod of avarice and gain. 
 And all the clods of envy cut in twain; 
 Through discontent's deep loam, with busy 
 liand, [black sand; 
 
 Now clear a way, .and dig through hate's 
 The flinty rock of m.alicc cleave in two: 
 And see! love's pure, white marble shim- 
 mers tlu-ough. 
 With noble deeds now ornament tliis bright, 
 And many !i picture on this marble write: 
 First sketch with precepts on its surface 
 
 raw. 
 Then with good actions deeply in it draw. 
 And witli love's chisel deeply in it hew: 
 This moiuiment will keep forever new. 
 
 SONNET TO J. G. WHITTIER. 
 The clover and the hazel-blossoms long 
 Had slept, lulled into sleep by cries and yells 
 Of our poetic Indians in the dells 
 And fields of pastoral and lyric song; 
 But when thou, Whittier, wert born among 
 The hills of Massachusetts, there where 
 
 dwells 
 The odor of the new-mown hay 'round wells 
 That, each one, sing "Maud MuUer" in a 
 
 tongue 
 Which taught thy lyre the accent of the sky — 
 Lo! then each clover and each hazel-bloom, 
 A princess, spell-bound, wooed by the right 
 
 groom. 
 In the right way, did ope its tiny eye 
 To listen to that sweet, melodious thrill. 
 That freedom's land with freedom's song 
 
 should fill. 
 
 TO DELPHINE. 
 Since I have seen thee, beauty's favorite 
 
 mold 
 Seems blushing when compared with thy 
 mild beaming-, Lstreaming 
 
 While from thy limbs mute harmony is 
 Into my pleased eye, all the rest seems cold 
 And trite, like stories that have oft been 
 
 told: 
 But thou the kernel of the world art seeming, 
 With all the universe around thee teeming. 
 Like ornaments or a mere shell to hold 
 Thee, essence, core, and soul of all emotion: 
 Thus stand the servants, eager for employ- 
 ment. 
 Around their queen in vigilant devotion — 
 Not thinking of their own, but her enjoy- 
 ment; 
 And thus the stars stand round tlie sun in 
 
 duty. 
 To be eclipsed, and thus augment liis beauty. 
 
 SONNET ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 When Sliakespeare stepped forth into na- 
 ture's light. 
 She smiled to see witliin liis nature shine, 
 Like in a mirror, ground and polished tine. 
 Her form with all its shapes depicted biijrlit; 
 And proud, she bade him of her beaut y write; 
 Dictated word for word, till every line 
 llore of her glowing form a glowing sign; 
 Tlien did she doom him to the grave's dark 
 
 night: 
 Tlius llings the .Irtist, when liis work is done, 
 His negative into some darkling- chest; 
 Tims, too, the warrior, when tlio battle's 
 
 won, 
 Ifesigns his sword and stei'd to endless rest; 
 And thus the sun dries up the friendly lake. 
 In which so oft he saw his imago shake. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1011 
 
 DEXTER SMITH. 
 
 Born Salem, Mass., 1842. 
 
 More than one thousand poems from tlio 
 pen of this poet have been set to music, 
 some of wliich songs have attained circuhi- 
 tions running well into millions of copies, 
 notably the lyrics: Ring the Bell Softly, 
 
 DEXTEK SMITH. 
 
 There's Crape on the Door, Cross and Crown, 
 Put me in my Little Bed, Darling Minnie 
 Lee, and others. Dexter Smith is essentially 
 the poet of the people — of the heart and 
 home. Ring the Bell Softly has been trans- 
 lated into several foreign languages. Since 
 1865 Dexter Smith has edited continuously 
 various musical journals, among them the 
 Orpheus and the Boston Musical Record, 
 which he now conducts. A volume of his 
 poems appeared in 1867. He has also been 
 successful in his writing plays, Zanita being 
 performed for nearly three months at the 
 Boston theater. The titles alone of Dexter 
 Smith's writings fill twelve large pages in the 
 catalogue of the British Museum in London. 
 
 BROKEN THREADS. 
 As the shuttle swiftly flies 
 Back and forth before our eyes. 
 Blending with its fingers light. 
 Warp and woof, till they unite 
 In a fabric good and strong. 
 Let us hear the weaver's song:- 
 
 Weaving ever day by day. 
 As the sliuttles briskly play. 
 Broken threads how oft annoy. 
 And our precious time employ; 
 Warning us by sharp reproof, 
 We must watcli the warp and woof. 
 Weaving in life's busy loom. 
 Mingling sunshine with the gloom,— 
 Warp and woof of deeds wc blend 
 Till life's fabric has an end;— 
 iJroken threads we often find 
 Burdening the noble mind. 
 Broken threads in life abound. 
 In each station are they found; 
 May Faith's kind and friendly hand 
 Help us to adjust the strand. 
 That, when life's last tide shall ebb. 
 There shall be a perfect web. 
 
 BABY'S GONE TO SLEEP. 
 There's a pair of little hands 
 
 Laid to rest forever more, 
 .\nd two pearly, dimpled cheeks. 
 
 Whose rich blossoming is o'er. 
 Death has sealed two little eyes 
 
 That will no more smile nor weep,— 
 Tiny windows of the soul;— 
 
 Little baby's gone to sleep. 
 There's another bud removed. 
 
 Ere it felt the blight of sin ; 
 Through the door the angels made. 
 
 Darling baby has passed in. 
 Far beyond the azure skies 
 
 Where the tiny star-eyes peep. 
 From all earth's sad doubts and fears. 
 
 Little baby's gone to sleep. 
 She will wake in fairer land 
 
 Where the angel voices sing. 
 There the tiow'ret will expatid — 
 
 There shall love perfection bring: 
 She has reached the golden shore. 
 
 Through the river cold and deep; 
 Angels bore her safely there; 
 
 Baby's only gone to sleep. 
 
 SUMMER SONGS. 
 On rosy wings the Sununer comes, 
 
 .A gleeful creature young and fair. 
 While by lier side the wild bee hums, 
 
 .■\ud cherry-blossoms deck her hair. 
 The blue-bird echoes her sweet voice. 
 
 The clover nods her path along. 
 While all in life with lier rejoice, 
 
 Wliose step is music — %-oice is song. 
 O Summer! slowlj- pass the hours 
 
 Before thy silv'ry voice is mute; 
 And teach my heart, with thy bright tiowers 
 
 To wait for life's autumnal fruit. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1012 
 
 LOCAL AKD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FRANCIS M. BEHYMER. 
 
 Born : Browning, III., Nov. 21, 1858. 
 Living in his nativestute until his nineteenth 
 year,Francis then emigrated with his parents 
 to Missouri and then to Arkansas in 1877. 
 Since then he has traveled in many of the 
 
 FRANCIS M. BEHYMER. 
 
 western states, and has lived in Little Rock 
 for nine years. He is a fair artist in crayon, 
 water color and oil, and intends to make that 
 his profession, although he is at present en- 
 gaged as a contractor and builder. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 The brilliant crown of all the year, 
 October's golden month in here. 
 
 Uncounted riches bearing. 
 Nature her storehouse opens wide. 
 And calls October to her side. 
 
 For her rich gifts preparing. 
 
 Abroad she comes o'er all the land. 
 And scatters with a lavish liand 
 
 Kind nature's hoarded treasure. 
 She spreads her table in the fields, 
 Laden witli all her bounty yields 
 
 In unexhausted measure. 
 
 The earth in holiday attire. 
 With forests flaming red as flre. 
 
 Or golden, brown and yellow. 
 The mountain tops seem all ablaze. 
 While struggles through tlie purple haze 
 
 The sunshine soft and mellow. 
 
 In stubble fields the quail is heard. 
 The hardy, self-reliant bird. 
 
 His mate is loudly calling 
 The cricket chirps his notes so shrill. 
 The jaybird screams upon the hill. 
 
 While autumn leaves are falling. 
 
 The aster and the golden-rod. 
 
 And yellow sunflowers bow and nod. 
 
 The last of summer flowers. 
 The odor-laden southern breeze. 
 Is gently stirring, and the trees 
 
 Send down their golden showers. 
 
 The crow sits cawing in his tree. 
 Gone are the butterfly and bee. 
 
 The summer's slowly dying. 
 While mirrored in the placid lake. 
 The trees and rocks their shadows make, 
 
 Witliin it 'oosom lying. 
 
 Jack Frost has come, the nights are cold. 
 And nuts and acorns loose their hold. 
 
 Which are the squirrels treasures. 
 And many a hollow tree is stored. 
 While busy with their winter's board. 
 
 To watch them is a pleasure. 
 
 The farmer gathers in his grain. 
 Before the cold November rain. 
 
 Proclaims the summer perished. 
 Until the springtime comes again. 
 Of summer's joys their will remain 
 
 But memories fondly cherished. 
 
 And when our lives reach the decline. 
 And conies the golden harvest time. 
 
 May good deeds be recorded. 
 Then as we near its setting sun. 
 We'll hear the Master say, •• well done," 
 
 And we shall be remembered. 
 
 ATLANTIS. 
 
 »:xTRArT. 
 was young and 
 
 Rome un- 
 
 When Greece 
 
 thought of yet. 
 Beyond those pillars in the farthest west. 
 Where broad Atlantic's swelling billows roll. 
 An island lay within the ocean's breast. 
 
 This island to the world was little known. 
 Except by dim tradition's stories told, 
 Phoenician niiirineis had seen its shores 
 While voyaging to Africa for gold. 
 
 'Twas here the Atlantides dwelt so remote. 
 And waged their distant wars with ancient 
 
 Greece; 
 They built strong cities, sailed the stormy 
 
 main. 
 And understood the arts of w.-ir and iieace. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1018 
 
 MARY STICKNEY HUSE. 
 
 Boun: Damakiscotta, Me.. Jan. 23, 18.58. 
 Since the age of seventeen Miss Huse has 
 taught school: for two years in a Kinder- 
 garten school at St. Paul, and now in the 
 
 « 
 
 MARY STICKNEY HUSE. 
 
 primary department at Princeton, Mitin. 
 Her poems liave appeared in tlie Portland 
 Transcript, Princeton Union, Minneapolis 
 School Education, Chicago Ledger and the 
 local press. 
 
 A MESSAGE. 
 Tumble, cascade, 
 And toss thy spray. 
 Tinted with gold by the sun's last ra}' 
 Over my blue-eyed maid! 
 Murmur the song 
 My heart doth tell 
 Over and over 
 •'I love thee well! " 
 
 Warble, sweet wren. 
 And merrily soar 
 On the ocean of ether a melody pour, 
 Till my loved one lists again 
 To the wavelets of sound 
 As they rise and swell. 
 Fraught with tlie burden 
 "I love thee well! " 
 
 Fly, fleet breeze 
 With the wings of air. 
 
 On thy perfutned breath this message bear, 
 And repeat 'neath the list'ning trees 
 Till the grim gray rocks 
 Shall receive the spell 
 And resound with the echo 
 "I love thee well! " 
 
 . Nature rejoice! 
 Let tliy songsters raise 
 A hymn of triumphant, resounding praise; 
 Li.st, away o'er the meadows a voice 
 Like the faint, sweet tones 
 Of a crystal bell — 
 'Tis the voice of my loved one, 
 '■ I love thee well! " 
 
 KEST. 
 On the bosom of the prairie where nature's 
 
 verdant dress 
 Is touched by passing breezes with asoft and 
 
 sweet caress. 
 Lies a little silver lakelet in an emerald 
 
 frame enshrined ; 
 Tis the resting place of waters which 
 
 through meads have ceased to wind. 
 
 A drop of liquid crystal, it rests ui)on the 
 green. 
 
 Reflecting heaven's :izure with its ever- 
 changing scene. 
 
 Till in its depths of brightness a mimic sky 
 we meet. 
 
 One "Arch Triumphal " o'er our heads, an- 
 other 'neath our feet. 
 
 Full many little streamlets have wandoreil 
 far and wide. 
 
 Refreshing wood and meadow with a cooling 
 crystal tide. 
 
 And flowing ever onward till at last all toil- 
 ing o'er. 
 
 They've met in peaceful union here to dwell 
 forevermore. 
 
 Thus must we — Earth's Itum.-in streams- 
 be ever moving on. 
 
 Never ceasing in our labors till at last our 
 journey's done. 
 
 We shall hear the •• Ma.ster's accents in the 
 regions of the ble.st, 
 
 " Well dotie, thou g<K)d And faithful, enter 
 into i>erfect rest." 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 I would find thee fairy queen: 
 Dreamest thou thine azure sliecn 
 May conceal beneath its fold 
 Blusliing dii'ek and hair of gold? 
 Nature's briglitest, fairest dame, 
 I would And and fltiding claim. 
 Fairy queen. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1014 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 MRS. LIZZIE DAVIS FIELDER 
 
 Born: Wytheville, Va., Jan. 20, 1866. 
 From an early age this lady has contributed 
 both prose and verse to the periodical press, 
 including the Courier Journal, Franli Les- 
 
 *■ 
 
 MRS. IAZ7.1K DAVIS KIKMUCH. 
 
 lie's, Nashville Christian Advocate and the 
 Southern Methodist Review. She was mar- 
 ried in 1884 to Rev. B. W. Fielder, pastor of 
 the Methodist church at Monroe City, Mo., 
 and now has two cliildren. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Now stays the steps of the departing' year, 
 A rest-place in its swift and noiseless flight; 
 As if she paused a moment here in fear 
 Of early breaking- Winter's sluml)ers white. 
 Soft fell her steps as liglit as blossoms sweet 
 From flowering- trees; and April tears too 
 
 soon 
 Were dried away in smih>s where roses meet 
 Their scarlet lips beneath the skies of June. 
 And now the skies late veiled with g-olden 
 haze [they bear. 
 
 Grow dull and gray with weight of snows 
 And leaves wliose falling: filled the Autumn 
 days [air. 
 
 With music, whirl like snowbirds thro' the 
 November's chillingr rainfall blows and beats 
 Upon the birdling:'s empty nest to-day; 
 The clinging- leaves that hid their snug- re- 
 treat, 
 Unpitying winds tear off and bear away. 
 
 A sudden gust of snowflakes fleck with 
 white [bare: 
 
 The sodden earth now grown so bleak and 
 And then upon November's blank we write 
 The first sweet lines of Winter's poem fair. 
 
 HELP ME TO WAIT. 
 Help me to wait Thy time, O blessed Father! 
 It may be long but 1 would patient be, 
 Until Thy will be done and there be opened 
 The doors of love, and joy, and light to me. 
 I wait for things that might have been, but 
 
 were not; 
 For holier joys than yet tliis hearth hath 
 known ; [waiting. 
 
 They are my own by right of prayer and 
 And in God's time 1 yet shall claim nij- own. 
 Help me to wait, my prayers are not un- 
 heeded. 
 The wordless cry which goeth up to Thee 
 Shall answer bring in all the blessing needed. 
 If I but wait Thy time and patient be. 
 1 wait to look on lialf-forgotten faces, 
 To hold the lost ones to my heart again. 
 To clasp their hands, to hear their voice in 
 
 gi-eeting. 
 And all the years have taken to reclaim. 
 Thy better day ! Help me to wait its coming. 
 When all these yearnings shall be satisfied; 
 When once again with loved ones reunited, 
 1 shall forever linger at Tliy side. 
 
 HE WALKS WITH US. 
 
 He walks with us, altho' to eyes beclouded 
 
 LTnseen, 'mid cares that throng life's narrow 
 space. 
 
 Apart we walk, in selfish grief enshrouded. 
 
 And in the work with which our days are 
 crowded. 
 
 Unrecognized, we look upon His face. 
 
 He walks with us, though 'mid the din un- 
 heeded 
 
 His patient footsteps fall beside our own. 
 
 Unknown we take the good for wliich we 
 pleaded [ness needed. 
 
 Thankless, receive the strengtb our weak- 
 
 And weep that we have borne so nuich alone! 
 
 He walks with us, too oft tlie stranger goinj; 
 
 Unbidden, as he first unbidden came. 
 
 And wlien the lieart is sometimes strangely 
 glowing 
 
 With holy fire, we wt)nder never knowing 
 
 The stranger voice tliat fatuied tlie heavenly 
 flame. 
 
 Walk witb us still! for ofl we journey sadly; 
 
 We need Thy presence all the way upon. 
 
 Talk witli us too, fen- while we listen gladly. 
 
 Our sorrows melt like night before the dawn! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1015 
 
 * 
 
 REV. JACOB FLOOR. 
 
 Born: England, April 18, 185.5. 
 
 Graduating in 1877 this geutlemaii ■was 
 married the year following to Miss Ruth 
 Parker, and now has a family of five children. 
 In 1883 lie emigrated to America, and lias 
 
 REV. JACCB FLOOR. 
 
 filled pastorates in the Congregational church 
 at New Haven, Mich., Atlanta, Ga., Cam- 
 bridge, 111., and Indianola, Neb., where be is 
 at present officiating. 
 
 *- 
 
 BLEST STAR DIVINE. 
 Blest star divine I so sweet and bright. 
 
 Shine on the nations thy pure ligiit : 
 Let all mankind thy glory sec. 
 
 And sinful hearts be drawn to thee. 
 
 In thy majestic orb rise high. 
 And reacli the zenith of thy sky; 
 
 Chase sin, and want, and pain away; 
 Bring iu tlie •' Everlasting Day." 
 
 Into our hearts tliy influence jiour; 
 
 Inspire us all to love thee more; 
 Transform us by thy power divine. 
 
 And let each soul be wholly thine. 
 
 REV. JOSEPH RICIvER. 
 
 Born: Parsonsfield, Me., June :i7, 1814. 
 
 This gentleman is a graduate of the Colby 
 University, and h;is been a minister of the 
 gospel for fifty years. Mr. Ricker was editor 
 of Zion's Advocate, Portland, Me., for nearly 
 five years. In 1868 he was made Doctor of 
 Divinity by Colby University, and has been 
 trustee of that college since 1849. Kicker 
 Classical Institute of Houlton, Me., was so 
 named by legislative enactment because of 
 the aid Rev. Joseph Ricker liad given it and 
 done for that institution. 
 
 POWER OF SOLITUDE. 
 
 Lone Solitude! how awful is her form 
 When gliding o'er the heath, or moaning in 
 
 the storm. 
 Or bending from the cliff at dawn of day. 
 To weave her toilet in the mountain spray 1 
 Hut would you know her soul-subduing 
 
 power. 
 Go tread the streets where hoary ruins lower. 
 See here a temple, there a marble dome, 
 SVhere night birds flit and beasts of prey do 
 
 roam; 
 'Neath broken arches grope your lonely way. 
 And in the vacant square prolong your stay; 
 
 W'ith wondering eye and palpitating heart, 
 Survej- the proudest works of ancient art. 
 The crumbling buttress and the frescoed wall 
 The blackened tower just nodding to its fall, 
 The ruined moat, the moss-clad colonnade. 
 The gateway frowning in the musky shade. 
 The oak and hawthorn o'er the threshold 
 
 sprung. 
 The crazy casement from its hinges flung, 
 Tlie fern and bramble swaying in the breeze. 
 And night's lone spirit sighing through the 
 
 trees. 
 
 Bethink you of the men who reared those 
 
 piles, 
 Who breathed this air and trod these dusky 
 
 aisles; 
 Bethink you of the surging tide of life 
 That filled these streets and lanes with busy 
 
 strife 
 Long time ago, in palmy days of yore,— 
 Now .still as death I — now trod by men no 
 
 more. 
 Bethink you, while the wild flowers 'round 
 
 you wave. 
 You stand alone upon a city's grave! 
 This do, and sure you cannot lack the mood 
 To feel the weird-like power of Solitude. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1016 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARIAM J.BREHM. 
 
 Born: Hindsbukgh, N. Y., Sept. 6, 1845. 
 In ISVS this lady was married to G. W. Brehm, 
 an attorney of prominence who has been 
 mayor of his city. The poems of Mrs. Brehm 
 have appeared in the MidiUeldwii &i?ns of 
 
 MRS. MAKIAM J. BUEHM. 
 
 the Times, Ohio Democrat, and the religious 
 and secular press generally. Mrs. Brehm 
 has a family of several children. 
 
 BEE'S SOLILOQUY. 
 I am a busy lioney bee. 
 
 Culling sweets from flower and clover; 
 Then homeward fly laden with my fee, 
 
 Searching yards and fields all over. 
 Perhaps some child attempts to catch. 
 
 And tightly hold me in their hand; 
 Soon learn they have more than their match, 
 
 Such ill treatment 1 will not stand. 
 To protect myself T go armed. 
 
 But seldom sting unless abused; 
 Wlien unmolested none are liarmed. 
 
 My honeyed toil is ne'er refused. 
 Buzz — buzz — all day T lively work. 
 
 Thus 'tis said " busy as a bee;" 
 Our hives don't liavbor drones to shirk. 
 
 Bo up and doing — work like me! 
 I can't, a little bird replies, 
 
 1 can't, I hear some people say; 
 Buzz! the humming-bird gently cries. 
 Learn to labor while it is day! 
 
 REV. JOHN OTIS BARROWS. 
 
 Bobn: Mansfield, Conn., Aug. 4, 18.33. 
 
 This minister and poet worked his way 
 through college and seminary, graduating 
 from Amherst College in 1860, and from An- 
 dover Theological Seminary in 1863. After 
 laboring six years in North Hampton and in 
 Exeter, N. H., Mr Barrows resigned and 
 entered upon foreign missionary work in 
 Western Turkey, and for nearly eleven years 
 labored there. He then returned with his 
 family to America, and has since held past- 
 orates in Atkinson, N. H.. and Newington, 
 where he is now located. He is the author 
 of On Horseback in Cappadocia, which has 
 had a very large sale. Mr. Barrows is the 
 author of numerous popular hymns and 
 poems that have been a valuable addition to 
 current literature. He was married in 1864 
 to Miss Clara Storrs Freeman, and has a 
 family of live children grown to maturity. 
 
 THE KISS I WOULD NOT GIVE. 
 'Twas one of summer's brighest days. 
 When coming eager from my plays. 
 My sister called me to her side ; 
 Within her hand I quick espied 
 My little trousers, finished quite. 
 Of checkered blue, and buttons bright. 
 All ready sure for me to wear. 
 I instant stood before her chair. 
 With outstretched hand to take the prize. 
 When in her large, blue, loving eyes, 
 I saw a tear; her cheek it wet. 
 As she began, .■ My little pet, 
 I'm very glad to make you these. 
 And now a kiss; oh, won't you, please?" 
 But for that I would not stay — 
 The trousers seized and ran away. 
 
 Two months had passed, and autumns sua 
 
 Much earlier set, as day was done: 
 
 And when the leaves began to fall, 
 
 A shadow fell as of a pall. 
 
 Upon our home; the noonday light 
 
 Now seemed o'ercast with shades of night. 
 
 No play for me; with silent feet 
 
 They bade me pass; and quicker beat 
 
 My Wondering heart. Awaked, with dread, 
 
 At midnight hour, betide a bed 
 
 I stood; and there, with bated breath, 
 
 I heard them whisper, "This is death." 
 
 And from the pain of that night's grief 
 
 The passing years bring no relief; 
 
 1 think my sister, e'en in bliss. 
 
 Remembers 1 refused the kiss. 
 
 *- 
 
9 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 1017 
 
 MRS. FANNIE H. FOWLER. 
 
 Born: Will Co., III., Jan. 19, 1838. 
 Since the age of sixteen this ladj- has writ- 
 ten poems and articles for magazines and 
 papers, and has rect^ntly pnblislied a small 
 volume of Society Poems. For several years 
 Mrs. Fowler edited Ihi; Woman's Department 
 
 MRS. FANNIE HOLDEN FOWLER. 
 
 of one of the leading papers of Manistee, 
 Micli., where she now resides. She is al.so 
 secretary of the E. S. A. of Micliigan, wliich 
 position she has lield for the past five years. 
 In 1868 this poetical writer was married to 
 Col. S. W. Fowler, and now' has three chil- 
 dren— Frank Lincoln, born iu 1870: Angelina 
 Holden, born in 1873; and S. Willie, born in 
 1875. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 Walks by mj' side a spirit briglit 
 
 With eyes of clearest blue, 
 All glowing witli celestial liglit. 
 Though veiled indeed from mortal sight, 
 
 They shine my being through. 
 
 So far, so near,— I almost meet 
 
 That faint and thrilling breath. 
 
 And listen for the accents sweet 
 
 That now, alas! I may not greet. 
 
 Hushed by the touch of Death! 
 
 Oh, shadows, passing to and fro. 
 Our sundered hopes between; 
 
 How least of life, wc may not know. 
 Is in our sojourn here below. 
 To what there is unseen. 
 
 RESPICE FINEM. 
 When the stars l)fgiii to pale. 
 
 And the dawn is breaking clear; 
 When the shadows of the vale, 
 
 (Ju.'iking, creep away in fear. 
 Then my heart its sadness Hies 
 
 From the depths of sorrow grim; 
 To the morn I lift mine eyes. 
 
 To the heavens I raise my hynui. 
 
 How we love the blessed light. 
 
 Streaming with auroral beams; 
 All oblivious of the niglit 
 
 Erstwhile clothed in saddest dreams. 
 Thus uiH>n the shore of time 
 
 We arc looking for the dawn 
 Of eternity sublime — 
 
 Waiting, as our days go on. 
 
 How the faces of the lost — 
 
 Lost to us, but gained above. 
 Dimly shine from yonder coast: 
 
 From the haven i)f our love. 
 Tender hands are reaching down; 
 
 Blessed feet are gliding nigh; 
 Heavenly voices come to drown 
 
 Earth's sad chorus, moan and sigh. 
 
 Wait nig, then, for life's declitu>; 
 
 Hoi)ing for the l)lissful -rest 
 That remaineth "— pledge divine, 
 
 To the souls He lovelh best. 
 When the night of sorrow dies 
 
 In the splendor of that dawn. 
 Buried hopes again will rise 
 
 Buoyant, as the days go on. 
 
 WHEN ART THOU COMING. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 When art thou coming love? Summer has 
 
 come. 
 Eventide's zephyrs are cooling my brow; 
 Art thou not dreaming of friendship and 
 
 home. 
 Lingers thy sad heart with mine even now? 
 Songs thou ha.st sung to me, 
 Liki' a sweet melody. 
 Haunt me at twilight in symphonies low. 
 
 When art thou coming? The winter has 
 
 flown. 
 Spring with its breezy-like zephyrs gone by; 
 Midsununer's golden days drop one by one 
 Into the past where my buried hopes lie. 
 Songs thou hast sung to me. 
 Like a weird melody. 
 Float through my brain and in loneliness die 
 
 « 
 
*- 
 
 1018 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 REV. CHARLES BINGHAM. 
 
 Born: Geneseo, N. Y., June 16, 1828. 
 This minister was ordained in 1870, and has 
 lield pastorates at Udina, III., Monroe, la., 
 Millburn, 111., and in 1880 Mr. Bingham re- 
 ceived a call from the First Congregational 
 
 REV. CHART.BS M. BINGHAJtf. 
 
 church in Day tona, Florida, of which church 
 he is still pastor. He was married in 1864 to 
 Miss Myra P. Osborne, and has a familj' of 
 two children, Charles and Grace, born in 1865 
 and 1869 respectively. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 With joy to-day we stand before 
 The New Year's opening portal; 
 
 And in advance wo take a glance 
 Toward the life immortal. 
 
 Good-bye old Yeai', thou faithful friend. 
 We say with sigh and sorrow ; 
 
 Wc often the best wishes send. 
 Then wait for glad to-morrow. 
 
 You dear old Year, we truly say. 
 You brought us many a gladness; 
 
 But then you brought us day by day 
 Full many a cause of sadness. 
 
 At\d so the new comes on ai)ace. 
 With step of spjightly lightness; 
 
 A look of gladness in his face. 
 And beaming naught but brightness. 
 
 What bringest thou, O young New Year— 
 
 To those who hailthj' coming? 
 What of sorrow, what of cheer? 
 We see them through the gloaming. 
 
 And when twelve months shall roll about. 
 We'll say farewell with sadness. 
 
 And greet the next one with a shout. 
 Expressive our gladness. 
 
 For so it is all through our lives. 
 We say good-bye with sorrow; 
 
 Then hopefully look forward to 
 The gladness of the morrow. 
 
 And well 'tis, so for were it not 
 Our hearts would break with pain, 
 
 And hope be driven from the earth. 
 Ne'er to return again. 
 
 Thanks be to God for heaven made known 
 
 To us by conflict driven. 
 Earth hath no sorrow of its own 
 
 But finds relief in heaven. 
 
 CLARENCE D. GREELEY. 
 
 Born: Clymer, N.Y., May 19, 1855. 
 
 In 1883 Mr. Greeley graduated from Wash- 
 burn College of Topeka, Kan.; and from 
 Yale Divinity School in 1886. Tlie following 
 year he becamo a Fellow of Harvard Univer- 
 sity, and member of Howard Phil. Club, 
 liev. Clarence DeVere Greeley was ordained 
 in 1889 as a minister of the Congregational 
 church, and is now pastor at Mt. Carmel, 
 Conn. He has written numerous scientific 
 papers and poems which have been widely 
 published iti leading newspapers and maga- 
 zines. 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 
 As child of heaven, not alone of earth. 
 
 The ocean lifts the giant tree; 
 Or brook fulfills with song and mirth 
 
 The gracious mandate of the sea. 
 
 Not as the slaves of drearj night 
 Tlie orbs of heaven their coui-ses run: 
 
 The sun nujst needs pour fortli its liglit. 
 Or else it would not be the sun. 
 
 So brook and tlowor and star and tree. 
 Obey the archetypal thought; 
 
 For freedom God liatli made us free — 
 " I am " anticipates •> 1 ought." 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1019 
 
 FLORENCE AUGUSTA JONES 
 
 Bohn: NKA15 Madison, Wis., Aug., 1861. 
 SiNCK si.xteen years ol age this liuly liiis 
 taught school. She is very fond of music 
 and lias a flue contralto voice. Miss Jones 
 lias written enough poems to fill a volume, 
 which she hopes to publish in book-form at 
 
 PtiORENCE AUGUSTA JONES, 
 an early date. Her poems liave appeared in 
 nearly all the prominent daily ;ind weekly 
 periodicals of America, among which might 
 be mentioned Church's Musical Visitor, 
 Pioneer Press, Des Moines Register, Good 
 Housekeeping, Godoy's.lnierior and the New 
 York Home Journal. Several of her poems 
 have been set to music, notably that of Bylo 
 Land. 
 
 BYLO LAND. 
 
 When out of the west long shadows creep. 
 And the stars peep out, a shining band, 
 Our baby, weary of fun and play. 
 Goes out thro' the gates of Hylo Land. 
 O which is the road to Hylo Land? 
 By the way of Grandpa's easy chair, 
 Or better, by Mother's loving arms 
 With kisses pressed on the shining hair. 
 She nestles down with a weary sigh. 
 While the lashes touch the rounded cheek. 
 With her arms clasped close 'round mother'a 
 
 neck. 
 Who kisses the love she cannot speak. 
 
 A wonderful lami is Bylo Land, 
 
 To judge by the smiles on baViy's face. 
 
 The angels must surely weave herdream!- 
 
 And lend to her of their winsome grace. 
 
 O baby, we envy thy sunny lot. 
 
 For we that are older seldom see 
 
 The tlowery path to Bylo Land, 
 
 Or meet the angels that talk with thee. 
 
 MY WISH. 
 What would 1 wish for thee, dear heart, dear 
 
 heart: 
 Not joy alone, not sunshine clear, undimmed 
 Nor fair, blue skies, unflecked by passing 
 
 clouds. 
 Tis not alone the sunshine, fierce and bright. 
 That brings the bud and fruit to perfect 
 
 form. 
 But dew, and rain, and frost, these all unite 
 To rouse the dormant beauty to complete- 
 
 ne ss. [stars. 
 
 The rainne'er fell from skies bedecked with 
 Unveiled by clouds, and j-et the rain must 
 
 come. [rain, 
 
 Tliis I would wish for thee, that sorrows 
 When it shall come, may fall upon thy heart 
 As raindrops fall upon the folded bud. 
 And by its gentle force, expose the heart 
 Of gold that lies within. 
 
 A PLEA. 
 
 Such tiny, restless hands. 
 
 So ready to reacli out and grasp 
 
 The newness 'nmnd them. Life holds much. 
 
 .so much. 
 And each day brings to light some new, 
 
 strange thing 
 That they are tempted liardto touch, 
 Those little hands. Be kind. 
 
 Such little, tireless feet. 
 So eager to explore the world 
 That lies beyond their threshold. Do not 
 
 chide. 
 If they in wonder go too fast and far. 
 The years that meet them will do much to 
 
 make [kind 
 
 Their steps both .slow and careful. Then be 
 If they o'erstep the bounds that we have set. 
 Those little, restless fe?t. 
 
 Such dear, fond trusting eyes. 
 How oft they judge us and we know It not. 
 No thought of guile dims their pure iniu>- 
 
 cenec 
 In their clear depths are mirrored spotless 
 
 souls 
 Fresh from the hand of God. O see to It. 
 That no wrong word of ours, no hasty act. 
 Shall leave such stains that all the years to 
 
 come 
 Shall not efface tliem. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1020 
 
 T.OCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN HENRY YATES. 
 
 Born: Batavia, N.Y., Nov. 31, 1837. 
 As A ballad writer the name of John Henrj' 
 Yates la becoming very popular throughout 
 America. He has a collection of two hun- 
 dred excellent poems that will soon be pub- 
 lished in book-form under tlie title of Bal- 
 
 JOHN HENRY YATES. 
 
 lads of the Old Man. His poems have ap- 
 peared in Harper's Weekly, Harper's Bazar, 
 Rochester Times and otlier papers of equal 
 prominence. Mr. Yates still resides in the 
 place of his nativitj-, wliere he is a local 
 preacher of the M. E. churcli, and city editor 
 of the Batavian. Mr. Yates is married and 
 has quite an interesting family of children. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MODEL CHURCH 
 
 Well wife. I've found the model church, 
 
 I worshipped there to-day; 
 It made me think of good old times 
 
 Before my hair was gray ; 
 Themeetin' liouse was fixed up more 
 
 Than tliey were years ago, 
 But then I felt when I went in 
 
 It wasn't built for show. 
 The sexton didn't seat me 
 
 Away b.ack by tlie door. 
 He knew that I was old and deaf 
 
 As well as old and poor. 
 He mu.st have been a Christian, 
 
 For he led me boldly tlirough 
 
 The long aisle of that crowded church 
 
 To find a pleasant pew. 
 I wish you'd heard the singin'. 
 
 It had the old-time ring; 
 The pastor said with truini)et -voice, 
 
 " Let all the people sing." 
 The tune was "Coronation," 
 
 And the music upward rolled. 
 Till I thought I lieard the angels 
 
 Striking ali their harps of gold. 
 
 My deafness seemed to melt away, 
 
 I seemed to feel the fire, 
 I joined my feeble, trembling voice. 
 
 With that melodious choir. 
 And sang as in mj- youthful days, 
 
 "Let angels prostrate fall. 
 Bring forth tlie royal diadem 
 
 And crown Him Lord of all." 
 I tell you wife it did me good 
 
 To sing that hymn once more; 
 I felt like some wrecked mariner 
 
 Who gets a glimpse of shore. 
 I almost wanted to lay down 
 
 This weather-beaten form. 
 And anchor in that blessed port. 
 
 Forever from the storm. 
 The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell 
 
 All that the preacher said, 
 I know it wasn't written, 
 
 I know it wasn't read. 
 He liadn't time to read it 
 
 For the liglitnin' of his eye 
 Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, 
 
 Nor passed a sinner by. 
 The sermon wasn't flowery, 
 
 'Twas simple gospel truth; 
 It fitted poor old men like me. 
 
 It fitted liopeful youth. 
 'Twas full of consolation 
 
 For weary liearts that bleed, 
 'Twas full of invitation 
 
 To Christ and not to creed. 
 The preacher made sin hideous 
 
 In Gentiles and in Jews; 
 He shot the golden sentences 
 
 Down in the finest pews. 
 And though I can't see very well, 
 
 I saw the falling tear 
 That told me hell was some ways off 
 
 And heaven very near. 
 How swift the golden moments fled 
 
 Within that lioly place. 
 How brightly be:imed the light of heaven 
 
 From (>v('ry hapjiy face. 
 Again I longed for that sweet time, 
 
 Wlien friend shall meet with friend. 
 When congregations ne'er break up. 
 
 And Sabbath lias no end. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AXD XATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1021 
 
 I liopp to meet that minister. 
 
 That congregation, too. 
 In that dear home beyond tiie stars 
 
 That shine in lioaveii's blue. 
 I doubt not I'll remember 
 
 Beyond life's evening: gray 
 That liappy hour of worship. 
 
 In that model church to-day. 
 Dear wife, the flg-ht will soon be fought, 
 
 Tlie victory soon be won. 
 Tlie sinning goal is just ahead. 
 
 The race is uearly run. 
 O'er the river we are nearing 
 
 They are thronging to the shore. 
 To shout our safe arrival 
 
 Where the weary weep no more. 
 
 . « — ^^^-v « 
 
 xVRTHUR C. GRISSOM. 
 
 Born: Payson, 111., Jan. 21. ISfiO. 
 In 1888 this young editor and litterateur 
 called tlieflrst meetingof the Western Auth- 
 ors' and Artists' Club, of whicli he was 
 unanimously elected president, and was re- 
 
 ARTHUU C. r.KISSOM. 
 
 elected again to the same office a year later. 
 Arthur C. Grissom has gained quite a reini- 
 tation in Kansas City as a newspaper man 
 and all around writer, and he is now pcrma- 
 neutly located in New York City, as edit<^)r 
 of Spirit and of the American Home Graphic. 
 
 *- 
 
 BALLADE OF LOST FORTUNE. 
 Economy, where is thy tlirone? 
 
 Long t liave sought thoo in vain. 
 Aged and gray I have grown. 
 
 Meekly toslave for tliee fain. 
 
 Thy castle is surely in Spain — 
 Or artfhou. in truth, but a fay? 
 
 If a King, hear this pleading of pain — 
 Where are the pennies, I pray? 
 I am friendless, and poor, and alone, 
 
 A prodigal fit for disdain; 
 Alas, foi' the wealth that lias flown I 
 
 Alas, for my i)ledgc to al)staiu! 
 
 Nor dollar nor dime niv refrain — 
 I mourn not tlie week or tlie day, 
 
 'Tis the loss of the minutes my bane — 
 Wliere are the pennies, I pray? 
 I li.ave wasted my substance, I own. 
 
 My pennies liave perished like rain; 
 O, the wild oats Ihave sownl 
 
 And O, the harvest of pain ! 
 
 Remorse will drive nie insane 1 
 Now I am old and I'm pray. 
 
 Please, where does ecoiionij' reign? 
 Where are the pennies. I pray? 
 
 l'envoy. 
 Beloved one. beware of the chain 
 
 That fetters the thriftless al way; 
 O, heed, as I cr}- and complain. 
 
 Where are the pennies, I pray? 
 
 THE COQUETTE. 
 A jasmine flower at her breast, 
 
 A gem in her dusky hair, 
 A smile on her lips, and in her eyes 
 
 A light tliat is sweet and rare; 
 A wondrously tender light in her eyes. 
 
 And oh, she is more than fair! 
 How brilliant the dancing throng! 
 
 How fragrant the balmy room! 
 And lier cheeks are flushed like l>oppy buds 
 
 That have burst in blood-red bhxjm. 
 Or a flame — the flame that moths wing 
 round. 
 
 And are drawn therein to doom. 
 Whoso are the faces nigh? 
 
 What is the waltz I hear? 
 What tlte event, tiie place, the hour. 
 
 Where are the foes I fear? 
 I know not: all that I care to know 
 
 Is that my love is near; 
 Her fluttering fan I fold, 
 
 I bend with my face aglow, 
 .\iid I speak my love, and she replies 
 
 In accents sweet and low; 
 But oh, the pain of a murmured •• yes," 
 
 When youknow that it means '.no!" 
 Alone, and the night is cold. 
 
 I blindly reel through the gl(X)m, 
 I seem older now by a score of years. 
 
 Than I was in that brilliant room. 
 What was it that set my bliMxl aflre. 
 
 And made me mad for nn hour? 
 Was it word, or look, or moaning smile. 
 
 Or the breath of a jasmine flower? 
 
*- 
 
 1022 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. R. SHEPARD LILLIE. 
 
 Bokn: Ekie Co., N.Y. 
 In 1889 appeared a magnificent volume of 
 poems entitled Rays of Light, from the psn 
 of Mrs. K. Shepard Lillie, a poet of rare ex- 
 
 MUS. I!. SlIKl'AIUI I. II. UK. 
 
 cellence, now residing- in Melrose, Mass. 
 This work also contains her portrait and two 
 chapters from the book of her life. 
 
 THE WARP AND WOOF OF LIFE. 
 Spinning its web on a sunny strand. 
 As thougli on ver.v air it could stand, 
 I watched a little spider one day 
 Backward and forward swinging away. 
 Till the mystical web grew in my sight. 
 Glistened and gleamed in tlie morning light. 
 
 I asked, as I saw its wonderful plan. 
 Could its design be excelled by maul' 
 As though 't were measured by compass or 
 
 square. 
 He threw out his threads, and they caught 
 
 on air; 
 Then wove in for warp a thread so fine 
 That the web complete was a thing divine. 
 And I was watching him closely now. 
 For whence tlie niatei'ial cann', and how; 
 And saw that ho carried it all within. 
 For tlie golden web whicli 1 saw him spin. 
 Nature had placed in tlie tiny form 
 Something he carried through sunshine and 
 
 storm. 
 
 Which he could throw out as a thing of light, 
 On which he could climb to a greater height. 
 So we are weaving our web each day. 
 Bear our material in the same way. 
 Just within is the power we find 
 To weave the web of the human mind, 
 And to make it beautiful, clear, and bright, 
 xVs it liangs suspended in heaven's light. 
 Like tlie spider's web that I saw that day 
 That it may reflect the sun's bright ray, 
 We must keep the material that 's within 
 Spotless and pure, and free from sin. 
 The spider's web was perfect in plan. 
 1 can but applj' this lesson to man. 
 And believe that God has given each one 
 Something as perfect to j-et be done. 
 It may be years as they slowly roll, 
 But God has placed it in eveiy soul. 
 As the spider threw out its tiny line. 
 Steadily upward I saw it climb ; 
 15 J- its own power it rose above: 
 So must we rise by the power of love. 
 We throw it forth from the soul within, 
 And rising upon it are saved from sin. 
 In our warp and woof of life we find 
 There are colors dark with light combined, 
 .Viid the lines of dark and cheerless gray, 
 It may be, we 're weaving in to-day! 
 Tliey '11 mar its beauty, and, we are told, 
 Must all be exchanged for threads of gold. 
 We shall want them all out, by and by. 
 In the clearer light of the home on high.Lgro: 
 So let 's weave the threads that shall brighte 
 Tiirough the countless ages our souls sha 
 For we carry with us to realms above [know 
 Our warp and woof of the web of love. 
 
 LOVIE. 
 Such a gay, winsome, bright little spirit 
 Appears to be hovering neai% 
 
 With such a bright smile 
 
 The sad hours to beguile. 
 And many lone moments to cheer. 
 When I think for a moment I'm surely alon : 
 And am working away with a might. 
 
 With her nods and her winks ' 
 
 Comes this queer little niin:^. 
 To tell me what she tliinks is right! 
 Oft I see her at break of the morning, 
 Or at night when alone in my bed; 
 
 O'er the iiillow she '11 peep 
 
 When I 'm trying to sleep, — 
 Tills (jiieer little miscliievous head. 
 All her motions so sylph-like, so funny is si 
 My pen her but poorly jiortrays; | 
 
 So mj' prayer is to-night 
 
 That some spirit as bright 
 Ever after may gladden my days. 
 
 \ 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL l'OKl> OK AMKKUA. 
 
 u>-2:i 
 
 JOHN TALMAX, 
 
 Bohn: Peuintun, N.V., Jii-v 'M, lt<5L 
 At the age of ninoteen John Talman oii- 
 tered journalisni. In 1H72 lie was telograpli 
 editor of the Rochester Democrat and Chron- 
 icle, which position ho left after nearly two 
 years' service to accept a position as cilltori- 
 
 .JOIIN TAI,MAN. 
 
 al writer on the Albimy Aigus, which posi- 
 tion he held until 1878. In 1879 lie entered the 
 employ of the St. Paul Pioneer Press, of 
 which publication he is now iiiKrht editor and 
 editorial writer. Mr. Talman has written 
 more than five liundred poems which have 
 received publication in the Chicago Herald, 
 St.PaulPioueerl'ressand other jiublications. 
 
 THE RUINED CASTLE. 
 Wliere mountains nprear tlieni from sun- 
 flecked mead, 
 A treasure-trove guarding of richest green : 
 Where loth do the day-god's .smiles recede 
 The shifting forms of the hills between; 
 Where nature as goodly a feast hath spread 
 As ever the artist eye liath fed; 
 Where the fancy can revel, the soul renew 
 Its youth in a nurturing spiritual dew- 
 Mine eye descries 
 An antiquecastle of grandeur rise. . 
 A contour of blended harmonies, 
 A contour of rugged strength unsurpassed. 
 It gives to the breath of the fondling breeze 
 As it gives to the rage of the smiting blast. 
 All vainly have clashing elements spent 
 
 Their fury on tower and battlement; 
 Still far overbuttre.ss and sliadowc<l moat 
 The folds of the l>road ducal l)anner float. 
 
 In all the grai-e 
 And the kingly i)ride of an ancient race. 
 'Neat h the flare and the flicker of torches high 
 That (juicken the halls of the castle old. 
 I see. when the midnight hour is nigli, 
 A tlii'ong of fair ladies .and chieftains Ixijd, 
 Wit si)arkles and laughter peals rouiul the 
 
 bi )a rd ; 
 Blithe folly rains as the wine is poured. 
 I see the portcullis fall into jilace, < 
 Vowing death to theeneiriies of their race. 
 
 With lance and shield 
 Brave knights ride forth lo tlie l)attlofleld. 
 
 I gaze once more on i\h: castle old. 
 
 After the lai)se of centuries dim; 
 
 A cerement enwoven of weetls anti mold 
 
 F'ncases the cii'Cle of bastions grim. 
 
 While the mold cori'upts, the rank iv>- twines 
 
 A chaplet of ruins ot upas vines 
 
 For the roofless and humidly crumbling walls 
 
 Where thelizard luiksand thesi>ider crawls; 
 
 Where jackals prowl 
 To the whirr or the shriek of the bat or owl. 
 The bat takes wing and the owl is heard 
 Thro' a pall of old Time's pestilential l)reath ; 
 The musings of silence liy ghouls are stirred 
 As they hasten to join in tlieir feast of death. 
 Where now is the ancient glory'/ WluTe 
 The chieftains liold and the ladies fair'/ 
 Through the misty centuries' rime and rust 
 They have slumberd where in the parent dust 
 
 Abidt- the germ [worm. 
 
 And tlie growth mature of the conquering 
 The owl is heard and the bat takes wing. 
 And the jackal prowls the damp walls among. 
 While the vampire glee and t lie scor])ioii sting 
 Their horrors wed to the serjient tongui'. 
 Thro' the gent ler shei-n of the white m<H)n's 
 Shine the awful eyes of tlie basilisk, [disc 
 To comjiassit)!! as dead as the vengeful fate 
 That swept tln» lords fn>m their high estate. 
 
 And brought decay 
 To the laws and the caste of that feud:il day. 
 
 Where mountains uprear them fnan sun- 
 flecked mead. 
 A treasnii-troveguanlingof richest green. 
 Sweet liberty reigns; and tlie serf shall lUeetl 
 No more as in days of old. I ween. 
 Where nature as ginnlly a feast liatli spread 
 As ever the artist eye hath fed. 
 The spirit of medieval times [crimes; 
 
 Is (iueiiche<l in blixKl with its wrongs and 
 
 And one tle>cries 
 A dynasty fashioninl of c«iiii'l^ '"•''e. 
 
*- 
 
 1024 
 
 LOCAI- AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 AT VESPERS. 
 Mother of peace and light, 
 
 It is to thee mb sing; 
 Spread o'er our lives to-night 
 
 The shelter of thy wing. 
 With heaven's divinest ray 
 
 The o'erwrought soul illume; 
 Be with us till the day 
 
 Breaks through the midnight gloom. 
 Ills to which man is born. 
 
 Thy sacred presence fly, 
 As the dank mists at noon 
 
 Fade from the earth and sky. 
 
 A RE-AWAKENING. 
 
 Frost-woven gyves and snowy drifts 
 
 Glad sunshine melts from stream and 
 In vernal warmth her head uplifts [hill; 
 
 The queenly daftodil. 
 In thankfulness that from the sod 
 
 Tlie bloom of f ruitfulness returns. 
 Creation's heart to Nature's god. 
 
 Its mead of inoense burns. 
 Thus human hearts by sin and guilt 
 
 Made all but sterile, may rejoice 
 In fructifying good rebuilt. 
 
 And lift a praiseful voice. 
 
 REV. HORACE C. HOVEY. 
 
 Born: Fou>fTAiN Co., Ind., Jan. 28, 1833. 
 This Congregational minister was ordained 
 in IS.W and lins filled paRtorate? at Florence, 
 
 *■ 
 
 liEV. HOliACK ('. HOVEV. 
 
 Mass., New Albany, Ind., Peoria, 111., Kan- 
 
 sas City, Mo., New Haven, Conn., Minneapo- 
 lis, Minn., Bridgeport, Conn., where he is 
 now oflBciating. He was married in 1858 to 
 Miss Ellen L. Blatchlej', and now has a fami- 
 ly of four children grown to manhood and 
 womanhood. His j'oungest daughter, Clara 
 Louise, early evinced quite a little poetical 
 talent, and at the age of six composed the 
 following verse: 
 
 Take a pound 
 
 Of fly-around. 
 And mix it in with fat; 
 
 Stir in some purr. 
 
 And cover with fur. 
 And you have a pussy cat. 
 The Rev. Horace C. Hovey has written and 
 published an liistorical poem entitled, On the 
 Banks of the Quinnipiac. He also deliv- 
 ers a series of lectures on Caverns, Moun- 
 tains and Tornadoes, which are brilliantly il- 
 lustrated with wonderful views. 
 
 A FLORAL TRIBUTE. 
 
 Gather gay flowers for decoration. 
 
 Bind them in gailands of vernal bloom; 
 Roses and lilies and spicy carnation. 
 
 Lilacs, wistaria's purple plume. 
 Ransack tlie garden, search through the 
 meadow. 
 Strip from the woodland its scented 
 boughs. 
 Laurel and hawthorne, under whose shadow. 
 
 The wild honeysuckle in beautj^ grows. 
 Weave, gentle fingers, the chaplet perfumed, 
 Cull the sweet blossoms of joyous spring; 
 Then where our soldiers are sleeping en- 
 tombed. 
 Scatter them freely while songs you sing 
 Warriors departed, your names we cherish! 
 Memory will build in our hearts ashrine. 
 Treasuring the glorj' that never can perish. 
 As wither the gailandstliat now wetwine.i 
 
 EXTKACT FROM "QUINNIPIAC." 
 And now may Heaven's benediction rest 
 On you wliom we, unskilled in lyric power, 
 Hav(>led to-day in verse historic; you [mow, 
 Who till these fields, these meadows deftly 
 Who dwell along this briny rim, or sail 
 O'er sapphire seas, or 'mid tempestu(ni.s 
 
 waves ; 
 May veterans and children, matrons, maids. 
 May all to whom tliis church of Clirist is deai 
 And v.-'hn are thrilled by its beloved name. 
 As by the name of mother, all wlio bend 
 Around its altar in communion sweet 
 Obedientr 1(> tlu- Savior's voice — may all 
 Uf that immortal l)an(]uet Taste tliat waii^ 
 Us in the blest Fair Haven of Hislove! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 102-5 
 
 MRS. ELBE M. M. TASCHER. 
 
 BOKN: WlNTERPOHT, Me., Nov. 21, 1843. 
 
 This huiy is tlic youngest daughter of Capt. 
 John B. Morrill. At the age of eighteen she 
 was married to William H. Tascher, and lias 
 flvo oliildren. TTor oldest daughter, .TiiliaM. 
 
 MRS. ELBE MARIE M. TASCHER. 
 
 Tascher, Is the author of Arbutus and Dan- 
 delions, a work of four hundred pages that 
 has been highly recommended. Mrs. Tas- 
 cher has contributed to many of the leading 
 papers and magazines, which will appear in 
 book-form at some future time. She is als(5 
 quite an artist in portrait and flgvire paint- 
 ing, and now a resident of Stephens Point, 
 Wisconsin. 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 Sylph-like fairy Genevieve, 
 Dark-eyed, airy Genevieve, 
 
 Springtime brought her. 
 Our May daughter. 
 Smiling, singing Genevieve. 
 
 Deft her nimble fingers. 
 
 In her chin a dimple lingers. 
 
 Now retreating. 
 
 Then repeating. 
 Gleaming, glittering Genevieve. 
 On her shining dusky tresses. 
 Sunshine glances with caresses. 
 
 Like a sjirite. 
 
 Quick and light. 
 Here and there is Genevieve. 
 
 May the loving Father guide her. 
 Safe from wrong and sorrow hide her. 
 
 And at last. 
 
 Earth's shadows past. 
 Crown her augel Genevieve. 
 
 LIFE'S ELIXIR. 
 Oh, life's pure elixir. 
 Oh, precious gold, 
 Which laughs at your footsteps 
 Of changing decay; 
 Where! where art thou. 
 With thy treasures untold? 
 If we find thee not. 
 Life's a long, cold day. 
 Oh, why may not all. 
 While on earth, inherit 
 Love's ])owerful aleln'my. 
 That doth chtinge 
 Even dross of body 
 And dregs of spirit 
 Into mystical sanctities. 
 Rare and strange. 
 
 Harms of the woild 
 Will oft come to us. 
 Bitter cups of sorrow 
 We all must drain; 
 If we have Love's secret. 
 It will show us 
 Wonderful rainbows 
 In the rain. 
 
 Though we hear the tread 
 Of the years go by. 
 Life's Autumn may come 
 With its falling leaves. 
 No fear can touch us. 
 Not even to die. 
 If only we gather 
 Love's goldeu slieaves. 
 Then gatlier, O, gather 
 Love's golden sheaves. 
 While yet on the shores 
 Of time you wait. 
 Soon, soon the icicles 
 Hang on the eaves; 
 Winter winds blow cold. 
 It is growing late. 
 
 AFAR. 
 
 EXTUACT. 
 
 Memory, unfurl thy silver sails 
 
 And take me l)ack to waters blue. 
 That I may bathe my lonely soul 
 
 In love forever fond and true. 
 There in the home, benignant bends. 
 
 With grave and thoughtful mien. 
 The father, aye in childlnHid hours 
 
 My tower of strength whereon to lean. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1026 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. HANNAH VAN LOON. 
 
 Born : Frenchtown, Pa., Aug. 13, 1839. 
 Fob five years this lady taught school in her 
 native county, and was married at the age 
 of twenty-one to Joshua L. Van Lnon. Mrs. 
 Van Loon lias Iwo smi- \v]i<> t:r:iilu:if cil ;it 
 
 MRS. HANNAH VAN LOON. 
 
 the Susquehanna Collegiate Institute in 
 Towanda, Pa., and who later graduated at 
 the La Fayette College, one as a civil engi- 
 neer and the other in the Latin scientific 
 course. The Philadelphia Times calls this 
 lady the sweet poetess of the Susquehanna 
 Valley, and writes in warmest terms of praise 
 of her productions. In 1880 a volume ap- 
 peared from the pen of Mrs. Van Loon en- 
 titled Miscellaneous Poems, a work contain- 
 ing over one hundred very fine produc- 
 tions. She is now a resident of Philadelphia. 
 
 *- 
 
 MY MAGICIAN. 
 
 Wliile the purple twilight lingers, 
 Midway 'twixt the dark and bright; 
 
 Reaching out with shadowy fingers. 
 Toward the day and toward the night. 
 
 Come magician, 'tis the hour 
 
 Sacred to sweet minstrelsy; 
 Come, and with a heav"n-born power 
 
 Wake thy harp's sweet melody. 
 
 Strike no note of joy and gladness. 
 For my heart is sick with fears; 
 
 Touch some key of plaintive sadness. 
 To unlock the fount of tears. 
 
 All my soul is dark within me, 
 All my hopes are stricken bare. 
 
 And the powers of sin enchain me. 
 In the prison of despair. 
 
 O the blessed power of healing. 
 Minstrel, in thy tender strain ! 
 
 Thou the fount of tears unsealing, 
 I have wept away my pain. 
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 Darkened mounds are dimly blending 
 
 With my shadowed path to-night, 
 Where ihe cypress lowly bending 
 
 Whispercth to head-stones white. 
 Is it only fancy's weaving 
 
 That, ere the young moon shall wane. 
 Nevermore to joy or grieving. 
 
 My still heart shall throb again'/ 
 
 Oh! this strange, strange thought of dying. 
 
 Oh! this mystic dreamless sleep — 
 Oh! this dumb and helpless lying 
 
 In a silence long and deep; 
 Deaf to call of those who love me. 
 
 Friends my heart to-night holds dear. 
 Friends whose joy or grief shall move me 
 
 Nevermore to smile or tear. 
 
 Ere the chimes for holy vespers 
 
 Many times shall pulse the air. 
 Will one voice be dumb that whispers 
 
 Low, to-night, the evening prayer? 
 Pale moon, tell me, ere thy waning. 
 
 Will the pearly dewdrops lave 
 Tender grasses, fresh up-springing. 
 
 On a lowly, new-made grave? 
 
 Cypress, when witli gentle whispers 
 
 Low thou droopest o'er my bed, 
 Thinkest thou at hour of vespers 
 
 One prayer will for me be said? 
 Tliinkest thou the sod above me 
 
 Will by grieving eyes be wet? 
 Thinkest thou the liearts that love me 
 
 Ever, ever will forget? 
 
 SUMMER. 
 Cometh now a subtle sense. 
 How I wist not, nor from whence, 
 But with worUMi'ss eloquence. 
 
 Nature worshijis at the shrine. 
 High the fleecy clouds are climbing, 
 Tenderly the whids arc timing, 
 With my thoughts that run to rhymiug, 
 
 Fitting to a pleasant tune. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 w: 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. LINDA W. SLAUGHTER 
 
 Bokn: Hahkison Co., 0., Feb. 1, 18i>0. 
 Afteh completing- her education tiiis lady 
 was employed l>y the American Missionary 
 Association, and later by the Presbyterian 
 Board of Missions. In 18t)8 slie resifriied and 
 
 iMHS. LINDA W. SL.VUGHTEIf . 
 
 was married to Dr. B. F. Slaug-hter, surg-eou 
 U. S. A. Mrs. Slaughter lias published 
 several prose books, and a poetical work en- 
 titled. Early Efforts. For a while this lady was 
 vice-president of the Woman's National Press 
 Association at Washington, D. C, besides 
 being' honored with other positions of trust. 
 
 *- 
 
 JEWELS FOR A BRIDE. 
 
 Pearls — p-littering- pearls — 
 Binding- the g-old of g-littering- curls, 
 Clasi)ing the wealth of a woman's hair, 
 In tangled meshes of sunlight fair; 
 
 Beautiful pearls. 
 
 Under the curls 
 Briglit tlioughts are gleaming, in beauty rare 
 
 Fairer than curls, 
 
 Brigliter than pearls. 
 The fair dreams flashing in splendor there. 
 
 Curls — glittering curls — 
 Lulu, our darling, the sweetest of girls, 
 With her stainless forehead and sinless soul. 
 Bearing the weight of your aureole 
 
 In the gleaming light 
 
 Of her marriage night; 
 
 Purer than cloud-gems, seen from af;ir. 
 
 In her robes of white. 
 
 On the dazzled sight. 
 Is sliining and trembling a radiant star. 
 
 Pearls — brigliter tlian pearls — 
 The gleaming ligiit of lier golden curls; 
 Vet, purer than light, and brighter, by far. 
 The lovelit ray of her soul's new stsir. 
 
 The Star of Love, 
 
 Like a white-winged dove 
 Arisen, and pure as our darling's life. 
 
 Shines in her soul 
 
 A glad aureole 
 To the one lover who claims hor •• wife." 
 
 Bride — beautiful bride — 
 Stamless and pure in your stately pride. 
 The pearls arc born in the cold, dark sea; 
 From its gloomy caves were they wrung for 
 thee. 
 
 By aching liands. 
 
 From the dull sea sands — 
 With a jianting heart and a weary arm. 
 
 Culled from the graves, 
 
 'Neatli the ocean caves — 
 To strengthen the spell of your beauty's 
 charm. 
 
 Pearls — costlier pearls 
 Than bright gems kxiping the liair of girls. 
 Born in the heart from this life's dull needs. 
 Fashioned and shai)ed into thoughts and 
 deeds — 
 
 Jewels of light, 
 
 Born in the night, 
 Are gathered in sorrow and polished in pain 
 
 From the soul's deep caves. 
 
 And the hidden graves 
 Of buried hopes that each year has slain. 
 
 Bride- beautiful bride — 
 Gather life's pearls from its ocean wide: 
 Seek for the jewels that gem the sands. 
 Awaiting the touch of your willing h:inds — 
 
 Fadeless their light 
 
 When your beauty bright 
 Has paled, atid paled in the years and years. 
 
 The earth has graves, 
 
 And the ocean caves. 
 And each is showered witli crystal tears. 
 
 Tears — crysUilline tears — 
 Strewing the sands of the ebbing years; 
 Marking the course of their onward tlight. 
 Fostered in sorrow and nourished by night. 
 
 Staining young eyes 
 
 With a sad disguise- 
 Chilling young hearts with their freezing cold 
 
 Till the Star of Ix)vo 
 
 lias faded alxive. 
 And sunlight streatns on the streets of gold. 
 
*- 
 
 1028 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 Pearls — lowlier pearls — 
 Fairest of womeu and sweetest of girls, 
 Biud on your forehead and clasp in your soul 
 A fadeless wreath for your aureole — 
 
 Ornaments meek 
 
 For your stainless cheek. 
 Lulu, our darling:, our beautiful bride. 
 
 On your marriage night 
 
 In the soft lovelight, 
 Stately and pure in your robes of pride ! 
 
 Pearls — holier pearls- 
 Caught from the eddies in life's swift whirls. 
 Radiant gems, from the sands above. 
 Gather on earth for your crown of love; 
 
 Jewels of light. 
 
 Fadeless and bright. 
 Purer than cloud-gems, seen from afar 
 
 On the brow of night, 
 
 Through the waning light. 
 Lulu, our darling-, our pale, sweet star! 
 
 JAMES JACKSON M. SMITH. 
 
 Born: Oxford, Ga., Nov. 4, 1839. 
 This gentleman is an architect and builder, 
 doing- business at Burnet, Texas. His poems 
 hav<' iipiHsn-fd (piiif i-xtt'ii-ivelyin the peri- 
 
 JAMES JACKSON M. SMITH. 
 
 odical press, and have received favorable 
 mention. Mr. Smith was married in 18(11 to 
 Miss Catherine O. Browne, and now has quite 
 a large family. 
 
 HOW SISTER TELLS THE STORY TO 
 
 BROTHER WHEN PAPPA IS GONE. 
 Believe me dear brother, I tell you a truth, 
 It was long ago when our papa in youth. 
 Inherited a jewel: more precious tlian gold. 
 Bought by our ancestors in the days of old; 
 That jewel, so I have been told. 
 Was a precious right ever to hold. 
 Bought by our ancestors in blood and goal, 
 In the days that tried men to the soul. 
 
 The right to think, to enjoy that freedom. 
 Granted to us by our Father in heaven. 
 If only his laws we would properly obey,— 
 Not degrade His laws. 
 The purity of blood was his first decree, 
 When he commanded man to live and be. 
 Proud Caucasians ! the noblest of all the races 
 Teachers of the arts, virtue and sciences. 
 
 The founders of civilization, christian con- 
 quest. 
 Keep square. — obey his holy behest, 
 I'll make you ruler of all the races 
 If you'll obey my law and christian graces. 
 Heed it not your fall is sure! — 
 When the vandal hords envied us. 
 They came as a whirlwind tempest tossed, 
 Stood our fathers on Manassa's plain. 
 
 Hurling back with might and main 
 
 The minions that dare invade 
 
 Long years of strife in gory laid. 
 
 When the gory weapon in glory laid. 
 
 The pen, mightier than the sword 
 
 Tells of the truth fearless and bold. 
 
 And now the truth reveals to us; 
 
 Our fathers were right in that mighty fuss. 
 
 Tlie dearest rights left to man, 
 They lingered to old age to defend. 
 Decades after the combat ceased 
 Striving to eradicate The Cunning Tale, 
 The relentless victorious foe did weave. 
 Presumed to tell as truth (?) you know. 
 His hoary hairs, to the portals of the grave, 
 Proclaitned the truth they dare would brave, 
 
 And peacefully folded himself in the silent 
 
 grave, 
 A calm assurance if our country's saved. 
 It was the arm of him who wore tiie gray, 
 And looked to God and did liumbly pray 
 That His omnipotent hand would ever stay. 
 The hand of him who would wantonly 
 Ignore his laws — degrade our race. 
 By yoking his brother to the negro race. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKIC'A. 
 
 1029 
 
 WILLIAM I). GALLAGIIKR. 
 
 Bokn: Philadelphia, Pa., Aug. 2L 1808. 
 At the age of eiglit the subject of this 
 sketch removed west with his widowed 
 motlier, settled iu Cincinnati, wlicre he re- 
 ceived liis education at tlie Lancasterian 
 Seminary of that city. After graduating, 
 William h>arn('il type-setting. Then l)ecame a 
 
 \\ 1 I I.M M ' ■, ■ ; - '.ALLAGHER. 
 
 proof-reader in a large printing and pnldisli- 
 ing establisliment, and subsequently was 
 promoted to the editorship of a Cincinnati 
 daily paper. Mr. Gallagher tlien entered the 
 publishing business on liis own account and 
 started a Quarterly Review. He then becaiBc 
 interested in politics and was an office holder 
 for several years iu various states and finally 
 a traveling agent for the National Govern- 
 ment. During all his long, active and varied 
 occupations, private and public, it must be 
 said of Mr. Gallagher that literature was al- 
 ways, as it still is, liis love and pride. In 18K1 
 I lie published a volume of nearlj- two hund- 
 red pages entitled Miami Woods and Other 
 Poems, and he now has another volume of 
 his collected poems of nearly tliree hundred 
 pages, whicli will be published in the near 
 future. Mr. Gallagher was married in 1850 
 to Miss Emma R. Adamson, daughter of Cajit. 
 Jolin Adamson of Boston, Mass., by whom 
 he has had a large family. A few years ago 
 Mr. Gallagher received a severe run-over ac- 
 cident, from which he has not yet recovered. 
 « 
 
 rONSEKVATISM. 
 The Owl, lie faretii well 
 
 In tlie shadows of the night; 
 And it puzzleth liim to tell 
 
 Why tlie Eagle loves the light. 
 
 Away he floats — ;iway. 
 From tlie forest dim and old. 
 
 Where he pass'd tlic garisli day:— 
 The niglitdoth make liim bold! 
 
 The wave of his downj- wing. 
 
 As he courses round about. 
 Disturbs no sleeping tiling 
 
 That he flndeth in his route. 
 
 The moon looks o'er the hill. 
 And the vale grows softly light ; 
 
 And the cock, with greeting shrill. 
 Wakes the echoes of the night. 
 
 But the moon — he knoweth well 
 
 Its old familiar face; 
 And the cock — it doth but tell. 
 
 Poor fool! its resting place. 
 
 And as still as the spirit of Death 
 On the air his pinions play; — 
 
 There's not the noise of a breath 
 As he grapples with his prey. 
 
 t)h, the shadowy Night for him! 
 
 It bringetli him fare and glee; 
 And wliat cares he how dim 
 
 For the Eagle it may be? 
 
 It clothes him from the cold. 
 
 It keeps his larders full; 
 And he loves the darkness old, 
 
 To the Eagle all so duU. 
 
 But the dawn is in the East — 
 
 And the shadows disappear; 
 And at once his timid breast 
 
 Feels the presence of a fear. 
 
 He resists;— but all in vain ! 
 
 The clear Liglit is not for him; 
 So he hastens back again 
 
 To the forest old and dim. 
 
 Through his head strange fancies run; 
 
 For he cannot eoinpreliend 
 Why tlie moon and then the sun. 
 
 Up the heavens should ascend,— 
 
 When the old and quiet Night, 
 With its shadows dark and deep. 
 
 And the half-revealing light 
 Of its stars, he'd ever keep. 
 
 And he hooteth loud and long:— 
 But the Eagle greets the day, 
 
 And, on pinions bold and strong. 
 Like a roused Thought, sweeps away I 
 
*- 
 
 1030 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEPICA. 
 
 L. BELLE VAN NADA. 
 
 Born: Southern Indiana. 
 This lady spent more than ten years as a 
 teacher in the public schools. She has 
 spoken in public upon different topics, and 
 is a great advocate of temperance and 
 
 L. BELLE VAN NADA. 
 
 women's rights. Miss Van Nada's poems 
 have appeared in a book entitled Poems, and 
 in tlie periodical press generally. She is the 
 proprietor and manager of the Van Nada 
 House in Petersburg, Indiana. 
 
 *- 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 Ten years in heaven, darling mother, thou 
 
 liast been ; 
 Ten years thou hast walked the pearly streets 
 
 within 
 
 The New Jerusalem above. 
 The city of God's eternal love, 
 With friends of high and humble birth 
 Ye knew in days of yore upon the earth; 
 How the blissful smiles light their happy 
 
 faces ! 
 How pure heaven's unchanging love ei'ases 
 Earth's distinctive, undeviatiiig traces 
 Of her children born in high and lowly 
 
 places. 
 Methinks, O darling mother, in heaven's 
 
 gilded sunlight 
 How beautifully thou and tliy fair-winged 
 
 friends to-niglit 
 
 Are walking the gold-paved sliiets 
 In the city's calm retreats, 
 
 Passing and repassing up and down the 
 pearly strands 
 
 Of life's eternal river, list'nlngto th' heaven- 
 appointed minstrel bands 
 
 That play their heaven-instructed hymns of 
 praise 
 
 Upon the celestial plains always; 
 
 How sweet, O darling mother, to live up 1 1 lere 
 
 Among tliy kith and kindred angels fair. 
 
 Ten years ! How long to us, how short to thee! 
 
 For every day on halcyon wings so glad and 
 free 
 
 Perchance away ye lightly glide, 
 Some wanderer home to guide. 
 
 How oft in glad surprise ye find some well 
 remembered friend. 
 
 For every day th' earth her wanderers home- 
 ward send. 
 
 How oft, no doubt, ye meet them in th* 
 sacred portals fair. 
 
 Just ushering into th' royal fields up there. 
 
 Methinks I hear in thy 'soft low voice a 
 " welcome home !" 
 
 Then ye turn again th' elysian fields of 
 heaven to roam. 
 
 LISTENING AND WATCHING. 
 We're listening to the thunder roll 
 
 Thro' th' sullen clouds; 
 We watch th' lightnings tear 
 
 The sky's gray folded shrouds. 
 We're listening to the soft, low dripping 
 
 Of th' rain upon th' rose leaves; 
 We watch them bend and tremble, 
 
 'Neath th' dribble from th' eaves. 
 
 We're listening to th' light winds, 
 
 Mourning thro' th' ferns; 
 We watch tliem bowing back and forth. 
 
 As a wave o'er each returns. 
 We watch the foaming billows 
 
 Upward rise and swell; 
 As they greet th' silvered streamlets 
 
 Tinkling thro' the shady dell. 
 
 We're listening, but we do not hear 
 
 The humble songs of love; 
 From throats of feathered songster.s. 
 
 Wafting on the breeze above. 
 But we're watching and we see them, 
 
 Huddling in the shady nooks. 
 Looking down with jiiercing eye 
 
 O'er the babbling brooks. 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 1031 
 
 GEORGE H. WALSER. 
 
 Uokn: Deakbokn Co., Ind., May 26, 1834. 
 
 In 1857 George H. Walser began the practice 
 of law in Miildleport, 111. In 1861 lie was tlie 
 first man to volunteer as a sukiier, and was 
 elected Captain of Company I. ~'Oth Ue<rt. Ills. 
 Vols. Inf. Failing healtli caused liis resi^"-- 
 
 
 
 
 f.,\ ' 
 
 **% ^l^x. 
 
 % 
 
 
 x-' 
 
 gg^^B|L ><te^ 
 
 
 
 4'"-'^^ 
 
 [?*! 
 
 v1 
 
 \1^ 
 
 GEOUGE H. WALSEK. 
 
 nation, and in 186.3 he settled in Missouri, and 
 tliree years later resumed the practice of his 
 profession, and lias had great success as a 
 lawyer in the circuit and supremo courts. 
 He has written a volume entitled Poems of 
 Leisure, which was published in 1891. Mr. 
 Walser has a wife and two cliildren, and is 
 still a resident of Liberal, Mo., wliich town 
 he laid out in 18S0. 
 
 MOUNT .ArfN HOME. 
 I love my grand old mountain home, 
 
 I love its breath, I love its looks, 
 Tlie bloom that smiles on it alone 
 
 I love as do I love its Ijrooks. 
 
 The rocks that rib its furrowed sides, 
 I love them for their noble state. 
 
 As well the rill which down it glides. 
 The streams neat kirtled at its feet. 
 
 The trees that shade its aged brow, 
 Wliich sheltered me when but a youtli, 
 
 I loved them then as do I now, 
 I love its gray and rocky roof. 
 
 I love its moan in breezes high, 
 
 1 love it when the storm winds blow, 
 I love from it to ken tlie sky. 
 
 Which kisses nieadlands far below. 
 The oreole I line to liear. 
 
 And see the roeliuck on the bound; 
 1 love the blitlie and nimble deer, 
 
 I love to hear the laruni sound. 
 The chase deliglits my heart as well. 
 
 The bugle and the scented pack. 
 As coursing tlirougii the copse and dell. 
 
 As Uy the hounds on heated track. 
 The eagle plants her ivric high. 
 
 To catch the glimpse of morning sun. 
 Who paints its streamlets on the sky 
 
 In golden shreds so deftly spun. 
 I love it for itself alone, 
 
 I love its glens, its gorges deep. 
 I love my grand old mountain home, 
 
 In sweet repose there let me sleep. 
 
 THE SUNSET OF LIFE. 
 1 wonder, often wonder, who 
 
 Can remain unmoved witli feelings 
 Of grand eniotitin at eventide 
 
 As the old sun sets aglow 
 The placid bosom of the west. 
 
 And smiling, sends his golden greeting 
 To the outspread wings of heaven, 
 Tlien sinking calmly down to rest. 
 Whispers softly, sweetly and low. 
 Good night. 
 Fair world. 
 Fair world. 
 Good night; 
 I'll come again to-morrow. 
 I saw that old sun die last night 
 
 In his golden luster of age. 
 And slowly sinking out of sight. 
 
 He spread upon the vermiel page 
 Of heaven a smile 
 
 Of e.\quisite gr:ice and richness. 
 I watched him awhile. 
 
 As he spread his tinted dye. 
 And gave the last strokes, with serial brush. 
 
 On the canvas of the sky ; 
 Then fading, fading away to blend 
 
 Into star life, cliaste, pure and bright- 
 Impressed me of that sweeter end, 
 
 Sublimer look, last good niglit, 
 Loving smile, cheerful words and depart- 
 ing breath. 
 Of silver Age sinking, sinking Into death. 
 ••Good night. 
 Dear friends. 
 Dear friends, 
 GihkI night; 
 We'll meet again to-morrow." 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1032 
 
 LOCAL A>JD NATIONAL POKTS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 READ THEIR FATE BETWEEN THE 
 LINES. 
 We are living, we are acting 
 
 In a grand and glorious time, 
 And the ages we are molding 
 Will bring their ultimates sublime. 
 
 We are reaping from the ages. 
 
 Reaching back to long ago; 
 We are reading from the pages, 
 
 Wrote in words of human woe. 
 
 Pages that portray the actions 
 
 Of the ruling spirits then; 
 Of the grim tumultuous factions. 
 
 And the crimes of many men. 
 
 Of the wars and revolutions, 
 Failures and successes grand; 
 
 Of contentions and commotions 
 That for aye have filled the land. 
 
 But there is a sadder reading, 
 Of those dark and gloomy times; 
 
 Which is worthy of our heeding; 
 'Tis read between the written lines. 
 
 'Tis the reading of the anguish 
 Wrung from bleeding hearts and sad; 
 
 Hearts that grieve unknown and lan- 
 guish, 
 With the living and the dead. 
 
 'Tis the anguish of the lone one, 
 'Tis the wailing of the weak. 
 
 It is the patient, helpless throng 
 That of their wrong never speak. 
 
 Tliose that struggle on in sorrow 
 With no other hope in view; 
 
 Moil to-day and mourn to-morrow; 
 'Tis the millions for the few. 
 
 Tt is the millions for the few, 
 'Twas the same in ancienttimes; 
 
 Which facts are veil'd from public view ; 
 Are only read between the lines. 
 
 We are living, we are acting. 
 
 In an age and nt a time. 
 And if we are up and doing 
 
 We can make our lives sublime. 
 
 We can change the wheel of power 
 And its weight on these dark times ; 
 
 We can make oppression cower. 
 And read his fate between tlie lines. 
 
 *- 
 
 THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 
 There is no place on earth like home 
 
 When it is true and cheerful, 
 But home lias fled when one alone 
 
 Remains in grief and tearful. 
 
 There is no place on earth like home 
 When love and concord rule It, 
 
 But home has fled its sacred dome 
 When one, but one, can useit. 
 
 There is no place on earth like home 
 When converse social cheers it. 
 
 But home has lost the charms of home 
 When there's but one who shares it 
 
 There is no place on earth like home 
 When smiles and pet words thrill it, 
 
 But home with all its sweets are flown 
 If there's but one to fill it. 
 
 There is no place on earth like home, 
 The gods, I ween, thus will it, 
 
 As well they will to make a home 
 There must be two to fill it. 
 
 ETERNITT. 
 
 Oh ! thou eternity, in vain 
 
 I sti'ive to fathom thee; 
 Could I count the sands, grain by grain. 
 
 That gird the mighty sea, 
 A thousand years might roll between. 
 
 Each number of a sand. 
 Which under grand old ocean gleam 
 
 And glisten in the strand. 
 Then could I take them one by one. 
 
 And bear them from the sea. 
 One moment will not have begun — 
 
 Such is eternity. 
 
 THE RIVER OF LO^'~E. 
 
 I walked 'neath the boughs of a willow, 
 
 Where the currents of two rivers meet; 
 1 stood in the depths of its shadow. 
 
 That fell like a veil at my feet; 
 I saw the two rivers flow onward. 
 
 In union toward the deep sea; 
 I watched their two currents flow downward. 
 
 And mingle in felicity. 
 
 I thought, as I stood by that river. 
 
 Made whole by the union of two. 
 Of the rivers that flow on together; 
 
 Of hearts that are faithful and true. 
 I thought of the deep seated pleasure, 
 
 Tlie la.sting accord and esteem; 
 That bless the two hearts without measure, 
 
 When love rules the course of the stream. 
 
 I thought of the lives that flow onward. 
 
 As rivers flow on to the sea: 
 'Mid flowers and foliage savored, 
 
 With smiles born of sweet linrmony. 
 1 thought of the flow of that river; 
 
 How placid its deep waters move; 
 Full freiglited with smiles for each other. 
 
 On borne to the ocean of love. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1033 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARY H YOUNG. 
 
 Born: nkau Sahatoga. N.Y. 
 This lady was educated in New England. In 
 1854 she was married to Hon. G. A. Greene, a 
 probate judge of Cliautauqua County, N. Y. 
 In 1887 appeared a volume of twt) liundred 
 and tliii'ty iiO'Miis eiilitli'd. Fdi'cst Leaves, a 
 
 MKS. MARY HULETT YOl Mi. 
 
 work of great excellence and poetic power. 
 This lady has received friendly letters from 
 Henry W. Longfellow, Dr. O. W. Holmes, 
 Paul H. Hayiie, E. C. Steadman and others. 
 Mrs. Mary Hulett Young has also written a 
 prose story of three hundred and fifty pages, 
 and is engaged on a work entitled Walu-lieit. 
 
 *- 
 
 CONSTANTINE THE ELEVENTH. 
 
 Alone in a winter midnight 
 
 Which solitude made drear, 
 I read from history's volume 
 
 With the frequent starting tear. 
 Without my studj- windows 
 
 The pine-trees, sighing low. 
 Kept time to mj' mournful musing 
 
 O'er a page of human woe. 
 It told of him, the latest. 
 
 The brave, sad Constantine, 
 Whose briglit imperial eagles 
 
 Veiled low their golden sign. 
 Whose crown of unmeasured sorrow 
 
 Came to his brow unsought, — 
 Its splendor, its shame, and its torture. 
 
 In the shadows of destiny wrought. 
 
 Oh! grand were the forms lowly kneeling. 
 
 The last of the worthy and brave, 
 In the Church of St. Sophia, 
 
 Faith's emblems that last niglit to crave. 
 Oh I the wail of despair from his palace 1 
 
 Ohl the grief of iiis deep-heaving breast. 
 As Constantine rode through the darkness, 
 
 The lost one — the doomed,— yet the blest ! 
 His Georgian princess is waiting 
 
 For his gallej's to come o'er the sea 
 And bear her in joy and in beauty 
 
 His empress bride to be; 
 And noble hearts gather around him, 
 
 feteel-true to liis latest breath,— 
 No change can seal him a tyrant. 
 
 And ages shall iionor his death. 
 I started — ;ny lamp burned no longer. 
 
 Raindrops splashed without on the snow, — 
 I blessed them that they were weeping 
 
 For a grief of long ago. 
 
 ENDYMTON SLEEPING. 
 — A scene most fair, the Latmos hill 
 From which the trees drcjop 'ow and still 
 Upon a crystal gleaming lake — 
 No softest sounds the silence break 
 
 Where lies Endyniioti sleeping. 
 A white swan dreams ui»on the wave 
 That loves her snowy breast to lave,— 
 A temple whiter than her wing. 
 Stands where the palm-tree shadows cling. 
 
 And lies Endyinion sleeping. 
 
 The temple's marble stops are near. 
 The moonlight waters shining clear. 
 The palm-leaf shadows softy lie,— 
 A soundless-soft voice calms its sigh 
 
 To leave Endyniion sleeping. 
 The flowers are clustered at his feet. 
 Narcissus fair and red rose sweet. 
 The hyacinth dark-i)urpling lies — 
 And shine above the sad pure eyes 
 
 That light Endyniion sleeping 
 His dark curls on the marble rest. 
 His wliite hands on a peaceful breast. 
 His lips of matchless god-like mold 
 Smile with a joy for earth too bold.— 
 
 Ah, leave Endyniion sleei>ingl 
 
 WITHERED LEAVES. 
 Ye withered leaves of long ago. 
 
 Strange is the tale ye tell.— 
 Why come ye from your hiding-place 
 
 To break time's Lethean spell? 
 O blue deep smiling eyes of love, 
 
 O waxen white hands crossed, — 
 Alas, that these frail leaves are here 
 
 .\nd ye to me so lost! 
 
*- 
 
 1034 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. JEAN E. U. NEALIS. 
 
 Born : Fredebicton, N. B., Sept. 25, 1842. 
 The present residence of tliis lady is at Sun- 
 set Slope, Fort Dufferin, N. B., where she re- 
 sides with her husband^ Hugh Nealis, whom 
 she married in 1864 Mrs. Nealis has pub- 
 
 MRS. JEAN E. V. NEALIS. 
 
 lished a volume of poems entitled Drift, 
 wliich contains some magnificent verses. 
 The poems of Mrs. Nealis have constantly 
 appeared in the press of the United States 
 and Canada. She has a very fine family of 
 children, a pretty seaside home, and many 
 warm friends. 
 
 IN UMBRA MORTIS. 
 
 mine own brother, let me hold your hand. 
 The day so strangely cold and dark has 
 
 grown, 
 
 1 feel the end is near, so long desired, 
 And I am glad,— for I am weak and tired, 
 Yet fear to tread Death's awful Pass alone! 
 
 So hold my hand a little longer still, [o'er; 
 In soft, close clasp, and warm; 'twill soon be 
 To-morrow you may fold them as you will. 
 For I, beyond man's judgment, good or ill, 
 Shall have passed out, thank God, forever- 
 more ! 
 So, hold my hand; it is the one last thing 
 I need, of human love, to comfort me. 
 Just hold my hand, until the night shall 
 bring 
 
 Eternal rest, for which I'm hungering,— 
 Eternal rest, beyond life's stormy sea! 
 
 Then, fold these hands that never more shall 
 
 crave 
 Aught that they should not ask, or asking 
 
 have; 
 Close in the blinds, and, thro' the darkened 
 
 room. 
 Let blessed candles lighten up its gloom. 
 And pray thou for my soul, gone to its doom, 
 For there is no remembrance in the grave. 
 
 FROZEN FLOWERS. 
 Poor little flowers! are you all 
 
 Blasted with the frost's cold breath? 
 So green and fair you were yesterday, 
 
 Now — touched by the hand of Death. 
 Poor little flowers! Gifts j'ou were 
 
 From the friends of a summer's day. 
 But the summer is gone and — dearer things 
 
 Than flowers must fade away. 
 Poor little flowers! Your drooping leaves 
 
 Tell of hopes that can die in a nigbt. 
 Of a colder frost and a bitterer death, 
 
 And a darker, ghastlier blight! 
 Poor little flowers! I will bring you in. 
 
 And hide your dead beauty away — 
 I have hidden a blacker death than this 
 
 In the grave of my heart — to-day. 
 
 ALL. 
 
 O mothers, over all the earth. 
 
 To you I make my moan: 
 You have your burdens, all of you. 
 And each one knows her own ; 
 But you around whose necks a babe's arms 
 
 twine 
 Pity me, desolate,— God took all minel 
 
 i know the most of you have graves 
 Where some sweet flower lies. 
 That droop'd too soon. Yet you may look 
 With loving happy eyes 
 On others, playing in the Spring sunshine. 
 
 pray for me to-night,— God took all niinel 
 
 Perhaps, losing many, you have Isept, 
 Tliro' God's kind iiieroy, one, 
 
 O when you kiss lier, say "God help 
 The mothers who have none!" 
 
 1 li;ul four,— V)ut trailing mosses twine 
 About his grave and theirs! God took all 
 
 mine? 
 Not sparing one, altliough I prayed 
 
 So hard to keep this last. 
 My little Mary,— one sweet flower! 
 But,— 'tis a prayer gone past. 
 Mr God! not my will, anymore, but Thine! 
 All Thou hast done was best— for me and 
 mine! 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 L<)CAT> AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 l()3o 
 
 * 
 
 DAVID EDWARD COLLINS. 
 
 Born: Scotland, Mav 8, 1850. 
 
 The subject of this sketch >;riidii:ited from 
 the California Military Academy and the 
 University of California. After graduating: 
 Mr. Collins spent six years in Europe at 
 Edinborouph. London, Paris and Lcipsic in 
 the study of jihilosophy and scit-iicc. Of 
 
 DAVID EDWAUD COr.t.INS. 
 
 late years, however, lie has been much ab- 
 sorbed In business, and is a man of integrity 
 and business ability, and a banker of high 
 standing in Oakland, Cat., where he now re- 
 sides. He was married in 1888 to Miss Emma 
 M. Gieschen, and now lias one daughter 
 named Vlda C. Collins. Mr. Collins has writ- 
 ten more th.an a hundred commendable 
 poems that have received extensive publica- 
 tion in the University Journal and the peri- 
 odical press generally. 
 
 *- 
 
 ON PARTING. 
 We run, and we must read as well 
 Below the surface lives of men ; 
 We live two lives, and yet again 
 Those lives are one when blended well. 
 
 Some effluence still our souls outpour 
 When least we play a conscious part : 
 Some subtle power but stills the heart 
 And doffs the garments that it wore. 
 
 Whatc'er good iuUuence we may knmv 
 In tresses fair let memory weave. 
 And in our souls its network leave 
 A relic of the long ago. 
 
 But we may meet; this thought remains; 
 And Hope her fancied joys will raise 
 To keep thy memory green always 
 Till death shall silence care and pain. 
 
 BRIDAL VEIL FALLS. 
 Tliou gentle stream, canst say. 
 
 Where beauty holds her festive day. 
 And how with potent sway 
 
 She clothes thee for this holiday? 
 
 Hast never seen her hold 
 
 Her magic pencil chased with gold. 
 Tracing with speed untold 
 
 The paintings that the world enfoldV 
 
 The crystal drops appear. 
 The simpler efforts of hersphere; 
 
 But with thee she doth rear 
 The wonders of the rainbow here. 
 
 Then whence that joyous power 
 
 That beauty doth upon thee shower- 
 Some wealth of sunset liour — 
 An earnest of her priceless dower? 
 
 O wind, canst thou not tell 
 
 Whence that beauty thou lov'st so well? 
 Stays it with the ocean swell. 
 
 Or does it with thee ever dwell? 
 
 Hast thou brought her here perchance 
 To flaunt her charms in the mazy diince. 
 
 And from tlie broad e.xininse 
 To localize each human glance? 
 
 O wilt thou not reveal 
 
 The secret which thou dost conceal? 
 Must I in vain appeal 
 
 To know the source of what I feel? 
 
 To beauty men must needs 
 
 Pay homage botli in wortls and di eds. 
 While she her suppliant speeds 
 
 To noble aims and generous creeds. 
 
 O Bridal Veil. I see 
 
 This swathing beauty wrapt 'round thee; 
 And whither sh.all men flee 
 
 Where scenes of greater beauty bf? 
 
 Does the Orient wear 
 
 A lovelier gem? Nowliere. Nowhere. 
 Whither then shall men repair? 
 
 The echo comes, •• No otherwhere." 
 
 -9 
 
*- 
 
 1036 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 VERNAL FALLS. 
 
 O Vernal Fall! thy grand orchestral strains 
 
 To rapturous music in the distance wane, 
 
 And fall in softness on my ravished ear, 
 
 Melting me into a devout worshipper. 
 
 Set 'mid grim-visaged cUtts and nature's 
 wild 
 
 With stern-faced features. Oh, thou dearest 
 child 
 
 Of nature! thou art wrapt in awful grace. 
 
 While golden laughter lightens up thy face. 
 
 The changing air a tender quiet holds 
 
 That it may fashion into Orphic molds 
 
 Tliy music; as Orpheus of old did charm. 
 
 So now the rocks, the trees, the waters warm 
 
 Witli thy time-measured pulse, and now ex- 
 press. 
 
 With mocliing sweetness, all thy tenderness. 
 
 And then the waters in silver dimples 
 
 Glance in pleasure gay, 
 
 And ripples that seem in a hazy dream 
 
 Are fashioning all the day. 
 
 The spray is curling and ever whirling 
 
 At pleasuie and at will; 
 
 And the trees have grown and the flowers 
 have blown. 
 
 With never a blight to liill. 
 
 And Iris bold doth communion hold, 
 
 While the waters are imbued; 
 
 And the solar rays in magical ways 
 
 Paint rainbows Iris-hued. 
 
 And the trees and grass as the stranger pass 
 
 Stand out in richest green; 
 
 And the dewy leaves in the morns and eves 
 
 Make springtime of the scene. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Of all the months throughout the year, 
 
 Which is the dearest, say ! 
 For there's none that seemeth so dear to me 
 
 As the merry month of May. 
 
 On Scotia's brave and blessed soil 
 
 It was a glorious day. 
 When I bade farewell to the land of my birth 
 
 In the happy month of May. 
 
 The fields were covered o'erwitli green. 
 
 The streamlet's dasliing spray, 
 And the sunbeams glanced on the glittering 
 sheen 
 
 In the joj'ous month of May. 
 
 My heart was filled with tender joy 
 
 In youth's untroublt>(l day. 
 And many the mouths that have come and 
 
 O dearest month of all the year. 
 Rich pleasures still are they 
 
 That come to me and so merrily come 
 With the coming of the May. 
 
 gone. 
 But none like the month of May. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A POEM. 
 The moon was climbing up the east. 
 
 The stars did fade away, 
 W hile nature slept the sleep of peace 
 
 Worn out with the toils of day. 
 
 With frowning brow and flashing eye, 
 
 'Mid silence deeply prized. 
 Poor Walter stood a serious man 
 
 And thus soliloquized: 
 
 " Aye, this is life: for joy and grief 
 Are partners of our daily walk; 
 
 Through richest fields that Fancy form 
 Some hellish phantoms stalk. 
 
 •t I see those phantoms dance with glee 
 Upon the wreck of ruined hopes; 
 
 Sin plays its tricks, and others be: 
 With me despair elopes. 
 
 •' Dark with me, this trembling heart 
 
 1 lay upon the shrine 
 Of hopes all gone that had inspired 
 
 And made my aims divine. 
 
 " Age bath not marked her furrows here; 
 
 The warmth of blood my youth declares. 
 But still unnumbered years 1 feel 
 
 A nd weighted am with cares. 
 
 »• Old age before her time has come, 
 And landmarks in my heart uprears: 
 
 Our sufferings and our toils do mark 
 The passage of the years. 
 
 "O Agnes! Thou, whom years had made 
 Sole idol of this trusting heart. 
 
 Art lost — liast left of life for me 
 The solitary part. 
 
 ..O wert tliou false? Thou knewest not 
 What tender love for thee I bore; 
 
 O fool, that I should e'er have kept 
 Such mystery in store. 
 
 .. Go back ye tide of years, and bear 
 On Lethe's stream tliis stern regret; 
 
 For I .shall carry to my grave 
 Our love wheti last we met." 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1037 
 
 * 
 
 MARTIN V. MOORE. 
 
 Born: Johnson Co., Tenn., April, 12, IKJ". 
 The poems of Mr. Moore have appeared in 
 Harper's Mag-azine, Frauk Leslie's Sunday 
 Magazine, Godey's Lady's Book, Fireside 
 Companion, tlie Atlanta Constitution, Sunny 
 Siiiitli, .Vnu'viea, and other papers and mag-a- 
 
 .MAKi'l.\ V. MUOKE. 
 
 zines of the South. The literary work of 
 Martin V. Moore has been confined chieliy 
 to prose writing, and he has done much i:i 
 the line of editorial work, and in misccll.i- 
 neous short stories, sketches, magazine arti- 
 cles, book reviews, scientific papers, political 
 and historical works, and is tlie author of 
 several large prose works. Mr. Moore was 
 married in 1864 to Miss Sallie E. Lenoir, but 
 is now a widower, residing with his family 
 in Auburn, Ala. 
 
 THE UNANSWERED CRY. 
 Allah, allah, tell me, pray. 
 Is there aught of us shall stay 
 When the thing called life is ended 
 And the bones with dust are blended? — 
 Allah in the heart replies — 
 There's a spirit that never dies. 
 Allah, tell me how shall I, 
 When the journey's over, die? 
 When the tongue shall cease its clatter. 
 And when the feet shall quit their patter — 
 Where shall then the spirit go? — 
 Tell me, Allah, thou dost know. 
 
 Allah gives me no reply — 
 
 Sends no answer to my cry — 
 When the bowl is to be broken 
 Allah gives us word or token — 
 
 Where the loosened spirit goes 
 
 Only Allah ever knows:— 
 
 Only Allah,— great, sublime,— 
 Knows the place, the how, the time; 
 Mercy holds the darkened portal 
 From tlie ken of prying mortal — 
 Only Allah e'er should know 
 When and where the spirits go. 
 
 THE LOVE-LINK. 
 We met — a gentle maid and I — 
 
 One far-off summer wlien 
 A simple flower told my love. 
 
 And told mo her's again : 
 She gave to me a promise true 
 
 And I was happy then. 
 
 We met again; the maiden was 
 
 My sweet bride. O so fair: 
 Tiie same dear flowers wore she then 
 
 In clusters in her hair; 
 We laid our licaris upon one shrine. 
 
 And I was happy there. 
 We went into the widening world; 
 
 Care hath our lives beset. 
 And often over buried joys 
 
 The tear our cheeks hath wet ; 
 Rut still the love-link binds our hearts 
 
 And I am happy yet. 
 And far out in the narrowing sky 
 
 I see the faith-light quiver; 
 And underneath it beckoning ray 
 
 Our barque upon the river; 
 And in the Heaven read that we 
 
 May happy be forever. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE ROSE. 
 
 EXTU.^CT. 
 
 The summers came to Paradise 
 
 A thousand years perhaps and more. 
 But still the summer winds that went 
 
 No rose-scent up to Heaven bore. 
 Till man to Eden's garden came, 
 
 .And Cain his brotlier snu'te and slew: 
 Tlien where tlie earth drank up tlie bkHxi 
 
 The primal rose-busli sprang and grew. 
 Sweet incense from the ruined shrine 
 
 Was then unto tlie flower given; 
 And it with the prayer of the righteous dead 
 
 The carrier winds took up to Heaven. 
 Now in the blossom's hue we see 
 
 The flesh and bkxKl the martyr bore: — 
 While In the thorn — lo iliere's the curse 
 
 Affixed by God fon>verniore 
 _ lil 
 
*- 
 
 1038 
 
 LOCAT> AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLEN J. MCHENRY. 
 
 Born: Chardon, O., Nov. 23, 1827. 
 In 1847 this lady was married to Hon. John 
 McHeury, judge of the first district court of 
 New Orleans, La. Four years later she re- 
 moved to California, where she now resides 
 
 MRS. EI.T,KN .J. M'HENRY. 
 
 at Berkeley, witli her husband and children. 
 Mrs. McHeury lias published au epic poem 
 entitled Legend of the Wandering Jew, and 
 also a prose work entitled Our Boys. Tlie 
 poems of Mrs. McHenry have appeared from 
 time to time in current literature. 
 
 THE OLD MISSION BELLS. 
 Oh! don't melt up the bells! 
 The dear old bells have hung so long, 
 And called so many to prayer and song 
 Who have joined the great unnumbered 
 
 throng. 
 On their way to the silent shore. 
 The peaceful fathers with their beads all told. 
 The Indians gathered in the Christian fold. 
 The Argonauts and their comrades bold 
 Will hear those bells no more. 
 Oh ! don't take down the bells ! 
 But let them hang for the days gone by, 
 And as you pass them, breathe a sigh. 
 For the old pioneers, wlio silent lie. 
 In their graves on the busy street; 
 Could they see the rush and hear the roar. 
 Of commerce and toil on this Golden shore. 
 Would they wish to be again once more. 
 Where their friends and children meet? 
 
 Oh! don't melt up the bells! 
 The dear old bells have hung so long. 
 And called so many to prayer and song. 
 Who have joined the great unnumbered 
 On their waj' to the silent shore. [throng. 
 In the coming years, then let them hang, 
 To remind us all by their feeble clang. 
 Scarce heard with the new bell's ponderous 
 Of the days that will come no more. Ll><iDg, 
 
 ONLY A SISTER. 
 Ah why is this? my brother never 
 Spoke so polite to me before. 
 As when to-day Miss E. McEvor 
 Came tripping through the parlor door. 
 He did not say, "give me some grub," 
 •' Why don't you make up my bed ? 
 Or hang it all, do shut the door," 
 But this is what he kindlj' said: 
 '• Now, sis, I'd like some dinner quick, 
 1 know I'm rather late. 
 To-day I felt a little sick. 
 Just hand me, sis, a cup and plate." 
 Astonished then I looked at him, 
 And could not think just what to say. 
 He spoke so kind and looked so trim; — 
 His sweetheart dined with us to-day! 
 
 POOR POLLYS LAMENT. 
 
 how 1 long once more to go 
 
 To the sun-bright plains of Mexico! [sky, 
 Where my mate flies free through the tropic 
 And screams at her will, in the palm trees 
 While I swing here in myjnarrow cage, [hiF''.' 
 And gnaw the bars in my helpless rage. 
 The cold west wind sweeps down the street, 
 And chills me through, from head to feet. 
 As on my lonesome perch I stand. 
 And sigh and sigh for my native land. 
 They forget I came from a sun-briglit clinic. 
 The land of the orange, the olive and lime. 
 Oh how I hate the sight and sound 
 Of all I see and hear around. 
 When the urchins utter the hateful cry 
 Of "Polly want a cracker," as they go by; 
 And taunting, speak of my crooked nose, 
 And mocking laugh at my "turned in" toes 
 A dark-eyed Senorita stood 
 By my cage, one day, in pensive mood, 
 Slie drew her "Trebosa " 'round her head. 
 And "Pobre Pahai'ita," she sweetly .said; 
 My heart gave one tumultuous bound. 
 For my ear had caught the old sweet sound 
 But alas! my tongue forgot to say, 
 AVhat I learned in my own land far away, 
 And she passed on with the hurrying crowd , 
 And 'though I fluttered and screamed si^ 
 
 1 never have chanced lier face to see, [louc 
 For she never came back to speak to me. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 lO.'iiJ 
 
 JAMES LOCKHART GOODLOE 
 
 Houx: Madison Co., Miss., Sept. 3, 1840. 
 As soiiDiEK, lawyer and poi't James Lock- 
 hart Goodloe has gained an eviablc reputa- 
 tion in tlie soutliern states, and liis poems 
 have appeared in tlie Nashville Home Circle, 
 Galveston News, Vicksburs- Whijr, Mt'inpliis 
 Appeal, Meiiipliis Avalanche, Mobile Kegis- 
 
 •JAMES LOCKHAltT <!l)<)I)LOE. 
 
 ter, Hunlsville Times, Atlanta Sunny South, 
 from which they have been copied by tlio 
 I)eriodical press throughout America. Mr. 
 Goodloe delivered the poem of graduation in 
 18()0, and was elected annual poet. Delta Psi 
 Fraternity for 1861, and Alumni poet in 1890 
 at tlie University of Mississippi. He served 
 through the war and was slightly wounded. 
 
 *- 
 
 A TRILOGY. 
 
 PAN SLEEPS — YOUTH. 
 
 Asliadowy vale, between two sloping hills 
 Where sprays of sunlight fall, and no broad 
 Of brilliance glare and shine. [bars 
 
 Ry slight decline 
 Tlie sylvan patli descends this peaceful grove 
 Until a valley opens wide and still. 
 Rough Wintry storms have torn earth's 
 bosom liere, [roots. 
 
 And underneath the crumpled oak tree's 
 Winding, entangled, like great .serpent folds. 
 Scaly, and thick and strong, — a dark ravine 
 Lies half revealed, long spiral vines, above, 
 Lean down and curious, peer into its deeps; 
 
 And, In tiie noiseless cover of its shades, 
 A meek hare fills her form, and busy wrens 
 Hold quiet liousewife conclave near a nest. 
 Hither, in early youth, he often came — 
 A brown-eyed, sun-burned l)oj', of thought- 
 ful moods. 
 Who, dreanung listlessly, his youngsoul rapt 
 And borne resistlcssly into Alieu skies. 
 Cast himself prone upon tlie fostering earth. 
 
 No sound of axe or hunter; no kine lowed. 
 The forest tlirilled not with shrill reed of 
 
 birds, [breeze 
 
 liut silence reigned; the gently moving 
 Soft swept the beech and maples, and low 
 
 sounds, 
 Asof some solemn, slumberous genius [balm. 
 Breathed on his ear and lieart witli nature's 
 Enraptured, thougli he knew not why, he lay 
 H.alf dreaming; musing; liappj-, and yet sad. 
 
 A restless crow M-ent — crying not — above; 
 Whither he knew not, cared not; but away; 
 And one soft note of wood-thrusli wliispering 
 made; [oak, 
 
 The half-heard whisk and mutter from tin 
 Where dozed an owl, and wiiere a scjuirrel 
 lay; [world; 
 
 And then. Ids musing on the glorious, happy 
 And liis own wandering thoughts of play- 
 mates, maids, [hope; 
 And boys, and home, an untold years of 
 The living consciousness in liim, of both 
 His own and nature's growing, throbbing 
 
 pulse. — 
 All swept, melodiously, upon his of life. 
 
 Then, full of peace, and stilly, quiet rest,— 
 Untouched by rush of trade or jealous love. 
 Or caiikeriiig,co!d anibitioii— slept the youth. 
 So young Pan sleeps throughout the sultry 
 
 noon. 
 Until the evening zephyr conies and sighs — 
 Growing vehement, as it bhists Ids e;irs — 
 "Up! " to the linnet, cicada, and liare;— 
 ••Up!" to the elm and maple leaves and 
 
 boughs ; 
 And, soon tlie concert of the wood begins; 
 The vale enlivens, and all nature culls. 
 From ravine to the hills: and all the air 
 Is resonant with joy; the boy is thrille<l. 
 He wakes, he leaps and smiles. He shouts 
 
 and sings. 
 As atone with himself, the world and God. 
 
 PHANTOMS— MATriUTV. 
 
 A passing vision haunts by day. 
 Or wakes me out of slumber, 
 As when some second sight expels 
 Things which the soul encumber. 
 Out of this oft-recurring dream 
 The impress conies to me 
 
 — « 
 
*— 
 
 1040 
 
 LOCAl. AND NATIONAL POETS OV AMERICA. 
 
 All sweeter, dearer, deeper far 
 
 Than waking thoughts can he. 
 
 My soul then casts her fetters down 
 
 And hies to meet some lover, 
 
 In fields all green and golden, where 
 
 The kindly angels hover.— 
 
 I've pondered often, welcoming 
 
 The argosies she bore : 
 
 No message seems so pierced with light. 
 
 No vision glowed so purely bright. 
 
 As those her tokens wore. 
 
 Yet not of song or loving word. 
 
 But feelings sweetest bars. 
 
 And images of Heaven's love 
 
 Dropped, earthward, from the stars. 
 
 Then, wafted to some eminence, 
 
 O'er-shadowed by the night, 
 
 I see the pictured landscape lie 
 
 Soft in the dim starlight. 
 
 The gardens, fields and woodlands dim, 
 
 The stream marked by the shades 
 
 Of over-hanging willow boughs. 
 
 And quiet everglades. 
 
 I hear a dreamy chattering. 
 
 The thousand pipes of Pan, 
 
 From throats and wings of little things 
 
 That wisseu not of man; 
 
 Of night bird, as with startled note 
 
 She leaves her dewy cover. 
 
 And drops into the shallow strea-n 
 
 To greet her happy lover. 
 
 And great-eyed kine,with length'ning reach 
 
 The darkling by-ways threading. 
 
 Precede their young, near break of dawn. 
 
 To flowery meadows leading. 
 
 They halt not to beware of me; 
 
 They know not of my dreaming. 
 
 Nor of the soul's rapt minstrelsy 
 
 From shadowy starlight streaming. 
 
 But now an Eidolon comes down 
 
 In half shade from the ether, 
 
 A soulful panorama falls 
 
 And spreads o'er wood and heather. 
 
 It knows not me; but I divine 
 
 Its restful dreamy story. 
 
 I feel a loving spirit brood 
 
 On this phantasmagory. 
 
 I know not how it is, but oft 
 
 In childhood's half-wild reasons, 
 
 And in the calmer years of age 
 
 It calls me at all seasons. 
 
 It wakes me in the silent night. 
 
 And no surprise succeedcth, 
 
 But lovingly I answer it 
 
 And follow where itleadeth. 
 
 Its mute control o'erwhelmeth me 
 
 With deep and earnest feeling, 
 
 Its pure effulgence softly beams. 
 
 Into my bosom stealing. 
 
 So, gazing into the river's flood. 
 
 Deep in its bosom lying, 
 
 A new creation greets our view 
 
 With Heaven's beauty vicing. 
 
 I shed soft tears, suppressing hope i 
 
 Of word or look or story. 
 
 Except the brooding soundless sense 
 
 Of this phantasmagory. 
 
 And in the still night's darkling rest. 
 
 In half-shade, there, before it. 
 
 The soulful panorama lies 
 
 Nestless, and night broods o'er it. 
 
 Ah ! would that I might change the cast 
 
 And, to its sphinx-like gazing. 
 
 Infuse a thrilling sound or word — 
 
 This dreamy scene amazing. 
 
 But no! the dream is mine alone. 
 
 And no phantasmal seeming 
 
 Can dissipate the rising fear 
 
 That this is only dreaming. 
 
 And yet, perhaps, each heart's low moan 
 
 Is void of consolation. 
 
 perhaps the plaint of every soul 
 
 Is full of desolation. 
 
 But still amid the bosom's pain 
 
 A joyous angel singing. 
 
 Reveals the happy fount of life 
 
 To heights supernal springing! , 
 
 HUMILITY — AGE. 
 
 The Deity whom we adore as great. 
 And good and glorious, and pitying. 
 Is all that they have said; he pities us, 
 But forces us to teach ourselves. We spring 
 East to our hearts' desires. The gilded things 
 Which we pursue are caught and crushed. 
 
 They burn. 
 Or bite, or sting us; and we slowly learn 
 To choose; or else we turn away surprised 
 
 or jaded — 
 Wondering if life is false. [presents 
 
 He.^ven,- waiting calmly -some fresh am 
 We scan the ends of flesh and earthly ponip 
 Experience proves them futile, lifeless tasks 
 Leaving the dross we seek a higher plane. 
 Then we look upward ;there sits wisdom near 
 Silent, observant, calm; and all the while. 
 Awaiting this first bell- one labor closed. 
 Now armed with this, a shield invisible- 
 The soul goes onward, sighing for lost time: 
 And fearing, knowing life is all too short 
 For reverence and art, we grasp the light 
 Of immortality. So, huml)led thus. 
 We yield our spirits to that Deity [tears - 
 Whom men -when learned in trials and i 
 Adore as wise, and kind, and pitying 
 
 •i«- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 1041 
 
 DANIEL KISSAM YOUNG. 
 
 Born: Brooklyn, N.\'., Dec. 2, lis.">l. 
 During the college course of the subject of 
 this sketch lie was president of the Phreuocos- 
 miiin Literary Society and received honors at 
 his graduation. In 1871 he graduated from the 
 collopeof tlie City of New York, taking the 
 
 pr 
 
 DANIEL KISSAM YOUNG, B. S. 
 
 defrree of Bachelor of Sciences. He is now 
 a member of the Graduate Association and 
 Alpha Delta Phi and has read a number of 
 papers before that Association. Mr. Young 
 has written over a hundred poems, many of 
 which have appeared in the Hempstead 
 Sentinel, The Methodist, The Budget. Tlie 
 Advertiser, Journal of Commerce and other 
 periodicals. This gentleman was married in 
 1890 to Miss Mary Mclnnis, and is now en- 
 gaged in coffee importation in NewY'ork Cit y . 
 
 *- 
 
 AWAKENING. 
 Long wondered I at her most perfect art. 
 Ami strangely felt her skill enthniU my soul 
 Until suspicion she but played a part. 
 Roused in my heart a conflict with her role 
 At seeing art monopolize the whole. 
 Soon said I then she is a sorceress, 
 Each day she draws me all against my will. 
 Deep in my heart I feel a sore distress. 
 Gone is my peace, a tribute to her skill 
 Which naught withstands. Wliatshe will do 
 I know not butjl hear her siren song [witli uie 
 Cull sweetly, softly o'er life's stormy sea. 
 
 Know'st not weak lieart she means thee dire- 
 ful wrougV 
 Content at last to ho a captive hound 
 On any lernis, so could 1 feel her power. 
 Like lialos tlien she slied her smiles around. 
 Led was 1 in her heart's ecstatic bower. 
 In raptured trance I tread life's stony ground 
 Now knowing, thro' her siren song, her art. 
 Shone but tlie woman in lier loving heart. 
 
 A LOVE DREAM. 
 I'm dreaming love of thee. 
 
 And of tiiy sunny face. 
 To me it hath more charm 
 
 Than thoughts of Heav'n's grace. 
 To win thy loving smile. 
 
 To slum thy enmity. 
 To bring tliee peace andjoy 
 
 I'd risk eternity. 
 
 I'm dreaming love of thee. 
 
 And of thy wondrous hand. 
 It smootlies life's rugged path 
 
 Like a magician's wand. 
 Its touch upon my brow 
 
 Drives care and pain aw;iy, 
 And turns life's darkest night 
 
 To bright and radiant day. 
 
 I'm dreaming love of thee. 
 
 And of thy snow-white breast, 
 A pillow soft and dear 
 
 WlK-reon I long to rest. 
 Ah, what a rest were there 
 
 Upon tiiy Venus' form. 
 Ah, ne'er found sailor yet 
 
 Such haven after storm. 
 I'm dreaming love of thee 
 
 And of thy fairy arm. 
 'Tis not as strong as mine. 
 
 And yet has done me harm. 
 For when 1 tliink of it 
 
 .\mbition flies away. 
 And all my aim lies liere. 
 
 To find it evry day 
 Around my throbbing neck, 
 
 .And feel the Heav'nly blis8 
 Thy lips alone can give 
 
 When pressed in passionate kiss. 
 Were ev'ry moment then 
 
 To pay an :ige of pain, 
 I'd gladly welcome all 
 
 And fly to thee again. 
 Where are the joys of wealth? 
 
 Where learning's lKi;isted charms'/ 
 Oh. give me but for once 
 
 .\ place in my love's arms. 
 Tlie thirsty passionate sigh. 
 
 The hot pulse beating fast; 
 Dear Cora, my heart's love. 
 
 Shall these be mine at last? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1042 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 GOD IS LOVE. 
 What art thou God? mj- soul enquires, 
 
 What is thy form? How looks thy face? 
 
 Art but an essence filling' space. 
 Before whose power all power retires? 
 Hast any form? Hast any face? 
 
 Thou'rt here, thou'rt there, thou'rt every- 
 where ; 
 
 Mine eyes are strained thy voice to hear, 
 Mine aching- eyes see not thy place. 
 My weak hands vainly search for thee, 
 
 I know thou art, I see thy works, 
 
 Which sliow behind some power lurks. 
 But whence, or how, I cannot see. 
 Can man when robed in this dull clay 
 
 Love that whicli merely essence is? 
 
 And has no form, no shape like his? 
 But yet he feels it day by day. 
 Can I be said to love a man 
 
 Who is not, tho' he was like me. 
 
 But now has gone to live with thee. 
 To live of life a larger plan ? 
 Oh, God, and do I love thee now? 
 
 Thou are so great, so far above; 
 
 Is this I feel within me love? 
 1 love not so aught here below. 
 I study perfect human forms. 
 
 But fancy none as like to thine; 
 
 Imagination draws no line 
 More like to thee than to the worms. 
 My mind surmounts this little world 
 
 And pierces thro' its circling dome; 
 
 To view thy features, find thy home, 
 I wander oft thro' vapors curled. 
 Exhausted soon my spirit falls. 
 
 And sinks once more to present care — 
 
 To duties here, how dear ones fare. 
 Which all my soul's attention calls. 
 And soon witliin, yet from above, 
 
 A gentle voice dispels my fear; 
 
 "No matter what my form, or where 
 I am, remember God is love." 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 When oft I used, before the crackling logs 
 Which burn so cheerly in my bach'lor's den, 
 To idly muse on what lay in the fogs 
 Of future years, on strife witli fate and men. 
 The flames would rear themselves to dreams 
 
 of pride, 
 And visions rise of honor, fame and books. 
 Of how I should sweep singly down life's 
 
 tide, [looks. 
 
 With high indiff'rence of the world's cold 
 But now how changed. My books neglected 
 
 lie; [thought; 
 
 Wealth, power, fame can charm no more my 
 Thy features, sweet, are painted on mj' eye. 
 
 Turn when I will thine image there Is caught. 
 The tongued flames, the pictures on the wall, 
 All look like thee, my joy, my all in all. 
 
 A TRIBUTE. 
 Think I of thee? Ay, that I do my friend. 
 As pines upon cloud-piercing Tahwa's brow 
 Think of the sunbeams, whence their life 
 
 doth flow. 
 As rosebuds wither'd by the heat wiU lend 
 Their thoughts to dewdrops, which their sad- 
 ness end. 
 And lift their heads in mirth and gladness 
 
 now. 
 As the full moon the seeds of thought will 
 sow [lend 
 
 In th' hearts of wand'rers whom it doth 
 Its silver rays to light their dang'rous way. 
 I think of thee, as clouds of night do think 
 Of day's full orb, which clothes their life 
 
 with gold— 
 
 As shipwrecked sailors of the rock weU. may. 
 
 When now secure, they trembling view the 
 
 brink [old. 
 
 Thmk I of thee? such thoughts as ne'er grow 
 
 HE WAS A MAN. 
 I call him a man who walks upon the brink 
 Of that dark precipice which doth divide 
 This life from death, where one step doth 
 
 decide 
 His triumph or liis fall; yet doth not shrink 
 Aghast in dizzy agony to think 
 What danger hides in that wild, surging tide 
 Of passion, sin and death, where none can 
 
 ride. 
 Where many in despair and mis'ry sink. 
 I call liim man, who ev'ry step doth take 
 With thought, secure in his God-given miglit; 
 Who knows liis peril and yet walks serene; 
 Who at the howls of anguish doth not quake; 
 Who knows his strength and knows liis path 
 
 is right, 
 And calmly gazes on the troubled scene. 
 Yea, tho' the gusty winds of passion blow. 
 He doth not totter at that reeling lieijrlit, 
 Nor mantle liis proud head in dcadlj- fright,' 
 Nordolli his way pursue one jot more slow. 
 Tho' soft temptation's clouds may glow. 
 He is not raiitured :it the glitt'ring sight. 
 Nor doth lie walk by their deceitful light. 
 When slaiid'rous tongues their venom wouli 
 
 bestow 
 He heeds them not for he is cased in steel; 
 False friendship and faLse love move not hi 
 
 soul, securi 
 
 Ho treads their loose and treach'rous groun 
 Oh, such a man to God and Heav'n's leal; 
 He hath his heart and hand in full control: 
 To friend, to self, e'en to liis God is pure, i 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 hm 
 
 MRS. EMMA ROOD TUTTLE. 
 
 Born: BkaceviLle. 0., 1839. 
 Eauly in life this lady contributed botli 
 prose and verso to tlie jicriodical press. In 
 1857 slie was married to Hudson Tuttle, a 
 profound and versatile author, jioet and lec- 
 turer. He took his young wife to live in his 
 native home In Berlin Heights, Ohio; where 
 
 *- 
 
 she still resides as wife and mother. Seven 
 years after their marriage, Mrs. Tuttle, Joint- 
 ly with her husband, published Blossoms of 
 Our Spring; and two years later Gazelle, a 
 story of the great rebellion, also in verse. 
 Mrs. Tuttle was chief editor of the Lyceum 
 Guide, a book for the use of progressive Sun- 
 day Schools. Many of the poems of this great 
 poet have been set to music and sung all over 
 the land, notably that of Claribel, The Un- 
 seen City, and My Lost Darling. In 1890 ap- 
 peared From Soul to Soul, a volume of over 
 two hundred pages of beautiful poems from 
 the pen of this lady. As an actress and dram- 
 atic reader Mrs. Tultle lias liad striking suc- 
 cess, especially in tragic i)arts, such as Lady 
 Audley's Secret and Macauley's Virginia. 
 Mrs. Emma Rood Tuttle is vers' sympathetic, 
 fond of animals, and in fact a prot-octor of 
 the weak, a friend of the friendless, and a 
 lover of all things living. 
 
 TAKK THK WOULD SWEETLY. 
 Years and years, tojjother, lovo, 
 
 Tlirough the wide world going, 
 Ilapiiy if the .season be 
 
 Blooming time or snowing. 
 
 We are not the ones to cry 
 " Dear old year, stay by usl " 
 
 For we know the soul of things, 
 LauMhing, would deny us. 
 
 And we know the end would be 
 
 Quite too many losses. 
 Killing all the vigorous wreaths 
 
 Garlanding life's crosses. 
 
 So we let the bright things go 
 
 As we do the cold ones. 
 Welcoming things fresh and new,— 
 
 They will soon be old ones. 
 
 What, if when we dreaming sat 
 
 'Mong the red spring roses. 
 We had said -This is enough 1 
 
 Day breaks and day closes. 
 
 "Tarry ! Not another year 
 
 Can be bright us this is," 
 And tlie diiy- had heeded us? — 
 
 We had forbade blisses. 
 
 God's creations throb and turn — 
 
 Know it and accept it; 
 Every heart must learn this truth. 
 
 As the years have kept it. 
 
 Disappointment, wild and wan. 
 
 Knows what pain is in it; 
 Grirf, in wreaths of sweet dead flowers. 
 
 Tells it every minute. 
 
 Yet 'tis best we take the world 
 
 Sweetly, as we find it ; 
 If it take us sweetly, well! 
 
 If not, we ought not mind it. 
 
 DELUSION: WHO SHALL DECLARE IT? 
 Well, maybe it is delusion 
 
 That tlic soul lives after death ; 
 But, if so, it is far the dearest 
 
 Which the tongue of mortal salth. 
 And, since so much of life's pleasure 
 
 Is wrought of iinreiil tilings, 
 I shall always hold to the riches 
 
 Which the -dear delusion" brings. 
 
 Delusions of earth ;iro mocking 
 
 Wherever we mortals go. 
 And finding so nuich uiin'al 
 
 Has cost me a deal of woe. 
 But the dream of life immortal 
 
 Will never bring mo pain: 
 For, when it is proven error, 
 
 I shall count not loss nor gain. 
 
1044 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 I shall never live to know it. 
 
 If my darlings are onlj- dust; 
 And all which the weakest and wisest 
 
 Can do is to hope and trust. 
 I may reason and doubt, but ever 
 
 They seem to speak from tlie sky; 
 Then, it seems but a cold delusion 
 
 To dream that a soul can die. 
 
 You may shower me with dust and ashes, 
 
 You may give me a wreath of rue, 
 You may dream you have truth and wisdom 
 
 And I am less brave than you ; 
 But, still, I shall never yield it 
 
 For a thing- you say or do ; 
 You cannot make it an error, 
 
 And I cannot make It true. 
 
 We all must wait and wonder 
 
 What the chang-c of death will bring-; 
 Your sketches arc skulls and cross-bones, 
 
 Which I to the winds would fling-. 
 And picture immortal faces 
 
 Brow-girt with asphodels, 
 And hands which are reaching earthward 
 
 Bunches of immortelles. 
 
 But neither your wise conclusions. 
 
 Nor mine, with their rainbow rings. 
 Can alter one jot or tittle 
 
 The eternal law of things! 
 Yet, ah, in the world that this is 
 
 1 1 were all too sad to stay, 
 I f we could not have our fancies 
 
 Of "The Ever-so-far-away." 
 
 BABY'S SERMON. 
 
 The full moon shines in the East to-night 
 Bound and bright as a plate of gold, 
 
 And a memory haunts me, pure and white. 
 Which I long to tell, yet I wish were told. 
 
 It is not long since a baby-girl 
 Made our liousehold supremely glad — 
 
 A heavenly light in a shrine of pearl, 
 Which God recalled, and our hearts are sad. 
 
 One night when the fair full moon came up 
 Out of darkness — a welcome boon — 
 
 I called, " If the baby has done her sup 
 Bring her out here to see the Moon ! " 
 
 Jumping and laughing, out she came, 
 In her mama's arms. for she could not walk. 
 
 And save she could utter her mother's name 
 And say, "Tee da! " she could neither talk. 
 
 From the edge of the porch she saw the moon. 
 We who loved her stood watcliing by; 
 
 She stretched her arms, with a .joyous croon. 
 To take it down from the evening sky 1 
 
 But failing, turned, and l>er eyes grew round. 
 Round and bright as the wonder seen. 
 
 " Tee da! " she^^cried, oh, the sweetest sound I 
 And I pointed up to the silver queen. 
 
 "Oo ! Oo I Tee da ! " Then we hugged her close, 
 Kissed and kissed her over again. 
 
 With what affection our Father knows. 
 Who measures loss and its nameless pain. 
 
 " Oo ! Oo ! Tee da ! " As we march along. 
 Faint with pain and the wounds we bear. 
 
 The baby's words are a silver song. 
 Which comes to us as an angel's prayer. 
 
 " Oo! Oo! Tee da! " To the whitest deeds 
 Which a faulty human hand can do. 
 
 Her voice calls stronger than laws and creeds 
 Heavenward ever, "Tee da! Oo! Oo! " 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 One beautiful day in springtime 
 
 A youth sought the ocean side. 
 And crossed, on an out-bound vessel, 
 
 The waters vast and wide. 
 The pleasant home of his childhood 
 
 He bade with a tear good-bye. 
 But said, as he kissed each weeper, 
 
 "I'll come again bye and bye! " 
 
 But when, after months of travel. 
 And longing to'see them all. 
 He came witli his store of knowledge. 
 
 Back to the dear old hall. 
 The inmates were sore affrighted. 
 
 And trembled about the place; 
 Remembering not his promise. 
 
 They shut the door in his face ! 
 
 One eve as a sweet June twilight 
 
 Was dying out of the West, 
 A pale-faced jirl on her pillow. 
 
 Lay, sinking to dreamless rest. 
 The angels wei'e waiting to bear her 
 
 To their mansions white and liigh. 
 But she said as she kissed her dear ones, 
 
 "I'll come again bye and bye! " 
 
 And when from her home in Heaven. 
 
 Longing to see them all. 
 She came with her deep affection 
 
 Back to the dear old hall ; 
 Her kindred were sore affrightoil. 
 
 And, pallid, fled back apace; 
 Remembering- not her promise. 
 
 They shut the door in her face! 
 
 You would censure the cruel parents 
 
 Who would not welcome a son. 
 For fear, when lu,- turned him liomeward 
 
 After his journey was done; 
 But you say no word of wi)nder 
 
 Wlien, with hearts as cold as stoi.es, 
 Thej' bar the doors of communion 
 
 To their dear immortal ones. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1046 
 
 T. H.C. MALONEY. 
 
 Born: Ikeland, June 16, 18511. 
 The subject of tliis sketch went lliroug-b tlie 
 Egyptian war of 1882, aad has served twelve 
 years in various battles and skirmishes un- 
 der Gen. Sir Garnet Wolseley, the great Brit- 
 ish commander. Ill 1888 he was corrrespon- 
 dent at Halifax. Nova Scotia, for the Gazette, 
 
 T. H. C. MALO.NEV. 
 
 Evening Mail, and Catholic Times while still 
 a soldier. In 188" Mr. Maloney was married 
 to Miss Theresa Anna O'Hara, and the fol- 
 lowing year located in Scranton, where he 
 was engaged on the Times. In 1889 Mr. Ma- 
 loney was engaged on the Catholic Herald, 
 and the following 3-ear lie assumed editorial 
 management of that paper, which changed 
 its name to the Diocesan Record. During his 
 twelve years of military service, Mr. Maloney 
 traversed the four continents of Europe, Asia, 
 Africa, and North and South America. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 The winsome maid begins to sing. 
 The snow has fled away: 
 
 St. Valentine i.s wandering 
 Through wood and field to-day : 
 
 Blue violets with fragrance faint 
 Welcome the footsteps of the Saint. 
 
 He may grow old, but never cold- 
 Such fate is yours and mine: [told, 
 
 Though troubles come, though years are 
 We'll hail St. Valentine. 
 
 That jirclate of the primrose weutlier 
 Who brings the boys and girls together. 
 
 While bright tho'ts fade, bright hopes grow 
 One thing your poet knows is, [vain 
 
 We shall be boys and girls again 
 In some metempsychosis. 
 
 I wonder where, O mistress mine! 
 We next shall meet Saint Valentine. 
 
 MOTHERLAND. 
 There is an island in the sea 
 
 'Tis Motherland, dear Motherland; 
 Land of the brave, though not yet free, 
 
 'Tis Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 And by our n)anh(X)d now we swear. 
 
 It shall not long its bondage wear. 
 For we are bound liie cords to tear. 
 
 From Motherland, dear Motlierland. 
 With hearts and hands in Erin's cause. 
 
 Motherland, dear Motherland, 
 We'll trample down the tyrant's law s 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 And then, a nation once again. 
 
 Shall be our manhood's proud refrain. 
 For we will wii»eopi)ression's strain 
 
 From Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 
 Shall the tyrant safely reign 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 On tbrt)nes built up of slaves and slain. 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland':' 
 No! once again our oath we plight 
 
 To watch and labor and unite. 
 Till banded be a nation's might 
 
 For Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 
 Oh I how our hearts do heat with joy, 
 
 Motherliind, dear Motlierland, 
 For one such day as Fontenoy 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 And grant, O Lord, that day may come 
 
 When crossing o'er the ocean foam. 
 Wo freedom bring to every home 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 We vow thy brilliant flag of green. 
 
 Motherland, dear Motherland, 
 Yet proudly floating shall be seen 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 And then a freeman bold and brave. 
 
 Shall scribe the lines on Emmet's grave. 
 Which were not to he writ by slave 
 
 In Motherland, dejir Motherland. 
 We here agiiin renew our vow. 
 
 Motherland, dear Motherland, 
 To be as firm and true as now 
 
 For Motherland, ilear Motherland. 
 The Harp of Tara is not dead. 
 
 Its " Soul of Music " yet 'twill shed. 
 We'll plant the green above the red 
 
 In Motherland, dear Motherland. 
 
*- 
 
 1046 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAI- AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM LEWIS MILLER. 
 
 Born: Decatur, III., Sept. 8, 1848. 
 In his youth the subject of this sketch de- 
 veloped quite a little musical talent, and for 
 a few years was exhibited as a child sing-er. 
 He wrote v(M-se fioin itii early ntxe, niiiny fif 
 
 WILLIAM LEWIS MILLER. 
 
 which have appeared in some of the leading 
 publications. Mr. Miller follows the occupa- 
 tion of a bricklayer and contractor, and re- 
 sides in Ukiah, California. 
 
 LITTLE SWEET-EYES. 
 Sweet eyes at the window peepicg. 
 
 Waiting her papa to come, 
 How th« pretty bright eyes gladden 
 
 As she gives her welcome home. 
 How she pulls my long, brown whiskers 
 
 With her dimpled, chubby hand. 
 Giving me the sweetest kisses 
 To be had in all the land. 
 Cho.— Little sweet-eyes at tlie window, 
 Laughing in the wildest glee. 
 Clapping hands so white and dainty, 
 As she smiles and waits for nie. 
 On the stair-steps, in the hallway 
 
 Patter oft the little feet; 
 Everywhere from roof to basement. 
 
 Sounds her little voice so sweet. 
 Sweet-eyes shine like gentle sunbeams 
 
 All the long and happy day. 
 Closing in the sweetest slumber 
 After slie is tired of play. 
 
 Ah, the little feet so busj'. 
 
 On the stairway — in the hall, 
 No more patter on the carpet — 
 
 No more now we hear them fall! 
 Tears steal from our eyelids often, 
 
 Sorrow ever shades the brow, 
 Gone the sound of gleeful laughter — 
 Baby is not with us now! 
 Cho.— Underneath the growing grasses. 
 Where the gentle daisies start. 
 Baby's sleeping long and sweetly - 
 Still, her little beating heart! 
 
 TO MY UNKNOWN. 
 
 Where should I seek thee, my unknown. 
 
 Thou ideal of my heart? 
 Amid the forests overgrown 
 
 Or in the busy mart? 
 Or yet beneath the fervid sun 
 
 Of Orient's amorous clime. 
 Or where mountain's torrents run 
 
 Amid the great sublime ! 
 Or does Aurora's cold, keen air 
 
 Plant roses on thy cheek? 
 Ah, is it here, or there or where 
 
 My loved one would I seek? 
 Perhaps in some sweet odorous glade, 
 
 Where flowers are wont to grow, 
 I'd find her wandering in the shade 
 
 Quite pensively and slow. 
 But ah, I know not where tbou art. 
 
 Whether on land or sea, 
 But somewhere there's a fond true heart, 
 
 That only beats for me. 
 None other's kiss can ever mean 
 
 The same to her,— my own, 
 I am her king, she is my queen 
 
 And true-love is our throne. 
 Sometime, in summer's golden hour. 
 
 My love will come to me; 
 I'll find her as a hidden flower. 
 
 Grown sweet and silently; 
 The music of my voice will thrill 
 
 Her with a wild delight; 
 The brightest day, without me, will 
 
 Be^to her, darkest night. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Now blooms the f i-agrant burst-bud — 
 And springing from tlieir tiny bed 
 Sweet-smiling, as a waking child. 
 We see the flowers we thougiit were dead. 
 The hidden gems of flower and bud 
 Arise again with beauty rife; 
 They raise their blnsliing- clieek to Spring. 
 And smile to think how sweet is life. 
 The pretty bird-notes of the wood 
 Play sweetly to the dancing flowers, 
 While tree and shrub nod to the tune — 
 Thus nature whiles the i>assing hours. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1()47 
 
 * 
 
 ANNA MAUDE HOXSIE. 
 
 Born: BurrALO. N.Y., July 30, 1869. 
 This l;ic]yis thedaug-liter of Aug'ustusCliap- 
 niaii lloxsie, an eminent physician of Buffa- 
 lo. She lias received a koo<^1 education at a 
 private school and friven special ailvantayos 
 in Italian, French and music. At the age of 
 
 ANNA MAUDE HIIXSIK. 
 
 fifteen she accompanied her mother— a 
 woman of higU musical talent and social po- 
 sition — to Europe, whence she was called 
 home by the death of her father. Subse- 
 quently Miss Hoxsie attended the best of 
 schools in lauguag-e and art. She again spent 
 the summer of 188" in Europe. The following 
 year Miss Hoxsie began given lectures with 
 stereopticon illustrations, and has met witli 
 flattering success. The poems of Miss Hoxsie 
 liave been a valuable acquisition to current 
 literature. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE SPHINX. 
 
 As 1 travelled over Egypt 
 
 To Nubia, up the Nile, 
 I noted the sad-faced peasants 
 
 Who seldom seemed to smile. 
 
 I saw not the swarthy Bedouin 
 
 On his dromedary tall. 
 Nor looked at tlie Turkish merchants. 
 
 With their wares and beckoning call. 
 
 I only saw the last remains 
 Of the old Egyptian race, 
 
 Who bear the shadow of the Sphinx 
 Stamped on each toil-worn face. 
 
 The legacy ancestors left 
 
 These peasants of today. 
 Was degradation's galling yoke. 
 
 Gained by desjKJtic sway. 
 
 The oppression of stern Pharaohs 
 Gave them that saddened mien. 
 
 While that faint, sad smile, so Sphinx-like, 
 Is now but rarely seen. 
 
 They have borne their unconscious burden 
 Since first the Sphinx was made. 
 
 For in that veil of mystic grief 
 Its features are arrayed. 
 
 They bear the sorrows of the pa.st 
 Since from Chaos came the world. 
 
 But the reason why they thus must grlevo 
 The gods have not unfurled. 
 
 Conquered by Persia. Greece and Rome. 
 
 By divers nations since, 
 With the same sad face they smile on fate. 
 
 Nor change, nor weep, nor wince. 
 
 I 111 ancient heart in new disguise! 
 
 Why all this weight of bitter woe? 
 Is't retribution from the skies? 
 Did gods see fit to have it so 
 When the world was young. 
 And bad deeds done. 
 The hand-mark of the great All-wise? 
 But a faint, small voice from thedesertcries: 
 .. 'Tis the Shadow of the Sphinx '. " 
 
 FOOLS SONG. 
 Its the lay of an insolent Fool: 
 
 Ha! Ha! 
 I dance in my jingling dress, 
 A dance the priests hardly bless — 
 Funtjistic, 
 S;ircastic. 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Its the lay of an insolent Fool; 
 
 Ha! Hal 
 I fill the largest cup — 
 The wine to the dregs I snp; 
 Daring. 
 Unsparing. 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Ne'ertheless Its the lay of a man; 
 
 .. Pooh : Pooh ! ' 
 Say ye. •• 'tis but the dog of a Jester, 
 'Tis his profession us to poster- 
 Sneering, 
 Leering. 
 
 Ho! Hoi- 
 
*- 
 
 1048 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE DEBUTANTE. 
 
 She is always full of life. 
 
 The charmiug- debutante; 
 There are few things that she won't do, 
 
 And nothing that she can't. 
 
 She can take In luncheon, tea. 
 
 Without the least dismay; 
 Then dance from ten till morning light, 
 
 And call it all child's play. 
 
 She can sleep till nearly noon; 
 
 Then clad in Redfern gown. 
 Her small dog by her side, 
 
 A-walking goes down town. 
 
 She hurries home to dress — 
 
 The day is but a whirl — 
 It is " button that, lace this," 
 
 And a pretty head to curl. 
 
 The night is full of conquests. 
 
 With many a heart to break; 
 The beauty spreads her silken skirts 
 
 And gives her curls a shake. 
 
 Does she ever think, I wonder. 
 
 Of life's mission here below? 
 Is her only aim in living 
 
 To be always on the go? 
 
 Stop and think, young debutante. 
 
 In a turn of Strauss's waltz. 
 What you might do for others; 
 
 And you might correct sopjie faults. 
 
 Stop and think of some poor mortal — 
 (You are warm with the dance's glow) 
 
 To wliom you might give comfort, 
 Wlio is shivering in the snow. 
 
 Take not my words in anger, 
 
 Oh blushing debutante; 
 You know they're fraught with truth, 
 
 Tliough you're prone to call it cant. 
 
 VOICES OF THE SEA. 
 
 I gently float 
 
 Tn my shell-like boat. 
 With its sail like a white dove's wing; 
 
 And as 1 glide 
 
 On the rippling tide, 
 T hear the wavelets sing. 
 
 Each wave is a maid 
 
 In foam arrayed. 
 Quick caught from the white-capp'd sea; 
 
 As they float along, 
 
 I hear the song 
 Of each wave singing to me. 
 
 "Come, use my eyes 
 
 To note the size 
 Of the wonders of the deep; 
 
 Come, close each eye, 
 
 And I will try 
 To sing tliy soul asleep. 
 
 Dost see yon ship 
 
 Sedately dip 
 With the billows' even sway? 
 
 With cargo rare. 
 
 And fabrics fair. 
 She comes from far away. 
 
 Laden with gold 
 
 In her massive hold. 
 With jewels and Indian spice. 
 
 With sailors dark. 
 
 She came, this barque, 
 From the land of sacrifice. 
 
 Another ship 
 
 Doth rise and dip 
 Within my vision's ken; 
 
 Its dark shrouds frown; 
 
 Tis laden down 
 With scores of boughten men. 
 
 Oh shame! Oh shame! 
 
 This slaver came 
 From Afric's ancient shore; 
 
 These dark-browed men 
 
 Shall ne'er again 
 See loved ones any more. 
 
 Come, dreaming one. 
 
 Come greet the sun. 
 And ope thy sleeping eyes; 
 
 Or thy little boac 
 
 May sink, and float 
 Far into Paradise." 
 
 I wake, I wake I 
 
 The oars I take. 
 And get me to the shore; 
 
 But the voices sweet 
 
 T fear will greet 
 My fond day dreams no more. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SIROCCO. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I am the wind of the desert, 
 
 I am the swain of the palm, 
 I am the fear of the Arab, 
 
 And startle his indolent calm. 
 I am the wind of the desert, 
 
 I hide in the billows of sand. 
 Till a mood bids me open my wide wingrs 
 
 And rusli through the terrified land. 
 
 I am the wind of the desert, 
 
 I am the scourge of tlic land; 
 Dost know tlie dread plain of far Libya, 
 
 With its leagues of liot arid sand? 
 Dost know tliat great Sahara, 
 
 Wliero no flowers or trees abound, 
 And never a pool or brooklet 
 
 To cool the sun-dried ground? 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 um 
 
 * 
 
 FREDRIC ALLISON TUPPLR. 
 
 Bokn: Holliston, Mass., Aug. 17, 1890. 
 This gentleman is a gr.-uluato of the Roxbiiry 
 Latiii School and at Harvard, and a member 
 of tlie Plii Beta Kappa Society. Since gradu- 
 ation he has taught school at Worcester one 
 year; vice-principal of tlie New Brunswick 
 
 IKKDERIC ALLISON TUPPEK. 
 
 Higli School of New Jersey for five years, 
 and is now Principal of Arms Academy, 
 Slielburne Falls, Mass., which position he 
 hiis filled since 1877. Mr. Tupper is the author 
 of a volume of poems entitled Echoes from 
 Dreamland, and his poems and slietches have 
 appeared in many of the leading publications 
 of America. He has also delivered many ad- 
 dresses on public occasions. Frederic Allison 
 Tupper was married to Miss Mary Isabel Van 
 Buskirk, with whom he now resides at Shel- 
 burne Falls, Mass. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 Good-night! and may Northampton skies 
 
 Their vigils o"er thee keep ! 
 Good-night I till morning splendors rise, 
 
 May naught disturb thy sleep. 
 Sweet sleep, dear heart, sweet sleep for thee. 
 
 While night broods o'er thy rest; 
 Sweet sleep thy leal attendant be. 
 
 To come at thy behest. 
 And pleasant dreams attend thee, dear. 
 
 If they be of me. 
 Of me be all thy visions clear, 
 
 As mine are still of thee. 
 
 CONTRAST. 
 An Avenue of dusky pines 
 
 Leads grimly to tlie castle door; 
 The moonbeams gild the .sculptured linos. 
 
 Mine eyes shall gaze upon no more. 
 
 The casements gleam withflasliingligiits 
 And music eclioes through the halls; 
 
 I mark the whirling dancers' liights, 
 While distance-softened laughter falls. 
 
 For them the battlemented hall. 
 For them the laugh. the dance, the light ; 
 
 For me wild ocean's ceaseless call, 
 For me the blackiu'ssof the night! 
 
 ONLY THREE WORDS. 
 
 Only three words, now, darling, my darling. 
 Surely three words I will now ask of thee; 
 
 Sweet words and tender, sweet words and 
 tender. 
 Dearest of all, those words would be to me. 
 
 Say but "I love thee," darling my darling. 
 
 Say but " I love thee," gently to me; 
 Sweetest of music, sweetest of music. 
 
 Dear words "I love thee, "whispered by thee. 
 
 THREE .«ONGS. 
 TO-DAY AND VESTEItD.VY. 
 
 The perfume of the orange-flowers 
 Steals through the church ttxlay, 
 
 The splendid walls re-echo loud 
 With sounds of music gay. 
 
 But yesterday a sorrowing one 
 
 Left here her only child, 
 Mid kindly weeping comforters, 
 
 Mid music sad and wild. 
 
 MOTUEll-Oi'-PE.\RL. 
 
 The sunbeams ever waken 
 
 To life thy paleness rare; 
 And changing colors all trembling 
 
 Dispel thy cold, dumb care. 
 
 O maiden, thy pale, pale beauty. 
 Could love but clieer thy gloom. 
 
 Would vie with the blushing loveliness 
 Of May-born apple-bloom! 
 
 FLOWEK AND KllflT. 
 
 A sea of fair white blossoms 
 Doth surge in the morning breeze, 
 
 And a song like old-time Mcmnon's, 
 Comes stealing through the trees. 
 
 Countless, in sooth, are the blossoms. 
 And sweet is the murnturotis song: 
 
 But the fruit, alas 1 will it meet our hopes? 
 Can that music echo long? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1050 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA , 
 
 BLONDE AND BRUNETTE. 
 The weeping darkness is inoanin;r. 
 
 And its tears fall 's'ainst the pane. 
 While the flickering flrehght iaugheth 
 
 At the sound of the driving rain. 
 
 Within a fair-haired maiden 
 
 Is playing an old refrain, 
 While fiercely without in the blackness 
 
 A dark face presseth the pane ! 
 
 THE MIST. 
 The silent mist comes stealing 
 
 Adown the gray old tower ; 
 The minster hells are pealing, - 
 
 It is the bridal hour ! 
 
 I looked upon the maiden. 
 And tears were in her eyes; 
 
 With mist her lids were laden. 
 With mist the gloomy skies. 
 
 A NEGLECTED GRAVE. 
 Tlie grass grows rank and the grass grows 
 high. 
 And the weeds grow too apace — apace — 
 Till a name on a stone is hid from the sky. 
 And a cold neglect seems to rule the place. 
 
 Why, even the stone bends lowly down. 
 Like one in grief to earth — to earth; 
 
 And closely the mosses g-reeu and brown 
 Cling to the dates of death and birth. 
 
 The hedge untrimmed and the grass uncut, 
 Tlie violets clicked once blue— so blue! 
 
 The path is gone, and the gate that shut 
 With an iron clank has vanished too. 
 
 But a red wild rose that no neglect 
 Or winter's storm could blight or kill,— 
 
 More kind than thou to recollect, 
 Thou son or daughter — blooms there still. 
 
 I tear the moss from the sacred name. 
 And hold the grass from the crumbling 
 stone. 
 
 What name is this? The very same 
 I love more fondly than my own. 
 
 Only a Avord was hidden there, 
 
 'Mid weeds and grass and clinging moss, 
 •'Mother" it was, of names most fair. 
 
 The loss of whom is the greatest loss. 
 
 I smoothed the grass on the sunken mound, 
 I pulled the weeds from the violets weak. 
 
 And as I passed from the burial-ground, 
 I felt the teardrops on my check. 
 
 *- 
 
 DISTANT MUSIC. 
 Distan music, distant music. 
 Oh, how sweet each cadence falls! 
 
 Bass and tenor, air and alto, 
 Blending, blending, spirit calls. 
 
 Distant music, distant music. 
 Oh, what recollections throng! 
 
 Sacrifice and trust and beautj'. 
 Blending, blending in love's song. 
 
 Eyes once bright no longer sparkle. 
 
 Merry lips are silent now. 
 Cheeks that flushed no longer brighten. 
 
 Broken, broken every vow. 
 
 Yet, in distant music's beauty. 
 In the drip of autumn rain. 
 
 In the winter evening's embers, 
 Lurketh, lurketh olden pain. 
 
 Roses, roses, red as rubies. 
 Lilies pale as snow I've seen; 
 
 Lilies of the past were fairest. 
 Fairer, fairer garden's queen. 
 
 Distant music, distant music. 
 Sweet, yet sad, each cadence falls. 
 
 And my heart must still keep beating 
 Answer, answer to love's calls. 
 
 ANEMONE. 
 Pale art thou, floweret fair! 
 ::ut when the wind, type of the soul. 
 Blows softly through the leafy vistas 
 Of the wood, yet ever lingering 
 At Uiy lowly bower, brings message sweet 
 Of everlasting love; then thy pale cheek 
 Takes on the soft pink flush,and ever deeper 
 Glows at thought of having blushed. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 A woman's word! 
 Most musical of all the sounds of heaven oi 
 
 earth. 
 To what sweet joy doth it give birth — 
 A woman's wordl 
 
 A woman's thought ! 
 The purest thing within the reach of mortaV 
 
 ken. 
 More delicate than that of men — 
 
 A woman's thought ! 
 
 A wom.an's deed! 
 The wondrous art of ceaseless goodness al 
 
 the while. 
 That asks no guerdon but a smile — 
 A woman's deed! 
 
 A woman's heart! 
 Oh, mystery of tenderness that ever wakes, 
 That loves and loves and loving breaks — 
 
 A woman's heart! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 lOol 
 
 * 
 
 P:DWIN ARTHUR WELTY. 
 
 Bohn: Canal Dovek. O., Dec. 5, 1853. 
 At the ago of eighteen Edwiu crossed the 
 plains and spent six months in the Kocky 
 mountains, and afterward engaged in tlio at- 
 tack and massacre of Major Thornburg's 
 command. Kcturning from Colorado and 
 
 IS 
 
 EUWIN AKTHUR WELTY. 
 
 New Mexico after some years of desultory 
 roving he settled into business life as broker 
 In St. Joseph, Mo., and filially in Oregon, Mo., 
 where he now resides. He has held several 
 political positions of trust, and was a candi- 
 date for state senator. Mr. Weltywas mar- 
 ried in 1878 to Miss Bessie M. O'Donnell, by 
 whom he has a daughter named Ethel. The 
 poems of Mr. Welty have apjieared in Lippin- 
 cott's, St. Louis Magazine, Aldine, Brooklyn 
 Magiizine, and other publications. 
 
 THE HOLLOW OAK. 
 Where the peaks of the Sierras 
 
 Melt into an endless blue. 
 And the San Juan's fierce current 
 
 Bursts upon the startled view; 
 
 Where the dashing mountain t(jrreats 
 Through the misty gorges gleam, 
 
 And the canon's surging waters 
 Join the river's swollen stream; 
 
 Where the tall and tapering pine-trees 
 Rear tlieir crests toward the skies. 
 
 And the snow upon the mountains 
 In its dazzling whiteness lies; 
 
 There, beneath the threatening shadow 
 Of a high, o'erhanging peak. 
 
 Stood a cabin, which a trapper 
 Built there, from some sudden freak. 
 
 It was made of heavy pine- logs. 
 
 From the forest cut away, 
 While the cracks and interstices 
 
 Had been chinked with yellow clay. 
 
 In one corner stood a fire-place; 
 
 O'er it, hooks for rifles hung; 
 While beneath a grimy camp-kettle 
 
 From its heavy liaudle swung. 
 
 On the hearth a glowing fire 
 Crackled with a merry sound. 
 
 Lighting up the sun-browned faces 
 Of the trappers grouped around. 
 
 They had gathered at the cabin. 
 As night's shadows darker grew; 
 
 For tlie i)lace had long been noted 
 As a hunters' rendezvous. 
 
 Some were burnishing their rifles. 
 Others filling pouch and horn. 
 
 Wishing to be up and ready 
 For an early start at morn. 
 
 Thus engaged they soon were telling 
 
 Stories of their earlier days. 
 Such as only have their being 
 
 In the wild frontiersmen's lays:— 
 
 Of the chaparral and the prairie; 
 
 Of some daring deed -well done- 
 How the panther bad been bunted. 
 
 Or some hard-fought battle won:- 
 
 Of the fierce and bloody savage. 
 And the still more bloody aid. 
 
 Which he found ujion the border 
 In the reckless renegade. 
 
 Each in turn had told some story 
 Of the forest and tlie cli.-ise — 
 
 All, save one, a gray old trapper. 
 Backward from the rest, apace. 
 
 Silence fell upon the circle; 
 
 All sat quiet— no one spoke: 
 Then the old man laid his pipe down. 
 
 And he thus the silence broke: 
 
 •• Near the town of the Miami, 
 With my brother — 1 was there. 
 
 When St. Clair's lll-fate<l legions 
 Fell Into the Mohawk's snare; 
 
 *- 
 
*— 
 
 1052 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 II When the war-whoop of the savage 
 Rang througliout the forest glade. 
 
 Blanching cheeks whose ruddy color 
 Had ne'er known a paler shade; 
 
 i< When from every tree and thicket 
 Dashed and poured a deadly rain. 
 
 And the keen and well-aimed hatchet 
 Pierced the warm and quivering brain; 
 
 •> Through the whole of that dread conflict 
 Fought we stoutly, side by side. 
 
 Till the grass around was watered 
 By a dark and crimson tide. 
 
 '. Fell our comrades fast around us, 
 And we saw 'twould be in vain 
 
 Up to urge our shattered columns 
 'Gainst their hidden foe agam. 
 
 " Fled we then with hurried footsteps, 
 Through the forest's leafy dale, 
 
 While a score of angry Shawriees 
 Followed on our fresh-made trail. 
 
 I. We were weary and exhausted 
 By the morning's bloody fight. 
 
 And we Iziiew that they were gaining 
 Fast upon uc in our flight. 
 
 " We had neared an old oak, stricken 
 By the lightning's ruthless blast. 
 
 And its leafless, withered branches 
 Round about the ground were cast. 
 
 • 
 
 ••Turned my brother to me quickly; 
 
 And he said: • Were it not best 
 That we part? For by so doing 
 
 Each may be less hotly pressed ! ' 
 
 •• I assented; and we parted. 
 
 Promising whate'er befell, 
 We would meet upon the morrow 
 
 At a spot both noted well. 
 
 .. Plunged I deeper in the forest. 
 With its many dangers fraught. 
 
 Till I'd baffled my pursuers, 
 When the rendezvous I sougiit. 
 
 •• Tliere I waited for my brother, 
 All that long and dreary day? 
 
 Trusting tliat he yet miglit join me, 
 If he had but missed his way. 
 
 •• But lie came not there to meet me, 
 And my fears In waiting grew; 
 
 So I thought, that to dispel them, 
 I would search the woodland througli. 
 * 
 
 "Then with quick and wary footsteps 
 
 Threaded I the lonely wood. 
 While the gaunt and hungry gray-wolf, 
 
 Wondering, on my pathwaj- stood. 
 
 "O'er Iient muskets, broken sword-hilts. 
 And the mangled heaps of slain. 
 
 Searched I long to find his body. 
 Or at least some clue to gain. 
 
 •' Days T hunted in the forest. 
 
 Some jioor trace of him to find; 
 But at last all hope had left me. 
 
 And I then my search resigned. 
 
 " Years had passed; and I was clearing 
 
 Off a narrow strip of wood ; 
 For I wished to place my cabin 
 
 Where the forest trees had stood. 
 
 • • One by one, the leafy giants 
 
 B<nved beneath my axe's stroke. 
 Till at length all lay before me. 
 Save a hollow shattered oak. 
 
 '• 'Twas the old oak I had noticed 
 On that wild night, years before, 
 
 When I, panting, fled the Shawnees 
 From Miami's field of gore. 
 
 ••Thoughtfully I gazed upon it; 
 
 Then my axe swung high and well. 
 Till it swayed awhile, and tottering. 
 
 At my very feet it fell. 
 
 • • \\hcn it fell, it burst asunder, 
 
 A tul exposed some bones to sight, 
 Wliile a ring, of curious settmg. 
 Flashed and sparkled in the light. 
 
 •■ 'Twas my brother's ring I saw there — 
 Then I knew his awful doom; 
 
 For he must have died of hunger 
 1 II that narrow, living tomb ! 
 
 • . He had doubtless entered, hoping 
 
 To elude the savage foe; 
 And was fastened, starving, dying. 
 In the gloomy depths below. 
 
 ••Gathered I the crumbling fragments, 
 Then a grave for them I made; 
 
 And beneath a spreading chestnut 
 My poor brother's bones I laid." 
 
 He had finished; and the teardrops 
 Stole o'er many a hardened face. 
 
 That, perhaps, since early childhood, 
 Ne'er had felt such tender grace. 
 
 1 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1058 
 
 MRS. ANNA M. ROGERS. 
 
 Bohn: Canada, 1847. 
 This poet of the Golden stato lias a volume 
 almost complete for publieatioii. Herpoems 
 have appeared in the Cliii-npo Current, Clil- 
 eajro Litprnry Life, and in the le.idinir jvipir^ 
 
 una. ANNA M. KOGEKS. 
 
 of California. After receiving her education 
 in private seminaries, this lady became a 
 teacher, and has taught French in the public 
 schools of San Francisco, where she resides. 
 In 1874 slie was married to Henry O. Rogers, 
 Supl. P. R. V. R. R., and lias a son and a 
 daughter living. 
 
 *- 
 
 CHESTNUTS. 
 The chestnuts brown are falling down 
 
 Where long, rich grass is deeply green ; 
 The light is clear, the sky seems near 
 
 Where far-off purple hills are seen; 
 Wild hedge-flowers make shady bowers, 
 
 Shading the warm sun's amber light; 
 A fleecy veil, transparent pale. 
 
 Melts away in the blue so bright. 
 The ivy's shade is softly laid 
 
 On the old wall where lichens grow, 
 Where soaring swallows' nests are made 
 
 In cliestnut branches bending low 
 Dreaming I lie beneath the sky, 
 
 Listening to the linnet's tune. 
 While soft, white clouds above me fly, 
 
 And bees on thistles softly croon. 
 Like Robin Hood, in leafy wood, 
 
 I am sole monarch here to-day. 
 
 For Nature's subjects kind and good. 
 No liarsh, rebellious sounds display. 
 
 My monarch's crown, the chestnuts brown, 
 That lightly fall upon my head, 
 
 The dewdrops here, on roses near, 
 Are all the tears my subjects shed. 
 
 A JACQUEMINOT ROSE. 
 It fell from lace at her throat at night. 
 
 Deepest crimson on spotless snow, 
 The virgin snow of her neck so white. 
 
 As she swayed to the music's flow. 
 One look in her eyes, the dance wjis done. 
 
 Dark, sweet eyes of a melting brown — 
 Under their light, as under the sun. 
 
 My own fell dazzled, drooping down. 
 The shimmering satin rose and fell, 
 
 Like a bird fluttering gladly. 
 Her heart like mine could a story tell 
 
 As tlie music died out sadly. 
 Dare I lei' her now, thus risking all, 
 
 liut not this my Jacqueminot rose? 
 I know that slie has not seen it fall. 
 
 You and my heart the secret knows. 
 And I wonder if in coming days 
 
 Orange blossoms will take your place. 
 Then a bridal wreath, no crimson blaze. 
 
 Only buds near her perfect face. 
 
 A DAY DREAM BY THE REEDS. 
 The tall reeds were swaying in tlie breeze. 
 With a .sedgy murmur througli them; 
 Like a Dryad's song 'mid forest trees. 
 And like Pan once more I blew them. 
 I listened, and methought I heard 
 A faint sound like low words spoken. 
 With beating heart, and quick pulse stirred, 
 I knew 'twas wonderland's sure token. 
 When through the reeds, as in old Greek days. 
 Fell a cadence dreamj-, tender. 
 Such music as intoned the plays 
 Of JEschylus in his splendor. 
 Perhaps 'twas a bittern's ghostly wall, 
 Or the sound of the sobbing sea; 
 That brought Diana, clear and pale 
 Sighing between the reeds and nic. 
 I saw Endymion sleeping there. 
 His face lialf-hidden by the n'eds; 
 And Venus rising roseate fair. 
 Smiling out from old Neptune's weeds. 
 With startled eyes she looked annind. 
 Hearing nineteenth century noises; 
 And seeing a stranger on Attic ground. 
 For instant flight her spirit poises. 
 Then came a faint jubilate hymn 
 From Saint John, on dreary Patmos, 
 .\nd a living crown not faint nor dim. 
 Far outshone the dream of Latmos. 
 
*- 
 
 1054 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 A LEGEND OF SANTA BARBARA. 
 
 A brown old Spaniard, wrinkled and gray, 
 
 Rested lightly on his dripping oar; 
 Whilst the sea gulls were drifting away 
 
 From the Maiiyanita shaded shore. 
 He told me a tale of long ago 
 
 In his own melodious tongue 
 As our boat was swaying to and fro 
 
 Near branches where wild linnets sung. 
 
 Then the ripples, lapping on the reeds. 
 
 Were beating measures, like tuneful 
 rhyme, 
 The water-lilies through waving weeds 
 
 Nodded response in the evening time. 
 Then he deftly rolled his cigarite 
 
 And began in accents low and clear. 
 Faint smoke-wreaths rising, the sky to 
 meet. 
 
 From an old adobe-dwelling near. 
 
 Tt is more than eighty years ago, 
 
 A Russian ship in this water lay, 
 She had come from shores of ice and snow. 
 
 To this land which seemed forever May. 
 Bulwark and rigging needed repair. 
 
 Ere homeward they could sail away. 
 To their sea-wearied eyes the scene was fair. 
 
 From banks flower-starred in rich display. 
 
 Three months and more the ship lay at ease, 
 
 To some full swiftly the time had fled: 
 But now they are ready for the seas, 
 
 Their vessel to new-born beauty wed. 
 But there is one, who with sinking heart 
 
 Hears the command to sail next day; 
 'Tis young Basiloff who fears to part 
 
 With Donna Maria, coquettish and gay. 
 
 Bugler! blow your clearest, loudest blast ! 
 
 See, yonder sinks the setting sun; 
 Strange ! that Basiloff should be the last, 
 
 To delay us when our work is done. 
 Angrily spake the captain, glass in hand. 
 As he narrowly scanned the shore: 
 
 But no answer came to the bugler's com- 
 mand- 
 Only a faint echo as before. 
 
 A day they waited, he never came, 
 The young lieutenant was missing still, 
 
 And the sun sank in a yellow flame 
 Behind the oak-crowned purple hill. 
 
 Then slowly the strong ship sailed away, 
 With her flag aloft in full display, 
 
 Sailing on toward tlie rising sun. 
 Firing toward shore her farewell gun. 
 
 Through the Manyanita's leafy screen 
 Young Basiloff peered with burning eyes 
 
 As dimly her pennon's silky sheen 
 Faded slowly out 'twixt sea and skies. 
 
 For .a woman's love he had left behind. 
 Fortune and kindred, home and friends, 
 
 Soft dark eyes glancing had made him blind. 
 They had compassed their baleful ends. 
 
 Senora Maria's witching eyes. 
 
 Shaded bj- long lashes darkly brown. 
 Were lustrous and deep as twilight skies, 
 
 With soft, limpid glances drooping down. 
 But her heart was false and light as foam. 
 
 Restless as the sea sand shifting there. 
 Luring him on from his friends and home. 
 
 Skillfully laying her woman's snare. 
 
 The hour soon came when her glance grew 
 cold, 
 
 And weariness crept into her face. 
 When he saw her love he could not hold. 
 
 Then he haunted this lonely place. 
 He awaited not the ship's return; 
 
 But grew weary of this placid sea. 
 Ah ! how his despairing heart did burn 
 
 With sharp, poignant throes of misery. 
 
 One eve he lay lifeless on the sand, 
 
 With a haggard face turned out to sea, 
 Dying with the pistol in his hand. 
 
 Just beyond that sand-dune on our lea. 
 The good Padre dare not bless the place. 
 
 Where a suicide was laid away; ' 
 
 But his tears fell on the dead man's face, 
 
 Pitiful kindness gaining the day- 
 Mad re de Dios, Ah! intercede, — 
 
 Prayed the Padre in broken tones. 
 Cast not away a broken reed; 
 
 Pity this poor sinner's soul, he moans. 
 He who judges the quick and the dead ' 
 
 Surely heard the good Padre's prayer, 
 A faint, bright light seemed 'round his head, 
 
 As he knelt by the sea sand there. 
 
 Yonder his gravestone, 'tis old and gray, 
 
 Where the Manyanita thickly grows. 
 Birds croon above it at close of day; 
 
 The sea chants an anthem ;is it flows; 
 The convent bells rang peacefully clear 
 
 As the old Spaniard finished his tale; 
 The past and present seemed .so near. 
 
 As we dx'ifted out in the twilight pale. 
 
 I shivered, for the breeze seemed cold. 
 
 Where the drooping branches lightlj 
 stirred 
 Of an alder tree, in outline bold. 
 
 Seeming to conceal scmie hoarse night 
 bird. 
 And a dark ship sailing far away 
 
 Blended in with the evening mist. 
 As we dipped our oars at evening gray, 
 
 Night and darkness the waters kissed. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOKTS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 lO'y) 
 
 MRS. BELLE B. BARRY. 
 
 This lady was written some very flne poems, 
 nnry of wliioli liave rpccivort pnVilioatioii in 
 
 MRS. BELLE B. BAUIiY. 
 
 the periodical press. She is tlie wife of Isaac 
 E. Harry, a well-kuown business man of 
 Knoxville, Tenn. 
 
 THE TWO CHIMNEYS. 
 Like dear old sentinels towering- there. 
 To guard the spot where home liath been. 
 My childliood'sliome — where once were seen 
 Sweet forms of loved ones lingering near. 
 Our lives from ill to screen I 
 
 O, let me view thee as thou art, 
 Grand and most nobly strong. 
 Dear remnant cherished, of mj' home so long , 
 While holiest awe doth flU my hoarti 
 Once glad in childlike song! 
 
 I seem to see thee as the soul 
 Of house much loved, where once I dwelt; 
 Imperishing! Thou it was ne'er felt— 
 The sc'i)rehing breath of Fire's control— 
 Nor to liis bidding knelt! 
 
 O, guard thee well that precious spot, 
 Familiar once to pattering feet 
 Of mine who there did meet 
 Kind parents dear; now one is not — 
 May we in Heaven greet him I 
 
 Though winds may come and bear away 
 The ashes 'round thee cast. 
 
 Oh, may eacli breeze l)ut be the blast 
 To strengthen thee and make thee stay 
 So long as Time shall hist ! 
 
 Ves, upward iioint thee, as of yore. 
 Did jiarents once who dwelt below. 
 Unto our youtiif ul lives bestow 
 fJright star of llui)e forevermore, 
 IJidding us ui)ward go! 
 
 Though hours and days and weeks have 
 
 passed. 
 And months now many years have made. 
 Since I, with sisters, 'neatli thee played — 
 Yet love of mine for thee doth last. 
 
 By thee was ne'er betrayed! 
 
 While memory sweet doth lend a charm 
 To fairest scene — this far-olT day, 
 I see us cross o'er graveled way, 
 Hipe berries red to pluck from farm. 
 In sweetest month of May ! 
 
 (,)uite safe, hearts young did joyous feel. 
 With towering Monitors in view, 
 Us home to guide, when evening drew 
 Its curtains 'round, night to revesil. 
 Bedecked witli glittering dew! 
 
 And thou sweet honeysuckle wild. 
 And ferns designed by Maker's iiower. 
 Which I have plucked hour after hour — 
 Feeling myself kind Nature's cliild. 
 In love with field and Mower! 
 
 Oh, could you speak you'd tell a tale 
 Of sisters happy, blithe and gay. 
 Who over hills of moss did stray, 
 Home chimneys i)eering o'er the vale. 
 Us guarding on our way ! 
 
 And rippling streams whose waters flow 
 Long meadows through, o'er rocks and moss. 
 Meandering near and far across 
 The cresses green as on j'on go — 
 Oh, hear me iis you pass! 
 
 Could you in rhythmic voice but tell. 
 Of Summers past and twilight dear, 
 Methinks my spirit would draw near 
 To list the story loved so well. 
 Of Cliildhood sweet to liear! 
 
 Ye oaken trees, wliose branches wide 
 Oft me did screen from suti's warm rays. 
 In Summer's long and dreamy days. 
 Oh, could ye now a speech provide — 
 Would joy my soul always! 
 
 In trutliful whisperings would you say 
 That dear was life in home rich blest. 
 With father, mother, sisters. Ix'st. 
 Would such a home might hust alway, 
 Atid cliimneys — like defy decay ! 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1056 
 
 LOCAT- AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 Oh! dearest one and best whose fond love 
 
 taught 
 My tottering feet to walk at thy dear side, 
 And all my thoughts, in embryo did guide 
 To childish utterance, and whose ceaseless 
 
 thought 
 Was ever with my highest welfare fraught— 
 Who for my good had suffered, yea had died. 
 As martyr burnt at stalie or crucified — 
 Oh! talie this tribute my heart's love hath 
 
 brought. 
 Know, dearest one, the love to thee I owe, 
 All bankrupt though I am. 1 do repay 
 With u devotion deathless as my soul; 
 For thy dear sake all ills would undergo. 
 All perils brave; and foes, though they might 
 
 slay. 
 Could not my deathless love for thee control 1 
 
 TO MT LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 Bright angel, dropped from Heaven's ex- 
 alted sphere 
 Earthward to dwell with us a while below, 
 Like sun-gleam when it comes with glorious 
 
 glow. 
 Lighting dim earth, comes now thy smile to 
 
 cheer 
 And gladden loving hearts ! O, may each year 
 Revolving, bring thee all life can bestow [so 
 On mortals here — hclth, wealth and beauty 
 Supreme that not one rival shall appear! 
 All that on history's page hath been of old 
 Bestowed, of bliss on women of renown — 
 All good (their woes and evils all unknown), 
 'Round thee by God's all-loving hand con- 
 trolled. 
 Rest like a heavenly halo without frown 
 Your sky beclouding — earth and lieaven 
 your own! 
 
 GOLDEN WEDDING DAV. 
 
 TO MR. AND MBS. E. N. PARHAM. 
 
 The heavens themselves were shedding joy- 
 ous tears 
 At contemplating bliss for fifty years 
 Of happiest mortals twain, whose Autumn 
 
 golden 
 Has crowned with bliss each glorious yearn- 
 ing olden. 
 O, spring of love, O, summer-time of joys— 
 O, autumn raptures age not yet destroys — 
 Vain here your potent oftentime endeavor 
 BUss from the pure, the true, the good to 
 
 sever. 
 These lives no longer sparkle in the sun, 
 As streamlets dashing down the hillside run ; 
 Youth's gay exuberance gradually hath sub- 
 sided — [glided ! 
 The rill twixt mightier shores at last hath 
 * ^ 
 
 Upon the shores no springtime flowerets 
 
 bloom. 
 But day's resplendent evening doth illume, 
 Calm, broad, deep-flowing current on wliose 
 
 glowing 
 Are seen two freiglited lives to glory going! 
 
 O, let us watch them, as they grandly sweep 
 On, onward toward the everlasting deep. 
 Toward which our youthful crafts on earth 
 
 are tending 
 Unto the spacious shore of life unending! 
 Theirs, grand exemplars I Not one channel 
 
 missed ! 
 No fatal shoals encountered in a mist; 
 No fierce tornado ol excess destroying. 
 Or life's most pure and noble instincts cloy- 
 ing. 
 The happy mean, the temperance in all things 
 Preached by the Apostle of the king of kings; 
 The fear and love of God — hke .^gis guard- 
 ing. 
 Two lives in one — see now this eve's re- 
 warding! 
 Lo, these the happy offspring — children lov- 
 ing, [proving 
 And children's children, each one nobly 
 The force of good exemplars heredispliiying 
 Lives with just pride these hearts most nobly 
 
 swaying! 
 Thank God that good hath sometime such 
 reward [scarred, 
 
 On this sad world, where sore and battle- 
 The just and upright ofttimes flglit in vain. 
 Not joys of earth, but bliss of heaven to gain! 
 And now we part! Alas such other meeting 
 Shall no more come in this existence fleeting! 
 But on the shore where parting is not known, 
 O, let us meet in bliss around God's throne! 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 O, fair Mnemosyne, who smilest kindly 
 On that sweet past by me so fondly cherished! 
 Should vision natural be, like Milton's, per- 
 ished. 
 Methinks mine inner eyes, like his benignly 
 Could revel in tlie glorious, and not blindly 
 Grope in despair. O, by thee goddess, nour- 
 ished, ['sl'ed. 
 Unto that power whereby old Homer flour- 
 My soul in thought's grand realm should 
 
 feast divinely 
 Sweet goddess of delights so often tried — 
 Dear confidant so trusty and consoling — 
 Oft to my lonely, sad and aching heart 
 Thou comest in robes celestial by my side — 
 Thou breathest tones like far-off antliems 
 
 rolling. 
 Transmuting woe to bliss with magic art! 
 "i 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1057 
 
 -* 
 
 MILO JENKINS HARRIS. 
 
 Born: Edinburgh, Ind., May 23, 1862. 
 Mk. Harris is editor of the Nonpareil, a 
 monthly paper published at Camclen. Ohio, 
 where he resides. Many of his poems have 
 
 
 MILD JJkNKUSS HARRIS. 
 
 appeared in the periodical press, under the 
 noin de plume of Jenkins. Mr. Harris has 
 also written many prose articles and stories, 
 which have been well received. He was mar- 
 ried in 1886 to Miss Ida S. Bunnell, but is now 
 a widower, with one daug'hter. 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 On a Idte outgoing train 
 
 Sat the twain. 
 Right directly opposite me, 
 
 (Do you seeV^ 
 And I knew them newly wed; 
 For she yawned once, and he said, 
 "On my shoulder lay your head.' 
 
 It was red. 
 It was red, as I have told — 
 
 Red and gold ; 
 And I looked for a white horse. 
 
 But, of course, 
 I could find none in the night 
 Dark as Egypt. (Black or white 
 Would have looked the same, I might 
 
 As well write.) 
 But I gazed out in the dark, 
 
 (Do you hark?) 
 Looking for that snow-white horse 
 
 And saw worse ! 
 Plainly saw reflected there. 
 In my pane, this spoony pair. 
 
 'T would have made me turn and stare. 
 Did I dare. 
 
 But I saw they saw me not ; 
 
 Had forgot 
 That tliey were aboard a train. 
 
 And in plaiii 
 View of something like a score 
 Pair of eyes (should those before 
 Turn to " view the landscape o'er "\, 
 
 Maj'be more. 
 So I let them sweetly be. 
 
 Don't you see? 
 And I gazed out in the night 
 
 (Which was right): 
 Gazed with an encliain-ed stare; 
 Saw him fondle her red hair. 
 Saw she didn't seem to care. 
 
 Happy pair! 
 Saw him lift her dimpled chin 
 
 (With a grill); 
 Saw hira give a lingering kissi . 
 
 And such bliss 
 Emanated, that the swain 
 Did it o'er, and o'er again — 
 Tbougli it ever seemed in vain. 
 
 In my pane. 
 
 Tlieii she put her little hand, 
 
 Lily band. 
 Up and 'cross his shoulder broad 
 
 (On my word^: 
 And she whispered, " I love you. 
 Oh! So dearly! Love me too?" 
 Another kiss— •• You bet I do! " 
 
 (Honest, true!) 
 
 Then the kisses came again — 
 
 Sweet refrain ; 
 Just as they had come before. 
 
 O'er and o'er; 
 And they sang tlie sixteenth verse 
 (1 will wager you my purse). 
 With the chorus each time worsel 
 
 Worse and worse ! 
 And I wrote ty\z !'.ttle song 
 
 Cominc: 'long: 
 • • Happy hcr.rts of happy pair. 
 
 Free Tro: I c:'.re! 
 Let the \;orld 'jiit let you spoon 
 While you : lay; for all too soon. 
 Morning oT your honeymoon 
 
 Will be noon. 
 ••Then will quickly come Its nigbt; 
 
 And the fight 
 Of real life wi". be begun — 
 
 Spooning clone. 
 You may love each other still; 
 .\nd I truly hope you will — 
 You will need to: for life's liill 
 
 Tries the skill. " 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1058 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 METTA HORTON. 
 
 Born: Southold, N.Y., 1851. 
 This lady attended the Southold Academy, 
 was a graduate of the New England Con- 
 servatory, and has been a music teacher in 
 tlio Seminnry. Her poems have appeared in 
 
 METTA HORTON. 
 
 the Long Island Traveler, and the Boston 
 Musical Herald, and several of her songs 
 have been set to music. She is a thorough 
 musician and a teacher of the pipe organ, 
 musical composition, liarmony and the piano. 
 
 THE THEATRE. 
 I've been to the theatre for the first time, 
 'Tis rather a wonderful show; 
 And liere in Boston lollss *em to believe 
 That it's quite tlie tiling to go. 
 I had always supposed it rather a place 
 Which students at college would seek 
 Surreptitiously often at evening. Instead 
 Of studying Latin or Greek. 
 Or that only the gayest of votaries, they 
 In fashion's swift clianges wJiirled, 
 Whose only aim in life it would seem 
 Is to be amused in the world. 
 Were such as frequented the dramatic play; 
 But I'm told now-a-days 'tis n't so,— 
 That people arc growing "progressive " and 
 
 Inroad, 
 .\nd " need the artistic " you know. 
 
 And men of position and influence too. 
 
 Now boldly proclaim it is right, 
 
 Wagner's theatre at Beireuth to attend 
 
 Even on Sunday night. 
 
 The papers are filled these cold wintry days. 
 
 Concerning "A Winter's Tale," 
 
 Ana people are saying " you surely must 
 
 hear 
 Mary Anderson without fail." 
 " She is perfectly grand, a model of grace 
 And beauty, and 'tis well understood 
 Slie entered the stage to work a reform 
 And make its influence good." 
 I was asked to attend with a most honored 
 
 friend. 
 And did n't know ,iust what to do. 
 For he always did what seemed to be right, 
 And was brought up orthodox too. 
 So I yielded my points and decided to go, 
 It was rather a curious sight; 
 And I some moral lesson would draw 
 From what I witnessed that night. 
 The kings looked dignified, stately and grand. 
 The men pictured beauty and grace; 
 The "attendants" were all beamingly 
 
 dressed. 
 And the little prince had a sweet face. 
 Each shepherdess danced with simplicity's 
 
 ease, 
 And modest their costumes you'd call, 
 But the shepherd's apparel was really so 
 
 scant 
 'Twould hardly bear mention at all. 
 Perhaps it was purely historical art, 
 I felt that I must n't inquire; 
 Or the manager for the queen's costly array 
 Accounts balanced with the male attire. 
 The wooing was most artistically done. 
 Perhaps 'tis better that waj- ; 
 But I guess that most discover a plan 
 Satisfactory, anj'way. 
 The music was wretched, the soloist flat, 
 And instruments out of tune. 
 And when it was over the audience felt 
 That 'twas ended none too soon. 
 I do not believe the influence good 
 On the .actor nor those who attend; [out, 
 That subjects in public be boldly brought 
 We would hardly discuss with a friend. 
 I cannot see why it is proper and right 
 To appear on the stage in array, [blush 
 
 That would cause embarrassment and :i 
 In a i)arlor, dressed that way. 
 But people must be entertained and amused, 
 And fashion we must not resist, 
 And morals and decency must give way. 
 Or the theatre can't exist. 
 
 *- 
 
* — ^ 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 lUo9 
 
 CLARENCE T.STEELE. 
 
 Born: Brooklyn, N.Y. 
 This g-entlcnian is rapidly coming' to the 
 front as a composer, and is already well- 
 known in the east as a tenor siuger and 
 musical director. He is also a teacher of 
 Toeal music and sijrlit reading- in the public 
 
 CLARENCE T. STEELE. 
 
 schot)ls of New York City. Mr. Steele is 
 director of the Zethus Male Quartette, %vliich 
 he orgranized in 1886. As an author and i>oct 
 he has been very successful. Many of liis 
 poems have been set to music; and he has 
 contributed a series of Norwegian stories to 
 the Christian at Work. 
 
 THE LOST SONG. 
 
 At noontide, 'neath the elm tree shade 
 I sat, and all art)und was still. 
 Save when tlie breeze from o'er the hill 
 
 Among' the leafy tree-toi>s played. 
 
 Anon the chirping of some bird 
 Or distant cow-bell, or the hum 
 Of busy bee perchance, would come 
 
 Across the fields; naught else was heard, 
 
 Till all at once a little song- 
 Across the quiet scene was borne. 
 As clear as lark at early morn ; 
 
 It seemed to Hoat the clouds among. 
 
 'Twas some fair singer, and her lay 
 So mingled with the sounds of noon. 
 It seemed that nature did attune 
 
 Them all to suit the melody. 
 
 I was as one beneath a si)ell. 
 All Nature seemed so woud'rous sweet. 
 And everything seemed so complete, 
 
 I longed forever there to dwell. 
 
 Anon the breeze its course would sliift. 
 The song, 'twould seem, ha<l passed away. 
 Until, again toward me 'twould stray, 
 
 And in my ears the song would drift. 
 
 And so I sat in sweet content. 
 Until the little song had ceased. 
 And then my loneliness increased. 
 
 For with the song my rapture went. 
 
 The noonday sounds less soothing fell. 
 Upon the ears they'd held enthralled. 
 Until from heaven, it seemed, was called 
 
 The voice, on earth so short to dwell. 
 
 The leaves, whose rustling in the breeze 
 Had erstwhile charmed nie, charmed no 
 'Twas but a rustling, when before [more, 
 
 A thousand voices filled the trees. 
 
 And so I lonely sat ; in vain 
 I waited, patiently and long. 
 But still the charming little song 
 
 Fell not upon my ears again. 
 
 TO AN OLD VIOLIN. 
 Thou friend whose weird sweet tones so oft 
 
 Have calmed my restless mood. 
 Whose sympathetic voice, and soft. 
 
 Hath waked in me all good 
 And i)eacefiil thoughts, whene'er downcast. 
 
 When angry or alone 
 And melancholy held me fast. 
 
 And '.claimed me for her own." 
 
 I love thee, and thou speak'st to me 
 
 In words distinct and clear. 
 My thoughts finds iztterauce through thee. 
 
 Thou frienii I ln)ld so dear. 
 As oft at hour of toil's surcease, 
 
 I press thee to my l)re!ist. 
 And sit me down in perfect peace, 
 
 When all mankind's at rest. 
 
 Aye, though not fair to outward sight, 
 
 liut rough, and crackt-d and stainetl. 
 Still, thou'rt to me agreat delight, 
 
 Wlio knowest that, coniained 
 Within thy homely frame tliere lies 
 
 A voice, that can impart 
 Unto the ear the joys and sighs 
 
 That sj)ring up in the licart. 
 I'll ever cherish thee, sweet friend. 
 
 Who ne'er can'st i>rove untrue. 
 Hut who wilt comfort to the end, 
 
 Whate'er mankind may do. 
 And oft, when weary, sad or lone, 
 
 I'll take thee from thy case. 
 And soon, perforce, all sadness flown, 
 
 I'll have a smiling face. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1060 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. M. A. B. MARTIN. 
 
 The poetical productions of Mrs. Martin 
 have received extensive publication in the 
 press, and many of them have been written 
 for special occasions and read before the W. 
 
 MRS. M. A. B. MARTIN. 
 
 R. C. and G. A. R. societies of Grand Island 
 and other cities. Mrs. Martin was an alter- 
 nate lady manager from Nebraska of the 
 Women's Commission for the World's Fair. 
 
 THE OLD SALOON. 
 The poor boy started for the old saloon — 
 It was his nightly task 
 To go to the keeper at the bar 
 And for his father ask. 
 His mother was very sick at home; 
 His little sister, too, 
 Had cried for bread that very night 
 And begged dear brother to 
 Just go once more to the old saloon 
 And bring poor father home: 
 Mamma is dying, and his poor little girl 
 Will soon be left alone. 
 Poor papa was once so good and kind 
 Till the saloons were started here, 
 But now he spends all his eanungs 
 To buy vile whisky and beer. 
 And every night when his day's work's d6nc 
 He stops at the old saloon, 
 Forgetting the promise he makes each morn : 
 .. To-night I'll come home soon." 
 Won't the temperance folks help papa 
 To keep his promise to me ? 
 Won't they kindly invite him to go to church? 
 Where it's so pleasant atid nice to be. 
 
 Won't they gently take him by the liand 
 
 And tell him of better things — 
 
 How the christian's heart rejoices 
 
 When his cause to Christ he brings? 
 
 Won"t the temperance men, dear brother, 
 
 Go to the saloon with you 
 
 And bring poor papa home oncQ more 
 
 And tell him to be true ? 
 
 To the children God has given. 
 
 To dying mama dear. 
 
 To be no more a drunkard. 
 
 And God's commands to fear. 
 
 Will you be a drunkard, brother ? 
 
 When to manhood you have grown ? 
 
 Poor papa was once as pure as you. 
 
 Now he leaves us all alone, 
 
 .And seeks companionship with men 
 
 Over tlie whisky bowl. 
 
 Neglects his home and children, 
 
 Neglects his precious soul. 
 
 Poor mama is dying, brother. 
 
 And we are starving too; 
 
 Go just once more and bring him homo 
 
 And God will keep him true. 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 Oh! desolate heart, thy throbbing can never 
 Bring back the true love that is gone from 
 
 it now; [but sever. 
 
 Though despondent, forsaken you cannot 
 Why repine at thy lot? to thy fate meekly 
 
 bow, [another, 
 
 When every kind thought thou hast given 
 Brings back to thy heart echoes empty as air. 
 Though thy truest heart-throbs are used but 
 
 to smother 
 The love of a life-time, you must not despair. 
 Omnipotence rules us, fate plays a sad part. 
 When forging the chains where love cannot 
 
 dAvell, [heart. 
 
 Cease wasting thy life-blood. Oh! generous 
 For those that smile at thy funeral knell. 
 Then turn from tliy wanderings. Oh heart 
 
 bruised and broken, [wings 
 
 The angel of peace has spread her bright 
 To shield thee from tempest and point to the 
 
 token [sings. 
 
 Where love ever whispers and harmony 
 Of thy past life forgetting, the cruel unrest 
 That taunted thy memory ere peace came to 
 
 greet [))reast. 
 
 And fortell the new love that awoke in thy 
 Hope and joy are entwined and laid at thy 
 
 feet, [liidden. 
 
 Accept it, and waste not love's gift. All un- 
 it came like a dream, it cannot depart. 
 Bright vislOiis of joy tliat long liave been 
 
 hidden [heart. 
 
 Will blossom and grow in thy true loving 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 lOfil 
 
 * 
 
 WILLIAM L. VISSCHER. 
 
 Born: Owingsville, Ky., Nov. 25, 1842. 
 During the war the subject of this sketch 
 was corresiJotideiit of the Louisville Journal, 
 and gradu.ated in law at the University of 
 Louisville shortly after. He was shipwrecked 
 while on a voyage to the West Indias, and 
 iias spent rn:iii\- years on tho iil.iiii-;. He is 
 
 WILLIAM l,li;|[TF()()T VI SSI 1 1 1; IJ. 
 
 also well known as a lecturer. lu journalism 
 Mr. Visscher was brouirht up on the old 
 Louisville Journal, beginning' as amanuensis 
 and private secretary of George D. Prentice. 
 We next find him publisliitig a daily news- 
 paper on a steamer plying between Louis- 
 ville and New Orleans. He was then suc- 
 cessively engaged by many prominent pub- 
 lications of America. Mr. Vissclier has writ- 
 ten more than a thousand poems, and his 
 masterpiece entitled Black Mammy, a song 
 of tlie sunny south, appeared in book-form 
 in 1SS6, together with other miscellaneous 
 poems from his pen. Mr. Visscher was mar- 
 ried in 1876 to Miss Emma Blanche Mason, 
 and has one daugliter. 
 
 *- 
 
 A COMING MASTER. 
 I sit upon my vine-clad porch — 
 
 'Tis summer's ardent weather — 
 And watch the breezes toying with 
 
 The thistle's downy feather. 
 
 My once brown hair is white as snow; 
 
 My liands are thin and wrinkled. 
 But better eyes liave never yet 
 
 In such an old iiead twinkled. 
 A mile away and uj) the road 
 
 I see a horseman riding; 
 He's hand.some, even thus afar. 
 
 His noble beast bestriding; 
 I see mj' daughter's tender look. 
 
 As wistfully slie gazes. 
 And motlier watching, 'neath her lids 
 
 The blush the rider raises. 
 That gallant horseman coming here 
 
 So often at sun-setting. 
 And mother's an.xious looks with tears 
 
 Tliat oft her cheeks arc wetting. 
 Are signs to me, that growing old, 
 
 Some day I will awaken 
 To find my place as master here 
 
 By that young hoiseman takea. 
 
 THE POET KING. 
 A quiet man, of gentle face. 
 Yet noble mien and courtly grace. 
 
 To need and sorrow wed; 
 For lack of gold his worth untold. 
 And jealous Fame speaks not his name. 
 
 But waits till he is dead. 
 He sat beside a limpid stream 
 And saw its lucent waters gleam 
 
 In jewels, rich and rare; 
 And in tlie hue of Heaven's blue 
 An angel face of gentle grace 
 
 Was sweetly mirrored there. 
 He saw the flowers bloom and blush 
 From cordial morn till evening's hush, 
 
 And listened to the lay 
 Of cooing dove, so full of love. 
 And drank tlie breeze tliat kissed the trees, 
 
 In happj', hoideu pluy. 
 
 He lived in contemplation high. 
 Of all the glories of the sky. 
 
 And sweetest lessons took 
 From earth and air; the bright and fair 
 Of every place and age and race; 
 
 And read from Nature's book. 
 And now he sits upon a throne, 
 A monarch in a realm, his own. 
 
 And holds the universe 
 Within his grasp, with tender clasp 
 A regal king with soul to sing; 
 
 But stript of scrip and purse. 
 Now list the music of his shell. 
 And liear Ins raptured accents tell 
 
 Of pure and noble things. 
 With minstrel's art. and poet's heart. 
 He fills the bowl th.it soothes the soul. 
 
 And plavs upon its strings. 
 « 
 
«- 
 
 1062 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -« 
 
 MRS. EMILY M. B. BOYDEX. 
 
 Born; Mobrisville, N.Y., Dec. 14, 1828. 
 This lady now resides in Cliicago, engaged 
 
 as needle painting artist; ;ii the Woi'ld's 
 IT 
 
 MRS. EMILY M. B. BOYBEN. 
 
 Fair at New Orleans she took the first premi- 
 um for needle painting. To the Birds in the 
 Woods is set to music and copyrighted. 
 
 PIKES PEAK. 
 O, thou Most High, wilt deign draw nigh and 
 
 fill V, ^ 
 
 Me with Thy presence whilst I bow my head 
 In humble adoration? When from off 
 This lofty peak I view the vastness of 
 The panorama spread before me, thoughts 
 Come over me of those who've question d 
 
 Thee. 
 The Godhead right, as 'twere an idle tale. 
 And yet, could they have view'd this land- 
 scape — this 
 So full of beauty of sublimost form, 
 Bestowing e'en a single thought on one 
 Grand portion that Thou hast conceiv d 
 
 brought forth, 
 How could they longer doubt that Tliou 
 
 O, God, omnipotent who form'd the earth? 
 
 Most noted Peak, upon thy top I sit 
 In wrapt amazement. When along thy side 
 I rode, I gaz'd in wonder at thy grand 
 Imposing height nnd vast immensity. 
 
 Butlo! upon thy crown as one entranc'd. 
 With awe I view the vari'd fancies of 
 The artist true, aye, God's own handiwork. 
 In word could I give vent to thought.I'd write 
 It here, but ah ! so meager effort Is 
 That's human, words inadequate t find 
 T' express from depth of soul so wrapt in 
 
 thought 
 Of God's Sovereignty — o'erpow'ring all. 
 Thou grand and lofty Peak, as morn illumes 
 Thy brow, and shadows fall around on rucks 
 Of lesser mold, thy greatness to enhance, 
 The mem'ry wanders back to days long past. 
 When searchers sallied forth for gold within 
 Thy breast; who fell by savage hand or 
 
 gaunt 
 Despair; their expectations unfill'd, [locks 
 Whose bones now lie all bleach'd among the 
 And sage brush on the plains, their names 
 
 unknown. 
 In silence standeth thou regardless of 
 Their fate. As I look down from off thy crest 
 Of stones, and view the endless landscape 
 Thy grandeur into insignificance [o'er. 
 
 Doth sink beside the wisdom His who made 
 Both thee and all I see before me now. 
 To view this scene sublimest thought is 
 
 reach'd. 
 And all 1 hat's human naught, beside our God. 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 Pansies for thee, O, my darling. 
 Freighted with perfume so sweet. 
 Mingling with rarest of blossoms. 
 Lovingly, laid at thy feet. 
 Why do'st thou smile, O, my darling, 
 Cupid not yet ope'd thine eyes? 
 Stories my heart now would tell tlieo — 
 Language of flowers implies. 
 
 TO THE BIRDS IN THE WOODS. 
 
 Sing sweet bonniebird.thy matin notes clear. 
 As high soar'st above with birdlings so near; 
 Yes warble together, trill little words. 
 Thou sweetest of singers -beauteous birds. 
 All nature '11 be silent, cheer with your song. 
 His presence seems near who's given this 
 
 throng; 
 We feel to rejoice and praise ever more. 
 Our Father in heav'n, yes, ever more. 
 As floats e'er aloft the soothing sweet lay 
 While idly we sit the long summer day; 
 Aye! dreaming and list'ning, hearts full ot 
 
 love. t*^'^"'"''' 
 
 To echoes from heav'n. those notes from 
 Such melodies pure, harmonious strains. 
 That angels might listen, join in refram 
 Then cease not thy song all thro' the long .ay. 
 But cheer us with music's sweet soothing lay. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 IWS 
 
 MRS. LOUISE F. SUDDICK. 
 
 Bokn: Farmington, Mo., Oct. 21, 1856." 
 Since licr ohildhood this Infly lias written 
 vcrsL', iuid luT iwcms liave Cdiisiantly ap- 
 
 MRS. LOUISE F. SLDDICK. 
 
 peared iu the periodical press. She is the 
 wife of Dr. S. T. Suddick, a well-known 
 physician, and she now resides at Cuba, Mo. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 T dreamed I liad hard words with you 
 Last night, dear love, 1 know not why; 
 Some trivial word or act of yours 
 Had roused my anger, and when I 
 Awoke my heart and brain 
 Were smarting with the wrong and pain. 
 I dreamed your eyes — those tender eyes. 
 Looked coldly, sternly into mine, 
 And in the accents of your voice 
 Was no conciliating sign; 
 And j'et, 'tis strange 1 do not know 
 What 'twas that chafed and vexed us so. 
 Forgive me love! I had forgot; 
 Dreams are as treacherous as our joys. 
 And dreaming, I remembered not 
 That for tliree years your blessed voice 
 H;is silent been; and daisies white 
 Have hid your sweet eyes from my sight. 
 
 MORNING GLORIES. 
 
 Why were ye so quick to witlier. 
 Morning glories? 
 
 Like encliantcd Uowers, in the 
 
 Fabled stories. 
 For the summer scarce is gone. 
 Golden-rods are yet in bloom; 
 Ye too early souglit your tomb, 
 
 Morning glories. 
 Whitlier did your beauty vanish. 
 
 Morning glories? 
 Out into the unknown spaces 
 
 Bending o'er us? 
 Like a spirit wlien it goes. 
 Whither — wherefore? no one knows. 
 So your bloom at summer's close. 
 
 Morning glories. 
 Common flowers we call you, too. 
 
 Morning glories. 
 Not like those that grow In rare 
 
 Conservatories; 
 But like common friends we meet 
 Daily, on the well-trod street. 
 Yet whose souls, like yours, are sweet. 
 
 Morning glories. 
 Faded now, each blue and crimson 
 
 Morning glory. 
 Like the prophet's withered gourd in 
 
 Hebrew story. 
 Frost and bliglit ye could not bear. 
 Flowers so common yet, so fair; 
 Human hearts are like you there. 
 
 Morning glories. 
 
 UNFULFILLED. 
 She sat from morn till gathering eve 
 Beside the vine-clad window there, 
 Sewing on something small and rare; 
 While June's red roses were in bloom. 
 Their fragrance filled the dainty rtwm — 
 Filled all the lanjiuid summer air. 
 Wliile she sat stitching constantly. 
 Soft lace and frail embroidery. 
 
 Dreamily stitcliing there. 
 What vague hope filled her girlish breast. 
 This bride of scarce a year ago? 
 Her tender eyes were all aglow; 
 While he, with more th;tn lover's bliss. 
 Bent over her to claim a kiss 
 Slie'd hardly time to give. I know. 
 So busy was she fasliiouing 
 Each dainty, white, mysterious thing — 
 
 So very busy there. 
 When maple leaves were tinged with gold, 
 And autumn sunset flushing red. 
 He stood with grave, uncovered liead 
 Bowed low, beside a tiny pall — 
 A broken rose-bud- that was all. 
 From wliich all eartlily bloom was fled; 
 While she, pale, feeble, lily-wliite. 
 Her weak eyes shaded from the light. 
 
 Lay softly weeping there. 
 
1064 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. HENRY C. CRANE. 
 
 Born: Norton, Mass., Nov. 30, IS-iS. 
 This gentleman was ordained in ISTS as a 
 Congregational miuister,and has filled pasto- 
 rates at Franklin, Mass., Allegheny City, Pa., 
 Spruiyt-ld, Mo., and Hillside, Omaha, Neb. 
 
 i;i:\ , II I. MM I M.\ IN I i;.\ n k 
 He married Miss Emii\' K. 'i'aylor, and now 
 has two children, born m 1874 and 1878 re- 
 spectively. The poems of Mr. Crane have 
 appeared from time to time in the religious 
 and secular press. 
 
 KEEP OFF THE GRASS. 
 
 Half crazed by the hub-bub that governs the 
 
 Hub, 
 We happened one day through tlfe common 
 
 to pass. 
 When, clad in the blue, with a star and a club, 
 A stranger besought us. 
 
 Keep oflf the grass. 
 
 Like Lot out of Sodom we fled at the word. 
 Apologies speaking, we muttered, Alas! 
 In life's joyous hey-day how often is heard 
 By those out of their places. 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 Tliere are men at the bar and men at the bars. 
 The young bloods of fashion, going en masse, 
 Aflash -with their diamonds, twirling cigars, 
 To whom sense is hinting, 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 Some think they've a call to govern the race, 
 When calls such as these are tolerably scarce; 
 While wiring and logging themselves into 
 
 place. 
 Miss Modesty's saying. 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 Some talents are hidden, which ought to be 
 
 used. 
 Wrap not in a napkin, my laddie or lass, 
 For bright and true coinage is never refused. 
 You guess how we'll end it. 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 In fact to be frank we've little -of doubt 
 But what in the slang well known to the mass 
 If we the ten tables were asked to write out, 
 'Twould be in a sentence, 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 Perhaps you will say with a neighborly wink, 
 Ha, ha, my good fellow, you've plenty of 
 
 brass. 
 Come mind jour own teaching and leave us 
 
 to think. 
 Your muse don't amuse us. 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 Yes, oft doth Apollo arouse from his ease. 
 To fright with his bow the metering class, 
 To pierce with his arrows the raw Niobes, 
 And shout from Olymjius, 
 
 Keep off' the grass. 
 
 RULES FOR TRAVELERS. 
 
 If briers thorn thy feet. 
 And lious crouch. 
 And mountains rise. 
 Look on ! 
 
 If mists condense, 
 And wild winds blow. 
 And night grows dark, 
 Look up ! 
 
 Beyond the mountain ridge. 
 Above the mist and niglit, 
 Are Heaven and God. 
 
 Look on! Lookup! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Since 'noath the shade of Eden's trees 
 
 The wail of grief began. 
 
 The race of mortal man 
 In sliadow walks, and never flees 
 
 Beyond that gloomy span. 
 
 The golden bells of fairy t;ile. 
 In God's first temples chime; 
 In sickness, grief and grime, 
 
 'Neath cyjiress, yew and aspen pale. 
 We dream of sunnier clime. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 ♦LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKlilCA. 
 
 1(H)0 
 
 JOSEPH B. SxVLISBURY. 
 
 Born: Clarendon, N.Y., Sept. 11, 1838. 
 This author and poet has contributed exten- 
 sively to the periodical press, and has a 
 volume of iioems ready for iiublit'atiou, be- 
 
 JOSEPH B. SALISBURY. 
 
 sides having- written three novels. Mr. Salis- 
 bury is also the author of several vocal com- 
 positions which liave been set to music by 
 the well-known firm of Oliver Ditson & Co. 
 He is still a resident of his native state. 
 
 *- 
 
 WEARY. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Weary sister, oh, so weary — 
 E'en the gems that around us shine 
 Adding- luster, inaketh dreary 
 Loneliness like thine and iiiiue. 
 Wing-less are the souls that ponder 
 O'er life's curious hidden springs. 
 Being wingless we must wander 
 Paths beset with nameless stings. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Out of tribulations, brother, 
 Cometh puiity and love. 
 Out of sorrow, meekness cometli. 
 Framing souls for realms above. 
 Garner every ray of glory, 
 Crossing oft the path we tread. 
 Falling from the cross in story ;• 
 We but follow,— others led I 
 
 SONG OF A THOLG HT. 
 A thought came trip|)ing down the lane 
 Of fancy, in liie gloatning. 
 'Twas rather sad, than otherwise. 
 Like seas a requiem moaning, 
 " I opened wide a tiny gate, 
 And 'scaped from thought's great ocean. 
 To shine across your fancy Are, 
 And wake new life, my notion." 
 Thus s-ang the thought, but whence it came, 
 Which route, and cross which river 
 It had leaped lo meet me here, — 
 When arrow left tlie quiver? 
 >• I am a child of si)ace," it sang, 
 •• I cleave the mist around thee; 
 I come from lloral gardens fair. 
 Their perfumes wrap'd around me. 
 " I come from kingdoms in the sea. 
 From mermaids' pearly chamber; 
 No words 1 bring, nor statf, nor sword, 
 I neitlier fly nor clamber. 
 The feeble words you now invoke 
 As cloak to wrap around me. 
 Scarce cast a shadow of myself;— 
 In poverty they've l)ouiid me." 
 
 MY DARLINGS. 
 Little Toot with blue eyes. 
 Merry Ned with brown, 
 Gyp's with nameless color 
 'Neath her golden crown. 
 Little hands in mischief. 
 Morning, noon and niglit. 
 Dresses in disorder. 
 Alia wondrous fright. 
 How can mama's two bands. 
 Out of chaos 1)riiig 
 Order to the liousehold? 
 'Tis no easy tiling. 
 Six hands sowing discord 
 In the homing .song. 
 Till I scarce can tell you. 
 Where the chords belong. 
 But if baby fingers. 
 Should lie still and cold. 
 Closed were sweetest eyelids. 
 Covered by the mold? 
 Sorrow would be deeper,— 
 Mischief then undone 
 Would rise up a specter,— 
 Dark would be my sun. 
 Work your ways my darliniis, 
 Maina'll help you play. 
 We'll enjoy tlie moments 
 Passing swift away. 
 Hop and skip, my treasures. 
 Be not fearful, run. 
 Sail not white-winged pleasure 
 Pray, till work is done. 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 1066 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY E. CORLISS. 
 
 Born: Great Falls, N. H., Dec. 22, 1832. 
 This lady is the daughter of a Methodist 
 clergyman. After receiving her education 
 she taught school for ten years, when she 
 
 was married to David M. Curliss, ami iiow 
 
 resides with lier liusband and children on a 
 farm near Washburn, Maine. Mrs. Corliss 
 is collecting her poems and will publish them 
 in book-form at an early date. 
 
 ONE YEAR AGO TO-DAY. 
 'Tis just one year ago to-day Minnie, 
 Since we laid thee down to rest, 
 Since you gave that last loving- looli 
 Ere you entered the realms of the blest. 
 Thou wert beautiful, my angel child, 
 And to us wert lent, not given ; 
 Thou hast fled to thy native air. 
 To thy glorious home in heaven. 
 
 I wept as 1 stood beside thy grave; 
 It was not that thou wert free. 
 But for the terrible foreboding 
 That was still creeping over me; 
 For I felt as I laid thee down to sleep 
 'Mid the snow so white and fair. 
 But a few short months and another 
 Must lie beside thee there. 
 
 NETTIE TALKING TO THE BIRDS. 
 Birdies, are'nt you fearful cold. 
 
 Flitting around among the trees? 
 Wliy don't you fly to a warmer place. 
 
 Where you can smg just as you please? 
 
 What makes you stay awaj' up here. 
 Where the snow is so very deep ! 
 
 If I were you I'd go down South 
 And get some plums to eat. 
 
 Don't you know you'll freeze your feet, 
 You drefful foolish little things? 
 
 How very quick I'd flj* away. 
 Had I your pretty little wings. 
 
 I'll throw you out some crumbs. 
 
 So you won't starve quite to death. 
 If I had to stay out in a storm 
 
 I'm sure I'd lose my breath. 
 Don't you know when it begins to be cold, 
 
 That winter is coming on? 
 If you do, j'ou ought to fly away 
 
 To where it is nice and warm 
 Then you could sing all day. 
 
 You could build your tiny nest. 
 And choose a little mate — 
 
 The one j'ou liked the best. 
 But I'm glad you do stay here; 
 
 I like to see you hopping 'round; 
 It would be so very lonely 
 
 Where no birdies could be found. 
 I can look out from the window 
 
 In mamma's pleasant room. 
 And see the little foot-prints 
 
 That you made y ester-noon. 
 
 DEPARTED YEAR. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The old year lias fled. Its fleering hours are 
 
 numbered. 
 And each hath brouglit us in its voiceless 
 
 train 
 Some hope that glowed or wearying care that 
 
 slumbered. 
 Or love that sought for love alas! in vain. 
 The heart that many a year hath held its 
 
 motion 
 Forfeits, perchance, the magic to restore 
 That fond enthusiasm and intense devotion 
 It kindled deftly in the days of j'ore. 
 
 Yet what avails since every moon bring 
 
 nearer 
 Yon glorious mansion of the pure and Ijlest; 
 And those who wait us at its gates seem 
 
 dearer, 
 That they before us entered into rest. 
 So take our adieus, thou dear old year. 
 And aid our pilgrim feet to reach that realm 
 
 so dear. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1UG7 
 
 MRS. FLORA C. WEST. 
 
 Born: Glean, N. Y., July 29, 18;5',). 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in tli(> 
 Itiiial Now Yorker aud other publications. 
 
 
 ^""^^ 
 
 ^ISb^ 
 
 ^. ^ 
 
 
 JS^ttUI^.' 
 
 ^^^^^K^^' ■ . ^^^^H 
 
 p^" . ^.■' . ■ '^^ 
 
 /f- 
 
 f 
 
 MRS. FLORA C. WEST. 
 
 She was married in 1862 to James E. Kent, 
 and now resides at Evansville, Wis. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL MAY. 
 'Tis come, 'tis come! the beautiful May! 
 
 We greet it with a song-: 
 Its brightness vanishes grief away 
 
 And makes the faint heart strong. 
 'Tis come, 'tis come! the opening bloom. 
 
 Showers fragrance on the air; 
 Embroidered o'er old winter's gray gloom 
 
 Is greenness everywhere. 
 'Tis come, 'tis come! the forests resound, 
 
 Witli bird-songs old yet new; 
 The streams, ice-free, so joyfully bound, 
 
 To meet the ocean blue. 
 Where falls thy tread, spring's loveliest maid. 
 
 Earth wakes in loveliness; 
 Like fairy touch, plain, hillside and glade. 
 
 Are robed in gayest dress. 
 Sweet prophet of the summer, thou art 
 
 With liope and promise rife. 
 Like th' unfolding of a fresh young soul. 
 
 The spring-time of a life. 
 So glide our lives like the lovely Ma> 
 
 To riper summer-time: 
 
 May love and joy aud good crown the way. 
 Their closing be sublime. 
 
 MUSINGS. 
 'Tis dying now — winter's last day; 
 Around me steals the twiliglit gray. 
 While sitting sadly and alone, 
 I'm musing o'er the loved by-gone. 
 And sighing that its joys are o'er. 
 As many a one has sighed before. 
 My past spans but a few fleet years. 
 Yet oft 'tis marked with sorrow's tears, 
 With hopes that faded out in gloom 
 As friends went downward to the tomb, 
 Witli brilliant dreams that never grew 
 Into the real aud the true, 
 With youthful laurels,wreaths and flowers. 
 Worn proudly but a few short hours. 
 All ! memory ! vain thy sighs and tears. 
 They bring not back the vanished year.s; 
 Forever gone ! yet oft it seems, 
 They come again in happy dreams; 
 How sweet in fancy thus to hear. 
 Remembered voices in the ear. 
 The smiles, the looks of old to meet 
 The hand in loving clasp to greet. 
 They are but dreams, yet cares depart. 
 As steals their presence o'er the heart. 
 I thank Thee Father for them all. 
 Nor would again the past recall — 
 The present hath its brightness too. 
 The f utui'e sky daM'ns calm and blue, 
 Hope's sunshine gilds the corning day. 
 Bright flowers bloom where falls its raj'. 
 And shall these blossoms all decay. 
 As life glides onward and away? 
 Fade each and all, if fade they must. 
 But this shall be my lieart's deep trust, 
 Be ever done, God's gracious will. 
 Then when the earth-worn lieart lies still, 
 A band of shining ones shall wait, 
 To greet me at the pearly gate. 
 Forever there my rest shall be, 
 Forever, O my God with Thee. 
 
 LINES WITH A PHOTOGRAPH. 
 A pleasant good-morning! I've come a long 
 
 way — 
 Am happy to meet you this beautiful >[ay ! 
 We parted in the Autumn-time : 
 Three autumns since have rung their chime, 
 Three winters with their storms so drear. 
 Each ushering in the world's New Year: 
 Four springs have budded into life. 
 Three summers bloomed with bcauiy rife: 
 Three circling years! it were not strange. 
 If they, in passing, wrought some cliangc; 
 But only outward: hearts change not: 
 And still thou never art forgot. 
 
 *- 
 
 -•H 
 
*- 
 
 1068 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ABBIE H. DAME. 
 
 Born : Lowkll, Mass., July 10, 1847. 
 
 Since a child this lady has courted the muse. 
 In 1869 she was married to Mr. B. F. Dame, 
 a prominent educator and professor of elo- 
 cution, and resided for many years at Man- 
 
 MKS. ABBIE H. DAME. 
 
 Chester. N. H., but is now living at Laurence. 
 Mass., where her husband is master of the 
 g-rammar school. Many of the poems of 
 Abbie Hazelton Dame have been written for 
 special occasions — one for the dedication of 
 the Soldier's Monument; another for the 
 public exercises of New Hampshire Day at 
 the New Orleans Exposition, and many 
 others for reunions. Personally Mrs. Dame 
 is very petite, a pleasant lady, and has four 
 children. 
 
 *- 
 
 ALONG THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 The winds are g-ently swaying- 
 
 The elm-boug-hs, drooping low, 
 And curling into ripples 
 
 The flowing waves below. 
 Winds perfumed with the sweetness 
 
 Of apple bloom and Hower, 
 From many a hillside orchard. 
 
 And lonely forest bower. 
 Along the Merrimack. 
 
 The pines, though always grieving 
 
 And sobbing forth their plaint. 
 Have bushed themselves to silence. 
 
 Save for their breathing faint; 
 The maple's vivid emerald 
 
 Blends with their deeper hue. 
 While oaks and gleaming birches 
 
 Enchance the regal view. 
 Along the Merrimack. 
 
 Yonder, upon the hillside, 
 
 A shaft of granite gleams, 
 Where rests a war-worn hero — 
 
 No more oppressed by dreams 
 Of foe, or bitter carnage. 
 
 He lieth there asleep. 
 Where trees above him waving, 
 
 Tiieir murmnring vigils keep. 
 Along the Merrimack. 
 
 Rock Rimmon in the distance 
 
 Uplifts its craggy head. 
 As if to view the landscape 
 
 So fair, around it spread. 
 Broad fields and rugged pastures, 
 
 Now sunlit, now in shade. 
 With here a jiatcli of woodland. 
 
 And there an open glade. 
 Along the Merrimack. 
 
 The Goffstown hills are outlined 
 
 Against the glowing skies; 
 Still farther to the westward 
 
 The Uncanoonucs rise; 
 While over all the sunshine 
 
 Pours like a golden stream. 
 And touches with its glory. 
 
 The waves that glint and gleam, 
 Along the Merrimack. 
 
 Out from the distant steeple 
 
 In yonder city fair, 
 A bell is faintly peeling 
 
 Upon the fragrant air; 
 Its sweet yet solemn chimings 
 
 Thrill softly on the ear. 
 And ring in mellow cadence. 
 
 Now mulHed, and now clear, 
 Along the Merrimack. 
 
 Al<mg the noble river. 
 
 That, swelling to the sea, 
 Now foams iti whirling rapids. 
 
 Now ripples broad and free. 
 Glide on ! sing on ! glad river. 
 
 E'en as thou hast of yore. 
 Still .at thy shrine we'll worship — 
 
 Fond subjects evermore, 
 O i)oerless Merrimack ! 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMIfiUICA. 
 
 * 
 
 um) 
 
 HAMILTON CREEO'BLENESS 
 
 Born: Washington d)., O., June30, 1846. 
 In ISO-t Hamilton comuu-nced to learn tlio 
 Art Preservative at Des Moines. Five years 
 later he went to St. Louis, where he remain- 
 ed five years, when he ag'ain ri'tiiriicd to Des 
 Moines. Tii IWT I^fr. O'RIimkss \v:is ni;irri(>d 
 
 HAMILTO.N CUEi; O BLK.NKSS. 
 
 to Miss Martha A. Kiley, and in lasa emigrat- 
 ed with his family to Los Angeles, Cal., 
 where he still resides, being connected with 
 the job department of the Los Angeles Times. 
 Although the author of many widely-copied 
 poems, Mr. O'Bleness is better known from 
 his philosophical and metaphysical writings 
 and sketches of nature. 
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Oh, space of mild enchanted sea! 
 Oh, space of rare enchanted sky! 
 And this enchanted strand ! 
 Tlie sea is blue, the sky is blue. 
 
 And both doth intermingling lie 
 Beyond the reacli of land. 
 With thoughts beyond the vale of speech — 
 Beyond the foam-flakes lightly hurl'd— 
 T muse and dream of thee; 
 I view the sea-gulls as they fly 
 
 About this shore-way of the world. 
 By this enchanted sea. 
 And in ruy dream of pure delight 
 I see thy form, thy face; thine eyes — 
 Sweet rivals of the sky — 
 
 Are bluer far tlian this wide sea 
 Where wave on wave in beautj' rise 
 Or windrow'd fleeces lie. 
 The sea! The sky ! h)st each in each. 
 I fail to wonder at their hue 
 When I thy dear eyes see; 
 Hut oft I marvel in my dreams 
 Whicii is the fairer of the blue. 
 Thine eyes, tiie sky the sea. 
 Whene'er tiie mists obscure the sky. 
 Or darkness, hiding in the sea. 
 At last in sleep brings rest, 
 I see thine eyes in brightness shine. 
 I feel thy soul will bring lo me 
 This Island of tiie Blest. 
 
 LOVE IS A GE.M. 
 
 Love is a diamond set in gold! 
 A jewel rare, yet all possess 
 Its brilliant light; let none repress 
 
 The virtue of this gem of old. 
 
 Love is a pearl in shell of gold! 
 Brought from the depths of ev'ry heart. 
 Let they who liave it never part 
 
 From this the i)rice!ess gem of old. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 Beyond to-morrow's gates there lies 
 The fairest country 'neath tlie skies — 
 A landscape rich in golden grain 
 That gently waves wide o'er the plain. 
 The richest fruits, the sweetest flowers — 
 Enchantments of divinest hours — 
 Bespeak a paradise on earth. 
 Where Time is young iind Love has birth. 
 Its crystal streams in beauty flow 
 From out the mount;iins' mystic glow. 
 And softly murmur of the sea 
 Toward which they flow so happily. 
 Each lias the key that opes the gates 
 To that fair land. There Time awaits 
 With willing hand to lead the way 
 Far from the selfish wants of day. 
 O may each pluck the fairest flowers 
 Which deck the rosy-spangled hours; 
 And taste the fruits of vine and tree. 
 However humble thej" may be; 
 And may they guard with zealous care 
 The borders of that land so fair. 
 For in its joyous precincts lie 
 More wealth than gold or fame can buy. 
 The New Year is the land that lies 
 Beyond to-morrow's mystic skies. 
 
 BIRTHDAY SOUVENIR. 
 Faithful to law thi- morrow's sun 
 On its unswerving course will run; 
 Revolving thus will Life e'er be 
 Till Time unveils Eternity. 
 
 -* 
 
* 
 
 1070 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. EMMA B. S. DUNHAM. 
 
 Born: Auburn, Me., 1836. 
 Soon after receiving her education at the 
 Portland Schools and Westbrook Seminary, 
 this lady was married to Rufus Dunham, a 
 prominent manufacturer. The poems of 
 Mrs. Dunham hiive appeared in tlit- jioriodi- 
 
 MKS. EMAIA B. S. DUNHAM. 
 
 cal press from time to time for many years, 
 and she has composed a number of cantatas, 
 and a few years ag-o wrote the Home Opera 
 Margaret, which was successfully brouglit 
 out. Mrs. Dunham has traveled extensively 
 in tlie United States and Canada, and now is 
 devoting much of her attention to literary 
 work and the education of two little giand- 
 daughters. This lady is blessed with a hope- 
 ful temperament, great viud force, and has 
 always rendered her environments cheery 
 and bright. 
 
 * 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 The freshness of spring has departed, 
 
 Tlie languor of summer has fled, 
 October holds safe in her keeping. 
 
 The wealth of the days that have sped. 
 In place of tlie mist of midsummer. 
 
 Which held back the sun's ardent ray. 
 Great ridges of clouds massed in ether, 
 
 Illume and make perfect the day. 
 The leaves of the forest, like heroes 
 
 Wlio feel th( ir Inst hours drawing nigh. 
 
 Have summoned the wealth of their being, 
 
 To grandly and gallantly die. 
 The cricket shrills forth his loud chirping, 
 
 The wind has a tremulous sound, 
 A flock of dead leaves from the tree-top 
 
 Comes fluttering down to the ground. 
 The fields and tlie meadows have yielded 
 
 Their harvest of hay and of grain; 
 The orchards are fragrant with fruitage. 
 
 Good store is on hill-side and plain. 
 O spring-time! so full of thy promise; 
 
 O summer! so heavy with gain; 
 Ye've stored in the garner of autumn 
 
 The wealth of the sun and the rain. 
 
 Haste, heart, tliat hast felt spring's assur- 
 ance. 
 
 Make growth in the summer of life; 
 That when thy perfected days find thee. 
 
 Thou may'st with good fruitage be rife. 
 
 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 Ah ! what do I see in this lovely bouquet. 
 
 Made up of syringas and roses so gay. 
 
 Old-fashioned Sweet-William Wegelia-rosea? 
 
 All, what 'mong the flowers do I find written 
 here? 
 
 It is language, as plain as language can be; 
 
 Though all may not read; ('tis meant only 
 for me). 
 
 It glows in its hues, by its breath is revealed; 
 
 No, no; not from me is the meaning con- 
 cealed. 
 
 Secure in my bosom the secret I'll hold; 
 
 'Tis fairer than jewels, 'tis richer than gold. 
 
 The audible message my lips may not speak; 
 
 The heart it translates and the secret will 
 keep. 
 
 I n lands far away they hold converse with 
 
 flowers 
 And note by their blooming the flight of the 
 
 hours; 
 Thy shadow has fallen on this happy day 
 And marked my life's dial, my precious 
 
 bouquet. 
 
 O, beautiful flowers! Ye have spoken to me. 
 And flUod all my being witli deep ecstasy. 
 Of all the grand epics my mind can recall. 
 This sweet revelation cxccedeth them all. 
 
 BABY GRACE. 
 We have lost our dear Jove, our own little 
 
 Gracc^ 
 Nevermore while on earth shall wc look on 
 
 her face. 
 The liglit in her eyes so beautifully blue 
 Was like sunlight tliat plays and sparkles in 
 
 dew. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMERICA. 
 
 1071 
 
 * 
 
 ERMINA C. STRAY. 
 
 Born: Kirtland, O., April 25, 1847. 
 Many of the poems of this lady have appear- 
 ed in the Yaiilvoe Blade, Ballou's Magazine, 
 Ladies Hume and various other publicatiuus. 
 
 *- 
 
 JiKMl^A (J. STRAY. 
 
 Slie is also the author of quite a number of 
 serials, and is fast gaining- a reputation as an 
 author and poet. 
 
 UNJUST. 
 You looked at me, with looks of distrust. 
 
 That have pierced my heart to its core. 
 But the bitter pain, and the feeling unjust. 
 
 You can bring to my soul no more. 
 For I know that the wearisome night of life 
 
 For me will not always last. 
 There will come a day, a certain day 
 
 Wlien you must redeem the past. 
 
 Did you think that I was less proud tlian you, 
 
 To l)ronk your liaughty scorn. 
 As from heaven falls the cooling dew, ' 
 
 From tlie night till tlie weary morn; 
 Do you think that I do not know, to-day. 
 
 Thai your love is as strong as mine. 
 And every dro)) from the foam and spray. 
 
 Will sparkle like rare old wine. 
 
 Do you think that I do not know your heart 
 
 Is heavier far than mine. 
 For an unjust word and a cruel dart 
 
 Will come home with a sharp repine. 
 
 And thougli I wish you to know, my dear. 
 
 That without, I surely can live; 
 Yet wlienever y(ju wisli for the olden hours, 
 
 I am ready to forgi\e. 
 
 FADED AND GONE. 
 
 I'^adcd and gone are the roses 
 
 Tliat bloomed o'er the hills and the lea, 
 When we w.ilked in the .soft summer twiliglit. 
 
 And talked o( a future to be. 
 And tlie roses you gave meat parting. 
 
 Were witiiered and dead, in an hour, 
 lUit llie love vows we plighted that eveidng 
 
 Were light as the breath of Uower. 
 K.uled and gone are the roses, 
 
 Like the vows you pligiited to me. 
 When we walked o'er the hills and the mead- 
 ows. 
 
 In sight of the old sounding sea. 
 But the sea with its treacherous moaning 
 
 Is truer to-day than are you. 
 Whose vows have died like the roses. 
 
 ISaptised in the evening dew. 
 
 Faded and gone are the roses. 
 
 And winter has come dark and cold, 
 And the wind wliistles loud in the tree-tops 
 
 Or moans for the years growing old; 
 But your traitorous smiles are forgotten. 
 
 Or lliouglit of with scarcely a sigh. 
 For love-vows arc easily i)lighted. 
 
 And like roses easily die. 
 
 THE COQUETTE'S LAMENT. 
 I have had my day, ah mo, ah me! 
 
 That a day should b(< so lirief. 
 And the night when it conies is oftentimes 
 
 lUit a iiightof woe and grief. 
 They call me a coquette, vain and i>roud. 
 
 With scarce a heart or.soul; 
 But the veriest co<|uette that ever lived 
 
 Will reach, at last, her goal. 
 
 They call me a coquette, and bitterly 
 
 I think of tlie day and the hour, 
 Wheno'er one heart, botli strongand brave, 
 
 1 trit^l my woman's iK)wor. 
 I tried my power and failed, ah me! 
 
 I could not him recall. 
 I could not humble my pride and say, 
 
 I love you best of all. 
 And now with aweary heart and soul 
 
 I walk tills world alone. 
 And laugh with the gayest of the gay 
 
 My grief I will not own. 
 And oft, in the watches of the night, 
 
 1 think of one heart so true. 
 That might have been mine, if a coquette's 
 life 
 
 I had shunned, and listened to you. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1072 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. LEVI F. BICKFORD. 
 
 Born: H.uitford, Ind., Jan. 9, 1840. 
 
 At twenty-one years of age Mr. Bickford 
 went to Wheaton College, where he spent 
 five years, and in 1866 went to Oberlin Col- 
 lege for two years. He then spent one year 
 in the Chicago Theological Seminary, when 
 
 REV. LEVI FRANCIS BICKFORD. 
 
 he returned to the Oberlin College and grad- 
 uated in 1871. In 1875 Mr. Bickford visited 
 England, Scotland, Ireland and all the coun- 
 tries of Europe, studying the history, art, 
 architecture, and people of those countries. 
 He was ordained as a Congregational minis- 
 ter in 1872, has filled pastorates in many lead- 
 ing churches, and is now professor of mathe- 
 matics and metaphysics at the Daniel Baker 
 College, Brownwood, Texas. Mr. Bickford 
 was married in 1879 to Miss Lottie E. Patchin, 
 by whom he has three children — Francis, 
 Frederic and Claribel. 
 
 A PASTOR'S FAREWELL. 
 Like birds of passage life's treasures fly 
 With messages freighted of the by and by ; 
 Like doves to their windows, they will all 
 
 flock home 
 When the dawn of God's great day shall 
 
 come. 
 
 Like Gems of Orient, most rich and rare. 
 They shall shine in the Savior's diadem fair. 
 To tell of the love of priceless worth 
 That took them safe home from the lowly 
 earth. 
 
 Safe sheltered wiili Christ we shall find them 
 at last. 
 
 When the pain and shadow of earth are past. 
 
 Let us live with pure hearts, let us walk 
 with the Lord, 
 
 Let us trust with assurance His unchange- 
 able Word, 
 
 And press on in the race with glad joyous 
 feet 
 
 Till we stand in the presence of Christ com- 
 plete. 
 
 Oh. wondrous hour! Oh, glorious day 
 Wlien the shadows of earth are passed away. 
 And we shall stand with the sinless throng 
 Hymning his praise in an endless song. 
 Who bought us and brought us one by one 
 To the beautiful land of the fadeless sun! 
 
 Without one lacking may we all be there. 
 And the infinite wealth of his glory share. 
 So free from all pain, so free from all woe. 
 While the measureless ages shall come 
 and go. 
 
 And we'll not forget, shall we, friends so 
 
 dear. 
 The times gone by when the Lord drew near 
 And touched our hearts with the holy flame, 
 As we spoke together the sacred name? 
 
 We'll not forget the hand that led 
 Thro' sorrow's vale, and kindly shed 
 On our drooping spirits the healing balm. 
 And spoke to our hearts the word of calm, 
 And gave us songs in the night of pain. 
 And turned our grief into joy again? 
 
 Oh no 1 they all shall remembered be. 
 When we gather at Heaven's great jubilee; 
 When we stand together on the sunlit shore 
 We shall sing his praises forevermore; 
 
 And the song shall echo thro' the skies 
 To the praise of the Lord of Paradise. 
 We shall see each other face to face. 
 Saved, brought home through God's great 
 grace. 
 
 We say not, "Farewell," but ..Good-night, 
 
 awhile; " 
 May the Lord on each of you shed his smile. 
 And give you peace till that day shall come 
 When, with life's work done. He shall call us 
 
 all home. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKIUCA. 
 
 107.1 
 
 MRS. IDA W. HIBBEN. 
 
 Boun: Near Monroe, Wis., June 30, ]8.').5. 
 This lady has lectured quite extensi%-ely. 
 She spent ten years teaching- in the .schools 
 in Stei)lietis()n county. She is a g-feat advo- 
 cate of Iciiipi'i'.uirc and many of her [luenis 
 
 MRS. IDA W. HIBBEN. 
 
 are on that subject; and her verse has ap- 
 peared in the leading- publications of Amer- 
 ica. In 1885 the subject ( f this sketch was 
 married to David John Ilibben, and Mrs. 
 Hibbeu now resides with her husband and 
 children at Sheridan, 111. 
 
 "THE LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR SHALL 
 
 NEVER TOUCH MINE." 
 You may smile at my subject, and think it 
 
 quite strange. 
 But, if you'll be i)atient, I'll try to arrange 
 In prose or in rhyme, though not over-nice, 
 A few simple thoughts as a pinch of advice; 
 And if they're too pointed to suit all your 
 
 views, 
 T liope you will listen, and try to excuse; 
 For, as you all know, I'm a foe to the wine. 
 And tlie lips that touch liquor shall never 
 
 touch minel 
 
 The tales of deep sorrow how often we've 
 
 read 
 Of a heart-broken woman awaiting the tread 
 Of him who promised to love and protect 
 
 lij*- 
 
 When, a few months before, as his bride she 
 
 was decked, 
 nut wiio now has damped all the joys of her 
 
 life 
 By that terrible blight — a drunkard's wife — 
 Which she would not have been liad she said 
 
 this in time: 
 "The lips that touch liquor shall never touch 
 
 minel " 
 
 There are hundreds of mothers all over our 
 
 land 
 Who are pleading to-day, with penniless 
 
 hand, 
 For help to support the children they love. 
 Whose fathers have left them as beggars to 
 
 rove. 
 Although it seems liard to censure or blame. 
 Yet 'twould have been better, to all 'tis quite 
 
 plain. 
 Had they said this wlien young: "I'm foe to 
 
 tlie wine. 
 And the lips that touch liquor sh.-ill ne%'er 
 
 touch mine; " 
 
 There is many a one who lias worked long 
 
 and well 
 This terrible fiend of intemperance to quell; 
 And many others are working to-day 
 To lift up the fallen and lead back the stray; 
 But what can they do wlien young ladies will 
 
 wed 
 Drunkards in spite of all that is .said ? 
 Then, if you would aid in this calling divine. 
 Say, "The lips that touch liquor shall never 
 
 toucli minel " 
 
 Oh, take this advice, young lady, from me: 
 No matter how wealthy a young man may be; 
 No matter how handsome, how gay, or how 
 
 nice; 
 No matter how gnind be his station in life; 
 No matter how seldom a glass he may take — 
 If he takes it at all, lor your liappiness' sake 
 Say, when you are wooed ; •• I'm a foe to the 
 
 wine. 
 And the lips tliat touch liquor shall never 
 
 touch mine!" 
 
 You may say it's all nonsense; my heart is a 
 
 stone ; 
 And, if I act thus, I will spend life alone. 
 I care not for that; my mind is made up 
 To do -what I can 'gainst the poisonous cup; 
 And, if I must wed a drunkard or none. 
 Of the two great evils I'll choose the less 
 
 one — 
 Yes, I'll live an old maid to the end of my 
 
 time 
 Ere the lips that touch liquor shall ever 
 
 touch mine! 
 
 * 
 
— * 
 
 THE CONVERTED RUMSELLEK, 
 
 A dram of the best this morn did you suy 
 TO tone up your nerves for the work of the 
 
 well T^om, perhnps you'll think I'm insane 
 Ind wonder whate'er could have wrought 
 such a change ^^^^ 
 
 But you've bought tne i.ibc uiu^ 
 
 me you can buy. 
 For we are at outs, this dram shop and T. 
 PaL as you went? I know that is true. 
 It s many a dime I've taken from you 
 That had better been iiung to the waves of 
 
 Than s^enffor the drink you've purchased 
 
 Yes, it's^many a nicklc from the starving 
 
 I've gleaned, , . , « a. 
 
 And many a father I've turned into fiend. 
 Hot many a tear o'er my work has been 
 
 Whilel have been deaf to all that was said. 
 What makes you stare - wi dly at me? 
 NO wonder though you think i ^an t be 
 That 1 am talking thus earnest and strange, 
 is easy almost for the leopard to change 
 come, put up your dime and step over this 
 
 ni teTyou the whole if a moment you'll 
 stay. 
 
 T feel just like talking this morning you see, 
 
 sisr^^rtts^-^s:^. 
 
 My drdTbefore me like mountains have 
 on t^'S^et I've seen Children crying for 
 Whose7aters I knew from drinking were 
 
 Wome^^ggingforwoi^tc^hav.!^^^^ 
 From whose husbands, for diink, 
 
 Teh sights as these haunt me eacli day. 
 
 But then last night, -^--;\!,';£,,re the 
 There came to my mind - 1 can p 
 
 •Twas d'eadful. Thank God it was only a 
 w"lUast«ight.-say isn't it strange 
 
 How in a dream a person will change 
 
 Such as I was then, you seldom behold 
 
 I was feeble, gray-headed, cnppled and old, 
 
 It seemed I had neitlier friends nor home. 
 
 Out on the street forsaken, alone. 
 
 All around there seemed to be such a stir. 
 
 People hurrying by, I could not tell where. 
 
 I was unnoticed till up stepped a man 
 
 Who said: "Come along with me i you can. 
 
 I hobbled along as best that I could 
 
 Till I came where hundreds of people stood. 
 
 Whose low whispered voices filled the air: 
 
 I could find nothing to bring them al there. 
 
 Till at last o'er their heads a scaffold I spied. 
 
 To see any more 'twas in vain that I tned. 
 
 A silence like death fell over the throng. 
 
 ,. What is it ? " I said. .. A man to be hung ? 
 
 Just then the voice of the Judge sounded 
 
 .The'^ criminal speaks, let the audienc. 
 
 All wasTo still, 1 could hear every woi-d. 
 
 It seemed not one in all that throng stirred , 
 
 !. Oirhearken," he said, .- hear the last words | ; 
 
 At the' sound of his voice I began to grow j 
 
 .CouW fshake earth with one terrible wm^ I: 
 That all its inhabitants now might be st.rr^^ • 
 My crime was murder. To the gallows IWe , 
 
 come, i 
 
 The cause, O hear it, the cause was rum. , 
 
 When a child at borne I played where it ,1 
 
 flowed, , . ,. 
 
 'Twas there I entered the downward ro.id. 
 My father sold it, and I was his joy. , 
 
 Oh how would he feel could he see his boy. 
 And know it was now forever too late 
 ^ot^e him from meeting this t.rnb^^ I 
 Oh fathers take warning from what )ou here,; 
 
 And handle not. touch not. from strong! 
 BetwrH::randearthIsoonshaUhe, 
 Wheify^g-eon me there, remember -tw^s; 
 
 Hcc^^ed!'steppedback. In a few moment. 
 
 The r"" was adjusted, the death scene ^.^ 
 
 A shiii^.alf-fron.ied. pierced the stmai.^ 
 •Twas the voice of a woman eio« u mu 
 
 despair: , j^. j ; 
 
 ..Mybrother.dear brother, can It be he. ^ 
 
 T .,l/oTmogone! You heard what he s.m ; 
 i::i!w^mld you cruelly snatch from ni: 
 
 My o.tlyV.iother, my joy and no-^P^^l^^ j, 
 
LOCAL AND XATIOXAL I'OKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1075 
 
 -* 
 
 'Twas not my brother that cruel deed done. 
 No, no, 'twas tlie rutliless hand of rum. 
 But uij' idol must die, wliile ruin goes free. 
 Protected by law. Oh God can it bo 
 That justice has llown from this, our picunl 
 
 land, 
 Aud folded her wings on some far away 
 
 strand ?" 
 'Twas then I caught the first glimpse of the 
 
 scene, 
 So great was the crowd that swayed us be- 
 tween. 
 "Oh! Ohl " I cried, "'tis my boy, my boy. 
 And my darling girl bereft of her joy." 
 Yes, right out in my sleep I uttered those 
 
 words. 
 It woke me of course but no one stirred. 
 From my coucli I bouuded like one that was 
 
 shot 
 To see if I had been dreaming or not. 
 Through the dark to tlie side of my darlings 
 
 I crept. 
 When I found them asleep 'twas for joy tliat 
 
 I wept; 
 And there, bending o'er them in the still* 
 
 hours of night 
 I promised to try to lead them aright. 
 So come wluit maj', they shall never blame 
 Their father as being the cause of their 
 
 shame. • 
 
 Now, Tom, you've patiently heard me 
 
 through. 
 And know just what I'm going to do; 
 You may call me silly, foolisli or weak 
 To be scared by what I saw in my sleep. 
 I care not for that, there shall never a drop 
 Be sold or dratik inside this shop; 
 For somewhere I've read, it was not in my 
 
 dreams, 
 "Like a serpent it bites; like an adder it 
 
 stings." 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 What have I done to merit all 
 The blessings whicli around me fall? 
 Home, friends and health He daily gives. 
 What is it He in turn receives? 
 Sometimes I'm grateful, it is true. 
 But O, how oft I murmur too! 
 Whene'er the fruit or flowers He sends, 
 I take them while my praise ascends; 
 But when I find tlie flowers have thorns. 
 My sinful heart so t)ften mourns. 
 And I would fling them all aside. 
 Forgetting, 'mid my grief and pride. 
 The crown my loving Savior wore 
 Was made of thorns; and that He bore 
 It all in patience, and for me. 
 
 LUMAN A. F KRRIS. 
 
 Born: Constanti.\, N. Y., Jri,Y29, Mm. 
 
 For a while after reci'iviiiL'' liis iilucitinn 
 
 Mr. ]■. I I i ;, i.L'lit sclioul ;in.i ! • 
 
 rrMAX A. FERRIS. 
 
 at Bernhard'sBay in his native state, where 
 he is very popular. He li;us written (juite a 
 few poems which Jiave always been very fa- 
 vorably received. 
 
 TO MK. AND MRS. H- 
 The j)ietures came. 
 All safe and souiul. 
 For wiiich accept 
 My tlianks profound. 
 To say I'm pleased. 
 Does not begin 
 To half express 
 Tlie pleasure in 
 Having pictures. 
 So full of life. 
 Of Mr. H — 
 And little wife. 
 The children, Uh\ 
 So nice and bright. 
 In looking at, 
 I take delight; 
 But time is short. 
 This now must end. 
 With kind ngards, 
 I am, your friend. 
 
*- 
 
 1076 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DR. A. WARNER. 
 
 Born: Lake Co., O., Jan. 24, 182.5. 
 Dr. Warner resides in Ainswortli, Neb., 
 where he is engaged in the general drug 
 
 busill(■-^s. licsidcs 111 tciidiiii;- \o a m ixtcii^ive 
 
 DR. A. WARNER. 
 
 practice as pliysician. He lias written nu- 
 merous fine poems, wliich have been well 
 received and extensively copied throughout 
 America. 
 
 JACK FROST. 
 
 As through the chill wind's snow and sleet 
 A wayfarer was doomed to meet 
 In dead winter — seventy-nine — 
 Jacli Frost drawn up in battle line. 
 Ila ! Ha ! says Jack, I have you now. 
 But I'll be frank and tell you how 
 You may resist me as you please — 
 I attack your extremities. 
 Quickly under his cloak he wont. 
 And down his arms a chill he sent. 
 Finding liis wrists with mittens laced — 
 Hied himself to another place. 
 Into his boots he crawled to learn. 
 Ensconced those toes in coats of yarn; 
 Further search put him ill at ease, 
 Lo they extended to the knees. 
 By Jove! My tricks are at an end; 
 'Tis no work of a summer friend. 
 Quoth Jack — research altogether — 
 Tells the fondness of a mother. 
 
 Am I a goose, thus casilj- 
 Entrapped by this anomaly? 
 What eye would peer for mother's hand 
 To shield from harm this gray-haired man? 
 He then withdrew, chagrined and sad. 
 Disgusted — a repulse he'd had; 
 Waved hand toward the eastern sky — 
 And muttered this soliloquy — 
 The yearnings of a mother's love 
 With benedictions from above — 
 From infancy to manhood's prime 
 Pursue her son to every clime. 
 
 GO WEST. 
 
 Go west, young man, go west; 
 
 Hast never been by cares opprcss'd — 
 
 No foes within thine own household? 
 
 Nor yet by trusted friend been sold? 
 
 Wouldst thou life's vicious traits invest? 
 
 Then hie thee to the licensed west. 
 
 Go west, fallen maid, go west. 
 
 And crowd yourself among the best; 
 
 Brazen, ignore refined disgust. 
 
 And seek to create love through lust: 
 
 Go gang the streets with tinted crest- 
 
 You'll find fair sailing in the west. 
 
 Go west, disgusting dude, go west — 
 Come in pro rata with the rest; 
 There find a staring, sillj' pack 
 Of wanton girls at Rail Road track; — 
 Not man of culture plainly dressed 
 Can rival you — while in the west. 
 
 Now money scalper, you go west. 
 And lull the scruples of your breast; 
 Exodus Twenty-two, Twenty-flfth 
 Western clergy render a myth; 
 When destitution springs her test 
 Then caloused conscience echos — west. 
 
 Go west, moral teacher, west. 
 And give your trust in man a rest: 
 •• Malice to none, charity for all," 
 Will sneer and mock your earnest call; — 
 When e'er you fondle that pseudo zest. 
 The skeptic winds will liowl— go west. 
 
 Go west, affluent man, go west — 
 Six years will don you rags at besl. 
 If you'd be scofied by man and yoiilli, 
 Just dare advance a moral truth; 
 The same you'll get from worst and besl 
 'Tis epidemic in the west. 
 
 Now cheery hopeful man, go west — 
 Thou child of all creation blessed; 
 There comes a cliange from daily scenes 
 Over the spirit of your dreams; 
 From dis]iorting slumber's b:ilmy ivst, 
 You wake with liorror— in the west. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1077 
 
 ABNKR W. HARMON. 
 
 Born: Bdxtox, Me., Sept. 22, 1812. 
 This gentleman has written three or four 
 hundred i)oer.is, msmj' of which were on 
 Iiopular suhji ct?: of the day, and were popu- 
 
 ABXER W. HARMON. 
 
 hir througrliout the wliole country. Mr. 
 Harmon was married in 1842, and now resides 
 in Old Orchard, Me., with his fiunily. 
 
 WE ARE COMING. 
 We're coming-. Father Abram, 
 
 Our couiitrj' to defend. 
 To flght for right and liberty 
 
 Until the war shall end — 
 To crush the great rebellion 
 
 On old Virginia's shore. 
 We're coming. Father Abram. 
 
 Three hundred thousand more. 
 
 Wc leave our farms and workshops. 
 
 Our homes and families dear. 
 To save our noble country 
 
 We gladly volunteer: 
 With the banner of our Union 
 
 Wo gladly move along. 
 We're coming. Father Abram, 
 
 Three hundred thousand strong. 
 
 Our sweethearts, noble maidens, 
 Are loath to let us go. 
 
 But Government calls us loudly 
 To face the Southern foe; 
 
 Our kindred, friends and townsmen 
 Have gone the road before. 
 
 We're coming. Father Abram, 
 Three hundred tliousand more. 
 
 You've called for us. we're coming 
 
 With pistol, sword and gun, 
 Our services are needed 
 
 Therefore we gladly come; 
 Where the drums are beating loudly 
 
 And the cannons they do roar, 
 We're coming. Father Abram, 
 
 Throe hundred thousand more. 
 
 Cheer up ye sons of freedom. 
 
 The time is drawing nigh 
 When the Confederate army 
 
 Shall lay their weapons by. 
 Loud thundering of the cannon 
 
 Quite through the Southern shore. 
 And her musketries' sharp rattle 
 
 Be heard and felt no more. 
 
 KING ALCOHOL. 
 Death to old King Alcoliol, 
 
 He does the world enslave. 
 Takes awaj- your money boys. 
 
 Which you had ought to save; 
 Breaks your constitution down. 
 
 And souds you to the grave. 
 Whilst we go on to the rescue. 
 
 Cho.— Hurrah, hurrah, we'll ring the jubilee. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, the pledge has made us free. 
 So we'll sing the chorus from the highlands 
 
 to the sea. 
 Whilst we go on to the rescue. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Many liearts are weary now. 
 
 They've toiled for many years: 
 Many wives and mothers too 
 
 Have shed :i HchkI of tears, 
 Birt we are determined boys 
 
 To drive away their fears. 
 Whilst we gi) on to the rescue. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Sign the good old pledge, my boys. 
 
 Here on the table lain. 
 Sign away your bonthige now 
 
 And break the mother's chain. 
 Join the Teini)'ninco .\rmy boys. 
 
 And from your drinks abstain. 
 Whilst we go on to the rescue. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
ii<- 
 
 1078 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM GRANT BROOKS. 
 
 This poet and composer of music has con- 
 tribtilcil quite a few gems to the periodiciil 
 
 jn-es'i. The White-Smith rulilishiii!;- Co., of 
 
 ■WTLt>IAM GRANT BROOKS. 
 
 Boston, Mass., liave published several of his 
 songs in sheet music form. Mr. BrooliS re- 
 sides in the state of Maine at Waco. 
 
 MOTHER'S SWEET SMILES ARE HAUNT- 
 ING ME STILL. 
 I've been through the palace, I've seen crys- 
 tal fountains, 
 I've heard the low music of pleasure's sweet 
 
 strain; 
 But it cannot compare with my home in the 
 
 mountains. 
 O g-ive me the scene of my childhood again. 
 How often I've sat near the old-fashioned 
 
 portal. 
 And watched the bright sun sink awity 'neath 
 
 the hill. 
 And often I think of my dear aged mother, 
 Whose smiles all these years have been 
 
 liauntiugrme still. 
 Oho.— I've followed the plowshare, I've sailed 
 on the river, [the hill; 
 
 Heard the horn of the hunter resound o'er 
 But brighter by far are the fond recollec- 
 tions, 
 Of mother's sweet smiles, they are haunt- 
 ing- me still. 
 
 In my dreams I go back to the old-fashioued 
 liomestead, 
 
 And roam once ag-aln o'er the meadows so 
 green. 
 
 Or gather the berries, that grow in the wood- 
 land. 
 
 Or sit by the banks of tlie clear running 
 stream. 
 
 How pleasant it was when the day's work 
 was over. 
 
 The shadows of evening were fastcoming on. 
 
 To sit 'round the organ, in one ftimilj' circle, 
 
 And all of our voices were blended in soug. 
 
 Those old happy moments have passed by 
 forever, 
 
 And all of the dear ones have gone on before; 
 
 But still in my dreams they are hovering 
 near me. 
 
 And beckoning me to that Ijeaiitiful shore. 
 
 I love the old homestead, with all of its mem- 
 ories. 
 
 And never a plcasanter place shall I see. 
 
 Until I join htmds with the dear ones in 
 heaven. 
 
 Then that will be sweeter than all else tome. 
 
 A MAN CAN BE HONEST IF HE'S EVER 
 
 SO POOR. 
 On a cold winter's day, through the dcep- 
 
 drificd snow, 
 A beggar was wandering the street, [go, 
 
 He was ragged and weary, he'd no place to 
 He was longing for something to eat. [long 
 He had tried to get food nearly all the day 
 But they turned him away from their door. 
 And he rather would die of starvation than 
 
 steal. 
 He was honest although he was poor. 
 With his heart nigh discouraged, he wended 
 
 his way. 
 Unheeded by young or the old, [gar's eyes, 
 When a wonderful sight met this poor beg- 
 On the snow lay a purse full of gold. 
 The tempter said keep it, you're hungry you 
 
 know. 
 And the rich man has got a lot more; [fliul 
 But the beggar said No! tlie right owner I'll 
 I'll be lionest, although I am poor. 
 The keen pangs of hunger still gnawed at 
 
 his breast, 
 How he longed for one mouthful of bread, 
 But they turned him away, tho' 'twas for tin 
 
 last time, 
 Ere the morning this beggar was dead. 
 Willi naught but the stars to watch o'crliini, 
 He had passed to that b^^-autiful shore. 
 Where the angels, with hearts full ol love 
 
 welcomed home 
 This beggar, although lie was poor. 
 
 >J<- 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NAIIONAL I'OETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 1079 
 
 JOHN W. FITZMAURICK. 
 
 Bokn: Island ov Cape Breton, 18:j;3. 
 Coming to Micliijraii in ISGo, >[r. Fitzninurice 
 was the siiiiie year ordaiued In the villag-o of 
 Bedford, where ho served as pastor of the 
 Congrregational Church for three j'cars. 
 Since tlion he has filled pastorates at Pinck- 
 noy find r!ri(l<jo)iort,whcn he loft thcmiiiistrj' 
 
 JOHN W. FITZMAriilCK. 
 
 to become a journalist. In 1871 Mr. Fitzmau- 
 rice was associate editor of the Saginaw 
 Daily and weekly Courier, and four years 
 later took charg-e of the city editorship of 
 tiie Daily Enterprise; he next occupied a 
 position on the Daily Herald. He was very 
 prominent in tlie red ribbon temperance re- 
 vival of 1879, and lectured for two years in 
 Michigan, Ontario, Ohio and New York. Mr. 
 Fltzmaurice returned to journalism in 1888 
 :is editor of the Industrial News of Jackson, 
 and is now a writer on the stafif of the Daily 
 Evening Courier of the same place. He has 
 published a prose work of four liundred 
 j)ages and also a series of sketches. He was 
 married in 1%5 and has a family grown to 
 maturity. 
 
 *- 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 Hail: to thee, day with precious memories 
 
 fraught. 
 With thoughts of liome and reunited tics; 
 
 Where grateful incense from all altars ri.se— 
 Marking our countless blessings unforgot— 
 A j)eoi)le at a common altar bow. 
 To pay a Nation's God a Nation"s heartfelt 
 
 vow. 
 Fresh from the heat of bloodless strife they 
 
 come. 
 The conqueror with the conquered o"cr our 
 
 land - 
 The day to honor— hand warm clasping hand; 
 The partisan shout, tlie noisy clamor dumb. 
 Or vocal only with Thanksgiving sung. 
 To whom to a Nation's thanks belong. 
 
 Around the plenteous board in festive glee. 
 The loved ones in the home-nest gathered are; 
 From babe to white-haired sire — from near 
 
 and far. 
 The son or daughter— from vocation free — 
 Stand grouped about home's holy hearth- 
 stone tires. 
 Each lieart surcharged with joy the day in- 
 spires. 
 Wise was the edict from our fathers sent 
 To thus perpetuate a day of feast and praise, 
 Commemorative of the bounteous harvest 
 
 days — 
 In pious hearts conceived, where rigid cus- 
 tom bent. 
 To make Thanksgiving all the term implies. 
 And praise a loving Father with united voice. 
 
 If Ihnnks could thus be given years nsro 
 
 By pilgrims isolated far from home or 
 friends; [fiends. 
 
 Hemmed in by sea and storm and savage 
 
 How should our hearts God's lasting kind- 
 ness show? 
 
 Who fills eacli soul with love, each home with 
 cheer. 
 
 And crown'd with mercies arc each circling 
 year. 
 
 No voice of war's alarm disturbs our joy; 
 
 No woe-draped nation ours to mourn our 
 loss ; 
 
 No epidemic's scourge hath o'er our borders 
 crossed. 
 
 But ours a lasting peace without alloy; 
 
 Tuning each voice in one Thank.sgiving 
 psalm; 
 
 Soothing each storm-toss'd soul to peace and 
 calm. 
 
 O brothers of one common mother loved — 
 
 Sweet Liberty — wlio with us finds lier home— 
 
 Our hands ui>-:irched, forming the mighty 
 dome. 
 
 Of liberty's grand temple- never to be moved 
 
 Shall we not meet to-day in brotherly em- 
 brace. 
 
 And from each heart all bitterness efface? 
 
fb- 
 
 -* 
 
 1080 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IE1UCA. 
 
 Around each board let cheerful welcome 
 
 reign ; 
 Within each heart let kindly wishes rest - 
 While gifts of good things sent to those less 
 
 bless'd, [cicclaim- 
 
 Shall fill their saddened souls with glad 
 Thanking the giver of the timely gifts, 
 To songless ones whose voice in praises lifts. 
 America's great day to thee all hail! [brown; 
 Puddings robust with turkeys crisp and 
 Mince pies and doughnuts rich thy tables 
 
 crown; [edale; 
 
 Rosy-cheeked apples flanked by home brew- 
 While tale and song steal swift the hours 
 
 away, t'n^ Day. 
 
 Spanning the brief allotment of Thanksgiv- 
 Long may our land thy hallowed presence see 
 As yearly comes tliy advent to our home — 
 Calling again to roof tree those who roam; 
 Bright in all coming years thy presence be. 
 With golden memories, serving still to cheer. 
 The now unborn hosts who then may sojourn 
 
 here. 
 
 ANNA C. SCANLON. 
 
 Born: Mt. Hope, Wis., Oct. 26, 1864. 
 For a while Miss Scanlon taught school. 
 She still resides in lier native state at Mt. 
 
 ANNA CATUEKINJ? SCANLON. 
 
 Ida. Her poems liave api)eare<l in the Wash- 
 ington Post, Catholic Mirror. Church News 
 and other publications. 
 
 LIFE S HOURS. 
 Infant hours — unconscious hours. 
 
 Feeling neither storms nor showers. 
 Sailing by a sheltered lea 
 
 Toward Eternity's vast sea! 
 All too soon the pebbly shore 
 
 Fades to reappear no more ! 
 Soon the unconscious hours are gone, 
 
 But the bark glides smoothly on. 
 
 Hours of childhood — happy hours. 
 
 When our bark bedecked with flowers 
 Keeps its course beside the land. 
 
 Rocking gay ly o'er the strand! 
 Zephyrs gently stir the sails. 
 
 Forecast of the fitful gales 
 That its later course annoy. 
 
 And the storms that may destroy! 
 
 Hours of youth — more trying hours. 
 
 When from out the scented bowers. 
 First our bark sails through the shades 
 
 And life's morning freshness fades! 
 Then the light more brightly glows. 
 
 And life's stream more quickly flows. 
 Then its storms begin to rise 
 
 Darkening up the noon-day skies. 
 
 Hours of manhood — working hours. 
 
 When no more are scented flowers 
 For to cast the glittering spray 
 
 Lightly o'er the troubled way; 
 But the wild and savage gale 
 
 Fiercely rends the life-boat's sail. 
 And the roaring waters crave 
 
 A new victim for their grave I 
 
 Hours of age — triumphant hours. 
 
 When we first beheld the towers 
 Of the world from out whose bourne 
 
 Weary pilgrims ne'er return ! 
 On through darkness and through gloom 
 
 Glides the bark into the tomb! 
 And the pilgrim sinks to sleep 
 
 On the bosom of the deep! 
 
 IITEII! 
 
 n 
 
 IN THE CITY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Out of the peace and the quiet 
 
 Into the noise and the riot. 
 
 Into the great city's glare. 
 
 Out of the fii'lds and the clover. 
 
 With the blue skii's hanging over. 
 
 Into the dull leaden air! 
 This is what men call the city 
 Where live tlie learned and witty, 
 Wliere dwell the rich and the proud 
 Here are tlie poor and the lowly. 
 Here are the good and unholy 
 Passing unknown in the crowd! 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUK A. 
 
 1081 
 
 * 
 
 STELLA TRUMAN. 
 
 Born : Opelousas, La., Feb. 3, 1870. 
 AFTEn graduatiiitr at the Female Institute 
 
 in 1S8S, Miss Ti-innni rniniiicnecd teacliiiis' 
 
 STELLA TRCMAN. 
 
 school. Her poems and sketches have ap- 
 peared in many of the local papers of Louls- 
 
 A SOLDIER'S MEDITATIONS. 
 I looked upon my old gray coat to-day; 
 Its threads are faded, and tlie hungrj" moth 
 Hath cut into its fabric, strong- and fine. 
 Ah well! 'tis meet that it should pass away; 
 For Mars no longer drives his furious steeds 
 Across our sunny land. 
 His chariot wheels 
 Have ceased their revolutions that laid waste 
 Our fields and pasture lands, and sank more 
 
 deep 
 Their furrows than are those the plowman 
 
 makes ; 
 But from them never spring's the tasseled 
 
 corn. 
 To fill our barns with g-ladness, or the bloom 
 Of cotton plant, producing' in due time 
 The staple white — the Southland's heaviest 
 
 snow 
 Wliich, unlike Arctic storm, doth ever come 
 When skies are blue and sunsliine still is 
 
 warm 
 And bringeth plenty in the place of want. 
 
 Bellona shrieks no more, her piercing' 
 
 screams 
 Once chilled the heart-blood of our bravest 
 
 men 
 And blanched the tender cheek of woman 
 
 frail; 
 Cheeks erst so glowing' wit h the hue of health. 
 So lovely that, to keep them e'er thus fair. 
 Our men had e'en risked life itself: but war 
 Doth e'er demand tlie fullest sacrifice. 
 Ob, God be thanked! that fearful time is o'er 
 And I ne'er more this faded coat must wear. 
 
 Yet 'tis with tear-moist eyes I lay it by. 
 The garment served aie well tlirough bloody 
 
 years. 
 My old affection for " the cause " will rise 
 Anew whene'er I view my g:arb of grray. 
 Ah ! there's my musket; the sword, too, with 
 
 which 
 In battle's din, I sought my fellow's life 
 God pity, God forgive the North and South 
 For thus eng'ag'ing' in such deadly strife. 
 
 But now the rust hath eaten the keen blade 
 That once could pierce through human flesh 
 
 and bone 
 And sever joint and sinew; never more 
 'Twill drink warm, living' blood, ne'er more 
 Hear long-drawn groans of mortal ag'ouy. 
 Or revel in the savage battle's roar. 
 
 I lay all these away — the flag is furled 
 'Neath which we Southron's swore to "do or 
 
 die." 
 Ah me! we fouglit like g'ood men and like 
 
 brave. 
 But naught could do 'gainst numbers thrice 
 
 our own. 
 Our Jackson fell, he resteth ever more 
 In that celestial land beneath tlie trees. 
 Whose shade his tired spirit saw while yet 
 In tenement of clay. 
 Oh! When he died 
 Our hearts grew faint, but fainter they be- 
 came 
 When one by one our leaders followed him. 
 And want and cold attacked our ragged 
 
 troops. 
 God's will be done; I now can see the good 
 That from much evil has upsprung. but then 
 Twas hard to be submissive and to know 
 Our cherished hopes must die, the principles. 
 For wliich we gave our lives, must be for- 
 sworn. 
 In sorrow deep we bowed, our hearts were 
 
 sad 
 For those beloved whose voices aye were 
 
 stilled. 
 Whose eyes no more looked love into our 
 own. 
 
 -*' 
 
«<- 
 
 lOSC 
 
 LOCAL A^-D NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 In bitterness we murmured, "Life is liard 
 And death is better," was our anguislied cry, 
 But 'twas not, for God kuoweth best ; [see 
 'Twas bis will tliat we should live to feel and 
 The workings of his All-wise Providence. 
 And we have seen it, yes; the great "New 
 
 South," , ^. ^, 
 
 Like Plioenix bath from ashes bad her birth 
 And sitteth now in beauty, calm, serene. 
 Of all earth's lands the fairest and the best. 
 SheSloves the busy North, and he to her 
 The kiss of peace hath g:iveu; lorevermore 
 One interest shall they have, one nation be. 
 And I, with all the veterans that remam 
 Of those who followed the grand hero, Lee, 
 No longer cherish enmity 'gainst those 
 Who with victorious Grant our flag received. 
 And called us conquered. Now, instead. 
 Our hands extended they have warmly 
 
 clasued 
 And all, as brethren fond, one country love. 
 One Ua"-i be stars and stripes- all proudly 
 wave. ts""S- 
 
 One God we serve -to him high praise bo 
 For all the wonders of His love and power. 
 
 MRS. SARAH E. WYMAK. 
 
 Born: Phei.by, N. Y.. Nov. 19, 1837. 
 IN 1853 this lady removed to iSIiehigau, where 
 
 still resides in Michigan at Weston. Mrs. 
 Wyman has written more than one thousand 
 poems, many of which have appeared in tho 
 Detroit Free Press and other prominent 
 journals. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 I sat me down this evening 
 
 A little while lorest; 
 The golden sun was setting 
 
 Slowly in the west. 
 Methought my sun is sinking 
 
 For I am growing old. 
 And every night I'm nearer 
 
 The city paved with gold. 
 The days to me grow shorter 
 
 As time flies swiftly on; 
 The weeks and months seem moments. 
 
 So fast they pass along. 
 Sweet childhood hours so pleasant. 
 Bright school days all are gone; 
 Many dear loved schoolmates 
 
 Have to their graves been borne. 
 
 MKS. SAU.VH ELIZAHETH WVMAN. 
 
 She taught school for many years. She was 
 married in 1859 to James M. Wyman. and 
 
 BABY'S GONE TO SCHOOL. 
 Baby's gone to school to-day, 
 How I miss her in her play; 
 Out upon the noisy street 
 Sister guides her tiny feet. 
 
 My baby's gone to school. 
 I am lonely, this is why 
 I cannot work, tho' oft I try. 
 Fori miss the little face 
 And I look for her embrace. 
 
 My baby's gone to school. 
 Kitty is very quiet here, 
 No one here to pull her ear; 
 Balls and strings, she cares for none. 
 Till our darling, home will come. 
 
 To-day she went to school. 
 Tell me mothers, tell me true. 
 Do you miss your darling so; 
 Do you list for pattering feet. 
 Out upon the noisy street? 
 
 When baby's gone to school. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Truth its motto, now and ever. 
 Heeding nothing but the right. 
 Earnest ever too. and fearless. 
 Only striving with its might 
 Both to please and to instruct us; 
 Scorning every base design. 
 Ever searching for improvement, 
 Ready, never to malign. 
 Vaunting, not eschewing evil. 
 Eager to become a friend. 
 Heady nil the news to lend. 
 
 *i<- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 1083 
 
 RE\'. MILO IIOBART. 
 
 UOHN : Oswego Co., N. Y., Dec. 23. 1831. 
 For tliirty-flvc jears Kev. Milo Hobart li:is 
 been aiiiiiiisti'rof theg-o-^pfl. and has proacli- 
 ed ill ton states ol tlie union. He was thrcp 
 years in Ilie fedei'.il aiiiij' in llu' l"J4lh IJeyl. 
 
 III. Vol. Inf., part of which time lie was in 
 the hospital department. Mr. Hobart was 
 married in 1865 to .Miss Mary Johnston, who 
 died in 1889, and he now resides with his 
 family in Rogers, Arkansas. 
 
 THE HOME. 
 
 Live we in house of splendor, 
 Or in tlie hut so slender, 
 So to it, bj' right, we come; 
 We haste to it when jrlad, 
 We flee to it when sad, 
 Because it Is our Home. 
 
 Hark to the joyous chatter 
 And to the merry clatter. 
 Of cliiliiren so frolicsome; 
 Tliey are fray from morn till niji-ht 
 As they play with will atid inifrht. 
 In their own precious Home. 
 
 The mother toils, plans, contrives. 
 And with constant labor strives. 
 Nor thinks her work burdensome: 
 
 For wliat she thinks, siiys or does. 
 Is for liappiness of tliose 
 In the dear happy Home. 
 
 Father goes to his daily toil. 
 
 Nor from tusks docs he recoil, 
 
 Yields not though work is burdensome; 
 
 In weather fair or in storm. 
 
 Until niglit, from early morn, 
 
 Toils to make a happy Home. 
 
 Does joy, peace and health abound, 
 And no bitter feelings found. 
 As the years go anil come; 
 When parents with children vie, 
 x^nd children with parents try 
 To keep pure the happy Home. 
 
 When comes affliction's liour. 
 And Sorrow's cup running o'er, 
 Puts its touch ui>on some one; 
 Wlien each with the others vie. 
 And all with their utmost try 
 To show love in tliat Homo. 
 
 What moaneth that bit tor cry? 
 What meanoth that heaving sigh? 
 Of orphan in his room. 
 We're sad indeed say tliey. 
 And thus it must truly be. 
 For they are witliout Home. 
 
 We all should be good and kind 
 To the need}- ones we find. 
 And help them every one; 
 They will love us the mure 
 When we show the open door 
 To a kind and happy Home. 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 EXTIIACT. 
 
 A creature of utter helplessness 
 
 Cast into the lap of Time: 
 
 In this world as if sent from some other; 
 
 In darkest hours of midnight. 
 
 In brightest day of sun^liine,— 
 
 Cared for by a tender M )thcr. 
 
 In tenderest years < f childhood. 
 When greatest watchfulness needed; 
 When joys and sorrows blend together. 
 When many little iieartachos do eomc; 
 When a .stranger's care goes unheeded 
 Then none can take the place of Mother. 
 
 In the slipiiery paths of youth. 
 
 Rent on the gaieties of the world. 
 
 When wrongall right feelings would smother, 
 
 When tlie tempter's snai-e is laid 
 
 To entrap and beguile to evil ways, 
 
 Then .1 safe defender is Mother. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
5"- 
 
 1084 
 
 *.* ■ 
 
 LOCATi AND NATIONAI. POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 DR.CYRUS A.BARTOL. 
 
 Born: Freepoht, Me., April 30, 1813. 
 At tbe expiration of his theolog-ical studies 
 Mr. Bartol at once entered the ministry. lu 
 1836 ho was minister at larg-e in Boston, and 
 
 Uic lonowiii'j' vc:ir si'ttli'd at \Vf<t Chiircli, 
 
 DR. (JVKUS A. li.\llH)L,. 
 
 which pulpit lie has filled for over fifty years. 
 Dr. Bartol has always been active in philan- 
 thropic movements. He has given to the 
 press several volumes of sermons, and has 
 also written extensively for the periodical 
 press. The Rev. Cyrus A. Bartol is well be- 
 loved by his congregation, and is highly re- 
 spected wherever he is known. 
 
 WILD ROSES. 
 On nature's clock that runs a year, 
 
 Wliose hands steal on to strike no bell, 
 Wild roses once again appear. 
 
 Winsome as poets cannot tell. 
 But where is she that loved these flowers, 
 
 For whom T plucked them every day? 
 Tlie dial numbers all her hours; 
 
 Wliat is their charm, her bloom away? 
 Do they not miss their steadfast fri(>nd? 
 
 Without her, on each lonely stem. 
 Their fragrance to the breeze they lend, 
 
 Which with them sings her requiem. 
 In vain does every leafy fold — 
 
 My once fond sacrifice — put on 
 Tints ruddier tlian virgin gold,— 
 
 Tlie sanct ifying temple gone ! 
 
 Better than Cain or Abel brought 
 
 My firstlings from the ledgy field, 
 I miss the punctual shrine I sought; 
 
 The altar sinks, the tomb is sealed. 
 O faithless heart, the roses say. 
 
 As to his band the Muster said. 
 The soul in dust will never stay ! 
 
 Have we not risen from the dead? 
 Are there no pastures o'er my fence. 
 
 Clearings and groves I cannot spy? 
 Far as may go this glassy sense, 
 
 Untraveled windeth still the sky. 
 Each plant's ascension here below 
 
 Foreshows full paradise above: 
 An upper spring- for truth we sow, 
 
 A blossom from each grain of love. 
 
 HORTENSE CORA JACKSON. 
 
 At the ag-e of twenty Miss Jackson com- 
 menced to write for the press, since which 
 time she has contributed extensively both 
 prose and verse to current literature. Her 
 father was a man of great literary ability, 
 and for years was an editor and publisher. 
 
 BITTER --SWEET. 
 O! dreams of the beautiful Past, 
 Why haunt ye ni3' memory still? 
 Bright visions that never could last 
 Whj' come ye my lone heart to thrill? 
 Ah! if I might always forget — 
 Or forever thy memory retain. 
 'Tis sad to forget thee, and yet 
 Remembrance but bringeth new pain. 
 Bright dreams of the sunny •• Gone By," 
 Fond hopes I liave cherislied so long. 
 Why fade ye as flow'rets die. 
 Crushed by the world's busy throng. 
 'Tis only the hearts that have bled. 
 The pity we ask can bestow, 
 For out of Hope's ashes though dead 
 The fairest of flowers oft grow. 
 Sometime in the future I know 
 This tempest of sorrow will cease; 
 The turbulent waters of woo 
 Give place to the rivers of Peace. 
 Sometime to my heart I shall clasp 
 My childhood's, my womanhood's prize, 
 No more to be torn from my grasp, 
 No more to be veiled from mine eyes. 
 By faith in the distance I see 
 This storm-cloud of grief roll awaj'. 
 Revealing in beauty to me 
 Tiie glorious light of new day. 
 No more for the Past will T weep. 
 No fears can the Future annoy. 
 From tears 1 liavo sown I shall reap 
 A bountiful liai-ve.-st of joy. 
 
 >i*- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIIICA. 
 
 1085 
 
 NARCISSA HARRISON. 
 
 Born: Shelbyville, Tenn., July 23. 1862. 
 After grmduating' :it the Sliolbyvillc Fcmiilo 
 Institute, Miss Niirt-issii Hurrisoii entcn-d 
 
 till' iirdfes^ioii iif U'ai-liin^', and i> irnxv rii- 
 
 NAUCISSA HARRISON. 
 
 graged ia educational work at the Female 
 College of Waco, Texas. The poems of this 
 lady liave appeared iti many of the best col- 
 lege papers, and the press of Texas and the 
 South. 
 
 *- 
 
 EARTH-LO\'E. 
 God says to all: •> Love mo the best.'' 
 
 Christ says to each: •• Give me thy heart; " 
 I cannot lean upon God's breast. 
 
 The Christ and 1 are far apart. 
 If I could only to\ich His hand. 
 
 Or in the night-time hear a tone. 
 If it were given me to stand 
 
 And see my God upon His throne. 
 
 Ah then, indeed, there might be born 
 
 Love large enough to meet His will; 
 Yet though 1 watch until the morn. 
 
 The night is empty and is still. 
 But human hands are very near. 
 
 And living hum:in lips and eyes. 
 The tender earth-tones, that I hear. 
 
 Make me forget the silent skies. 
 
 When I am clasped in close embrace. 
 When loving eyes look into mine. 
 
 I fear me that dear human face 
 Shuts out the sight of one divine. 
 
 Wlien children play about my knees 
 Or lean their bright heads on my breast. 
 
 Tell me, my heart, do I love these. 
 Or silent God, or Christ the best? 
 
 TWO MOTHKUS. 
 .\ wee bird cried within its nest. 
 
 And lo, its mothiT heard; [breast. 
 
 With outstretched wings, and throbbing 
 
 Flew to her baby-bird. 
 A child wailed in the winter niglit. 
 
 And through a revel wild. 
 With fair, round arms, and bosom white, 
 
 A woman danced, and smiled. 
 
 HER ANCESTRY. 
 A slender figure, draped in white. 
 Within an old-time garden stood; 
 Among the other flowers bright 
 She smiled — this flower of maidenhood. 
 Her lissome figure bent and swayed, 
 Like wind-blown lilies growing there. 
 As much a lily as a maid 
 Slie seemed; as sweet, .is frail, as f:ur. 
 Her eyes, that knew no tearful mist. 
 Held just a lily's share of dew. 
 Her fragrant lips, by zephyrs kissed. 
 Had all a lily's breath 1 knew. 
 And like the flowers, drooping down. 
 That each the sunliglifs touch might share. 
 Her shy, bent head wore, too, it-s crown — 
 The golden glorj' of her hair. 
 And had I not been half afraid — 
 Afraid of sacred faiths undone, 
 I might have thought that this white maid 
 Was once a lily in the sun. 
 And then the light thouglit fluttered on 
 In spite of creed, that fancy biurs: 
 How many lilies dead and goue 
 Had m:ide that flower face of hers? 
 How many stamens' dusty gold 
 Had lielped to gild each waving tress? 
 How many trembling buds of old 
 Had shaped her breathing loveliness? 
 And in her eyes — could I not find 
 Their dew-draughts, .saved for such as she? 
 Had not their slender stems entwined 
 To m:ike her figure's symmetry? 
 And Mother Eve. forgive. I pray; — 
 Tliis sight all former lore belied; 
 The maiden, 1 saw yesterday. 
 Was but a lily glorified. 
 And. Darwin, you are hardly fair. 
 And just, to such an one as she — 
 Or will you. sir, with me declare 
 The lilies are her ancestry. 
 
*- 
 
 1086 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Born: Abbieville, Ky., Oct. 8, 1863. 
 For many years Miss Williams lias con- 
 tributed fine prose articles to the local pi ess, 
 and also maiij' gems of poetry. She follows 
 the profession of teaching-, and resides in lier 
 
 MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS. 
 
 native state at Livermore. Her poems have 
 appeared in the Hartford Herald, Kentucky 
 Reg-ister, Constitution, Southerner, News 
 World, and various other publications. 
 
 WHAT I WANT. 
 I'm looking: for sometliing' beautiful. 
 
 Something- in nature to cheer 
 My heart, when it is sad and lonely, 
 
 And dreariness is everywhere. 
 I want sunbeams instead of shadows 
 
 To liang- ever on my way ; 
 I want briglit flowers to Inid and blossom 
 
 'Midst dull November's gray. 
 I want g-lad, beautiful realities, 
 
 Instead of vanished dreams. 
 To bubble on the dancing eddies 
 
 Of life's meandering streams. 
 I want bright faces always near me, 
 
 And kind, loving- liands to take 
 The weariness out of tlie burd(>ns 
 
 That life's grimmest duties make. 
 I want to find some true, steadfast hearts 
 
 To beat in concert with mine. 
 
 Tho' I stand 'neath the shadows of g:rief 
 
 Or drink deep of pleasures wine. 
 I want somebody dear to love me. 
 
 Somebody noble and kind, 
 Who has found the beautiful treasures 
 
 I am seeking- yet to find. 
 I want always to remember 
 
 The dearest hope that has fled, 
 That is pointing- now with its memory 
 
 To the brightness overhead; 
 That's leading- me upward and onw;:rd 
 
 Through the dark mists of despair 
 To that place of the good and beautiful. 
 
 Where the hidden treasures are. 
 
 MY ISLAND GRAVES. 
 
 Alone on a shadowy isle. In a mystic sea, 
 I watch, and weep, and dream; 
 
 No other boat the white waves float. 
 Save the one that silently bears me. 
 To weep where the silver waves gleam. 
 Alone on a shadowy isle I dug- a grave. 
 On a fail-, still autumn day. 
 
 And I buried tliere, with a whisper'd prayer, 
 The love of my heart, true and brave- 
 Now cold in death's ari-ay. 
 Alone on the isle, I knelt by its side, 
 In the anguish of a boundless woe. 
 
 For the poisoned dart — it pierced my heart. 
 When its truest, best love died, 
 In that vanished long ago. 
 Again I come with hope and pride. 
 To lay in a new-made grave. 
 
 Ambition sweet I now lay at their feet. 
 For they drooped when dear love died. 
 For the lig-ht of life it gave. 
 And now, aimless my silent sail 
 Plows the mystic, billowy waves; 
 
 I heed not the lig-ht, the gloom of ihe nialit. 
 Pleasure's song- nor duty's wail. 
 But guard alone my Island g•ra^ cs. 
 What matter tho wrecks that sadly float — 
 Tlie frag-ments of wasted years? — 
 
 I brush them aside, on the rolling tide, 
 From the keel of my phantom boat. 
 And heed them not tlirough bliiuliiigieais. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Never again will my liesirt find rest 
 From the vain longings, long suppressed; 
 Oh, never again can my life unfold 
 Richer treasures by far than gold, 
 And never again can I bear to liear 
 Tho pleasant fancies onco so dear. 
 And never again at the sun's decline 
 Will I dream of ]>leasui-es to be mine — 
 Wlien llie king of day again shall rise 
 And glorify both earth and skies. 
 
 ^- 
 
-J*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUIC,\. 
 
 1087 
 
 JOHN LEWIS BEARD. 
 
 Born: December 29, 1858. 
 Mr. BE.'VRn lins ■n-rittcn extensively fordio 
 periodical press. imcl<>r the mini fie phimeof 
 
 JOHN I.EWI.S BEARD. 
 
 Mart Flippin, for the past ten years. He is 
 an artist by profession, and resides at Win- 
 ston, N. C. 
 
 TO A DIAMOND. 
 You come from 'neatli the hills, oh, thou 
 
 recluse: [rays — 
 
 That tliou niay'st drink tlie sun's refulg-ent 
 To blend thy grlory with the world's^ay hues. 
 And thus the name of thy creator praise. 
 But man's perverted taste sets thee in jjold. 
 And iiiiis thee on his front to mark his state; 
 The sum of money which thou cost when 
 
 sold. 
 Was paid by him his foolish pride to sate. 
 Why should'st thou be compelled to deck the 
 
 breasts 
 Of men devoid of wit or common sense? 
 It thou could'st speak and have thine own 
 
 requests, [peiise. 
 
 Sure thou would'st choose a nobler recom- 
 Then seek a^ain, oh gem, thy mountain home. 
 Where thou can'st sparkle with the morning 
 
 dew; 
 Or look up to yon splendid star-lit dome. 
 And there a 'semblance of thy beauty view. 
 
 MRS. MIRIAM A. CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Born: Logan Co., W. Va.. May a, 1.S59. 
 A FEW of the poems of Mrs. Christian have 
 appeared in the local i>ress. She was married 
 in 1880, but is now a widow, and resides at 
 Christian, W. V'a. 
 
 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 
 When tlie nujonlifrht's softly streaminpr, 
 
 O'er my natix'e hills iind vales; 
 And the whippoorwills are drcaniiiij^. 
 
 And the owl has ceased his wails; 
 And the highest stars in heaven 
 
 Glitter in the streamlets clear; 
 And the world to rest is given. 
 
 Save some traveler on the way; 
 Then I stand and view all nature. 
 
 In her beauty, by the light. 
 Of the myriail golden lanterns. 
 
 Swung above the world at night! 
 And I'm wrapt again in cliiklhood, 
 
 Wlien I played upon the lawn I 
 Or with friends I roam the wildwood, 
 
 A maiden not yet grown I 
 And tlie words of friends departed. 
 
 On the fragrant breeze is borne- 
 Words of somt- who broken-hearted. 
 
 Left this world sad and forlorn I 
 Then again I'm loneb' wandering 
 
 By the crystal mountain brooks. 
 Where some cataract is thundering, 
 
 Or at school among my books. 
 Seeking knowledge of past ages. 
 
 For my heart had thirsty grown. 
 And 1 longed to drink from sages 
 
 And to fathom the unknown 1 
 But my life was sail and weary 
 
 For an evil star had shone. 
 Which bespoke a life most dreary. 
 
 For the one beneath it born I 
 Love then spied the path 1 wended. 
 
 From his pearly throne sibove. 
 Anil two dreary lives he blended 
 
 With his magic wan i of love I 
 And we took our flight together. 
 
 As the sun sank in the west, 
 And we comforted each other. 
 
 And 1 dreamed that I was blessed 
 But alas I my dream .s(H)n ended. 
 
 And I found that all is woe! 
 And that joys and griefs are blended. 
 
 Where e'er I chanced to go! 
 But I've traveled 'neath love's bower. 
 
 Past the noontide of my life. 
 While death's plucked the sweetest tlower , 
 
 Which grew "round rao as a wife. 
 Now my Star of Hope's descended 
 
 The horizon of the west. 
 And my drejims of youth are ended, 
 
 .^nd 1 fain would >ink to r^'st. 
 
 •*- 
 
•*- 
 
 1088 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 E. L. JONES. 
 
 Born: Crawfoud Co., Ind. 
 
 After receiving- his education at Fort 
 Branch, Mr. Jones followed successfully the 
 occupation of a farmer, iig-ent, clerk, lawstu- 
 
 E. L. JONES. 
 
 dent, court officer and teacher, which latter 
 profession he now follows. He has written 
 quite a few poems of merit, many of which 
 have received publication in the press. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 A nohle thought, a thoug-ht sublime. 
 Whether clothed in prose or dressed in rhyme, 
 If hurled before the public g-aze. 
 Will fan some humble spark ablaze. 
 'Twill help the future in her strife. 
 Between the darkness and the light; 
 'Twill help some person, place or thing. 
 However darkly stained by sin. 
 A thought that breaks the reins of sin. 
 That rends and wrecks its walls within. 
 Is but an angel clothed in words. 
 In garments of this sinful world. 
 A thought that's dressed in grarmcnts white, 
 That lends the world iicllucid light. 
 That deals to error deadly blows. 
 Is but a .skylight here below. 
 A thought that .shines upon our eyes. 
 That tends o\u- deeds toward welkin skies, 
 Is but the truth, the truth alone; 
 And the truth itself can be our own. 
 
 MARCUS A. STEWART. 
 
 Born : Madison, Wis., Sept. 21, 1852. 
 In 1883 Mr. Stewart published a volume in 
 verse entitled Rosita, which received high 
 commendation from the press. His poems 
 have occasionallj' appeared in the press. 
 
 AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 In daj's of old — as I have been told — 
 
 There stood on the brow of a hill 
 
 .\n oak tree lone, with moss overgrown - 
 
 Perhaps there's a trace of it still — 
 
 An oak so tall, its shadow would fall 
 
 At even I'ar over the vale. 
 
 An oak whose wood had gleefully stood. 
 
 The fury of many a gale. 
 
 .\ slender shoot sprung up at its foot, 
 
 And flourishing mounted high. 
 
 Being sheltered well from frosts as they fell, 
 
 And wintery winds whistling by; 
 
 For the old tree hung above it and sung 
 
 A lullaby all the year through. 
 
 And thus they say, as time passed away. 
 
 Instead of one o.ak there were two. 
 
 And side by side thej' towered in pride. 
 
 Their branches on high interlocked. 
 
 The old and young, together they clung, 
 
 Together the tempest they mocked; 
 
 And when decay tiad eaten away 
 
 The heart of the old oak tall. 
 
 Till low he drooped, the young oak stooped, 
 
 And lightened his parent's fall. 
 
 MOON-SET. 
 Dian's orb is slowlj^ sinking 
 
 Down behind the misty height. 
 And the morning stars are winking 
 
 Brighter in the waning light. 
 And a thousand shadows linking 
 
 Deepen now the gloom of night. 
 As those stars seem brighter, nearer, 
 
 In the swiftly gathering gloom. 
 
 So our youthful joys grow dearer. 
 
 As we lose our youthful bloom; 
 
 And we see our errors clearer 
 
 In the shadow of the tomb. 
 
 As those stars but faintly glimmer 
 
 In the soft, subduing rays 
 Of the moon, our faults grow dimmer. 
 
 Should one virtue gather praise; 
 Yet they shine out sharper, grimmer, 
 
 Wheu its honors cea.se to blaze. 
 As the flitting shades before us 
 
 Seem to mock the (jueen of night. 
 Apprehensions gather o'er us 
 
 When fair Virtue takes her flight. 
 Leaving nothing to restore us 
 Save the memory of her light. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1089 
 
 HARMON HIATT. 
 
 Born: Guit.boiid Co., N. C, Jan. 20, 1819. 
 NE.4RLV a hundred poems of Sir. Hiiitt have 
 appeared in the Grange Bulletin, Boston 
 Christian Ileg-ister, and the local jiapcrs of 
 Indiana. He lias written numerous poems 
 on farming subjects and is known as tlie 
 
 HAKMO.V niATT. 
 
 Farmer Poet of Indiana. Mr. Hiatt is of 
 Quaker parentage and was married in 1838 to 
 Miss Mary Harris, and now resides at Craw- 
 fordsvillc, Ind. Miss Louise Hiatt Brown, a 
 granddaughter of the subject of this sketch, 
 is also represented in this work. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE GROWING CORN. 
 I see that on Parnassus' height 
 
 The archers draw the bow. 
 And sing its praises with delight, 
 
 How sweet tlie measures flow — 
 
 Each knight now makes the welkin ring. 
 
 As loud as bugle horn; 
 Be mine the nobler task to sing 
 
 About the growing corn. 
 
 The lives that in these germs liave lain 
 
 In silent, sweet repose; 
 A graceful form and beauty gain 
 
 By Nature's gentle throes. 
 
 No sudden bound is here displayed 
 To change the wond'rous scene; 
 
 Nor is progressive work delayed 
 Till all is robed In green. 
 
 Each stalk contains a pearly drop 
 
 Through all the day, so dear; 
 
 Nor will it drink llie morsel uf) 
 
 Till evening shades appear. 
 
 Whence came this drop 'mid burning sun, 
 
 When zephyrs hide away? 
 Or why not rise, like mist, and rua 
 
 With silvered clouds of day? 
 
 Perhaps the Fairies, o'er the field. 
 
 While weary mort.als slept. 
 Had come with store of tears concealed. 
 
 And stood, and sighed, and w ept. 
 
 Perchance, they may have marked the spot. 
 
 In their nocturnal walk. 
 And came with tiny watering pot 
 
 And poured on every stalk. 
 
 But science comes to show its worth. 
 And teach what brought them there; 
 
 'Tis vajior from the mellowed earth. 
 Condensed by cooler air. 
 
 Each hill presents a graceful bow. 
 
 As through the day I toil; 
 And seems to thank the passing plow 
 or turning o'er the soil. 
 
 These crackling sounds I often hear. 
 
 Like Lilliputian flght; 
 Will soon present the pendent ear, 
 
 And tassled plume to sight. 
 
 The nodding plumes with parent dust 
 
 Wave o'er the !-ilkeii fold; 
 And passing breeze or Midas-touch 
 
 Will turn the ears to gold. 
 
 Then may the widow's heart rejoice 
 
 If craven hunger worn; 
 For starving child with feeble voice. 
 
 Will call for golden corn. 
 
 Put up the bow. it tells a tale 
 
 That men should love to hide; 
 When o'er the liill and through the vale 
 
 He bore it by his side. 
 
 And feeble women tilled the ground. 
 
 And labor laughed to scorn; 
 And fed to him, the worthless bouud, 
 
 Her shining ears of corn. 
 
 THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG. 
 We love to join in singing. 
 
 When seated by the Are; 
 Our mirthful voices ringing. 
 
 Speak forth the heart's desire. 
 
 -* 
 
^- 
 
 1090 
 
 LOCAT. AXD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 We sing of all our pleasures, 
 
 We banish every care; 
 We ask no greater treasure 
 
 Ttian have our playmates there. 
 
 We tell our pleasing stories. 
 Of plays, and books, and toys; 
 
 And of the girl that glories 
 In prattling with the boys. 
 
 Though mothers often tell us 
 To stop our daylight dreams. 
 
 Our anxious hearts compel us 
 To lay our plans and schemes. 
 
 So, alas, wc will not blame you. 
 But think, when you were young. 
 
 What sports the most became you? 
 What songs were mostly sung? 
 
 LOUISE HIATT BROWN. 
 
 BORx: DeWitt, Neb.. Sept.15, 1873. 
 
 Miss Bbowx is a granddaughter of Mr. Har- 
 mon Hiatt, who is elsewliere represented in 
 
 this work. Some of :hr iioenis tif Mi-ss Brown 
 
 T ATT KROWN. 
 
 have appeared in the Detroit Commercial 
 Advertiser and the local press. She is a 
 teacher of I'lociition, and resides in Craw- 
 fordsville, Inil. 
 
 THE MISERS DREAM. 
 Within a room all dark and cold 
 There dwelt a miser gray and old; 
 And as he sat thus all alone 
 With clouded brow and heart of stone, 
 He thought of rents come due next day. 
 How certain tenants could not pay; 
 I will not wait, aloud he cried. 
 They'll find a dwelling place outside. 
 And at the thouglit lie slilj' smiled. 
 While, in great heaps, his gold he piled. 
 
 The wind blew fierce, the snow fell fast. 
 
 The miser dropped to sleep at last. 
 
 And, Lo! in sorrow I am told 
 
 He heard the angel's liarps of gold, 
 
 Till through his mind there seemed to ring, 
 
 Peace, peace on earth, good will to men, 
 
 The angels sang it o'er again. 
 
 Blessed thrice blessed be the name 
 Of Him who came to Bethlehem, 
 He came to save the world from sin. 
 Believe on him and enter in; 
 He died for thee; He died for thee; 
 He gave His life upon the tree. 
 All love and lionor to the name 
 Of the sweet Babe of Bethlehem. 
 
 The miser knocked upon the gate, 
 Whence came the sound too late, too late. 
 Behold I knocked upon your door. 
 Ye bade me go and come no more. 
 Oft did I thirst and hunger too. 
 Ye never bade me sup with you; 
 Naked was I. not clothed by thee. 
 Imprisoned, sick, ye visited not me; 
 The miser opened wide his eyes 
 And looked around in great surprise; 
 How glad that I am not too late. 
 
 Ah ! this is what would be my fate 
 Should I go on in the same old w;iy; 
 I'll make a solemn vow to-day 
 That from henceforth I'll mend my way. 
 
 On Cliristmas morning fair and bright 
 The miser walked to Widow Gray, 
 And a riirisimas present gave, they say 
 Of a montli's rent, and l)ottor still 
 Than even that; with hearty will 
 In many homes he scattered food. 
 Till all the children called him good. 
 
 And every year on Clu-istmas night 
 The miser in lii.s room so bright. 
 Hears o'er again that sweet refrain. 
 Peace, peace on earth, good will to men. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 um 
 
 HORATIO DUDLEY TORREY. 
 
 Born: Dixfieid, Me., Sept. 7, 1828. 
 
 The popins of >[r. Dudley have appeared in 
 tlio Portland Transcript, Portland Eclectic, 
 Portlanil Press, Boston Carpet Bag-, Clirono- 
 type. Home Sentinel, Oxford Democrat and 
 many other papers. The poems of this geutle- 
 
 HORATIO DUDLEY TOIIRETT. 
 
 man were principally written in his youth. 
 He was a graduate of the Maine ^ledical 
 School and the Harvard Medical School, and 
 still practices his profession of physician at 
 South Bridg-ton, Maine. Mr. Torrcy h;is one 
 daughter, Amoret Dudley Torrey, who is 
 represented elsewhere in this work. 
 
 ANTICIPATION. 
 
 Look upon my Fancy'.i limning; 
 
 Listen to my Muse's singing! 
 I will tell thee, wifle mine, 
 Of our homo in future time: — 
 
 Of our home, its joys and pleasures. 
 
 Sunny nooks and priceless treasures. 
 
 It shall be a cottage low. 
 By its walls a brook shall flow: 
 Trees shall wave their verdant heads 
 0"er the rose, tliat perfume sheds 
 Through the garden where the ringing 
 Notes proclaim the song birds singing. 
 
 Leafy bines shall climb the door. 
 With fair clusters covered o'er: 
 
 And the rustling leaves shall sigh 
 Wh en the evening winds tloat l)y. 
 
 Waliing with their airy pinions 
 Music from /Eotus' minions. 
 
 In the distance, mountains blue 
 Shall uprise the ether through: 
 And the sun's last rays shall fold 
 Their dim tops in robes of gold. 
 Gilding too our brooklet llowing 
 With a rosy radiance glowing. 
 
 When at eve the setting sun 
 Warns me home, my labor done. 
 Then thine earnest eyes of blue 
 I shall catch the casement through; 
 W.atchful eyes! a vigil keeping 
 For the absent one's first greeting. 
 
 Wifle mine! this home shall be 
 Dwelling meet for thee and me. 
 
 Peace and Love will prize its walls. 
 
 Higher far than wealth's cold iiall.i; 
 And at close of life the tearful 
 Parting here will be less tearful. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 Farewell I alas, it should be spoken I 
 That ties thus formed should e'er be broketi ! 
 That we should hopeless part forever! 
 
 Yet fare tliee well ! 
 
 Tho" 'tis a knell 
 To bearts'that fain woukl sunder never! 
 
 They're passed! those days of joy and glad- 
 ness. 
 Whose Ijours the ebon wing of sadness 
 Ne'er tinged with earthly blight or .sorrow! 
 
 Ah, nevermore. 
 
 On Time's dim shore. 
 Shall Hope proclaim a glad to-morrow. 
 
 The dreams my ycnithf ul fancy cherished. 
 Of fame and glory, all iiave perished! 
 And nevermore on earth shall brighten 
 
 My bitter fate! 
 
 Tlie leaden weight 
 Of ruined hopes no power c:in lighten. 
 
 To the dull wave of Lethe's river 
 Haste thei\ O, soul! and wash forever 
 From Memory's p:ige, the last sad token 
 
 Of other days! 
 
 Whose sunny rays 
 No more can cheer this heart now broken! 
 
 As caverned streams with sullen motion 
 Roll sunless to the boundless ocean. 
 E'en so will life, by .sorrow molde<l. 
 
 Roll sunless by 
 
 WitlKMit ;i sigh. 
 Until in Deatlx's d.ark niglit enfolded I 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
1092 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 AMORET DUDLEY TORREY. 
 
 Born : Maine, 1857. 
 Miss TorREY is the daughter of Horatio 
 Dudley Torrey, a well-laiown physician of 
 Bridgton, Maine, who is represented else- 
 
 AMORKT DUDLEY TORHr.Y. 
 
 Where in this %\ oi Iv. The poems of Miss Tor- 
 rey have received high commendation from 
 the press, and have appeared in some of the 
 leading publications of her native state. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 There's a Sabbath quiet round me. 
 
 As the sun descends once more 
 To his home beyond the mountains. 
 
 Where some cloud-cave's dusky door 
 Shuts him in behind its portals 
 
 •Till the sable night be o'er. 
 Ah, how many, many changes 
 
 Must he witness in his round: 
 Bising o'er a happy household. 
 
 Setting where grim Death is found! 
 Rising o^er bright smiling faces. 
 
 Setting o'er a new-made mound. 
 Shining in its dawning splendor 
 
 On an infant newly born. 
 And at night, leaving in darkness 
 
 Some poor wretch, unkempt, forlorn. 
 Who in drinking deep of Pleasure, 
 
 Finds its dregs are Want and Scorn. 
 Shedding beams all rainbow tinted. 
 
 On a youtlif III. happy pair, 
 Wlio are friends with Love's emotion,- 
 Vowed with each, their lives to share; - 
 
 Will dull evening find unsundered 
 The bright cord at dawn so fair? 
 So the Sun of Life ariseth 
 
 On Youth's aspirations bright, 
 But to cast his last rays setting 
 
 On Old Age in darkest night; — 
 Who has seen Youth's hopes expiring. 
 
 Slain by Disappointment's blight. 
 But the Sun of Life immortal 
 
 Sets not on a struggling soul, 
 That, each day is true and faithful, 
 
 Seeking strength through self-control ; - 
 Where such walk there is no shadow! - 
 
 For the sun shines to the goal! 
 
 L 
 
 AN OLD STORY. 
 I'm going to tell a story 
 
 That's neither fresh nor new; 
 LTubrightened by martial glory. 
 
 Or lovers who court or sue. 
 No, there is no beautiful maiden, 
 
 No hero with heart on fire. 
 No millionaire heavily laden 
 
 With jewels that maids admire. 
 My tale is of trial and sorrow; 
 Of Poverty Pain and care: — 
 (From words there is naught I can borrow. 
 
 To make the dark picture fair): — 
 Of wives, robbed ot love and protection 
 
 Of children, of liome and bread; 
 Of parents with endless aflfection. 
 
 Bereft of a child that's not dead: 
 Of locks prematurely whitened; 
 
 And hearts a-breaking with pain; 
 Of little ones left unenlightened; 
 Of bitter tears falling like rain: 
 Of homes that are broken and scattered; 
 
 Of intellects wasted and spoiled; 
 Of manly forms ruuied and shattered; 
 
 Aspirations and hopes that are foiled: 
 Of the drunkard's idiot offspring; 
 
 Of prison and scaffold grim: — 
 (To the find a worthy offering; 
 
 A sacrifice mete for hini). 
 Of the pinioned m:iniac lying 
 
 Tn darkness, gasping for breath; 
 Of the wretch in tlie almshouse dying, 
 
 A bitter neglected death. 
 What's caused all the sin I'm describing? 
 
 What is it has robbed the wife! 
 'Tis the drink her liusband's imbibing, 
 
 'Tis drink that's ruined his life! 
 He hears not his dear ones calling 
 
 His name with affection and tears. 
 The poison his senses enthralling. 
 Benumbs both heart and his ears. 
 
*- 
 
 ■* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAr. I'OETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 WXi 
 
 MRS. MA RT 11 A J A N K SPA K K. 
 
 Born: Annapolis, O., May 17, 1829. 
 This lad.v lias written a few poems that have 
 
 apiK'Mri^d in tht^ IiumI i)f(>>is. Slic was niar- 
 
 SIKS. MAUTHA JANE SPAK.E. 
 
 ried in 1855, but is now a widow, and resides 
 in Edon, Ohio, with her children. 
 
 BURIAL. 
 Now, the slow moiirnins: mournful train 
 Returns to their deserted home ajirain, 
 Leavinjr mother in tlie grave's cold cell — 
 And take a long, and lust sad farewell. 
 
 Now the stormy voyage of life is o'er — 
 The shattered vessel gained her destined 
 
 shore. 
 No more to venture on the boistrous sea. 
 But anchored safe in immortality. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 'Tis true I gaze on heaven's arch 
 And view the jilanets on tlieir march; 
 The ocean in its broad expanse— 
 The rugged mount— the moon-beams glance— 
 The flowers sweet on plain and hill — 
 These, one and all, my pulses thrill. 
 
 Then, when I would my thoughts infuse 
 In meter sweet, I call my muse. 
 'Tis vain my rliynie I fain must close I 
 The ink drops off the pen in prose. 
 
 MRS. MADGK M. WAGNER. 
 
 In 18K1 this author and poet publislicd a 
 volu'ne of poems which have since had a 
 second edition. In 1885 she went to Califor- 
 nia to accept a position as a.ssociate editor on 
 the Golden Era Magazine, in wliich slie pur- 
 cliased an interest; and in lK8«j was married 
 to the editor and proprietor, Harr Wagner, a 
 p('!u)larly and brilliant writer and a man of 
 rue attainments. Mrs. Wagner lias been giv- 
 t i; the appellation of the California i)oetess, 
 and her poems have appeared in the leading 
 newspapers and magazines. She is also tlie 
 author of several prose works— Meric, Diana, 
 A Titled Plebeian, and others. Mrs. Wagner 
 resides happily with her husband and cliild- 
 ren at San Diego, Cal., where she is very 
 popular. 
 
 ROCKING THE BABY. 
 I hear her rocking the baby — 
 
 Her room is just next to mine — 
 And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms 
 
 That 'round her neck entwine. 
 As she rocks and rocks the baby. 
 
 In the room just next to mine. 
 
 I hear her rocking the baby 
 
 Each day wlien the twilight comes. 
 And I know there's a world of blessing and 
 love 
 
 In the baby -bye she hums. 
 I see the restless finger 
 
 Playing with mamma's rings. 
 And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth. 
 
 That to hers in kissing clings. 
 As she rocks and sings to the baby. 
 
 And dreams as she rocks and sings. 
 
 I hear her rocking the baby. 
 
 Slower and slower now. 
 And I know she is leaving her good-night 
 kiss 
 
 On its eyes and check and brow. 
 From her rocking, rocking, rocking, 
 
 I wonder would she start. 
 Could she know, through the wall between 
 us. 
 
 She is rocking on a heart. 
 
 While my empty arms arc aching 
 
 For a form they may not jiress. 
 And my emptier heart is breaking 
 
 In its desolate loneliness, 
 I list to the rocking, rocking. 
 
 In the room just next to mine. 
 And brc.ithc a prayer in silence. 
 
 At a mother's broken shrine. 
 For the woman wlio roeks the baby 
 
 In the room just next to mine. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1094 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN THOMAS. 
 
 Born : England, August 17, 1823. 
 About fifty poems liave appeared in various 
 piihlicalinns from the pen of the subject of 
 
 JOHN THOMAS. 
 
 this sketch. For many years Mr. Thomas 
 was a sailor, but finally settled in Oreg-on in 
 1860, where he now resides at Skipanon. 
 
 THE BARDS FAREWELL. 
 
 Adieu, verdant spot. 
 
 Fair meed of the toil. 
 Of lonely years spent, 
 
 Reclaiming thy soil. 
 From dark tangled brushwood 
 
 And gnarly-limbed trees, 
 And foul stagnant water. 
 
 That poisoned thy leas. 
 Forgive the blank look. 
 
 Whilst the whisper'd good-bye 
 Sweeps the chords of the heart. 
 
 And sounds like a sigh; 
 And clouded perchance 
 
 By a shade of regret, 
 Deem not that I grieve 
 
 For the liibor or sweat 
 That fitted thy breast for the 
 
 Mantel of green. 
 That waves with the wind 
 
 In the sun's mellow skies. 
 For each toilsome day 
 
 Brought with night sweet repose. 
 The moral scijnences, 
 
 Vouchsafe unto those 
 
 Of faithful endeavor. 
 
 Though foiled in the fight, 
 And hope like a lever 
 
 Took part in the weight. 
 As I bend my dim gaze 
 
 Over woodland and dell. 
 Each familiar spot 
 
 Has its own tale to tell; 
 Perchance of a pleasure 
 
 That leaves but a smart. 
 Or a hardship o'ercome 
 
 Which could comfort impart. 
 But the clamor of home 
 
 That enveloped the place. 
 With ideal charms. 
 
 Are dissolving apace; 
 And hope's flickering glim 
 
 Sheds a ray on the gloom. 
 And whispers content is 
 
 The chief charm of home. 
 » «»> « 
 
 MRS. MARAH L. CURTIS. 
 
 Born: February 26, 1858. 
 This lady is the daughter of Capt. Edgar 
 Wakeman, a well-known early Californian. 
 Since her youth this lady has written poems 
 which have appeared in current newspapers 
 and magazines. She was married in 1876 to 
 W. B. Curtis, and hastwosons— Edgar Wake- 
 man, born in 1877; and Waldo Wakeman, 
 born in 1878. She Is a resident of Oakland, 
 California. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 As sad as winds that sound In lofty branches 
 
 Along the sky, 
 As lone as on the salt and silent marslies 
 
 The sea-bird's cry. 
 As desolate as on a far, wild billow — 
 
 The set of sun, 
 So is the wasted life, and thus its promise, 
 
 When love is done. 
 
 REDFVnOUS. 
 The breezes are chasing the rose-leaves by. 
 And shadows arc thronging the purple sky. 
 As over the valley and winding stream. 
 Is falling the last of the sunset's gleam. 
 
 It is twenty years, yet the moon-bcanis fall 
 In the same pale lines on the orchard vail. 
 And I almost think I can catch the tread 
 Of a step that came in the years long dead. 
 
 I marvel to think that a heart so old 
 Can thrill at the thought of a tale long told: 
 While glimpses of visions that once wen- 
 bright. 
 Are borne on the breath of a sigh to-night. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1095 
 
 GAD W. GLEASON. 
 
 Born: Tioga Co., N. Y., Mauch U, ia35. 
 Mr. Gleason is of Irish uiul f>eotch descent. 
 At the age of twelve he went to sea, wliieh 
 occupation he followed until his twenty-soc- 
 ond year. In 1861 Mr. Gleason enlisted in 
 Comi)an\" V. r.'lst Oliio Infantry, ■.ni(\ later 
 
 GAU WOUTHINGTCJN (iLKASON. 
 
 Willi Companj- C. 65th Oliio Infantry, and was 
 color-sorji'Pant until 1863, wiien lie was trans- 
 ferred to tlie Mississippi Marine Brig-ade. 
 In 1878 Mr. Gleason commenced writing for 
 the press, and is a regular correspondent of 
 two prominent newspapers; and at the same 
 time is engaged in business as a iiouse and 
 sign painter. Mr. Gleason was married in 
 1857 to Miss Jane Holmes, and now has ii fam- 
 ily of several children. 
 
 *- 
 
 JUST A WOODEN SHOE. 
 I know its a shoe, a wooden shoe ; 
 But it brings strange tlioughts to me 
 Of the castles grand, in the Vaterlaud, 
 And our homo beyond tlie sea. 
 O'er tlie ocean's brine from the dear old 
 
 Rhino 
 It lias wandered here to me. 
 
 I know it's a shoe, just a wooden shoe; 
 But if it could speak 'twould tell 
 Of the vine-clad liills. and of shady rills. 
 And the cottage within the doll, 
 
 Of tlie churchyard green, where graves are 
 
 seen 
 Of those that we loved so well. 
 Of the motlier wlio jiruyed when her cliildren 
 
 strayed 
 Away, and across the sea. 
 That God would keep on the stormy deep. 
 And that we in His care niiglit be, 
 Sotiiat after the strife of this stormy life 
 We sliould meet in eternity. 
 It would tell, with a sigh, of the fond good-bj-e 
 And the parting tears we shed. 
 Of the friends now gone, as the years rolled 
 
 on. 
 To the land of the silent dead. 
 And of otlicrs, to-day, who far away 
 Toil hard for tlieir daily bread. 
 I know it's a shoe, just a wooden shoe; 
 But it carries me back once more 
 To tlie castles grand of llie Vaterland 
 And to those who have gone before 
 To the golden strand, wliere, with beckoning 
 
 hand. 
 They are calling us to that shore. 
 
 MOTHEU. 
 She is getting old and feeble. 
 She is wrinkled old and gray. 
 And her memory's growing weaker 
 As the long years pass sway. 
 But back along life's pathway 
 Her thoughts still sadly flow. 
 And there I'ises on lier vision 
 The scenes of lung ago. 
 And back her mind will wander 
 To the days of si.\ly-one, 
 And the scenes that once she witnessed. 
 When tlrst the war begun, 
 S.'om plain to rise before her, 
 And she's living day by day. 
 In the presence of the loved ones 
 Who have long since passed away. 
 Now to her ear comes plainly 
 The rattling of the drum. 
 She sees, from farm and hamlet. 
 The rallying heroes come. 
 And among them, young and ardent. 
 Her own loved son she sees. 
 Bearing the starry banner 
 As it floats upon the breeze. 
 And she listens at tlio twilight. 
 When the sun has gone to rest. 
 For the f(x)tste|)s of her soldier boy — 
 Of all she loved the best. 
 Yes, when the dosing of t'le day 
 Has stilled earth's busy liuni. 
 She listens for a footstep 
 That she knows can never come. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1096 
 
 LOCAL A^'D NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Now she's thinking- of a letter 
 That was brought to her oue day, 
 From one who fougiit beside him 
 Alltlirough the bloody fray. 
 And the story of his bravery 
 Filled the mother's heart with pride. 
 But what's that? It tells her also 
 That he bravely fighting- died. 
 
 Dead! Her brave boy? Yes he's fallen. 
 With his face toward the foe. 
 And the Isnowiedge so appalling 
 Fills the mother's heart witli woe. 
 Yes, he died for liouie and country. 
 And she'll never see him more. 
 But slie watches, waits, and listens 
 For his footstep at the door. 
 
 Through all these long and weary years 
 
 That's past from then till now, 
 
 Till raven hair lias turned to snow 
 
 Above her wrinkled brow. 
 
 Her mind turns from tlie present 
 
 To days and scenes of yore. 
 
 And still she waits, and listens 
 
 For his footsteps at the door. 
 
 1 1 ^ * — ♦ 
 
 GEORGE PEPPER JOHNSON. 
 
 Born: Preemption, Ii^ii., March 31, 1867. 
 The subject of this sketch is a resident of 
 
 Brooklyn, Iowa, where he is engaged in f arm- 
 
 *- 
 
 GEOROE PEPPER JOHNSTON. 
 
 Ingr. A few of his poems have appeared in 
 the local press. 
 
 PROPER PEOPLE. 
 
 Give me the man with the fibre of oak 
 
 To stiffen his spine for the right. 
 
 Mortised with courage and gained in the 
 
 truth. 
 Whose actions show best in the light; 
 Strong- to stand up in the storm-gales of life, 
 A man ! — not a poor parasite 1 
 
 Give me the woman, though fragile she be. 
 And bend for the time to the blast. 
 Who lifts her head with a smile on her face 
 When the danger of the storm is past ; 
 The oaky strength of whose spirit is faith; 
 That can all storms out-last. 
 
 Give me the boy and the girl whose minds 
 
 Are lit with ambition to rise. 
 
 To do something- good for their race and their 
 
 God — 
 Who seeks not for the earth, but for heaven ; 
 Whose affections flow pure as the waters of 
 
 life. 
 And whose tongue speaks truth in their eyes. 
 
 Give me the child that is childish in all 
 Of its kind and loving ways; 
 Around such a one groups of angels I see 
 Through the mists of a mystical maze; 
 The pert and precocious belong to the world. 
 And the world shall consume all their days. 
 
 Give me the laugh and the smile tliat pro- 
 claim 
 A heart strong- and faithful behind ; 
 The man and woman with hand at command 
 Tiie wounds of misfortune to bind; 
 Who find not their principal cause for delight 
 In the troubles and griefs of their kind. 
 
 Give me the man, who forgiving though 
 
 wronged. 
 With no malice no man will pursue; 
 The fair-minded foe who has lionor enough 
 To give even tlie devil his duo — 
 Tiic man is high who is true to his trust 
 And the judge who to just ice is true. 
 
 And the man wlio is honest to all in all things 
 And strong to make lionor liis guide; 
 The woman who's loyal to virtue and love 
 And whose " flold " is her own fireside — 
 Oh tliese are tlio people God loves, and T love. 
 Andtliey arc found tlirough the whole world 
 wide! 
 
*- 
 
 l.OCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMKUICA. 
 
 1097 
 
 MRS. ANNIE W. WEED. 
 
 Born: Canada, June 18, 1833. 
 At ih« age of three Annie's parents removed 
 to Syracuse, N. Y., and at twelve years of 
 ageshe wrote the poem entitled Ihe Captive. 
 Duriup the rebellion she spent a part of her 
 time at till' n:iiiiin;il Ciiiuldl ill adiiiiiiisterint; 
 
 MRS. ANME W. NYEED. 
 
 to the sick and wounded. This lady was mar- 
 ried ill 1874 to W. H. Weed. As the author of 
 the beautiful story entitled Tsadore, Mrs. 
 VVeed has grained quite a reputation in the 
 literary world; and she already has another 
 volume entitled The Pathway to tlie Rifted 
 Rock, which will be published at an early 
 date. As a lecturer Mr?. A. W. Weed is al- 
 so becoming- very popular in the East. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE. 
 Some think the Captive's heart is stone, 
 Wliile otliers think that he lias none; 
 But oh I how wretclied must they feel 
 Wlio think the Captive's heart is steel. 
 How oft lias he with broken heart 
 Gone to the man-depradiiipmart. 
 Where he has passed throufrh unknown bands 
 Far distant from his native lands. 
 And oil ! how wretched is that form 
 That has been left throusili many a storm 
 With not a friend, nor jiatron near. 
 To guide her through this world's career. 
 
 The world-worn C;iptive lias a Friend. 
 
 And none His power can deleiid; 
 
 A Friend tiiat death can never move, 
 
 A Friend who reigns in worlds above. 
 
 Then set the toilsome Captive free. 
 
 And spread the folds of Liberty, 
 
 For those who have life's toils to brave, 
 
 Should live, and not be called a slave. 
 
 ood 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 The hearts of thy frieniis are made sad 
 
 The jiarting, to us, seems severe; 
 While that of thine own is made glad 
 
 With the songs of the saints; and 
 cheer 
 Resounds thro' the portals of Glory — 
 
 '• Come, loved one, thy sins are forgiven. 
 Sweet welcome — repeat the glad story — 
 
 'Tis Jenny's first Sabbath in heaven." 
 
 Methinks we e'en liear the grand cliorus 
 Of harps, on the bright golden shore; 
 
 Her angelic form before us. 
 Though in flesh we shall see her no more. 
 
 Still in visions of fancy we see her 
 In that home, wliere so long she has stri vei 
 
 An entrance to gain, liriglit and clear — 
 
 " 'Tis Jenny's first Sabbath in heaven." 
 
 SPRING-TIME. 
 The dark, dismal clouds of November 
 Have passed, like a funeral pall; 
 And the cold chilling winds of December, 
 Alike unlamented by all; 
 And we welcome once more the sweet spring- 
 time. 
 We rejoice at its wished-for return. 
 And we greet the warm soul-cheering sun- 
 shine. 
 As our hearts witli devotioti still burn. 
 We soon shall again, o'er the hilltops. 
 See dancing the silvery rain ; 
 We soon shall behold the briglitdewdrops 
 Enlivening sweet flowers o'er the plain. 
 And the wild birds: sweet songsters, we love 
 
 them. 
 As oft o'er the me.idows we roam. 
 At morning, at noon, or at even. 
 They sing in their own leafy liomo 
 Then welcome! thrice welcome the spring- 
 time. 
 Yes, welcome March. April, and May, 
 For they each bring their charms, like the 
 
 sunshine, 
 Dispelling dark clouds o'crour way- 
 Bring beautiful flowers tocheer us. 
 The liawthorn. the daisy, and rose. 
 And tlnis may they ever endear us 
 Till in death we sink into repose. 
 
 « 
 
■*- 
 
 1098 
 
 LOCAT< AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 RICHARD DINE. 
 
 Born: England, May 23, 1825. 
 Emigrating to Nebraska in 1870 with his 
 wife and family, Mr. Diue has resided there 
 ever since, witli the exception of a year spent 
 
 RICHARD DINE 
 
 in Florida. He became a member of the 
 Odd Fellows in 18.58, and a Free Mason in 1864, 
 and is still an active member in botli orders. 
 
 ^- 
 
 A PRESENT OF A TEN DOLLAR BILL. 
 
 Delia dear, it grieves my heart 
 That we should be so long- apart, 
 
 1 know that you are fully mine, 
 I send you this my Valentine. 
 
 Delia, shall we ever meet. 
 
 And interchang-e our kisses sweet; 
 Yon know that T am fully thine. 
 Then take from me this Valentine. 
 It is not much I do confess. 
 But it will promote your happiness; 
 
 1 hope to meet you thoug-h In time 
 And bring another Valentine. 
 
 MY OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 My Old Arm-Chair as it stands in the parlor 
 
 I almost revere it, I do declare, 
 I find it a solace, a rest, and a ])loasurc. 
 
 That broad-se.ited, hazy-backed. Old Arm- 
 Chair. 
 Tiiat Old Arm-Chair I hide as a treasure. 
 
 As often at night I return from my shop 
 I find it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 
 As into its soft-cushioned bottom I drop. 
 
 I love it I do, I love it I say. 
 
 To question my love for it none shall dare; 
 It was the gift of the boys on my natal day, 
 
 Then why should I not love that Old Arm- 
 Chair. 
 How oft I regret the day that we parted. 
 
 Yea, tears of regret.and sighs too will share 
 My love and respect,you see they have started 
 
 A tear of regret for the Old A rm-Chair. 
 
 DEXTER C. WASHBURN. 
 
 Born: Rockport, Me , Oct. 9, 1861. 
 After graduating in 1885 from the Bates 
 college, Mr. Washburn was a reporter for 
 two years on several New York daily papers, 
 but is now engaged in mercantile pursuits in 
 Boston, Mass. While at college he was a 
 constant writer to the Student and was on its 
 editorial staff. Mr. Washburn is the author 
 of a volume of poems entitled Songs of the 
 Seasons, and other verses, which is now in 
 its second edition. 
 
 I WONDER. 
 I wonder if she guesses it. 
 
 My little baby fine; 
 Her picture ne'er expresses it. 
 
 This photograph of mine. 
 She sits up there and looks at me. 
 
 Upon the mantel high. 
 (Meanwhile clium's throwing books at me, 
 
 Because 1 don't reply.) 
 She little knows what vows I make 
 
 Before this slirine of her's, 
 And could she see the bows I make, 
 
 She call me mad, or worse. 
 I wonder if she dreams of it. 
 
 If ever, tlu-ough her mind. 
 Go floating stray, faint gleams of it. 
 
 Like straws tliat show the wind. 
 I sing my little songs to her, 
 
 Poor, witty, long, or terse; 
 Each trifle that belongs to her 
 
 I weave into my verse. 
 She takes them all so prettily, 
 
 I think she must have guessed; 
 Then turns them off as wittily 
 
 As though 'twere all in jest. 
 I wonder if she heeds them all. 
 
 And if she half divines 
 The meanings, as she reads them all, 
 
 I write between the lines. 
 Would she accept — refuse it .all 
 
 If slie should guess, who knows? 
 And would I gain, or lose it all. 
 
 If I should speak in prose? 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OK A.MKlilCA. 
 
 1009 
 
 MRS. MARY F. BEETS. 
 
 Born: Van Buren Co., Iowa, Sept. 7, 18.57. 
 
 Mks. Beets taught school in Miania county, 
 Kausas, and also in Jackson countj', Missou- 
 
 MRS. MARY F. BEETS. 
 
 ri. Married in 1883 to Tliomas J. Beets, this 
 lady was left n widow five years later. Her 
 poems liave .appeared extensively in the 
 local iiress. 
 
 SING ME A SONG SWEET BIRDS. 
 Ye happy birds that hop about 
 
 From hough tohoug-h in shady bowers, 
 Come, sing- to me at set of sun, 
 And cheer my solitary hours 
 Yc blissful birds. 
 
 Tell me a tale of southern seas, 
 • With sunny islands dotted o'er. 
 Of the seagrulls' crj', and storm-tossed ships. 
 Of waves that haunt the pcbblj- shore — 
 lu rhythmic words. 
 
 Oh ! tell 1110 of the land of flowers. 
 Of tlie sunny southland far away; 
 
 Of brijrhl-hued binls in taiifrled nooks. 
 That chirp all niifht and sing all day 
 Their happy songs. 
 
 Of the deep, dark forest .sing to me. 
 Of the flowers that grow by the river's side; 
 
 And sing me the song tliat the rivers sang 
 To you as they wandered on in their pride, 
 Through all daj- long. 
 
 Oh I tell iiie of your last year's nest; 
 
 And where you liuilt it, tell nie pray; 
 And are you birdies .safe from harm? 
 
 Or were they stolen on tlii' way 
 By cruel hands? 
 
 If you would build just out of sight 
 High in the fern trees by the wall. 
 
 And keep your birdies safe at liome, 
 You need not wander far, at all. 
 In stranger lands. 
 
 Sing me the song that last j'ou Sivng 
 
 Down in the forest by the sea; 
 Conii' iicrch upon tlie window sill 
 
 And sing your sweetest song to me; 
 No one is near. 
 
 'Twas such a ])ri>tty song you sang. 
 
 Now liy awaj', you tiny things; 
 And if when dayliglit comes again. 
 You seek for me witli tireless wings. 
 You'll lind me lierc. 
 « — «^^* — • 
 
 HERBERT BASIIFORD. 
 
 Born: Sioux City, Ia., March 4, 1871. 
 The poems of Mr. Bash ford have appeared 
 in Outing, Northwest Magazine, New York 
 Critic, Journalist, Belford's.Overland Month- 
 ly, Texas Siftings and numerous other pub- 
 lications. He is also the author of .several 
 prose stories which have appt-ared in current 
 literature. Mr. Bashford is engaged in lit- 
 erary work, and resides at Tacoma, Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 Like some huge bird that sinks to rest 
 
 The sun goes down a weary thing — 
 And o'er the water's placid breast 
 
 It lays a scarlet, outstretched wing. 
 
 SUNKISE. 
 The sun climbs up with burning feet, 
 The sea is like a tossing sheet. 
 Fire-fringed, where shore and water meet. 
 While on the crest of yonder lieight. 
 Those tall, dead cedars shine s<i bright 
 That each one seems !i lance of light. 
 
 AFTER THE SNOWSTORM. 
 
 Each tall pine stands in white amy. 
 A keen nortli wind is whistling I y. 
 The clouds take wing and sail away 
 Like huge gray birds across the sky. 
 And through the pasture, bleak and cold, 
 A stream's black windings 1 can trace, 
 While o'er yon mountain, rugged, bold. 
 The new moon shows a frosty face. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1100 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. HARRIET A. 0. FOSTER. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., March 26, 1823. 
 This kidy has written nearlj' two hundred 
 poems, which have appeared in the Boston 
 Watchman and Reflector, Nashua Telegraph, 
 Amherst Cabinet, Milford Enterprise, Wil- 
 ton Journal, Manchester Mirror, Greenville 
 
 MRS. HARRIET A. O. FOSTER. 
 
 Advertiser and the periodical press generally. 
 She was married in 1854 to Newell Dean Fos 
 ler, and now resides at Wilton, N. H. Mrs. 
 Fosleris a descendant of the Jewett family, 
 which had a reunion at the old Jewett Home- 
 stead at Rowley in 1855. 
 
 THE PLYMOUTH ROCK. 
 
 Can this he a piece of Plymouth Rock 
 Our pilgrim fathers pressed? 
 
 And did their worn and tired feet 
 Find shelter here and rest? 
 
 This rock fit emblem of their faith 
 
 In God's own power to save. 
 And cause their little barque to find 
 
 A home beyond the wave. 
 
 Where, free from tyranny and strife, 
 
 God's altar they might rear. 
 And from their pure and reverent hearts 
 
 Their grateful offerings pour. 
 
 How o'er that bare and rugged waste. 
 In accents loud and clear. 
 
 Rose high their songs of lofty praise, 
 'Mid the wild forest's cheer! 
 
 God's own peculiar grace has shed 
 Rich blessings on our land. 
 
 And we, their children, now enjoy 
 The peace they dearly earned. 
 
 Proud that our ancestors did bear 
 Good Bradford's precious name. 
 
 And owned a near relationship, — 
 May we his virtues claim. 
 
 O, sacred to my heart shall be 
 This precious gem of stone. 
 
 Since God our sainted fathers sent. 
 And marked us for His own. 
 
 O, mighty Lord, our land protect 
 Till the last trump shall sound! 
 
 Then may we with Thy chosen ones. 
 In glory all be found. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 We love thee! bright, golden Autumn, 
 
 Sweet lessons in thee we have found; 
 Though thy glory is fleeting and transient 
 
 Thou must queen of the seasons be crowned 
 
 Mellow and soft is thy sunlight; 
 
 Each leaf the rainbow outvies. 
 And wide over liill-top and valley 
 
 All nature in beauty now lies. 
 
 Spring, to all hearts has its brightness. 
 As it wakes from the long winter's sleep; 
 
 Sweet notes of birds bring us gladness. 
 And June's fragrant flowers we greet. 
 
 We love the warm sunshine of summer. 
 The fields in the loveliest green; 
 
 The flowers all nameless with beauty. 
 Till the wealth of October is seen. 
 
 Thy charms wake the deepest emotion, 
 Such only as sweet Autumn brings; 
 
 Rest, peace, and a holy devotion 
 To God, and all heavenly things. 
 
 All hail ! then, thou queen of the seasons, 
 We welcome the lessons you bring. 
 
 Sweet emblem of earth's fleeting pleasures 
 Like the flight of a bird on the wing. 
 
 Ere the frost of life's coldest winter 
 The sunsliino shall chill in our breast. 
 
 Guide us safely, our Friend and Redeemer, 
 Where the weary shall find sweetest rest. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OETS OF AMKUICA, 
 
 llUl 
 
 FRANK S. FINN. 
 
 Born : Boston, Mass., Nov. 10, 1838. 
 The subject of tliis sketch is a son of an em- 
 inent comedian, and Frank was educated for 
 the stage and followed tlio theatrical jirofos- 
 siou for several ^■ea^s. Mr. Finn Las trav- 
 
 FRANK S. FINN. 
 
 eled extensively and has attained a promi- 
 nent position as an elocutionist and humorist. 
 As an author and poet, wliich profession he 
 now follows, he is becoming very popular. 
 
 OL'R BURDENS. 
 Well it isn't so much of a story; and I'm a 
 
 poor teller, I know; 
 But 1 think 1 am right in believing there is 
 
 really more weal than there's woe. 
 And, whenever I hear folks complaining at 
 
 the lot they are forced to endure. 
 The blessings they have are forgotten, the 
 
 banes only counted. I'm sure. 
 And yet, I know for full certain, as we wear- 
 ily travel Life's road. 
 No burden was ever so heavy but some bad a 
 
 heavier load. 
 You have read in the old Eastern fables, how 
 
 every one brought to the plains 
 Their crosses, and trials, and hardships — 
 
 their sorrows, their grriefs, and their 
 
 pains. 
 
 In exchange for others less weighty— for 
 ones that were less Iwrd to bear; 
 
 And everyone said to himself: •• I have 
 brought the most trouble and care; 
 
 How happy I'll be to exchange it for whatev- 
 er I happen to see, 
 
 For I know every burden is lighter than the 
 one that was given to me." 
 
 The time for exchanging was over and the 
 
 people had ptissed out of sight. 
 And all took away some great sorrow, 
 
 though, seemingly, it was more light 
 Than the one they had formerly carried — 
 
 and yet, 'twas the same one you know — 
 For each took his own burden homeward; 
 
 and tliis moral the fable will show: 
 When we think our own crosses are bitter, 
 
 and with never relief or a cure. 
 Yet, compared with the crosses of others, 
 
 they seem very light to endure. 
 
 To me the world was all silence, and life 
 
 looked so barren and drear; 
 For the tones of the loved and the loving 
 
 were sounds I never could hear. 
 And 1 cried in my anguish of spirit, with a 
 
 heart overburdened with care: 
 "Oh, exchange this, dear Lord, for some 
 
 other! This atBietion I iievercan bear! 
 For what other I never will murmur, 1 never 
 
 will grieve or repine; 
 For I know that no cross is so heavy, no path 
 
 is so rugged, as mine!" 
 
 And I tliought that my ears had been open- 
 ed to voices so gentle and kind; 
 
 But the exchange I had made was most fear- 
 ful — for God had strickt-n me bhnd ! 
 
 Ah ! To wander along the great highway, de- 
 prived of the l)lessing of sight 
 
 Was a greater affliction than deafness; but 
 how could I pray for the light? 
 
 Yet I had only been dreaming; but some- 
 times I think that it seems 
 
 That God gives us warnings and lessons by 
 sending them to us in dreams. 
 
 Now don't you think its far better to bear 
 
 with the ills that an' thine. 
 Than to say. that •• All others havosunshinc, 
 
 while only the shadow is ndne?" 
 .. Godfltteth the back to the burden;" He 
 
 portions each lot with great can>; 
 He noteth the fall of the sparrow; He num- 
 
 bereth every hair. 
 A bit of advice let me give you, and then my 
 
 verses I'll end; 
 You will make your own sorrows less hea^T 
 
 by lightening those of your friend. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1102 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. IDA L. COLLIER. 
 
 Born : Dubuque, Iowa, Dec. 23, 1844. 
 
 In 1861 Mrs. Collier graduated from the city 
 high school of Dubuque, Iowa, and later from 
 the Lasell Seminary of Auburndale, Mass. 
 Id I8G8 she was married to Robert H. Collier, 
 a gentleman of fine literary taste and a prom- 
 
 MRS. IDA LANGSWORTHY COLLIER. 
 
 inent business man. In her youth Mrs. Col- 
 lier wrote for the press, and in 1885 published 
 a volume in verse, entitled Lilith, The Le- 
 gend of the First Woman. She lias written 
 many fine serials, short stories, sketches and 
 fine poems, which have already won for her 
 an enviable reputation. Mrs. Collier has one 
 son, James C, born in 1869, and resides iu 
 Dubuque, Iowa, where she is very popular. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 So greets the weary wanderer once more 
 Hisearly home. The lintels worn, the door 
 Age stained; the iris clumps, in sheltered 
 
 nook; 
 The mill-wheel rotting o'er the shrunken 
 
 brook; 
 The sunny orchard, sloping west; and far 
 And cold, above his mother's grave, a star — 
 Then quick unljidden tears, the heart's warm 
 
 rain, 
 O'erflow his soul, and leave it pure again. 
 
 HIGH, HIGH, BOLD EAGLE, SOAK! 
 
 High, high, bold Eagle soar; 
 I watch thy flight above the cragged rock. 
 
 Below thee torrents roar, 
 Down-bursting wild with augrj- shock 
 
 Upon the vales, O proud bird free! 
 
 My spirit, mounting, follows thee, 
 
 Still follows thee, still follows thee. 
 
 Oh sea. Oh sea so wide ! 
 Far roll thy waves ere yet they find thy shore. 
 
 I hear thy sullen tide 
 Break 'ueath the beetling cliffs with muffled 
 roar. 
 
 Afar, afar. Oh moaning sea. 
 
 My soaring soul still follows thee. 
 
 Oh whirlwind black. Oh strong! 
 Thy scorching breath fierce burns the crouch- 
 ing land. 
 
 And thou dost sweep along 
 The raveled clouds. Oh whirlwind see, 
 
 My spirit rising, follows thee. 
 
 Still follows thee, still follows thee. 
 
 Nay, nay! My dauntless soul, 
 Still higher than thy wing. Oh Eagle, soars, 
 
 And wider still thou roll 
 Thy waves, and farther than tliy shores 
 
 My spirit flees. Oh sea. Oh sea. 
 
 No more it follows, follows thee. 
 
 Whirlwind, more strong than thou 
 !My soul that fearlessleaps to thine embrace, 
 
 And thy stern wrinkled hrow 
 Doth tender touch and soothingly. 
 
 And vassal art thou still to me. 
 
 That no more Mhirlwiud follows thee. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 All forms of life she saw; with tenderest care. 
 
 Uplifting humblest sprays, or blooms most 
 rare. 
 
 Pierced the deep heart of Nature's subtlest 
 love, 
 
 Touciied highest knowledge, probed the in- 
 most core 
 
 Of hidden things. She traced each circUng 
 world, 
 
 And the wide sweep of billows lightly curled. 
 
 Each page tlie Master writ she read, close- 
 furled 
 
 In l(Jtus lilooms, or 'mong the storm-clouds 
 whirled 
 
 Or traced, star-lettered, on theflaniingscroU 
 
 Tlie night unwinds toward the southern pole. 
 
 *- 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIIICA. 
 
 1108 
 
 JAMES W. GIBSON. 
 
 BouN: Detroit, jMich., Oct. 2G, 1845. 
 As ATTORNEY, editor iind publisher, James 
 W. Gibson bus become very prominent 
 throughout the .state of Illinois. Reserved 
 in the war ami was married in 18T0 to Miss 
 
 J^MLSs ^^. GIBSON. 
 
 Vindia C. IJiooks, .iiul lia-> a family of three 
 children. Mr. Gibson has occupied the county 
 bench as judge for nine years; has practiced 
 law successfully for twenty-three years; and 
 is joint owner and publisher of the Newton 
 Weekly Press of Newton, 111. 
 
 TX THE HOSPITAL. 
 " Again the sharp crack of their lilies! 
 Ah, God, why will they not cease? 
 How hotly the fever is burning-! 
 Oh, for one moment of peace! 
 Hearken, the bray of the trumpet. 
 The blast of the bugle-horn ! 
 How wearily passes the night-hours; 
 Oh, for one glimpse of the morn ! " 
 "Do I see you, old friend of my boyhood? 
 Is tliat you, my warm-hearted Joe? 
 I thought I was dying- in battle; 
 It must be j'our voice though, I know. 
 No! 'tis tlie crash of the volley; 
 The blast of the bugle-horn ! 
 How fearfully bleak is the darkness! 
 Oh, for a glimpse of the morn! " 
 •'Is it you bending o'er me, niy darling? 
 I dreamed I was wounded but now! 
 Kiss me, caress me. my sweet one I 
 Push back the hair from my brow! 
 
 cursed be the roar of the cannon. 
 The blast of the bugle-horn! 
 
 1 tiiought that my dear one was near me! 
 How tardily comes on the mornl " 
 
 •• 'Tis the hospital walls tliat enclose me; 
 
 I sec; the cloud moves from my brain; 
 
 It is not the roar of tlic battle — 
 
 I never shall hear tliat again. 
 
 Better death in the charge of the squadron 
 
 To blast of the bugle-liorn 
 
 Than to die thus alone in the darkness 
 
 Ere night shall be changed into niorn! " 
 
 The dawn flushes red to the eastward; 
 
 The light slowly over him creeps; 
 
 But the fever is cooled on his forehead; 
 
 He is still now; it m;iy be he sleeps. 
 
 He cares not for clashing of sabres. 
 
 Nor blast of the bugle- horn; 
 
 His soul glided into the morrow 
 
 Ere night-time had run into morn. 
 
 CHARGE OF FHENCH CUIRASSIERS 
 AT WOEUTH. 
 
 K.\TU.\CT. 
 
 By tens and by twenties they grimly went 
 
 down. 
 With their face to the foe and no wound in 
 
 the back ; 
 Plume, helmet and cuirass, and sabre were 
 
 strown. 
 With rider and charger along their red track. 
 The reaper. Death, gathered the field's rip- 
 ened grain; 
 And Slaughter was slaked -vvilh the blood of 
 
 the slain: 
 But of all the brave hearts that went forth 
 
 in their i)ride 
 None ever came back from that terrible ride. 
 Pierced by the canister, bullet and shell; 
 Crushed by the pitiless wrath of the ball; 
 L'ncunquered and calmly they lay where 
 
 they fell [their fall. 
 
 And hallowed the ground that witnessed 
 They died, unsubdued by an enemy's hand. 
 An offering of valor to freedom and land, 
 Defymg in dying the conqueror's wrath. 
 Mocking his victory, triumphing in death. 
 Brave martyrs, wlio foil in tliat furious fray. 
 The nations of earth shall remember you 
 
 long! [ihatdiiy 
 
 The name that you won by your death on 
 Shall live in the story, the legend and song. 
 The soldier shall worship, in revere:ico and 
 
 pride. 
 On the spot where the spirit of ohiv:ilr.v died; 
 The patriot muse o'er tlie place where you 
 
 rest; 
 And your country enshrine you with Gtxl 
 
 in her breast. 
 
 *- 
 
 •if 
 
*- 
 
 1104 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A31EKICA, 
 
 *- 
 
 THE LOCKET. 
 
 The sun had gone down on the red field of 
 
 war. 
 Where Slaughter had reveled and Carnage 
 
 was spread; 
 The groans of the dying were heard from 
 
 afar 
 Swelling- out o'er the forms of the un- 
 
 shrouded dead. 
 The colors of sunset were gorgeously 
 
 streamed 
 In beauteous magnificence over the west; 
 A cold winter moou from an azure sky 
 
 gleamed ; 
 Old trees darklj- loomed like grim specters 
 
 unblest. 
 
 The battle-clouds bung like a pall o'er the 
 
 brave, 
 In places low-drooping and shrouding the 
 
 ground — 
 A sulphurous mist over glory's red grave 
 Which the valiant and fearless had suddenly 
 
 found. 
 And night with her star-lamps came down 
 
 on the scene, 
 As the vapors were urged by the wind from 
 
 the spot, 
 Where the bursting volcano of combat hud 
 
 been 
 And thousands had died in the tempest of 
 
 shot. 
 
 Composed on the e;irth ;is in natural rest 
 Was a young soldier-form iu confederate 
 
 gray; 
 But the red blood, which oozed from a wound 
 
 on his breast. 
 Told whence his brave spirit had winged its 
 
 free way. 
 Tlio' his boyisii blue eye retained none of its 
 
 light. 
 Yet around his pale lips there still played a 
 
 soft smile; 
 And his fair features wore, in the gloom of 
 
 the night, 
 The aspect of one who but slumbers awliile. 
 
 And there, brightly gleaming, just over his 
 
 heart, 
 Was a locket containing tlic likeness of one 
 Whom nothing but death could successfully 
 
 part 
 From him whose true soul iu the battle had 
 
 flown. [eyes 
 
 Her exquisite face was the last which his 
 Had beheld ere his ardent and chivalrous 
 
 soul 
 Had hastened to answer, beyond the far 
 
 skies, 
 Tlie rallying notes of the angel's long-roll. 
 
 The gleam on his breast caught a young sol- 
 dier's eye 
 Who was carelessly wandering over the field ; 
 A moment he paused In liis course — then 
 drew nigh [stilled. 
 
 And bent o'er the form which forever was 
 He gazed on the picture, and over his brow 
 A look of deep sympathy feelingly crept, 
 As the smile of the sunbeam will tranquilly ' 
 glow [wrathfully swept. ' 
 
 On the place where the storm-cloud hasj 
 
 It may be the thought of another as fair j 
 Had moved him to pity the fallen one now, 
 As he smoothed back the curls of the tanglec 
 
 brown hair [ful brow 
 
 And wiped the death-damps from the beauli 
 But the brave and the dead, Ij-inghclplesi 
 
 and cold, [less appea 
 
 Reached his bosom with strong and resist 
 To save to its owner the trinket of gold; 
 And he answered with heart that could knov 
 
 and could feel: 
 
 " Young hero, sleep on in thy glorious bed; 
 And with thee shall rest this dear token o 
 
 love [thou art we' 
 
 Close, close on thy heart! Though to Deat 
 Thou shalt meet thy loved idol in region 
 
 above; [shall breal' 
 
 And, when the last trumpet thy slumbei 
 When the last order's given to fall into line 
 In the light of lier eyes shalt thou fondi 
 
 awake 
 Possessing this token of love half divine. 
 
 " She dreams not the hand of a stranger ■ 
 
 laid. 
 Alone in the moonlight, upon thj- cold brov 
 Nor thinks that the locks where her flnge 
 
 Lave strayed 
 Are kissed by the breeze of the battle-fle 
 
 now. [thy grav 
 
 Tho', long after verdure springs green o'' 
 She waits for thy voice and thy step so wi 
 
 known ; [bra' 
 
 Yet calmly thou'lt sleep the last sleep of tl 
 Till time to eternity's arms shall hu' 
 
 flown. 
 
 i. Wlien, shrilly, the notes of the last reveil 
 Which nations may hear, by the argel a 
 
 pealed. [fr< 
 
 Thou'lt meet her again as, unsullied a 
 Thou wingest thy heavenward flight fr< 
 
 this field." 
 Then, placing the locket with tcnderestci 
 Out of sight on the jiassionless breast of 1 
 
 dead, [a praj 
 
 The young soldier breathed o'er his foeni 
 For the peace of the soul that too early 1 
 
 fled. 
 
LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 1105 
 
 MRS. CARRIE \V. HOSTER. 
 
 This latly has contributed extensively to the 
 periodiciil press, and intends to devote lier 
 
 
 / '^V-sfc. ^^ ^^•v 
 
 tM 
 
 P^^- 
 
 
 ■ i^ ^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Nfe, ■ ^^^ 
 
 ■^1 
 
 i 
 
 MRS. CARRIE W. HOSTER. 
 
 time in future more to literature. She resides 
 in Uluffton, lud., wiiere she is very popular. 
 
 PARTED. 
 
 Must this aching- heart always hunger- 
 Ever silently bear its pain — 
 Wliile weary days — e'en long- years roll on. 
 
 Must it echo the sweet refrain, 
 Of the love-song you sang to nie years agone, 
 
 Over and over again? 
 You sang it in strength of your manhood. 
 
 Of your life it seemed then a part; 
 A minstrel you were — oh I .so kindly, 
 
 1 had only a woman's heart— L'"?. 
 
 So famished and yearning, trustful and lov- 
 
 Ah me! the hot teardrops start. 
 Since then you have won worthy laurels. 
 
 Have reached tlie proud summit of fame; 
 The world has proclaimed you a hero, 
 
 Its heralds have blazoned your name; 
 But as husks, all lias been to your starving 
 Over and over again. [heart. 
 
 Halls lordly now echo your footsteps — 
 
 But when d:iy with its work is done. 
 Sad and alone to your loveless home 
 
 Oft you walk, while the setting sun \\'\to. 
 Casts never its sheen 'round more desolate 
 
 Although the proud goal you've won. 
 Vou have learned that pride, and wealth, and 
 fame. 
 
 Are but tritles when weiglied with love; 
 All you'd gladly give could but tender eyes. 
 
 Deep and blue ius the skies above, 
 Once again hjok in yours as in days ••lang 
 You sadly life's problem prove, [syne." 
 Though years may come and long years may 
 
 Still will linger the old-l ime pain ; [go. 
 
 And memory e'en likeu wind-swept harp 
 
 Will oft echo the sweet refrain, 
 Of the luve-song you sang to me years agone. 
 
 Over and over agaiu. 
 In the strife of life and race for gold 
 
 When threading the city's mart. 
 You'll a face and measureless love recall 
 
 That was once of your life a part; 
 And the world, you will own, naught so price- 
 As a woman's loving heart, [less holds 
 
 MOTHER'S LAP. 
 Tlie fair, golden curls are tangled, and tear- 
 
 dinmied the blue eyes' brightness — 
 Tlie pinafore white is crumi)led, and crusheil 
 
 is the bonny straw hat — 
 Of my little winsome neighbor whose foot- 
 steps of airy lightness. 
 Now huri-iedly bear her to bury all grief In 
 
 her Mother's lap. 
 Soon with sunny hair of her darling the 
 
 Mother's dark locks mingle. 
 And the comforting words she whispers 
 
 quickly soothe llie wee one's pain — 
 While the laughter that follows weeping, is 
 
 merry as sleighbells' Jingle, 
 And the smile that chases the dimples, bright 
 
 as sunlight after rain. 
 How the dusky years glide haclrward, like a 
 
 silent ])hantom army — 
 Till they pause at a cottage threshold where 
 
 in years "lang syne" oft sat 
 A patient and sweet-faced woman, whether 
 
 days were bright or stormy. 
 Ah! ne'er did we fail to find solace in that 
 
 loving Mother's lap. 
 Only a glimpse of n c.nro-free past, and the 
 
 years resume their marching — 
 Their movements reverse<l yet noiseless, 
 
 again I'm a child of to-day — 
 From winsome AUci' I linik away to the sky 
 
 above me arching, 
 I dream of my Mother and wish that I my 
 
 head in her lap might lay; 
 
 And there forget all the care-fniught years, 
 
 know the tender touch and loving. 
 Of Mother's hand as in childhood days, when 
 
 in cottage door she sat — 
 I've found no Lethean waters, never balm 
 
 with p<iwt'r of s(M)thing, 
 Like Mother'.* hand and low-whispered words 
 
 when my head lay In her lap. 
 
 *■ 
 
 -* 
 
>^- 
 
 1106 
 
 LOCAL AND ISTATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 \V. H. VEXABLE, A.M., LL.D. 
 
 BoRx: Warren Co., O., April 29, 1836. 
 This gentleman is well versed in Latin, 
 Greek and German, and in science, history 
 and literature. He is a lecturer of great 
 ability, and a member of numerous societies 
 for the advancement of knowledge and civi- 
 lization. Among Dr. Vcnable's first publica- 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY V£NABL,E, A.M., LL.D. 
 
 tions was a line of books for use in schools; 
 and his first volume of poems, June on the 
 Miami, appeared in 1871; and later appeared 
 Melodies of the Heart, and Songs of School 
 Days, and he is the author of Beginnings of 
 Literary Culture in the Ohio Valley. The la- 
 bors of this educater.poet and humorist have 
 gained for him a delightf nl home on a roman- 
 tic hill at Tuscnlum, a suburb of Cincinnati, 
 where dwells his charming family of a wife 
 and a half-dozen admirable children. 
 
 THE CATBIRD. 
 Nightingale T never heard, 
 Nor the skylark, poet's bird; 
 But there is an iT>ther-winger 
 So surpasses every singer 
 (Thoughuiiknownto lyric fame,) 
 Tliat at morning, or at nooning, 
 Wlieii I hear his pipe a-tuning, 
 Down I Hing Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth. 
 Sliakcspeare, too,— for what are bards worth, 
 Wlien my mimus caroiitiensis 
 
 (That's his Latin namej — 
 When my catbird wild commences 
 Song's hilarious rhapsody, 
 Just to please himself and me! 
 Prime cantante! 
 Scherzo! Andante! 
 Piano, pianissimo! 
 
 Presto, prestissimo! [nine? 
 
 Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and 
 And now a miraculous gurgling gushes, 
 Like nectar from Hebe's Olj-mpian bottle, 
 The laughter of tune from a rapturous throt- 
 tle! 
 Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's! 
 But that other caroler, nearer. 
 Outrivaling rivalry with clearer 
 Sweetness incredibly fine! 
 Is it oriole, red-bird, or blue-bird, 
 Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird? 
 All one, sir, both this bird and that bird, 
 The whole flight are all the same catbird! 
 The whole visible and invisible choir you see 
 On that little twig of yon green tree. 
 Flitting, feathery Blondell 
 Listen to his rondel ! 
 To his lay romantical. 
 To his sacred canticle. 
 Hear him lilting! 
 See him tilting 
 
 His saucy head and tail, and fluttering 
 While uttering 
 
 All the diflieult operas under the sun 
 Just for fun ; 
 Or in tipsy revelry. 
 Or love devilry, 
 
 Or disdaining his divine gift and art. 
 Like an inimitable poet 
 Who captivates the world's heart. 
 And don't know it. 
 Hear him lilt! 
 See him tilt! 
 Tlien suddenly he stops, 
 Peers about, flirts, hops. 
 As if looking whore lie might gather up 
 The wasted ecstasy just spilt 
 From the quivering cup 
 Of his bliss overrun. 
 Tlicn, as in mockery of all 
 The tuneful spells that e'er did fall 
 From vocal pipe, or ever more shall rise. 
 He snarls, and mews, and flies. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 The new moons come and go. 
 
 Stars rise and set. 
 Time's healing waters flow 
 
 Across my wound, ;iiid yet 
 Grief cannot pay love's debt,- 
 
 Love's solace is to mourn. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKItlCA. 
 
 1107 
 
 -* 
 
 CIIARLESWILLI AM WILCOX 
 
 noi«x: Floyd, N.Y., ApniLi"), is.".). 
 The subject of this sketch is a gnutuute of 
 tlie Yates Academy and Wilson CollcB-iato 
 Institute, and is now entrajicd in farming anri 
 fruit culture at Somerset, N. Y, He has 
 
 CHARLES WILLIAM WILCOX. 
 
 written over flftycommendaljle poems, many 
 of whieli have appeared in tlie periodical 
 press. Mr. Wilcox was supervisorof liistown 
 for two terms, and commissioner to Auburn 
 Theolofrical Seminary for six years. In 1864 
 he was married to Miss Mary P. Wilcox, by 
 whom he has two children. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 Oh! the shadows darkly creepiiiR 
 
 O'er the hearth, and o'er the wall : 
 O'er the i)easant, calmly sleeping — 
 
 O'er the king-, in courtly liall. 
 O'er the future's brifrhtest dreaming — 
 
 O'er the scenes alrt^ady past; 
 Wliere the polden liplit is beaming-. 
 
 Shadows thick are creeping: fast. 
 Where the sun is jraily peepingr — 
 
 Spreading glory over all; 
 Wlicrethe moon her watch is keeping. 
 
 Gloom shadows soon will fail. 
 In the home wh(>re joy and gladness. 
 
 Once like rays of sunlight played. 
 Features wan and tears of s.-idncss 
 
 Mark the surely gath'ring sliaili'. 
 I saw a youth in manhiv>d's morning 
 
 Giving signs of promise fair; 
 
 Who, neglecting wis<lom's warning. 
 
 Sank in shades of dark desp.'iir. 
 On his l)row where once was beaming. 
 
 Genius' light undimined by cure; 
 Now a fitful, fiery gleaming. 
 
 Marks the tempter's signet there. 
 I saw a widow jtale and lonely, 
 
 Stand beside an open gravt; — 
 Her hopes had Ue<l; her last, lieronly 
 
 Affection vainly strove to save — 
 .Alone slie stood so worn and weary. 
 
 Naught could hope or joy imparl ; 
 For cold the shadows dark auddreary 
 
 Settling o'er a broken heart. 
 Oh! ye shadows must ye ever. 
 
 O'er our patliway throw your gloom; 
 Sliall the hopes of mortals never 
 
 Realize a fadeless bUxmi. 
 Shall all the bliss that life has taught. 
 
 All the glory time has brought. 
 All the pomp of kingly state. 
 
 Fade, aud perish — soon or late? 
 
 TO W. P. >r. 
 
 I think of tliee 
 
 When morning's ray 
 Bids night's dark shadows Uee awaj-; 
 When dewdroi)s gem the blushing day— 
 
 I think of thee! 
 
 I look for thee 
 
 When in the hall. 
 Where friendly footsteps frequent fall; 
 Where mirth and jtleasure brighten all — 
 
 I look for thee! 
 
 I wait fortheo 
 
 At close of day; 
 As o'er the fields of new-mown hay 
 I wander forth to pensive stray, 
 
 I wait for thee! 
 
 I watch for tliee 
 
 At setting sun; 
 When daily duties ,ill are done; 
 And stars come peeping one by one — 
 
 I watch for thee! 
 
 I wake for thee — 
 
 At noon of night; 
 As calmly from her he:ivetdy lielght 
 Th»» moon is pnuring liquid light — 
 
 I wake for thee. 
 
 I dream of theo 
 
 When lovely things 
 Seem borne to me on angels' wings; 
 As hope, the smiling future brings — 
 
 I dream of thei'I 
 
 I think of thee! 
 
 Ah yes! 'tis true — 
 Anil when the joys of life are few. 
 And pleasures vanish from my view, 
 
 I'll think of thee! 
 
«<- 
 
 1108 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM ODEL DIXON. 
 
 Born: Greene Co., N. C, Sept. 15, 1868. 
 The poems of Mr. Dixon have appeared in 
 tlae Hooiiertoii Clipper, Nortli Carolinian, 
 
 WITLIVM ODIT DIXON 
 
 and the soutoeru press generally. Since 
 receiving his education Mr. Dixon has been 
 engaged in mercantile pursuits. 
 
 *- 
 
 DREAM. 
 
 Tlie brilliant sun liung o'er me. 
 
 The grass beneath me grovs. 
 As I plowed on wearily 
 
 One summer long ago. 
 From the dusty rows there opened 
 
 A smoke that was in my way, 
 And then I plowed pleasantly. 
 
 As children when at play. 
 Out in the grove was I renting. 
 
 Under the shade of the trees. 
 Where the children and travelers stop. 
 
 Facing- a gloiious breeze. 
 In the shade I sat sleeping. 
 
 My dog, lie by me lay. 
 When happiness seemed to join me 
 
 And carry all cares awaj'. 
 All before was woodland. 
 
 No way I could not load. 
 But by ihc grassy orchard ground. 
 
 Or by the open mead. 
 At last I reached a cottage, 
 
 Walked straight into the hall. 
 
 And then my dream was ended 
 As I bumped my head on the 
 
 all. 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH. 
 
 The Nortli and South is divided by the Mason 
 and Dixon line. 
 
 And never before could such a lovely coun- 
 try exist so long a time, 
 
 And in its borders I shall always take my 
 rest. 
 
 And of the two I will always take the South 
 for I think it the best. 
 
 I am longing- for the day when there'll be 
 harmony and peace. 
 
 And all ill feelings between the two shall 
 forever cease. 
 
 But politicians keep hammering and blow- 
 ing around. 
 
 And holds the South when she kicks very 
 fast to the ground. 
 
 Sunny South rise up and have courage to- 
 day. 
 
 And let all prejudice between you two go 
 astray, 
 
 For then I shall in some future time 
 
 Learn to love the great North as this South 
 of mine. 
 
 Politicians, of both North and South, 
 
 Do let us all live peaceably in the same 
 House, 
 
 If not, some future day an enemy might 
 strike. 
 
 And if we are not united it might be woe 
 unto our backs. 
 
 Oh! great North succumb and give way, 
 
 And let the sunny South enjoy her luxuries 
 of to-day. 
 
 Then peace and prosperity will fill our land. 
 
 And then tlie North and the South can meet 
 hand in hand. 
 
 MY GTRL IN TOWN. 
 Some are weary, some are gaj'. 
 
 Some are young and will go astray; 
 But none on earth can take me away. 
 
 For such a lieart my love shall always play. 
 Some are noble, some are great 
 
 Some are as white as a snowHake* 
 But none on earth can act lier part. 
 
 For in every way she has gained my lieart. 
 Some are pretty, some are swi.'et, 
 
 Some dress so nice and look very neat; 
 But no where on earth can be traced. 
 
 To find such a one to fill Iter place. 
 Some are nauglity, some are plain. 
 
 Some are loveo' and arc vain; 
 But none on earth gan be found 
 
 For me to love as tlic girl m town. 
 
®- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 11()9 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. ANNA M.REED. 
 
 Born: Dubuque, Iowa. 
 While compnrativelj^ a child tlic subject of 
 this sketch contributed to the Golden Era, 
 San Francisco Exauiincr,and the Sacrament o 
 Rescue. In lier literary career this lady has 
 always been financially and otherwise suc- 
 cessful, and in less than three years, bj' her 
 writings and lectures, earned six thousand 
 
 *- 
 
 sms. ANNA M. HEED. 
 
 dollars. In 1872 she was married to John S. 
 Iteed, and the following year they settled in 
 Ukiah, Cal. llecently their beautiful homo 
 at that i)lace was swept away l)y fire, and 
 she now resides with her husband and the 
 children at Laytonville, Cal. In 18^0 Mrs. 
 Keed publislied a small volume of poems, 
 which was given marked praise. Another 
 volume of poems will soon appear from her 
 pen. Mrs. Reed's prose writings have been 
 pronounced equal, if not superior, U) her 
 poetical essays. 
 
 MY LIFE IS DEVOTED TO MEMORIES 
 OF YOU. 
 I sailed beneath a burning sun, 
 Ry coral reefs and isles of balm. 
 Where orange groves and silverj' palm 
 By faint spice winds were gentlj' fanned, 
 Until I readied a tropic land. 
 And with three thousand miles between 
 The shores whereon two oceans fret, 
 I bravely said, "I will forget." 
 And there beneath the Southern Cross, 
 I crept out in the breathless night. 
 
 My heart was breaking, and the stars 
 Shone dimly on my fevered siglit — 
 Ah, vain Iscliange of time or place, 
 In heaven itself I see — thy face. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 He died In Venice — citadel of songs. 
 To which for ages all romance belongs. 
 At whose proud slirine the poet and the sage 
 Have left the offi'ringof every age. 
 He died in Venice— but with dreaming eyes. 
 By tlie Ri.-iltu, and the Bridge of Sighs, 
 And in and out a hundred water- ways. 
 For years lie glided through the perfect days. 
 He died in Venice — but through all ho 
 
 dreamed 
 The golden sunshine of Italia streamed. 
 Where centered all those memories that 
 
 endure 
 Around the home of Tasso and the Moor. 
 He died in Venice — but his work was done 
 Long years before his sands of life were run; 
 So ideal days he lived that did beseem 
 Tlie closing visions of a poefs dream. 
 He died in Venice, where the lapping sea 
 Kept time to that diviner minstrelsy 
 With which his gifted soul through time 
 
 Wiis fraught. 
 To live eternal in the world of thought. 
 But the worn garment that is left behind 
 Tliey bear away to rest among its kind 
 In that far land where, in the Abbey's 
 
 pliade. 
 Beside congenial dust it will be laid. 
 A poet's love — a poet's life — and death. 
 Blest from his earliest to his latest breath. 
 But of all things that could his age befall. 
 To die in Venice seems the best of all. 
 
 WASTED. 
 Not Time, that sacred heritage to all. 
 For in the cycles that have piissed away 
 1 cannot count me one lost, idle day. 
 Nor opportunity; to fate's most meager gift 
 I have been eager heart and hand to lift. 
 What waste could then my faithful life be- 
 fall? 
 A cheek whose roses bloomed for eyes so 
 
 blind 
 They did not see they were the rarest kind; 
 Words that the world had listenetl for for 
 
 j-ears. 
 Falling unanswered on the dullest ears; 
 A heart worn out — as fond as ever beat. 
 Its wine of life spilled at unworthy feet; 
 A soul so tortureil, as years c<inie and go. 
 Its wasted treasure, Go<l alone can know. 
 
 <¥ 
 
^- 
 
 1110 
 
 LOCAl- AND NATIONAL POETS OK A31KKICA. 
 
 *- 
 
 MOTHER. 
 In the brush fence by the lane 
 
 I hear the storm birds crying-, 
 And I Jinow the winter rain 
 
 Soon will beat where thou art lying; 
 For the wind and raiu are near 
 
 When the storm birds are a-crying-. 
 
 A brave, bright, winter rose 
 Taps the window where I'm sitting. 
 
 Its head with beauty glows. 
 While the autumn hours are flitting. 
 
 It taps the silent pane 
 Of the window where I'm sitting. 
 
 The south wind iisses light 
 
 Its petals curved and folded, 
 Like a picture warm and bright, 
 
 Close iu the heart unfolded — 
 Like a dream of love and youth 
 
 In the heart of age enfolded. 
 
 And it speaks to me of thee. 
 
 While the storm birds are a-crying. 
 Though thy face I cannot see. 
 
 Thy memory is Ijing 
 In the winter of my heart. 
 
 Best, brightest and undying. 
 I dream of thee so dear. 
 
 Before the wood-flre glowing; 
 I hear the herd bells clear. 
 
 And the cattle softly lowing; 
 The sounds foretell the rain. 
 
 While the flre is brightly glowing. 
 
 In thought T pass the lane, 
 Where storm birds are a-crying, 
 
 As to some sacred fane. 
 To the grave where thou art lying. 
 
 Through fragrant pine-wood aisles, 
 Where the sunset glow Is dying. 
 
 Where one cannot hear the noise 
 
 Of a footfall on the mosses. 
 Where the pine leaves lightly poise. 
 
 Like a pile of russet flosses. 
 Where the rabbit and the squirrel 
 
 With silent footstep crosses. 
 Where the brake with quivering frougs 
 
 Beside the grave-stone whispers 
 The earliest matin songs 
 
 And at eve the saddest vespers 
 That the night wind softly taught 
 
 The leaves to chant in whispers. 
 There so quietly you sleep, 
 
 While the restless winds are sighing, 
 In the grave so dark and deep. 
 
 Nor heed the storm birds crying. 
 Nor the tears that fall like rain. 
 
 And my heart within me dying. 
 The rose taps on the pane. 
 
 And the storm birds are a-crying. 
 
 And I soon will hear the rain 
 
 Beat through the wind's low sighing, 
 While rose leaves flutter down 
 
 On the grave where thou art lying. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 The evening's genius with his sword of 
 
 flame 
 Guards well the portal of the dying day. 
 His lance of light he strikes against the 
 
 hills. 
 Upon the highest breaks its glancing ray; 
 He marshals grandly on a crimson sea 
 His cloudship navy's golden argosy, 
 Whose flaunting banner in the sunset glow 
 Bids brave defiance to the dark'ning foe; 
 Who, swift advancing, o'er him softly flings 
 The purple shadow of the twilight's wings. 
 Till war's red flush before the night wind's 
 
 breath 
 Fades out into the sullen gray of death. 
 And star-eyed night, prevailing all too soon, 
 Hangs out the silver sickle of the moon. 
 
 RETROSPECT. 
 There is a 'witching mem'ry my heart so oft 
 
 recalls — 
 A silver cornet ringing above the palace 
 
 walls. 
 Where from a drai>eried window a bright 
 
 young face looked down 
 Upon my lady's garden that graced Yokaya's 
 
 town. 
 Where passion flower and jasmine diffused 
 
 a fragrant balm; 
 Where shone the brilliant salvia and whis- 
 pered pine and palm; 
 The willow o'er the fountain, with fingers 
 
 long and slim. 
 Reached to the sparkling water that kissed 
 
 the fretted brim. 
 And many a woodland songster, awearied 
 
 with the heat. 
 Bathed in the cooling crystal and sang his 
 
 matin sweet. 
 O days, whose dawn's pink splendor waxed 
 
 to a golden noon; 
 O perfume, sons and blossom, in life's Im- 
 passioned rune; 
 O south wind, blowing gently the petals at 
 
 my feet; 
 O twilight, stealing over; O kisses, rare and 
 
 sweet; 
 O little maiden singing beside the stately 
 
 hall; 
 O silver cornet, ringing above the palace 
 
 wall. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAr, POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 nil 
 
 mis. ALICE K. COOLEY. 
 
 Born: England, Dec. 31, 1840. 
 For severiil years this Indy was an actress in 
 sucli plays as Fanclioii, Juliette and others, 
 and starred over the United States and Can- 
 ada. She was married in 1869 to Col. F. M. 
 
 MRS. ALICE KINGSBURY COOLEY. 
 
 Cooley, and now resides with her husband 
 and children in San Francisco, Cal. Alice 
 Kingsbury Coolej' has written and published 
 a child's book entitled Ho for Elflatid; a 
 work for grown persons entitled Secrets Told, 
 and Asaph, an historical novel of ancient 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 LITTLE WITCH. 
 False and fickle, false and fair, 
 With tliy mystic eyes and hair; 
 A spell around ^ny heart has tlirown. 
 To otliers 'tis no heart, but stone, 
 'Tis bound so firmly to thine own. 
 
 Thou sorceress. 
 Raise thy spell, or love but me. 
 From inconstant, constant bo. 
 Then we'll dwell in fairy land. 
 Tread the diamond sparkling sand. 
 By love's own wings our cheeks be fanned. 
 
 Goddess divine. 
 
 *- 
 
 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 
 Soft let him rest, tho' born a king to be. 
 Now dead, veil his faults witli sweet charity; 
 For he was only human, like the rest Ll>f=''- 
 Of eartli's poor children, neither worst nor 
 
 THE ROOSTER BOLD. 
 
 One day into a parl(jr strolled 
 
 A rooster from the barnyard fold. 
 
 He strutted here, lie strutted there; 
 
 Examined sofa, table, chair. 
 
 At length he in tiie corner spied 
 
 A great tall tiling, all dark and wide. 
 
 What it could be he could not tell. 
 
 The glass reflected liim so well, 
 
 He thought a rooster sure was there, 
 
 And for a fight he did prepare. 
 
 He plumed his feathers, stretched his neck. 
 
 And at the gla.ss began to peck. 
 
 He saw the otiier do the same — 
 
 " Ha! ha! " he thought, "is that your game? 
 
 I'll fool you bj' a counter-charge." 
 
 He crept behind the bookcase large — 
 
 "The other rooster gone away? 
 
 In barnyard sports that's not fair play." 
 
 Again he crept around in front 
 
 And at the glass he quickly jumped — 
 
 The other rooster jumped as well — 
 
 He bumped the glass and almost fell. 
 
 He shook himself, his wings he flai)ped. 
 
 Again tlie battle-ground he mapped. 
 
 So cautiously he stepped around 
 
 And at the glass again did bound; 
 
 Astonishment he plainly showed. 
 
 His pinions flapped, and loudly crowed. 
 
 The other rooster mocked him still — 
 
 His rival gladly he would kill 1 
 
 So, stealing round, he vainly tried 
 
 To see where chanticleer did hide; 
 
 For every time he left the glass 
 
 His rival left, but did not pass 
 
 Where he could flght it out with him. 
 
 And sink his spurs, so long and thin, 
 
 Deep in liis brain and kill him there 
 
 For mocking him lie dared to dare. 
 
 So at the glass he dashed and fought. 
 
 But all his fighting came to naught. 
 
 Perplexed and stupefied, he glared 
 
 At his refiectiou there, and stared — 
 
 The other bii"d stood still as well. 
 
 ■• What do you rcean, you boasting swell?" 
 
 Again he made the weary round. 
 
 So cautiously, without a sound. 
 
 Full fifty times ai-ound he went. 
 
 And even then was not content — 
 
 The bird would always disappear. 
 
 Yet in the glass he found him there. 
 
 His patience, strength and even pluck 
 
 At last gave way to such ill luck. 
 
 With deep dignst, a hiok he c.nst 
 
 At his reflection as he pas.sed; 
 
 A look of liate, and scorn, and pride, 
 
 As out of dot)rs he quickly hietl. 
 
 All tired and wearj- with chagrin. 
 
 Will) that bad fight, that had not ken. 
 
*- 
 
 1112 
 
 LOCATj AMD NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 MRS. ELLEN W. STEWART. 
 
 Born: Keating, Pa., May 27, 1851. 
 This lady has written extensively under a 
 nom de plume, and over three hundred ot her 
 poems have appeared in the Ladies' World, 
 Christian Evang-elist. Christian Oracle. Jour- 
 
 W^'^^'ii>'' 
 
 ^rj- ^- 
 
 MHb. KLLLN W. SIEWAUT 
 
 nal of Agriculture and the periodical press 
 generally. Mrs. Stewart resides on a farm 
 at Aitona, Colo., with her husband and son. 
 
 QUATRAIN MUSIC. 
 He wooed with love speech, she answered not ; 
 He wooed with flowers, but she still was 
 mute; [thoufiht; 
 
 He wooed with gold, she gave him not a 
 He wooed with music, and he won his suit. 
 
 IF. 
 
 If we only knew each other — 
 
 If we could but understand 
 Half the hidden thoughts and feelings 
 
 Of the one who takes our hand.— 
 Would the world be worse or better? 
 
 Would it cause more joy or woe. 
 If we could but know each other? 
 
 But we can not, this we know. 
 •' Friend " I call you as I greet you, 
 
 HeiiT your voice and meet your smile. 
 But I can not know for certain 
 
 That your heart is free from guile. 
 Tliose we pass with eyes averted. 
 
 Whom wo f(H'l so far above. 
 They miylit prove, if we but knew them, 
 
 Gentle friends whom we could love. 
 And the one we joy to honor, 
 
 Though he be of high estate. 
 May be, if we knew him truly. 
 
 Something far beneath our hate. 
 Here we can not know each other, 
 
 But before the great white throne 
 All the shadows shall be lifted — 
 
 We shall know as we are known. 
 
 WRITING LETTERS. 
 
 Would you write a friendly letter? 
 
 Do it now. 
 It perchance maj' drive a shadow 
 
 From the brow 
 Of the one who will receive it. 
 
 And may tend 
 To bring kinder, happier feelings 
 
 To a friend. 
 Would you write an angry letter? 
 
 Wait awhile. 
 Do not now, with cruel speeches. 
 
 Chase the smile 
 From a face all bright and sunny. 
 
 Ere you drink 
 Draughts from anger's bitter fountain, 
 
 Stop and think. 
 Would you write a loving letter? 
 
 Write to-day. 
 Ere the flood of tender feeling 
 
 Rolls away. 
 Catch the thought of love and send it 
 
 Out to bless 
 Some beloved heart, and bring it 
 
 Happiness. 
 Would you write a wicked letter. 
 
 Out of spite. 
 Or in wantonness or folly? 
 
 Do not write. 
 Give no vile thought to another 
 
 Human soul. 
 Letters sent are passed forever 
 
 From control. 
 Would yon write a Christian letter? 
 
 Write it quick. 
 Many souls, with sin's diseases 
 
 Are most sick. 
 Point them to the great Physician; 
 
 It is given 
 Unto you to show the pathway 
 
 LTp to heaven. 
 So whene'er you write a let tor. 
 
 Watch your pen. 
 Send your purest thoughts ami f;!iicies, 
 
 So that when 
 Other eyes shall sec your writitig. 
 
 They'll be blest 
 With your trusting hope of lieaveii 
 And its rest. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 my 
 
 HOMER AUG. BILLINGS. 
 
 Born: Pompey, N.Y., Sept. 4, 1826. 
 The Billing-s' originally came from England, 
 and the m:itcrn;il ancestors from France. 
 They settled in Pompey in 1.S12, where the 
 subject of tills .'sketch was boru and ha.s je- 
 slded ever since. During; the ages of si.\leen 
 
 HOMEH AUGUSTUS BILLING'^ 
 
 and forty. Homer taught twenty terms of 
 school, and for five j'ears was a g-eneral 
 tra%-eling- agent. In 1863 he married Miss 
 Helen Mar Smith of Dublin, Ind., bj' whom 
 he has one daughter, born in 1876, whose 
 chief delight is in sketching' portraits and 
 scenery in pencil, crayon and brush. Mr. 
 Billings has written over two hundred poems, 
 the majority of which have appeared in the 
 New York Truth Seeker, Syracuse Journal, 
 Fayettevillo Weekly Recorder, New York 
 Weekly World, and the periodical i>ress 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 The banner school of Pompey was 
 Sch(X)l District Xo. 8. 
 Its name and fame spread far and wide 
 Throughout our Empire State. 
 At first it was a "backward school " 
 When you commenced your labors; 
 Your rigid discipline was just: 
 It conquered wrangling neighbors: 
 And I must say "Thou art the man " 
 Who happj' changes wrought; 
 " Brought order out of chaos," too. 
 By your own timely thought. 
 
 You made us put the liandles on 
 The words of Yes and No; 
 Some of us don't forget them yet. 
 Though fifty years ago. 
 
 But few of us are now alive, 
 
 Wliom you instructed then; 
 
 And they are whitened out with age: 
 
 Old women and old men I 
 
 A few survive; the rest? Are dead I 
 
 They were — but are no more ; 
 
 The sun still shines, just iis it did 
 
 In palmy days of yore. 
 
 Those scliolars' names are ever dear 
 
 To us in recollection : 
 
 Sweet memories, in age renewed — 
 
 They live — in retrospection! 
 
 Wliile time is speeding rapidly 
 
 The steps of age move slow. 
 
 Age realizes Time's swift pace — 
 
 Since fifty years ago. 
 
 The "Old schoolhousc" has been removed. 
 
 Another stands to-day 
 
 Precisely where the old one stood. 
 
 North side of the highway. 
 
 I send my only child to schxil 
 
 Where I received instruction. 
 
 The very spoi where you and I 
 
 Had our first introduction. 
 
 Oh! what a change since then has come! 
 
 Your school had scholars plenty; 
 
 The district census of to-day 
 
 Will scarcely number twenty. 
 
 We have our pleasant summers still. 
 
 In winter, banks of snow. 
 
 Exactly as we used to have 
 
 Some fifty years ago. 
 
 All nations have their rise and fall; 
 
 SchcKil districts have the same; 
 
 They have a certain period 
 
 That marks their name and fame; 
 
 And so with indivi<lu:ils 
 
 There is a certain hour 
 
 That nitirks their nionil excellence 
 
 And momentary iM)wcr! 
 
 "Paradise lost! " Is it regained? 
 
 John Milton thought so surt\ 
 
 But the "Universal law of change " 
 
 Renders that theme obscure. 
 
 The palmiest days of Number eight 
 
 (As history will show, 
 
 Were those when Arnold taught our school 
 
 Some fifty years ago. 
 
 Two dozen teachers you sent forth. 
 To tr:iin the youtliful mind. 
 From District No. 8 alone. 
 And their success, wo find. 
 Was wonderful in tlie extreme. 
 
 * 
 
\ 
 
 *- 
 
 1114 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 JAMES O'RIORDAN. 
 
 Born: Ireland, about 1840. 
 After receiving bis education in Dublin, 
 the subject of tliis slsetch joined the National 
 Board of Education, and for a wliile was 
 principal of a national school. Being- a Na- 
 tionalist, Feniiai and Patriot, he was obliged 
 to leave his native uouuiiy and emigrated to 
 
 JAMES O'RIORDAN. 
 
 America in 1866. Although by profession a 
 civil engineer, he has generally taught 
 school. For a time he was mathematical 
 professor in Rhineclifl College on the Hud- 
 son; next he was on the topographical and 
 water-grant surveys alongthe Hudson river; 
 and he is at present principal of a school in 
 Hurley, N.T. As an author J:imesO'Riordan 
 has written a half dozen novels and several 
 volumes on educational subjects, besides 
 writing over five hundred poems. He is 
 also somewhat of an inventor, being the 
 patentee of many useful and valuable in- 
 ventions. James Q-Eiordan was married in 
 lt<57 to Miss Ellen Forrest Sliine, a poetess of 
 local fame, by whom he has a large family. 
 
 * 
 
 OH EKIN, DE.\REST ERIN! 
 Oh Erin, dearest Erin, 
 Green island of my birth; 
 Alas! I'm forced to part from thee, 
 Thou fairest spot on earth. 
 An exile Ininted o'er the seas 
 By hellish laws and spleen. 
 
 Because I loved your liberty 
 And wearing of the green. 
 
 Oh Erin, dearest Erin, 
 
 Thou sweet isle of the sea. 
 
 Thy sons are driven from thy shores 
 
 By England's tyranny. 
 
 Tliro" the world they are widely spread. 
 
 In each country they are seen. 
 
 And many numbered 'mong the dead 
 
 For wearing of the green. 
 
 Oh, Erin ! thou hast suffered sore 
 
 For full seveu hundred years, 
 
 Tliy brave sons persecuted, 
 
 And thy daughters still in tears. 
 
 But the day's at hand. 
 
 When Pat will stand 
 
 With weapon sharp and keen 
 
 And in freedom's cause will gain applause 
 
 For wearing of the green. 
 
 Oh, Erin! thy brave sons have died 
 
 Of shot, of shell and scars 
 
 In many a famed battlefield 
 
 In every nation's wars; 
 
 At W^aterloo, at Fonteuoy, 
 
 At Bull Run too I ween. 
 
 Who fought 'twas Pat, 
 
 Be sure of that, 
 
 Tho' wearing not the green. 
 
 Oh, Erin, in all lands and climes 
 
 Thy sons have valor sliown. 
 
 For every land they've fought and bled, 
 
 But alas! not for their own; 
 
 Now rally 'round the green old flag, 
 
 And show to England's queen, 
 
 Where'er you roam 
 
 You think of home 
 
 And wearing of the green. 
 
 Oh. Erin, now the hour is come, 
 Let tliy sons where'er they be. 
 Cast off this shame, unite and claim 
 Thy rights and set thee free 
 And raise thee 'mong the nations 
 Of the earth, as thou hast been; 
 For Freedom strike with sword or pike 
 And wearing of the green. 
 
 THE SILENT LONE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 EXTH.\CT. 
 
 See! yonder ivyiiiantled walls. 
 
 Where silence reigns around. 
 Where loathsome worm slim'ly crawls 
 
 Whhin that s:icri'd ground. 
 'Twas there tln^ hymn to heaven arose 
 
 From hermit, monk and bard, 
 "J'is Ihore fond father's bones repose 
 
 la the silent lone church-yard. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1115 
 
 >h 
 
 M. L. HALL. 
 
 Born: Ulster Co., N.Y., May IS, 1824. 
 At tlic ago of twcnty-onc Mr. Hail was mar- 
 ried in Bridgeport, Conn., and tliere carried 
 on house and ship iiaintiiig until 1861, when 
 he moved to a farm in Delaware county, N. Y. 
 
 M. r . HALL. 
 
 In 1869 he moved to Nebraska, where he has 
 a farm at Elkhorn, near Omaha. He has 
 piiblished a little book entitled Eternal Na- 
 ture, which has received high praise. 
 
 MY FIRST LOVE NOTES. 
 [Were you to come, though life had passed 
 away, 
 
 And smile so sweet, and touch this pulseless 
 clay. 
 
 And press ag.ain those cherry lips to mine, 
 
 My soul would feel the glow — the touch di- 
 vine. 
 
 And back to life and love would wing its 
 way. 
 
 And heart and soul in rapturous bliss en- 
 twine. 
 
 Death could not hold me by his chains one 
 day 
 
 If but my love drew near, a heaven-lit ray 
 
 Would thrill my heart. In sweet response to 
 thine 
 
 'Twould quickly burst from death's dark 
 cheerless mine 
 
 And lead thee to this dell ; again more gay 
 
 We'd clasp anew and sip love's ruby wine. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 Loving spirit, kindly hear it. 
 From the inmost soul the cry: 
 Do wo mortals, at death's portals. 
 Do we really surely die, 
 While for higher life we sigh? 
 
 We are anxious, make us conscious. 
 Death is not so dread a foe. 
 Knowledge seal it, make us feel it 
 As we pass this life so low 
 To a liigher plane we go. 
 
 Now we are here, with hope and fear. 
 Our loved messenger to come; 
 Come quite near us, comfort, cheer us; 
 Tell us on life's othec shore 
 Loved ones meet to part no more. 
 
 Oh! for meeting, fondly greeting. 
 We have waited, wept in vain; 
 Life is dreary, spirits weary. 
 Since you in the grave were lain ; 
 Dear one, loved one, come again. 
 
 Will you meet us, cheer and greet us, 
 You so loved now gone before, 
 We united, you invited. 
 Will you pull again for shore. 
 Will you come to us once more? 
 
 Hearts most broken, for a token 
 That you know and love us here; 
 Are you near us, do you hear us. 
 When we call that name so dear? 
 
 WILL YOU LOVINGLY APPEAR? 
 Dear one, come now I Sweetly somehow 
 Tell us we're not hopeless left. 
 By a rapping, gentle tapping. 
 By some rock of knowledge cleft. 
 Show us we are not bereft. 
 
 We are waiting, contemplating, 
 Feel we cannot give tliee o'er; 
 Come, we're steady, all things ready. 
 Fondly to our arms once more — 
 Golden crown — immortal lore. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 There's many Christians learned and smart. 
 Who aim to act a genen>us part. 
 Yet at the truth they stare and start. 
 And llineli, as from a poisoned dart; 
 And act it plain, and say it iKild. 
 'Tis best the truth wo should withhold. 
 Preach up falsehoods, stupid "asses," 
 Lest the truth should spoil the masses. 
 
*- 
 
 1116 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE MADEIRA. 
 
 Bokn: Galena, III., Oct. 14, 1836. 
 At the ag-e of fifteen Georg-e emigrated with 
 his parents to California, where lie has re- 
 sided for nearly fortj' years. In 1881 Mr. 
 Medeira accepted a position on a mining- 
 journal in New York, and for three years 
 
 GEORGE MADEIRA. 
 
 was their traveling- correspondent. He has 
 studied geolog-y and mining- science. For the 
 past six years he has been a special corre- 
 spondent for the Associated Press. Mr. Ma- 
 deira is also a fine picture painter and sketch 
 artist as well as quite a musician. 
 
 SOTOYOME. 
 
 [VALLEY OF FLOWERS.] 
 
 Sotoyomc, maiden fair! 
 
 Poppies in her dark brown hair. 
 
 Wild azalea's starry crown decks thy head. 
 
 And for thy gown, the Ceanotbus, lilac 
 
 shade! 
 In most intricate lace-work made. 
 Arbutus blossoms in her hand. 
 Queen Goddess of the Flower Land, 
 Whispering- on the perfumed breeze, 
 Tell of Knights, beyond the trees, 
 Blazing- in a sheen of gold 
 As in feudal days of old, 
 Come to crown Sonoma's Queen — 
 Sotoyomc! Chosen Queen. 
 
 Whore, then, is Eden? 
 
 Ah, why should I tell 
 
 What every eye and bosom know so well? 
 
 Why name the land all other lands liavc 
 
 blessed. 
 And traced for ag-es to the distant West? 
 Why search in vain throughout the historic 
 
 page 
 For Eden's g-arden and the Golden Age? 
 Friends, neighbors, no further let us roam; 
 This is the Garden; Eden is our home. 
 
 VALLEY OF THE BIRDS. 
 
 O radiant plain, fair, sun-kissed hills, 
 
 Green mountain range, its crystal rills 
 Flow ever onward to the sea; 
 
 How dear thy memories are to me ! 
 From j'on bold bluff, when but a boy. 
 
 First looked I on your field of joy: 
 Looked out upon the ocean far. 
 
 Where nightly sinks the evening star 
 Beneath the sunset sea. 
 
 No birds of passage these that dwell. 
 Who sport and build in wooded dell: 
 
 Alw.ays their home ! From day to day 
 Not lured by southern climes away. 
 
 Here, here they love from year to year, 
 Midsummer sun — no winter drear 
 Comes to Pajaro's vale. 
 
 The wild azalea's fragrant breeze 
 Steals soft mid groves of cypress trees; 
 
 The oriole sings, the linnet trills 
 Along the banks of sparkling streams. 
 
 Where quiet nature sweetly dreams. 
 Entrancing dream of mountain views! 
 
 Wlicro tower tlie domes of Santa Cruz — 
 
 dream of bright blue sea and strean^s! 
 How oft in midnight's mystic dreams 
 
 1 visit thee, fair land! 
 Thrice memory blessed I 
 
 Where she, my bride, sleeps— her last rest- 
 Aud binds mc with its cliain. 
 
 O birds, that sing 'neath azure skies, 
 
 O evening bird, that liomeward flics. 
 Where Loma's peak, symmetric, tall, 
 
 Tlirows his cool .shadow over all. 
 And Helios paints the l)ounding sea 
 
 Far out beyond wlicre sliadows flee! 
 Tlic crested waves that beat the shore 
 
 Or fleck with foam the marble floor 
 Echo along Pajaro's vale. 
 
 *- 
 
^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NAIIOXAL I'OETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 1117 
 
 EDWARD D. WRIGHT. 
 
 Boux : WAYNE Co., Ind., Oct. 11, 1859. 
 A COLLECTION of beautiful poems, ontitlod 
 Modern Poems, from tlie i)eii of tins ■writer, 
 have rcceivotl tlir liiL-lir-;t ciieomunis from 
 
 EDWAttD DANVILLE WIUGHT. 
 
 the press. Mr. Wrijrlit g'ives entertaiumeiits 
 of his own sonjis and poems, wliicli always 
 meet with pi eat applause. He is now a citi- 
 zeaof Danville, where lie is very popular. 
 
 ON THE CLIFF. 
 Where the rock is gvay, and mossj", and steep, 
 With rifts and caverns dark and deep; 
 Here and there a rugrged spray 
 Tn lovely pride of regal sway. 
 Leans gloomily over the shajrgj- side 
 To deepen the shadows of eventide. 
 This sylvan scene is pleasant to me. 
 My mind soars th' realms of revelry. 
 Below my feet some briers grew. 
 Shut from the sun and morning dew 
 By an oak's magnificent bower. 
 The clifC its summit scarce can tower. 
 Like a boy of stature small. 
 Stretching to peep beyond the wall. 
 The prickly pear here owes its worth 
 On the rock to a little lump of earth. 
 Bettie, these scenes had pictured to me. 
 As we rode on steeds in company 
 With Eva and Helen and Byron, gay 
 As ever were j-ouiigsters in chivalry's day. 
 Satiric jest sent tauntingly 
 A tale of love or of tragedy. 
 
 Each in its turn to cheer the liour. 
 
 Breathed o'er the group its leal power. 
 
 Ah, will the f riendsliip here I gain. 
 
 As transient be as summer rain? 
 
 And when I leave these rocks and bowers 
 
 That's known so many pleasant hours — 
 
 Shall those I leave beliind forget 
 
 My friendshii)'s lingering with them yet? 
 
 Pure affection gahied from them 
 
 Is to my heart life's sweetest gem. 
 
 Oh, may I be when life's storms beat 
 
 As firm as the rock beueatii my feet. 
 
 Which over and over and over again 
 
 Is the theme of many a poet's pen. 
 
 Enshrouded in moss as garbed for sleep. 
 
 Peerless to Time's dauntless sweep. 
 
 To be admired still, shall last 
 
 When I've gone down in the fading past. 
 
 MAN LITTLE DREAMED. 
 Reverting memory leads man back 
 
 To happy cliildhood days. 
 When he was young and happy 
 
 In childish sports and ways. 
 He little dreamed of future years 
 
 What they in turn would bring; 
 IIdw oft his heart sore saddened. 
 
 Must hear love's curfew ring. 
 He little dreamed with griefs consort 
 
 His joys would facile be; 
 In constant ire twixt joy and fear 
 
 His barge glides driftingly. 
 He little dreamed as years rolled on 
 
 That lust for wealth would rule — 
 That death would end the conflict. 
 
 And man should die a fool. 
 
 WHY DID YOr DIE? 
 They have laid her to rest 'noath the lilies. 
 
 With her white hands folded o'er her breast, 
 There my heart has been slumbering ever 
 
 Since the day that they laid her to rest; 
 Long I wandered to find recreation. 
 
 For despondent and lonely .■im I. 
 O Maggie! my darling, my loved one, 
 
 O why did you, why did you die? 
 chorus: 
 They have laid her to rest 'neath the lilies. 
 
 Where the sweet breezes falter and sigh. 
 O Maggie! my darling, my loved one, 
 
 why did you, why did you die? 
 Enshrouded in love I was happy. 
 
 With the one I adored by my side, [spirit; 
 'R.)und my soul had entwined your pure 
 
 1 was lost in that sweet, blissful tide. 
 In that moment so hajipy yon left me, 
 
 To jewel the realms of the sky. 
 O Maggie! my darling, my lovt-d one, 
 O why did you. why did you die? 
 
 -* 
 
1118 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MAUDE M. CLARKE. 
 
 Born: Des Moines, Ta., May 11, 18.57. 
 This lady commenced teaching when sixteen 
 years of age, and in that way earned enougli 
 money to take her through college. She has 
 written a number of articles in prose for 
 various publications under the nom de plume 
 
 SIRS. MAUDE M. CLARKE. 
 
 of Marguerite. The greater portion of her 
 life has been spent in the school room. In 
 18T9 she was married to Arthur Clarke, then 
 engaged in mercantile business in Lincoln. 
 Her little daughter Eva, born in 1881, displays 
 great literary talent and Is quite a singer. 
 Mrs. Clarke has a pleasant home in Sheldahl, 
 Iowa, where she is principal of schools. 
 
 *- 
 
 HOME. 
 The earth is dotted o'er with homes 
 
 As thick as stars in the skies. 
 But none to us is ere so bright 
 As the homes of our childhood joys and 
 sighs. 
 
 The rod man of mountain or plain 
 
 Clings to his wigwam still; 
 While the sailor-boy born on the main 
 
 Claims the sea as his home with good will. 
 
 And many and happy is the homo 
 That lies twixt our oceiin shores. 
 
 Some high on the mountain alone. 
 Others in cities numbering scores. 
 
 Thy home may lie on a far hillside 
 
 Beyond a stretch of seas; 
 A V]ne-clad cot of old graj' stone 
 
 'Mong heather and humming bees. 
 
 And thine may be a farm-house homo 
 
 With a river running by. 
 Where the song of birds is ever heard. 
 
 And oft the lampkin's cry. 
 
 While yours may be in the city gay. 
 Where the joj's and cares of life 
 
 Are seen and knotvn each day. 
 And oft are saddened with untold strife. 
 
 In our childhood's home. I see it still. 
 Life's pathway seems covered with flowers, 
 
 Where mother's gentle hand cured all our ills, 
 Her love made happier all the hours. 
 
 The years In their mystic train 
 Have flown past unheeded by us ever. 
 
 But have wrapped within the golden chain 
 The memories of love and home forever. 
 
 But whether our home is where meadows 
 wide. 
 
 Sweet with clover stretch on every side; 
 Or in the city where wealth and pride. 
 
 By culture, bright homes have beautified. 
 
 Still home is home, everywhere we roam 
 The memories linger yet, amid life's jars. 
 
 Sweet messengers of peace, ti'l we long for 
 home. 
 And them bej'ond the sun and stars. 
 
 FACES. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Ah, the faces we meet, how oft they reveal 
 The inward thoughts, of all creatures vain; 
 
 Verily they are mirrors true and real. 
 Reflecting our feelings of mirth or pain. 
 
 Many faces are so mournful and sad. 
 Seemingly so full of sorrow and woo; 
 
 We ask ourselves '• were their hearts ever 
 glad. 
 Or is there happiness of the long ago? " 
 
 The innocent smile of a baby's face 
 Is to us all a glimpse of Heaven, 
 
 Th;it draweth us nearerthe Throneof Grace, 
 Making us thankful for the blessing given. 
 
 The school-boy's face has the imiirint there 
 Of noble traits of character that need 
 
 Only careful training and earnest prayer, 
 To reveal his nature in word and deed. 
 
 That fair j'oung girl with golden hair 
 Has only smiles upon lior face. 
 
 Never a sorrow, not a care 
 Can with her joj' and gaiety find a place, 
 
 I 
 
 -1 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1119 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. WILLIAM T. BRIGGS. 
 
 BOKN : SCITUATE, MASS., DEC. 1, 1815. 
 
 After gnidii.-iting at Oneida Institute, tlie 
 subject of this sketch studied for two years 
 in tlie tlieolofrieal depart nicutof tliat eolle{;e, 
 and one year at Aiidover. He was onlaiiied 
 In 1846 as a Coiigregatioual minister and has 
 
 RET. WILLIAM THOMAS BRIGGS. 
 
 filled pastorates at North Andover, Mass., 
 Princeton and East Doug-las, where he serveii 
 twenty-one years, and of whicli he is still 
 pastor. During- the war he served for a 
 while as chaplain in Finley Hospital at 
 Washington, D. C. Rev. William Thomas 
 Briggs has published several sermons, many 
 articles and addresses, and a fe-w poems. 
 
 HERE, WHERE OUR FATHERS STOOD. 
 Here, where our fathers stood, we stand — 
 The confluence of a mighty stream; 
 And voices from the far-off land 
 Blend with the day, the hour, the theme. 
 
 A century past! A century hence! 
 
 To-day the nuptial knot we tie; 
 
 We link them in the noblest sense 
 
 With thoughts and deeds which cannot die. 
 
 By all the memories of this hour — 
 
 By yonder graves where sleep our sires, 
 
 By these grand liills whose summits tower 
 High o'er these altars, kindling- fires; — 
 
 By all the gleanings of the past. 
 By sacred earth and skies o'erhead — 
 Here let us vow wliile lite shall last 
 To emulate the pious dead. 
 
 And when we sleep beneath the sod. 
 Where fathers and where mothers lie — 
 Come thou blest Savior, mighty God, 
 And bear us all to realms on high. 
 
 GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 This day we hail with chastened joy,-. 
 This g-olden daj' of sunset hues. 
 When youth has blossomed into age 
 'Mid fruitful showers and g-eutle dews. 
 
 The time, though long, seems very short 
 When at the bridal altar fair 
 The marriage vow and i)lighted love 
 Joined in one life the aged pair. 
 
 The sunshine and the rain they shared, 
 Their spring and summer pass'd away, 
 And now the mellow autumn comes. 
 The only sign of winter day. 
 
 Unclouded be their evening sky — 
 Calm and serene their setting sun, 
 Glad in review of life's great work, 
 That all has been so nobly done. 
 
 Two noble sons have crossed the stream — 
 They stand upon the shining shore. 
 And yet this fiimily can say. 
 We still remain not two but four. 
 
 O God of love! we ask thee now 
 To smile on these advancing years. 
 To gild with light the evening sky 
 And chase away all glo<imy fears. 
 
 The hoary head — the snows of time, 
 A crown of glory — not of art. 
 The frosts of winter on the brow. 
 But summer blossoms in the heart. 
 
 And when these twain, whose lengthened 
 
 years 
 Have shed tlieir fragrance all around; 
 Whose children come at this gl.-id hour 
 To show their love — sincere, profound ; — 
 
 When these shall pass to brighter scenes 
 To re.'ilnis of peace and endless d:iy.— 
 Dear Savior take tlieni in thine arms 
 And gently bear them on their way. 
 
 « 
 
»^- 
 
 1120 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK A31EKICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY B. SAGESER, 
 
 Born: Oxford, III., Oct. 9, 1851. 
 This lady was married in 1868 to Francis M. 
 Sageser, and a j-ear later she removed with 
 him to Afton, Iowa, where they resided for 
 about twelve years. She now lives at Stuart, 
 
 MRS. MARY B. SAGESER. 
 
 Neb., with her husband and children. The 
 poems of Mrs. Sagfeser have appeared in the 
 local press in many of the western states. 
 
 A SUMMER SCENE. 
 The sun was yet shining: on the sea 
 
 With richest glow so fair to me, 
 Tlie angry sky had darker grown. 
 
 The sky-lark to his nest had flown. 
 
 Wlien all in nature hushed and still 
 Such grandeur seemed tlie sky to fill; 
 
 The thunder rolled, 'twas grand to me 
 As lovely blue-bells by the sea, 
 
 The grandeur of a summer shower 
 Cannot be told at sunset hour. 
 
 The gentle rain came pattering down, 
 All earth in richness it shall crown, 
 
 The leaves were waving on the trees 
 Sweet music in the summer breeze. 
 
 And when the rain was hushed ;iiid still 
 The bubbling brook passed by the mill, 
 
 My heart leaped fast in glad delight. 
 Rejoicing at the lovely sight. 
 
 The grass was greener than before. 
 The thirsty llowers could drink no more. 
 
 And all was quiet, rich and sweet. 
 As trampled rose leaves 'neath my feet; 
 
 Revived were fields, the grain, the flowers— 
 Ah, naught more fair than summer hours. 
 
 WINTER. 
 The season of winter is dreary. 
 
 For me no charms it can hold, 
 And yet some are happy and cheerful 
 
 And rejoice in the snow and the cold. 
 
 They think of the pleasures of skating. 
 And rides and the jingling- of bells. 
 
 Of parties, for mirth and for pastime. 
 The joy of which old winter tells. 
 
 The trees then arrayed in rich diamonds, 
 Which sparkle and dance in the sun. 
 
 As kings and queens in a palace. 
 Of crystal a weaver hath spun. 
 
 And Santa Claus comes richlj- laden 
 With toys, skates, candy and dolls 
 
 For the boys and girls in tliis season; 
 The reindeer, his horses he calls. 
 
 A man may prepare for the winter. 
 And yet he ne'er loves it, I know; 
 
 For who any grandeur or beauty 
 Can find in the ice or the snow? 
 
 And then as we think of the seasons, 
 When dreary old winter is past. 
 
 We really are glad it has left us. 
 And we wish it was winter the last. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 Of all the names of monarch 
 
 Or kings and queens of fame. 
 No name I know is half so sweet 
 
 As just my mother's name. 
 
 Her life is long and happy. 
 
 Her age a crowning one; 
 She is gathering up the garlands. 
 
 For behold, the race is won. 
 
 Through kindness and a tender heart 
 She hath endeared herself to all; 
 
 We shall know that she is ready 
 When she hears the Master's call. 
 
 Let us strew her path with roses. 
 Cast aside the worthless thorn; 
 
 It is such the Master crowneth 
 On the glorious light of morn. 
 
 Long may she live and prosper 
 To gather the golden corn. 
 
 To gather in the hart'est 
 She liath sown in the early morn. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 1121 
 
 * 
 
 AUGUSTUS A. FOSTER. 
 
 Born: South Reading, Mass., May 3, 1833. 
 At the age of tweiitj--tlireo Mr. Fostur re- 
 ceived the nomiiialiou for stale representa- 
 tive from the repul)liL'aii party, aud has held 
 various positions of trust. He served m the 
 war of the rebelliou, since which time lie has 
 
 AUGUSTUS A. FOSTER. 
 
 been connected with various publications in 
 Boston and New York City. Ill health com- 
 pelled him to return to Colorado, wliere he 
 is now engaged in mining and stock-raising. 
 
 THE WITCH'S SPELL. 
 Tell me not that witchcraft's dead 
 
 That the witch's spell is o'er. 
 Sprites and goblins all are fled, 
 
 Ghostly spirits haunt no more. 
 lUding broom-sticks through the air. 
 
 Cantering crones no longer go; 
 Now a blushing damsel f;iir 
 
 Goes out riding with her beau. 
 But with purpose all the same; 
 
 Smiles her radiant eyes illume. 
 Yet those eyes fiasli forth the flame 
 
 Laving to destruction's doom. 
 Now she seems an angel made. 
 
 Dazzling with her beauty bright. 
 Fateful messenger, arrayed 
 
 As a minister of light. 
 Hell-forged instruments of pain 
 
 In her tortures bear no part; 
 But her victims still are slain, 
 
 Falling with a bleeding heart. 
 
 Rising from life's battle-ground. 
 
 Groans aud wailiugs till tlie air 
 Of her victims, prostrate, bound. 
 
 Wounded, lielpless, in despair. 
 And is there kindly refuge none, 
 
 No sootliing charm with potent spell 
 To remedy the evil done — 
 
 No liealiug balm tlie pain to quell? 
 There is a flower, its name is Love; 
 
 It hath a wonder-working power; 
 It is a charm all charms above; 
 
 Bewitched young victim, find that flower. 
 " How to apply it? " That must be 
 
 A secret deep for thee to find; 
 Once found, from thrall and panis .set free. 
 
 Her as thy victim thou mayst bind. 
 And still this charm has power to throw 
 
 Such influence o'er her, thou shalt see 
 She thinks she leads thee still, nor know, 
 
 Nor dream thy prisoner is she; 
 
 Believing thee her prisoner still. 
 
 To go and come at lier command. 
 Yet bound to thy imi)erious will 
 
 Bi' Love's indissoluble band. 
 From witch's spell no more to fear. 
 
 Angel or witch —deemed one by thee. 
 You'll tliink an angel she's as near 
 
 As mortals ever come to be. 
 
 LUCRETIA AND MARGARET. 
 I've read their records o'er again — 
 Read the effusions of their pen. 
 And doubt no more; 1 feel, I know 
 That heaven's own angels walk below; 
 Not spirits formed in fancy's bowers. 
 But robed in mortal flesli like ours. 
 Where'er we roam, where'er we stay, 
 At home, abroad, by night, by day. 
 Though oft, too often undescried. 
 They glide around, on every side. 
 And such, Lucretia, dear, wert tliou. 
 Maid of the fair and thoughtful brow; 
 And such wert thou, dear >fargaret, too. 
 So lovely, beautiful, and true. 
 Both innocent and free front guile; 
 Both blest with beauty's witching smile; 
 Both deep-enshrouded in the blaze 
 Of genius' pure transcendent rays; 
 Both loved, and fumed, and lionored wide. 
 Both in tlieir youthful beauty died; 
 'Twas doubtless well ; for why sliould they, 
 Angels in tenements of clay. 
 Be kept from heaven, their native sphere, 
 To toil, and pine, and sutTer here? 
 And other just such souls are here; 
 Are round ns. ever lioverlng near; 
 But blinded by the things of earth, 
 Wi> know not, value not their worth. 
 
*- 
 
 1122 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. JOSEPH H. DUBBS, D. D. 
 
 Born: Near Allentown, Pa., Oct. 5, 1838. 
 After a course of three years in the Theo- 
 log'ical Seminary at Mercersburg, Mr. Pubbs 
 graduated iu 1859, and was ordained the same 
 year. He then became his fathers assistant 
 iu Alleutowu, and after two years assumed 
 
 Rev. JOSEPH HENRY DUBBS, D. D. 
 
 entire charjre of the cnngreg-ation, which 
 numbered twelve hundred members. Since 
 then lie has filled pastorates in many promi- 
 nent churches of Philadelphia and other 
 cities. At the same time Mr. Dubbs devoted 
 special attention to literary and historical 
 studies, and contributed reg-ularly to tiie 
 Boston Literary World, the Now York In- 
 dependent, ;ind current literature generally. 
 In 1878 Dr. Dubbs visited Europe, traveling 
 as far south as Naples and Pompeii. He is a 
 member of the Historical Society of Penn- 
 sylvania, a Fellow of the Royal Historical 
 Society of Great Britain, and President of 
 the Lancaster County Historical Society. In 
 1887 Dr. Dubbs published The Founding of 
 Fraidtlin College: in 1888 appeared Home 
 BalUids and Metrical "Versions; and in 1889 
 Wliitehnll Papers. This gentleman was mar- 
 ried in ]8fi3 to Miss Mary L. Wilson, by whom 
 he has four cliildren. 
 
 ONLY A SONG. 
 Only a boy that was singing, 
 
 Hapi)y of lie;irt and g;iy. 
 Driving the cows from tlie pasture 
 
 Home at the close of day ; 
 
 Words he had learned from his motlier, 
 
 Sung in the olden time. 
 Strains that are now forgotten. 
 
 Halting in tune and rliyme. 
 
 Under a tree by the wayside. 
 
 Dusty his garments and torn. 
 Rested au aged pilgrim, 
 
 Weary of travel and worn ; 
 Mourning o'er shattered ideals, 
 
 Beautiful days that had tied. 
 Friends that were parted forever. 
 
 Garlands all withered and dead. 
 
 Only a boy that was singing, 
 
 Happy of heart and gay, 
 Driving the cows from the pasture 
 
 Home at the close of day; 
 Singing a song that the pilgrim 
 
 Wrote in the days of youlli. 
 Telling of hopes tliat were brightest. 
 
 Honor, and love, and trutli ; 
 
 Bearing a message angelic 
 
 Over the waste of years. 
 Swelling liis bosom with rapture, 
 
 Filling Ids eyes with tears: 
 "Pilgrim, be thankful, and cherish 
 
 Honor, and love, and truth ; 
 Seeds that the aged have scattered 
 
 Grow in the hearts of youth." 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope within the spirit slumbers, 
 
 As in lily-cups the dew; 
 Hope, when tempest's wrath has ended. 
 
 Shows its bright celestial blue. 
 Hope is like a flow'ret, springing 
 
 From a bleak and rocky wall; 
 Hope, like diamonds in the waters. 
 
 Gleams when tears of sorrow fall. 
 
 Ah ! how oft deceived and broken. 
 
 Poor, confiding, human heart ! 
 Still thou turnest to the heavens. 
 
 Seeking grace to heal the smart. 
 Ever, like Arachne, spinning 
 
 Webs of liope, from d;iy to day, 
 Tliough to-morrow's sun should find them 
 
 Swept by cruel hands awaj-. 
 
 IMMORTELLES. 
 Joy and Beauty 
 
 Pass away; 
 Pain and Duty 
 
 Ever stay. 
 
 Friondshiji's greeting. 
 
 Virtue true — 
 Never fleeting. 
 
 Ever new. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 112.i 
 
 KATE NINA SLATER. 
 
 Born: Lamont, Mich., Dec. 13, 1871. 
 For a year Miss Slater taught school, and is 
 now a student ot the Springfield High School 
 
 m^ 
 
 K \ I 1 MN V SLATER. 
 
 at Spriiigfleltl, Mo., where she resides. Per- 
 sonally Miss Slater is rather slight, with light 
 brown hair and blue ej'es. 
 
 WHEN HOPE IS GONE. 
 See yon quiet lake resting on earth's bosom; 
 Quiet and still as in death's dreamless sleep! 
 Its deep, dark, dank waters knowing no flow. 
 The shadows forever its embrace woulil 
 
 keep. 
 Unmoved by the winds passing over its 
 
 breast. 
 Covered with moss dark thick, and so green, 
 Pulseless, whatever earth's lips may repeat, 
 The silence and sadness of death is there 
 
 seen. 
 Round it stretch snowfields to east and to 
 
 west. 
 O'er it the winds witli coldness now sweep; 
 Clothe all in the twiliglit gray and wan. 
 So would life be when all hope is gone. 
 
 *- 
 
 LEARNING TO COOK. 
 
 How well I remember the days of my girl- 
 hood, 
 
 My ill concealed frowns and my dejected 
 look 
 
 O'er my first batch of bread and my flour- 
 covered apron ; 
 
 O, tlie grief of those days I was learning to 
 
 cook ! 
 I arose from my couch with expressed in- 
 tention 
 Of seeking the region of pastry cook's art, 
 And learning to make all tlie pastry desired. 
 From the stall of Ilie ajipetite down to the 
 
 tart. 
 I donned the big apron of blue-flgured calico. 
 And rolled up my sleeves for all work to 
 
 prepare ; 
 Then with my bangs rolled uj) tight in curl 
 
 papers. 
 My back liair in a Psyche, I went down the 
 
 stair. 
 As bread was necessity that I first sampled, 
 I wanted it lender and light as the air. 
 But alas! the result was not like the desire. 
 As a weapon 'gainst tramps 'twas unusually 
 
 fair. 
 As I was busy just mixing the compound. 
 My liands stuck with dcjugli and my face 
 I)owdered white, [tion. 
 
 Imagine my surprise, my deep consterna- 
 My sorrow and grief at my desperate plight ; 
 My heart standing still, my veins froze with 
 
 horror. 
 
 When I lieard a known ring at that horrid 
 
 door-bell, [ble. 
 
 And flying at once with my form all a trem- 
 
 There stood— oil what horror — the d;ishing 
 
 Fred Melle. 
 A charming maid's blush rose up to my tem- 
 ples. 
 Suffusing my neck with its reddening glow, 
 1 thouglit it extremely unkind of the fellow 
 To call, when my duty required me below. 
 
 But the call, like the mysteries deep of good 
 ciH)king, [end, 
 
 Witii words of regret reached a summary 
 
 I returned with my blushes back into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 To take up the loaves, to mold and to Viend. 
 
 And then nicely shiiped I put them in drip- 
 pers. 
 
 And set them to rise near the buck oven 
 door. 
 
 Next I proceed with dish-cloth and cook- 
 knife. 
 
 To clean up the dough from the table and 
 floor. 
 
 The bread came up lightly, my face uow 
 shone brightly; 
 
 I set it with pride in the oven to bake 
 
 (I counted my chickens before they were 
 tienr hatched), 
 
 Tlie stuff was as tough as au iron-toothed 
 rake. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1124 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES ALMERINE DELKE. 
 
 Born: Surry Co., Va., Sept. 14, 1821. 
 In 1841 the subject of this sketch graduated 
 from the North Carolina University. He 
 has taught school for nearlj- half a century 
 in academies, colleg'es and universities in 
 Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee. 
 
 *- 
 
 JAMES ATyMERTNE DELKE. 
 
 Mr. Delke has been honored with the degrees 
 of A.B., A.M., and LL.D. The poems of 
 this great educator have received publica- 
 tion in the North Carolina Teacher, Nashville 
 Baptist Companion, Riclimond Religious 
 Herald and numerous other prominent pub- 
 lications. James Almerine Delke, A.B., A. 
 M., LL.D., now resides at High Point, N. C. 
 
 THE EYE. 
 
 Should hatred or love 
 
 Our sympathies move, 
 'Tis in vain for our lips to deny; 
 
 We may slip out a flb, 
 
 Though ever so glib,— 
 The truth will be seen in the eye. 
 
 Though sweetly we smile. 
 
 And seek to beguile, 
 All in vain, the effort we try; 
 
 The blush on the cheek 
 
 The truth may not speak,— 
 Yet 'tis seen in truth-telling eye. 
 
 Though a secret we keep 
 
 In our bo.sora so deep, 
 'Twill manage its prison to fly; 
 
 Beyond all control. 
 
 In spite of the soul,— 
 The truth will escape thro' the eye. 
 
 Then do not believe 
 
 That you can deceive. 
 And safely all watching defy; 
 
 Your tongue you m;iy chain, 
 
 Your lips bite in vain,— 
 The truth will be seen in the eye. 
 
 WINTER'S RAID. 
 Old Winter was storming in bitter distress. 
 While preparing to change his base. 
 His baggage all checked to a northern ad- 
 dress 
 He was hoping to leave by the air-line ex- 
 press 
 For the sun was giving him chase. 
 At the head of the troop ^olus loud blew 
 His summons to mount and awajM 
 The Boreas his icicle scinietar drew 
 And onward with double-quick speed they 
 
 flew — 
 Like ghosts at the coming of day. 
 The white tents were gone, the frost turned 
 
 to dew. 
 The streams, ,iust unlocked from their 
 
 chains. 
 Were murmuring forth their glad songs 
 
 anew. 
 While broader, more rapid, and deeper they 
 
 grew. 
 In haste to distribute their gains. 
 The birds are come out with carols so gay, 
 The vanguard of nature's sweet choir; 
 The generous night lends her time to the day 
 Only asking his note the loan to repay, 
 When Apollo shall mount no higher. 
 
 Dame Nature awoke from her short winter 
 
 sleep. 
 And gazed at the changes around, 
 Then smiled when she saw the violets peep. 
 And able no longer their fragrance to keep 
 As "day-stars" en jewelled the ground. 
 But hark! in the distance a murmur is 
 
 heard — 
 Each ear is expectant with dread ; — 
 In haste driven in flies the sentinel bird 
 And chills every heart with the magical 
 
 word — 
 Old winter is making a raid ! 
 The sun darkly sets 'neath a cloud in the 
 
 we.st — 
 Slowly drag the long, weary hours,— 
 And after a night of anxious unrest, 
 Damo Nature is seized with a chill in th® 
 
 breast! 
 And snow-flakes are kissing tlic flowers! 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAI. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 U2.3 
 
 HORACE L. HASTINGS. 
 
 Born: BLAXDrORD, Mass., 1831. 
 As AUTHOR of Shall We Meet Boiond the 
 River and the work entitled Soug-s of Pil- 
 grimag-e which contains fourliundrcd hymns, 
 Horace Lorenzo Hasting-s has bocoine well- 
 known throughout the religious world. He 
 
 .;r •^? 
 
 HORACE LORENZO HASTINGS. 
 
 is editor of The Christian, a lecturer on in- 
 fidelity and an evangelist, and resides in 
 Boston, Mass. Mr. Hastings is the author of 
 more tlian a score of standard works of a 
 religious char.-icter, besides hundreds of 
 tracts. He was married in 18.53 to Miss Har- 
 riet Frances Barnctt, and has two sons and 
 one daughter grown to maturity. 
 
 THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD. 
 The Lord is my Shepherd,— then I shall not 
 
 want. 
 He leads in green pastures by waters of 
 
 peace; 
 My soul he restoreth, when weary and faint. 
 And leads me in righteousness, wisdom and 
 
 grace. 
 Thro' th' valley of death-shade I walk with- 
 out fear. 
 His rod and his staff for my comfort abide; 
 No evil shall harm while my Sliepherd is 
 
 near. 
 My gracious preserver, my guardian, and 
 
 guide. 
 
 Tho' foes may surround me, my board thou 
 
 dost spread. 
 My cup filled by thee, doth with blessings 
 
 run o'er; 
 Tliinc oil of rejoicing upon my poor head. 
 In goodness and mercy thou daily dost pour. 
 
 Tliy favor shall follow my steps to tlie end. 
 
 Till I in thy palace of glory sublime, 
 
 Shall see my Redeemer, my Savior and 
 
 Friend, 
 And dvoll througli the ages unnumbered in 
 
 time. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS SHALL DEPART. 
 O wanderer, burdened with sorrows and 
 
 fears. 
 Look up from thy darkness, dejection, and 
 
 tears ; 
 There is pity, and pardon, and gladness for 
 
 thee. 
 There is mercy in Jesus,— salvation is free. 
 
 Your sins may like mountains before you 
 
 arise, 
 But the mercy of God fills the earth and the 
 
 skies; 
 Ye weary and guilty give heed to His call; 
 There is pardon for you, — there is pardon 
 
 for all. 
 The mountains shall shake and the hills shall 
 
 depart. 
 But nothing shall trouble the sanctified 
 
 heart; 
 For He who hath loved us, our Savior and 
 
 Friend, 
 Shall guard us and guide us in love to the 
 
 end. 
 
 LOOK NOT THOU UPON THE WINE. 
 Look not on the wine tho' it sparkles and 
 
 smiles. 
 It mocks with its beauty and spreads its 
 
 dark wiles; 
 The flash of its bubbles will lead thee iustray, 
 It lures to deceive thee and gleams to betray. 
 Tho' beauty and light o'er its surface now 
 
 sweeps. 
 Dark monsters of horror lie hid in its deeps; 
 The cup that enchants you may cost you 
 
 your blood. 
 As you drink in its dregs of the wrath of 
 
 your God. 
 Make haste then, O mortal, and turn from 
 
 the cup. 
 Shrink back from death's portal while yet 
 
 there is hope. 
 Resist all temptation, be bold in the strife. 
 That at last you may drink of the river of 
 
 life. 
 
*- 
 
 1126 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MARTIN WALLACE. 
 
 Born: Crawford Co., Ills., 1838. 
 The poems of Mr. Wallsice have appeared in 
 the Texas Christian Advocate of Dallas, Hou- 
 ston Tribune, and various other publications. 
 For many years he has been engaged in mill- 
 ing lumber, and in 18T4 was married to Miss 
 M. F. Murray. 
 
 ON THE WING. 
 
 While musing o'er the events of Time, 
 A pleasing sense of things sublime 
 Came o'er my thoughts in grand review. 
 Of scenes with interest ever new. 
 First I looked on childhood's life, 
 With smiles of joy and tears of grief. 
 And next the sports of early youth. 
 With some deceit and much of truth. 
 Then riper life, with heavy cares. 
 And age, with all its weight of years, 
 These every-day affairs of man 
 Strew thickly o'er the path of Time. 
 But looking past this business life, 
 Where love of gain makes constant strife. 
 The aged come with trembling step. 
 Life's weary journey nears its close. 
 Anxious spirit, wrestling with delay. 
 Longs for home, but here must stay 
 And bear the cross till crown is given. 
 And labor finds reward in Heaven. 
 Where calm delights serenely roll. 
 Or richer joys enthuse the soul. 
 And happiness runs full and free 
 From Time throughout eternity. 
 Love, the sweetest passion of the soul. 
 In Heaven enjoys supreme control. 
 And soft, sweet light and fragrant air 
 In rich refulgence waving there. 
 But hark; what mean those childish raptures 
 In the Lord's reception rooms; 
 A cherub infant looking out, 
 Hails a distant coming shout. 
 Rising high o'er Heaven's headlands 
 Comes a shining angel convoy. 
 Bearing from the stream of death 
 A rescued sinner saved by grace. 
 When first they sight the plains of glory. 
 Celestial beauty's dazzling splendor 
 Tlirills with joy the enraptured mother. 
 Looking o'er the Heavenly mansions. 
 In a window waits her nursling 
 In flowing robes of Heavenly brigiitness. 
 Waves starry crown and golden harp,— 
 Tliis way mamma, here's the Savior. 
 The Savior smiles a princely welcome 
 To all the joys a Heaven may know, 
 *— 
 
 Mother from earth's low-lands coming. 
 Finds life's lost darlings saved in Heaven. 
 A mother's soul, enthused with love, 
 In emotion lost she clasps her child. 
 And finds a long-lost sainted daughter, 
 Watching with the angel infant. 
 Pleased, she gazes on their features, 
 Gathering brightness on her own. 
 Until celestial light's reflection 
 Gives resemblance like to all. 
 Departed friends will ne'er return 
 From soul-impi'oving joys of Heaven, 
 Where maturity expands their powers 
 And capacity o'erflows with pleasure. 
 
 PETITION AND PRAISE. 
 Savior, near Thy Father's throne. 
 For such as I Thy blood atones; 
 He hears with love thy tender crj'. 
 Plead merej% Lord, for such as I. 
 Quicken with convincing power. 
 Grant me justifying love; 
 Sa%'ior, let me at Thy cross 
 Find Thy full accepting grace. 
 May adopting love be given. 
 Sweet assurance, gift of heaven. 
 And sanctifying grace bestow 
 To guide mj' life while here below. 
 
 PRAISE. 
 
 And when I reach Thy home above. 
 In endless joy and perfect love, 
 I'll tune mj' harp's eternal tones 
 To sing free grace and dying love. 
 And while the eternal ages roll. 
 And heaven's bright glory fills mj' soul, 
 I'll sing with all the hosts above 
 Thy pardoning grace and dying love. 
 
 ENDLESS PLEASURE. 
 
 When million decades all have fled 
 To lost oblivion's silent shade. 
 My ransomed soul may look in vain 
 For glory's noon or eve unborn. 
 Eternal morn's high rising suu 
 Ascends where Zenith ne'er was known. 
 And youthful praise in joyful lays 
 Finds no nooti or close of day; 
 But runs duration's length'ning round. 
 In pleasure's realms without a bound; 
 Omiiicience, looks in vain to see 
 The boundaries of eternity. 
 
 Jesus, I would come to Tliee, 
 Praying help from sin to flee; 
 Let Thy cleansing blood atone 
 For all tlie evil 1 have done. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAl. AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1127 
 
 MRS. JUSTELLE CUMMINGS. 
 
 Born: Falmouth, 5Ie., Dec. 19, 1848. 
 This ladj' has generally resided ia Port- 
 land, but now resides in Falmouth, Me. Slie 
 graduated from the Portland Higli Scliool 
 and was married to Dr. Isaac I. Cumniings 
 In 1873, but is now a widow. Quite a few of 
 
 MRS. JUSTELLE B. CUMMINGS. 
 
 hor poems have appeared in the periodical 
 press, generally under a nom de plume. 
 Falthe, a story of Falmouth, extracts of 
 which are given herewith, is considered a 
 very fine production. 
 
 TWO PATHS. 
 No thorns grow iu your level path, 
 Tlie sun on flowers smiling, 
 With all the pleasures nature hath 
 Combine for idle-wiling. 
 No sorrows for your heart are there 
 Nor tears of others, soothlj' 
 To vex your happy soul, for here 
 Some power makes things go smoothly. 
 
 My way is dark, uneven, rough. 
 
 In sombre shadow lying. 
 
 And at the end, fur, far enough. 
 
 There seems u faint light flying. 
 
 Which onward goes, too faint, loo far. 
 
 To give my footsteps guiding; 
 
 'Tis sometimes like a wandering star 
 
 Tn darkness lost or hiding. 
 
 And still I know the light is there. 
 
 Though never smilini: kindly; 
 
 It leads my f;iltering footsteps where 
 
 1 can but follow blindly. 
 
 *- 
 
 FAITHE. 
 
 A STOUV OF FALMOUTH. 
 
 A thrift}' town, a century or more agone, 
 
 Wa.^ Falmouth by the sea. 
 Whose commerce In those stirring times was 
 done 
 In ships built on her shore, 
 Where, in the lanes each branching tree met 
 tree 
 In sweei)ing arch continuously. 
 And barred the burning rays of noonday sun 
 
 From falling iiarshly o'er 
 The heads t)f hai)py tillers of the soil. 
 
 And sun-tanned masters of fair Fal- 
 mouth's ships 
 Returned to her safe harbor after toil 
 
 And jieril in tiio sly and treaclierous slips 
 And storms of ocean's mad and ruthless 
 moil. 
 
 Fair Falmouth that I mind to tell you of. 
 Not in the storied grandeur of a Rome, 
 Nor yet in castled dwelling had she fame. 
 Hut Nature's hand liad fashioned here, a 
 liome. 
 Fit dwelling place of Beauty and of Love, 
 And dear Content sat at her cottage doors 
 While wholesome Comforts voyaged to 
 her sliores. 
 Where many sails bleached iu the shining 
 
 Sun 
 When he, as from a bath, in the far horizon 
 Dripping with li(iuid light proclaimed 
 
 the morn 
 And heraldes that the joy of day is born. 
 
 Green isles, whose rugged headlands stand 
 Abrui)t like sentinels who bar the way 
 To flags of duV)ious dress, and bid them. 
 Stay : 
 Nor bring their trait'rous goods from alien 
 land. 
 Green isles the w.aves enrich, where high 
 The soaring sea-birds sail twixt sea and 
 sky. 
 The story that I mind to tell toj-ou 
 
 Is of a maiden, brave and fair to see. 
 Whoso varying fortunes and whose sorrows, 
 few 
 Will find it in their hearts to re.nd but 
 lovingly. 
 
 Born with the people though not of them she. 
 For lacked she not of gentle ancestry 
 
 Not so remote but tliat the leavening 
 Lent all her ways a gr:iccful dignity. 
 
 Faithe's mother's motlior, exiled in the 
 evening 
 Of a stormy life, bereft of liigh degree. 
 
 Exiled and widowed. Journeyed to this 
 land 
 
*- 
 
 1128 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 To seek a place of safety from the hand 
 Of tjTauuous intolerance, and here to see 
 Her fair jouug- daughter placed iu custody 
 
 Of distant relatives. Then, weary at the 
 last 
 
 From all the changing cares through 
 which her life had passed. 
 She bid adieu to scenes wliere sorrows hide 
 The while her daughter grieving at her side. 
 Was from both kin and country severed wide. 
 
 This maiden sorrowed, stricken to the heart, 
 Till slie from life Itself was fain to part. 
 
 But there was beauty in the saddened 
 
 face 
 And iu her ways a kind of stately grace. 
 Which white-rose beauty pleased the brave 
 joung lieart 
 Of one whose farmer's calling scarce 
 could dare 
 To seek a highly born and proudly nurtured 
 
 Fair, 
 But win he must for love's entrancing dart 
 Had pierced liim to the soul with fatal 
 
 force 
 And left no strength for any other course. 
 
 I wish I'd space to tell you what was said. 
 And how the days of wooing quickly sped. 
 Of how at last the Squire won his bride. 
 And how in joyous strength and youth- 
 ful pride. 
 He led her to the altar by his side. 
 But it's of Faithe the story I'm to tell 
 And all the crooked liappenings there befell, 
 So T must on to later times, and so 
 Must leave to happier tale that long ago. 
 
 The days were C(»«ie when English warships 
 laid 
 Along these peaceful shores 
 And levied tax, while many a threat was 
 made 
 By testy Commodores, 
 And haughty Captains loftily aspired 
 To dictate terms to men whose souls were 
 fired 
 For Freedom. Better had it been 
 Had Britain saved her warships and her 
 men 
 For nobler purpose than extorting tithes 
 From hands that steered her prows and 
 swung her scythes. 
 
 Strong hearts there were, were hot with in- 
 dignation. 
 And soon brave minds were planning 
 sharp redress. 
 E'en then were men convened in consultation 
 To shape a dawning Nation's proud 
 success 
 
 While soon the people follow with the cry: 
 Of " Liberty ! For this we'll live or die." 
 The Squire, among the first of all of those 
 To whose stout courage Freedom ever owes 
 Its victory, gave stores and proffered life 
 And marched within the thickest of the 
 strife. 
 Faithe loved this rugged land where she was 
 born. 
 And bravely saw her father march away 
 To win its Liberty, nor did she mourn 
 
 When her dear friend and schoolmate 
 came to say 
 That he too, boasting in youthful zeal. 
 Should " ride a royal road to naught but 
 weal" [luief 
 
 And they'd •» return too in a space so 
 There would be time to scarce begin to 
 grieve." 
 
 Faithe worshipped in her heart her peaceful 
 
 home, [roam. 
 
 Nor dreamed in fairer land one e'er could 
 
 She knew and loved each beauty of the 
 
 place. 
 
 The ocean whose clear green and vivid blue 
 
 Shine in the sun, reflected from hor face. 
 
 While sighing undines in her deepness view 
 
 The hidden mystery of her fluent grace. 
 
 She loved to see those distant silver peaks 
 Fade in the ambient glory of that light 
 Where Phcebus spreads his dazzling 
 coverlet 
 And goes to rest; or restless seeks 
 
 Another glorious day, while peaeefu 
 night 
 Keigns over all where his bright rays 
 have set. 
 She loved the wood's green banks and brooks 
 And often searched its knolls and nooks 
 For fragrant arbutus and flowers 
 Which flourish rarely in these bowers. 
 She loved to wander bj- the sea 
 Where boughs bend down so lovingly 
 To clasp the soft, caressing waves 
 That linger in the creeks and caves, 
 And softly bathe the orchard's slope 
 Where fruit and grass yield greedy crop 
 To realize the farmer's hope. 
 
 Faithe loved it all, but deep and dearer yet 
 
 Was love of home and kindred deeply set. 
 And now a shadow of unspoken grief, 
 A sorrow seeming almost past relief. 
 
 Looks from the darkening shades within b( 
 eyes. 
 
 And in her voice a hopeless cadence lies. 
 No love-tale this. Faithe's youthful hea 
 Was yet untouched save by the tender t 
 Nursed in the cradle of Sanguinity. I 
 
 r 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1129 
 
 JAMES A. DEMOSS. M. B. 
 
 Born in Indiana, Feb. 5, 1859. 
 Becoming a student of mediciiio under his 
 father, he received liis dcfrreoof >L D. in 18J-'3. 
 lu 1884 Dr. DeMoss was married tuMiss Anna 
 M. Oliver; he now resides in Thayer, Kausiis, 
 with his wile and liule ilauylilur. As a 
 
 JAMES A. D'MOSS, M. D. 
 
 ■writer. Dr. DeMoss has been somewhat pro- 
 lific, altlioug-h but little has yet been given 
 to the public. His contributions liave aji- 
 peared in the Voice of Masonry and Family 
 Magazine, as well as many other journals of 
 equal prominence. He contemplates issuing 
 a volume in the near future. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 Thoughts are flying inspirations, 
 
 Fleeting as the summer's cloud; 
 Grasp them, hold them, they arc precious. 
 
 Silent, yet they sv>eak aloud. 
 For the inspirations lifting. 
 
 From the soul's deep silvered strand. 
 Are the fresh and brilliant jewels — 
 
 Tokens of the inner man. 
 Thoughts, like rivers, run to oceans — 
 
 The great sea of human lore; 
 But it first must fall in showers. 
 
 On the mead, and marsh, and moor. 
 Then refresh the fevered meadows. 
 
 Let some dew fall in the night ; 
 
 If you cannot send the sliowcrs, 
 Vou can lend your little mite. 
 
 Selfish natures cannot broaden 
 From witliout their n.-irrow self; 
 
 Wealth you liold within your bosom 
 Narrows more and more yourself. 
 
 Breathe afar your thoughts of meaning', 
 Like the dew of Hermou's jdain; 
 
 " Cast your bread upon the waters — 
 It will turn to you again." 
 
 MV LIFE. 
 Life to mo is as the waters 
 
 From the mountain leaping down, 
 Tlirough the meadows and the rivers. 
 
 To the ocean onward bound. 
 
 So my life from youth's glad hill-top. 
 Draining through a channeled worhl. 
 
 Onward bounding, smootldy streaming. 
 Cradle in the grave is hurled. 
 
 When absorbed within the bosom 
 Of old ocean's peaceful rest. 
 
 Lost I tlicn shall be forever. 
 In divinity at rest. 
 
 WOKTIILESSNESS. 
 Some beings live from day to day 
 
 Without a thought; 
 Whose solemn moments pass away, 
 
 And soon forgot. 
 
 Each day as but an idle dream 
 
 Of little worth; 
 And to the dormant mind 'twouldscem 
 
 His life a curse. 
 
 It is a fruitless life indeed. 
 
 Ah yes, 'tis worse 
 Tlian fruitless, and of little need 
 
 E'er to rehearse. 
 
 Not only do they bear no fruit 
 
 Of value great. 
 Nor deeds of any g(X)d repute 
 
 Would fain create; 
 
 Hut worse by far than fruitless toil. 
 
 They sink at last 
 Into despair, a worthless spoil. 
 
 Forgotten past. 
 
 Ah, sad to see a wasted form 
 
 All ghastly lay, 
 A victim to life's every storm — 
 
 A helpless prey. 
 
 All damned here by his worthless self. 
 
 Ignoble slave; 
 A victim of his hand bereft. 
 
 His trust did wave. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1130 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AJIERICA. 
 
 GUSTAVUS W. WICKSTEED. 
 
 Born : England, Dec. 21, 1799. 
 GrUSTAvus W.WiCKSTEED, Q.C., IS the author 
 of a Tolume of poems which was published 
 ia 1887, entitled Waifs in Verse, which lias 
 been highly praised by the press and public. 
 The poems of this noted lawyer and author 
 
 GUSTAVUS W. WICKSTEED. 
 
 have constantly appeared for tlie past half 
 century in the Canadian press. For fifty 
 years he has been in the civil service of the 
 Dominion of Canada, and in all that time lias 
 maintained the highest respect of his col- 
 leagues. 
 
 AN ALBUM'S PETITION. 
 To each dear friend and Ijind relation 
 Of its mistress,— of what nation 
 They may be soe'er, and whether 
 Known or not,— to all together, 
 Young or old, or dull or witty, 
 Rich or poor, or plain or pretty, 
 A modest begging book's memorial 
 Humbly shewetli — 
 
 That to glory, all 
 Wlio its pages will adorn 
 Shall be l)y its pages borne. 
 And go down to future times 
 With tlic autlior of these rliymes,— 
 They who' re young may write about 
 Love's sweet dream and anxious doubt; 
 And they wlio have been long on earth 
 May toll us wliat that dream is worth. 
 Tliey who have the brains and Avit 
 
 On iiiany a brilliant thought can hit. 
 And they who've not can borrow one 
 From the good liing Solomon. 
 Thcj- who're ricli can pay at will. 
 For another artist's skill. 
 But they who're poor, unhappy elves, 
 Must try to write or draw themselves. 
 Tliey who're pretty, if they're wise, 
 Tiieir beauty will immortalize 
 By having each bewitching- look. 
 Glowingly copied in this book; — 
 To those who're plain it will be a dutj 
 To sliow how wit surpasses beauty. 
 Come ladies fair, and gentlemen. 
 Wield the pencil or the pen. 
 You can fill me if you trj-; — 
 Write or draw, or cut or buy. 
 Verse or picture, prose or print. 
 Act on a gentle album's hint; 
 Give me mistress something clever. 
 For itself she'll love it ever; 
 Or if it be of those that perish. 
 For your sake your gift she'll cherish; 
 So shall your production be 
 Made famous by its place in me.— 
 Be of my requests observant 
 And my lady is your servant; 
 Accede to them without delay. 
 And your petitioner shall pray. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO MY WIFE — WITH THE BRITISH POETS. 
 
 Love is like poetrj-, botli lend vhe hue 
 Peculiar to themselves to all they touch. 
 And clothe it with a loveliness all new, 
 A strange but most delightful sweetness. 
 Such the beautyby the i)ictured window shed 
 On the cold walls as some cathedral aisle. 
 Tinting the sculptured relics of the dead, 
 Till marble dames and warriors seem to smile. 
 As love's first offering for the new-born year, 
 Tliis Volume, ricli in Britain's choicest song, 
 No inappropriate tribute will appear [long 
 From him whose fondest, prayer shall be.that 
 As life is thine, thy days and years may be 
 Made fair and bright by love's sweet poesy. 
 
 TO MY PISTER. 
 In joy, in grief, in laughing safety's day, 
 In frowning danger's hour, when blank dis- 
 may [have been 
 Filled sterner hearts than ours,— wo two 
 Companions my sweet sister;— tho' we part 
 In person, still I know that heart to heart 
 Will speak and answer ever: write and tell 
 All that may grieve or please thee, knowing 
 
 well 
 That all that pains or joys or interests thine 
 Pains, joys or moves this faithful heart of 
 mine. 
 
 *t- 
 
« 
 
 LOCAL AND NATION A I- POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1131 
 
 JESSIE VIRGINIA FREN'CH. 
 
 Born: McMinnvillk, Tenn., April 2, 1856. 
 A VOLUME of poems eiitillod Souncliiitrs and 
 Sea Foam, from the pen of Jessie Virg-iiiiu 
 Frencb, willsliorlly be published. The poems 
 of this autlior have .-ippoaivd extensively in 
 the perii^dical pro*s of the South, where slie 
 
 JESSIK vine I MA FRENCH. 
 
 resides at Nashville, Tenn. Mrs. L. Virgiuia 
 French, the mother of the subject of this 
 sketeli, was also an autlior of frreat merit 
 who was very ])opular in the Soutli. where 
 she had endeared herself to tlie public by her 
 many beautiful poems and high literary at- 
 tainments. 
 
 MY LOVE SONG. 
 •• Would I were with thee — " 
 Is tlio old love song. 
 She's singing to-nigiit 
 To tiic listening tiirong. 
 
 With tlice — witli thee — 
 How her words tlirill out — 
 "Would I were witli thee," 
 Can my stirred lieart doubt. 
 
 The little singer 
 Is singing for me? — 
 "In joy or pain 
 By land or sea. 
 Would I were with thee 
 
 Eternallv." 
 
 "Would I were witli thee 
 Every day and hour." 
 My cruel pride arose 
 In its young tyrant iKjwer. 
 And this — and this — 
 Fur tlie gilded tlirong! 
 Slie. ringing for them 
 My favorite song I 
 And, f-inging as never 
 
 Siie sang Ijefore. 
 The old-time air 
 The old love love — 
 " Wlien liappy dreams 
 Thy tlioughts employ. 
 Would 1 were with thee 
 
 In thy joy." 
 
 " Would I were with tliee 
 When tlie world forgetting." 
 I found myself beside 
 Tiie belle of the evening 
 
 Fretting — fretting — 
 " Wlien all thy thoughts 
 Belong to me alone." 
 All : but once we hear 
 The full soul's vibrant tone! 
 
 Tlie laugii I laughed. 
 But stilled back a sigli. 
 Had shining tears but veiled 
 The light in Beauty's eye, 
 I had not felt afraid 
 Of my old love song; 
 It had not breathed so much 
 
 Of brilliant wrong — 
 " When all is dark 
 And sad below. 
 Would I were with thee 
 
 In thv woe." 
 
 " Would I were with thee 
 When no longer feigning." 
 Rising, 1 wrestled with 
 My soul's complaining. 
 
 The song rose with me — 
 " As when the moon 
 Has lit the lonely sea. 
 Or when in crowds 
 Some careless note refraining, 
 Speaks to thy heart 
 In memory of me." 
 I loft the little singer 
 
 Beside the sea: 
 The song is never fluished. 
 But )>egins agiiiii 
 
 For me.— 
 •• In joy or p:iiii 
 By sea or shore. 
 Would I were with thee 
 
 Evermore." 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. EFFIE G. SNOW. 
 
 Born: Bryan, Ohio, Nov. 5, 1847. 
 Since a girl of sixteen, tins lady has taken 
 great pleasure in writing both prose and 
 verse. Married in 1866 to B. W. Snow, she has 
 since experienced much grief in the loss of 
 
 MRS. EFFIE G. SNOW. 
 
 loved ones; and in 1889 lost her last child, a 
 young lady of great literary promise and 
 musical culture. The poems of Mrs. Snow 
 have appeared in the leading publications of 
 America. 
 
 AN UNCROWNED KING. 
 He may reign at the East, 
 
 Or rule in the West; 
 I can tell you at least. 
 
 This bald-headed guest 
 Is of royal birth-right. 
 
 Though unknown to fame; 
 Why, the strange little fright, 
 
 As yet. has no name. 
 I asked him in amaze 
 
 (He looked mighty queer 
 With his blank, far-off gazC), 
 
 Whence are yoH. my de.ar? 
 Though he answered no word 
 
 To cheat or beguile; 
 His quaint features were stirred 
 
 By ghost of a smile. 
 From whence and to whither 
 
 This mite of a man 
 
 That lately came hither I 
 Let those say who can ; 
 
 True hearts will believe him 
 Direct from above; 
 
 Households will receive him 
 As sovereign of love. 
 
 LORA IS DEAD. 
 
 " So like a bride, my pretty girl ! " 
 
 With grief-stricken tone, he said; 
 Where silent, white, chaste as a pearl. 
 
 In burial robe, instead 
 Of bridal garment, dressed she lay; 
 
 Unwedded form of precious clay. 
 With Love's best promise put away — 
 
 Lora is de.ad. 
 Out from the quaint old Mormon town 
 
 The electric message sped — 
 Where foot-hills flank tlie mountains brow: 
 
 With neutral tints and red; 
 Across the continent's grim crest, 
 
 O'er Wyoming's sparkling quartz breast 
 Fair Colorado, in sad quest — 
 
 Lora is dead. 
 Past Kansas sunflowers' mottled gold 
 
 By prairie leagues outspread. 
 To far Missouri where, untold. 
 
 We looked, dear Christ! instead. 
 For her bright letters, wondered why 
 
 They ceased, as each new day went by, 
 Till the stroke fell from a clear sky, 
 
 Lora is dead. 
 Oh, sweet! who left us here— and there. 
 
 Mourning, all uncomforted. 
 The vanished presence, good and fair. 
 
 From whence your pure spirit fled. 
 We strive to feel God knoweth best, 
 Who sealed dark, brilliant eyes to rest 
 In a grave at the distant West; 
 Lora is dead. 
 
 T LOVE MY LOVE. 
 You ask me why I love him? 
 Just why I ne'er can tell ; 
 I love because I love liim. 
 And love him passing well. 
 It matters not what others 
 Of good or ill may see 
 In him. Above his brothers 
 He has no peer for me. 
 Will he give back full measure, 
 Through lapse of future years; 
 Or e'en despise love's pleasure? 
 Avaunt, ye idle fears ! 
 My heart yields full surrender. 
 And yield because it must. 
 T do not doubt and wonder; 
 I only love and trust. 
 
 «- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AXD NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1133 
 
 -* 
 
 WILLIAM H.COOK. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Cook are grencrally on pop- 
 ular subjects, and have conseiiiiciitly always 
 been well recei\L'd. lie is now a ro^ideul of 
 
 ■WTI,I,IA5I H. COOK. 
 
 Hampton, New York, wliere he is well known 
 and admired for his many accomplishments. 
 These poems Imve received extensive pub- 
 lication in the periodical press. 
 
 4f 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 Sacred day of j< )j- and sorrow. 
 
 Day of memory and of tears. 
 Time doth touch thee but to hallow 
 
 Throujfh the ever-rolling' years. 
 Day of tears — for we lament thee. 
 
 Soldier — in thine lionored grave: 
 Day of joy — we hail the tiaticm. 
 
 Thou did'st give thy life to save. 
 
 Where the white peaks of New England 
 
 Greet the morning's dazzling light; 
 Where the Golden Gate of Sunset 
 
 Bids the day a fond "good-night," 
 Half the world shall hear our bugles. 
 
 Half the world shall bow the knee. 
 Half the world shall swell the anthem, 
 
 Soldier — that we raise to thee. 
 
 In the beauteous hind of sunshine. 
 Where the laurel ever blooms: 
 
 Where the birds, in nature's chorus. 
 Chant a requiem o'er their tombs. 
 
 There our •• Hoys in Blue " are sleeping 
 In the sunshine and the rain; 
 
 While the murnuiring i>ine-tree branches 
 Wail a dirge above our slain. 
 
 Ours, the mission of remenilirance, 
 
 Tlii'irs, the holier one to die; 
 Ours, the ninsom of the nation. 
 
 Theirs, the ransom of the sky: 
 Ours, from I3eauty's lovely fingers 
 
 Flowers to scatter o'er their tombs: 
 Theirs to walk the hills of glory. 
 
 Where eternal summer blooms. 
 
 Not alone earth's fairy fingers 
 
 Scatter llowers upon their biers. 
 Not alone earth's sweetest chorus, 
 
 Not alone earth's holiest tears; 
 Unseen forms are hovering o'er us. 
 
 Forms that wear the martyr's crown. 
 All unseen the hands of angels 
 
 Scatter Eden's roses down. 
 
 Teardrops wrung from weary bondsman. 
 
 Teardrops shed above our slain, 
 By the widow and the orphan. 
 
 Falling like the summer's rain; 
 Through thena shines the sun of Promise 
 
 From the smiling heavens above; 
 And from Pine tojfar P;ilmetto, 
 
 Spans the rainbow arcli of Love. 
 
 All the flowers the years have garnered. 
 
 Heaped upon the soldier's bier. 
 From the d:iys of strife and glory 
 
 To this grand centennial year; 
 They have filled the Bloody Chasm; 
 
 Thej- have bid the war-cry cease; 
 For above the soldier's pillow 
 
 Bends the angel-form of Peace. 
 
 O, ye martyr sons of Freedom! 
 
 Sacred be thine honored graves; 
 O'er thee, planted by affection. 
 
 Summer's floral tribute waves. 
 'Tis no single heart laments thee. 
 
 But a nation's te;irs are thine; 
 For the turf that shrouds her heroes 
 
 Is Columbia's holiest shrine. 
 
 Fallen heroes! Fair Columbia 
 
 Bows the head and bends tlie knee: 
 Every shaft she ertjwns with chaplets. 
 
 Is an arch of fame to thee. 
 When the bugle call is sounded 
 
 For creation's ••grand review," 
 Tlioy, wlio lead the shining cohorts. 
 
 Wear the •• faded coat of blue." 
 
*- 
 
 1134 
 
 LOCAl- AND NATIOXAL TOETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 JOHN G. MATHESEN. 
 
 Born: Walworth Co., Wis., Feb. 27, 1840. 
 
 Mr. Mathesen oceasionalb' writes poems, 
 which have appeared fnim time to time in 
 the periodical press. He was married in 1872, 
 and resides in Pilger, Neb., where he is en- 
 
 JOHN G. MATHESEN. 
 
 gag-ed in farming- and stock raising. Mr. 
 Mathesen is Ji member of the legishiture of 
 his state, to which ofHce lie was elected by a 
 large majority iu 1890. 
 
 *- 
 
 IN MEMORY OF OUR DEAD HEROES. 
 To-day we meet to strew with tears 
 
 Flow'rs o'er each fallen comrade's grave. 
 And as we meet, let no one here 
 
 Forget the ones who died to save 
 Our country from that awful fate. 
 
 Which was baptised, at first, in sin, 
 And woven in the golden chain. 
 
 When first our nation did begin. 
 
 Yet In the days when great men's heart 
 Were tried as hard as saints of yore; 
 
 And striving hard to leave to us 
 A heritage of this lair shore; 
 
 And plant upon this western shore 
 A home for us, where we'd be free: 
 
 And casting off forever more 
 Allegance to the powers that be. 
 
 They then forgot there was a God 
 
 To punish even them for sin; 
 Tho' hard they strove it was in vain,— 
 
 Yet wickedness must still crawl in. 
 And like the canker worm, or rust. 
 
 When once imbedded in the core, 
 Commence to eat its victim's heart 
 
 And clings to it forever more. 
 
 So in the days when God forebore. 
 
 And heard his children's woeful cry. 
 And stretched his hand o'er this brightshorc 
 
 To save it ere this nation die; 
 They then forgot they pledged to Him 
 
 To keep the country ever free; 
 Tho' black his face, perhaps. his heart 
 
 Was truer to his God than they. 
 
 To this has been the nation's curse — 
 
 It was baptised with it in sin. 
 While marching to its bridal morn; 
 
 Then slavery with it first began, 
 And there, to be a nation's curse, 
 
 It caused the brave for it to die; 
 And tliere upon its native soil 
 
 The blue and gray together lay. 
 
 Then don't forget to place a flower 
 
 While passing by a rebel's grave- 
 Remember though he raised the spear 
 
 That he, too, had a soul^osave. 
 And that perhaps it looked to him 
 
 That he was striving for t ho right. 
 And praying to the God above 
 
 To help the cause of those that's right, 
 
 So as to wash away the stain 
 
 It was baptised again iu blood. 
 And raanj- a noble heart was slain 
 
 To furnish for that crimson flood,— 
 To help appea.se .a great God's wr;ith 
 
 The tears must flow from shore to shore. 
 The widows and aged, at home, 
 
 JSIust mingle with the heroes' gore. 
 
 So let us now in kindness pass 
 
 The heart-iiangs that we all must fool, 
 And lei the jears as they go past. 
 
 The sorrows of our nation heal. 
 And let no word upon this day 
 
 Be said to lacerate the sore. 
 But each one in his bosom pray 
 
 To .shield us from it ever more. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEI{U;A. 
 
 1135 
 
 MRS. AUGUSTA C. BRISTOL. 
 
 Born: Croydon, N. H., April 17, 183o. 
 For several years this l;idy t;iug-hi school 
 and .Viis married iiil8t;(ilo Louis Bristol, a 
 lawyer. In 1808 a voliiineof i)oeiiis:ippe:ired 
 
 III her Di'u, which was favorably received. 
 
 
 
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 1 
 
 MRS. AUGUST.A. COOl'KU 11K1.-,1(M.. 
 
 Tliroug-li theag'eiicy of tlie pen and plalforni, 
 Mrs. Bristol is a g-reut advocate of .social 
 prog'ress, and some of her philosophic and 
 scientific lectures liave been translated and 
 publislied in foreign couutries. Tin's lady is 
 now a resident of Vinelaud, N. J. 
 
 ART-SEKVICK. 
 I wandered with an earnest lieart. 
 
 Amonor the quarried depths of Tliought, 
 And, kindled by the poet's art, 
 
 I deftly wroufe'-lil. 
 I wrought for Beauty; and the world 
 
 Grew very green and smootli forme. 
 And blossom banners liung unfurled 
 
 On every tree. 
 Upon my heated forehead lay 
 
 Tlie cooling laurel, and my feet 
 Crushed honied fragrance out, the Avay 
 
 Had grown so sweet. 
 And Praise was servant of the ear. 
 
 And Love dropt kisses on the cheek. 
 And smiled a passion-thought too dear 
 
 For tongue to speak. 
 
 But the day the ideal Good 
 
 BajJtised nie witli immortal youth. 
 And in sublimity of mood 
 
 I wrougiit for Truth. 
 Oh then, instead of laurel crown, 
 
 The world entwined a tiiorny band. 
 And on my forehead pressed it down 
 
 With heavy liand. 
 And looks that used to warm nic, froze; 
 
 1 lost tlie cheer, the odor sweet. 
 The i)ath of velvet;— glaciers rose 
 
 Before my feet. 
 Vet Truth the more divinely shone. 
 
 As onward still I souglit to press. 
 And gloriously provetl lier own 
 
 Almiglitiness. 
 for girded in her armor strong. 
 
 And lifted bj' her matoldcss arm 
 Above the frozen peaks of Wrong, 
 
 In warnitli and eahn. 
 I sit, and white thoughts, lily i)urc, 
 
 liike angels clo.se my heart around, 
 .Vnd fold megeutl}- in, secure 
 
 From cold or wound. 
 ' I kindred poet-soul, whose lays 
 
 Of sweet word-music, set in line. 
 Are fasldoned for the world's poor praise. 
 
 And Beauty's shrine, — 
 1 lie martyr's spirit-wing is strongl 
 
 Clioose thou a pinion that can rise 
 Witli Truth's full freight of clarion song 
 
 And sweep the skies! 
 Then shall the thoughts that in thee burn, 
 
 Flame-reacliing. touch the thought Divine; 
 And man may scoff.— a world may spurn. 
 
 But Heaven is thine. 
 
 THE OLD. OLD STOUT. 
 Love — a wakened bird is singing, 
 Singing in tlie early dawn; 
 Singing that the day is coming. 
 Singing t h:it the night is gone; 
 And my heart sends back responses 
 To the bird upon the lawn. 
 
 Love — the wliile T lie and listen, 
 
 Am I right, or am I wrong. 
 
 That two melodies seem ringing 
 
 Like a song witliin a song? 
 
 One informing all the other. 
 
 With its meanings sweet and strong. 
 
 Love — no bird in wood or meadow 
 
 Ever sang like this before; 
 
 Am T foolish, am I sinful. 
 
 That T listen .and adore? 
 
 That my life's awakened music 
 
 Moves responsive, more and more? 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1136 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 S. JENNIE STOUFFER. 
 
 Born: Renevola, Md., April, 14, 1869. 
 Miss Stouffeii graduated at Huntingdon 
 College iu 1888, and is at present engag-ed in 
 studjing art. Her poems have appeared in 
 
 S. JENNIE STOUFFER. 
 
 college papers and the periodical press gen- 
 erally. She is very petite and is still a resi- 
 dent of the place of her nativity. 
 
 ^- 
 
 BROKEN RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Golden resolutions broken, 
 
 Lj-ing shattered 'neatli my feet; 
 I will gather up the fragments. 
 
 Thinking of my gross defeat. 
 True, I formed them with a purpose, 
 
 Just one year ago to-night; 
 Yet one by one they have been broken 
 
 Though I knew it was not right. 
 Ah. the future looked not rugged. 
 
 Temptations then were hid from sight; 
 And I dreamed of naught but victory 
 
 In the battle for the right. 
 Now I pause, reflect and wonder, 
 
 Shall I start again anew; 
 Or bo baffled by n failure 
 
 In a purpose good and true. 
 Now I know that life is earnest, 
 
 And to win is but to fight; 
 So tlie broken resolutions 
 
 Are formed o'er again to-night. 
 
 LIFES WORK. 
 'Tis a storj- told by many. 
 
 And observed bj' many too; 
 That youth is the time to accomplish 
 
 Whatever we wish to do. 
 Wait not until the auburn tresses 
 
 Have been streaked with silver gray. 
 And the vision once perfected 
 
 Is growing dimmer day bj- day. 
 The wrinkles which show youth's decadenci 
 
 Will stamp tliemselves upon your brow. 
 And you feel that never in life 
 
 Have you been depressed as now. 
 Say, what courage there is left you 
 
 With wliich to start a great life's work, 
 There the duty lies before you, 
 
 But that duty you must shirk. 
 Opportunities have long vanished. 
 
 No aim in life was in esteem; 
 And you feel your life a failure. 
 
 You have passed it in a dream. 
 Seize the present, Hope will light you. 
 
 For obstacles never turn aside; 
 For roughly o'er life's troubled waters 
 
 Every one will have to glide. 
 
 PLEASANT WORDS. 
 
 Pleasant words, how sweet the influence! 
 
 On a lonelj' saddened heart ; 
 See the joyous tears bow quickly 
 
 Down the sunken cheeks they start. 
 Pleasant words will cost you nothing. 
 
 But will bring reward some day; 
 For there is one who keeps a record 
 
 Of the every word we say. 
 Have you pleasant words to utter? 
 
 Do not let them be suppressed! 
 For in after-years the record 
 
 Of those words will stand the test. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 'Tis morning, and the sun shines bright 
 As we gaze upon a thrilling sight; 
 Through the aged trees now drooping low 
 There comes the thoughts of long ago. 
 We reacli the house, the honored iilaee. 
 Where once could bo seen that inspiring fa 
 We see his garden and his tiowers. 
 And stand beneath his favorite bowers. 
 His sword is sheathed, his work is done, 
 His great life's race is nobly run; 
 He lies in the tomb so lone and drear 
 Where all who pass must shed a tear. 
 The birds still sing; the flowers bloom 
 About the entrance of liis tomb. 
 But the weeping willow nods its head. 
 And whispers " Washington is dead.' 
 
 -i 
 
« 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 1137 
 
 MRS. SUSAN C. KEEFE. 
 
 Born: Northwood Center, N. H., 183". 
 For twenty years this lady taiig'ht school. 
 In 1877 Miss Susan C. Willey was niarriod to 
 Moses Keefe, formerly of Sycamore, 111., witli 
 wliom she now resides at Oswopo, Kansas. 
 
 
 ■ 
 
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 ■-. 
 
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 *- 
 
 MKS. SLSA.N c. Ki:i :^ I . 
 For se%-eral years Mrs. Keul'c ^\ ua ihc I'l..- 
 prietor of a stationery and book store, and 
 has acquired quite a little property. Mrs. 
 Keefe is a prominent and active member of 
 the Congregational church, and in addition 
 to her literary abilitios she is quite a speaker. 
 
 I'M GLAD. 
 
 I'm glad that air is free for j-ou and me, 
 
 I'm glad that air is free '. 
 
 The clear, expansive air that everything sur- 
 rounds, 
 
 That Ijcars to us nature's inimitable sounds. 
 
 Cleft by tlie wings of birds, in the blue 
 ethereal space. 
 
 And through God is living essence to the 
 human race 
 
 From earth to sky, howe'er so high. 
 
 From shore to shore the wide world o'er. 
 
 It is free, the boundless air is free I 
 
 I'm glad that sunlight's free for you and mc. 
 
 I'm glad that sunlight is free! 
 
 Man rejoices, beast, bird, butterfly and bee. 
 
 Each blade of grass, each flower, bush and 
 tree. 
 
 Ether-waves of beauty, heat and light 
 
 That stamp tlie colors fair and mark daj- 
 
 from night. 
 From earth to sky, howe'er so high. 
 From shore to shore the wide world o'er, 
 I'm glad tlie limitless sunshine's free I 
 I'm glad tliat water is free for you and me, 
 I'm glad that water is freel 
 The raindrops fall, wide spread the sheets of 
 
 water; [and daughter. 
 
 Sails are unfurle<l for mnn, for wife, for son 
 From the deep sj)ring's tree-sheltered brink. 
 We find nectar lit for gods to drink. 
 From earth to sky, howe'er so liigh. 
 From shore to shore the wide world o'er. 
 Water is free, unmeasurable and free! 
 I'm g!ad that truth is free for j-ou and me, 
 I'm glad that truth is freel 
 May its spiritual atmosphere surround us; 
 Its pure sunlight, the sunlight to crown us. 
 Its waters — which are the river of life — 
 Our anchorage be, when freed from mortal 
 
 strife. [cry. 
 
 From earth to sky we raise one triumphant 
 And from shore to shore the wide world o'er, 
 Truih, everlasting truth is free. 
 
 SALES TO-DAY. 
 Times are dull, say some, I have a pony and 
 
 a chai.se, [raise. 
 
 I'll rafllc them, the payment of a debt to 
 All so nicely settled, so safely soldi 
 With twice their worth back in gold: 
 "Not a bit of harm," says the father, until 
 
 he sees his son [won. 
 
 Adown the current drifting for he's lost, not 
 All the father's persuasions can never Ituy 
 
 back [downward track. 
 
 His example which placed his child upon the 
 Sell out, sell out the wrong, buy in the good. 
 Make of ourselves a royal brotherhood. 
 When the truth you've bought sell it not- 
 Let others know tlie password you have got. 
 Truth God-given broad and free. 
 Rapturous, enobling, God-given to thee. 
 Drink of the deep inspiration as water, 'tis 
 
 clear, [fear. 
 
 So strengthened you will have naught to 
 Raving thus sold, thus bought, within your 
 
 hands 
 You hold that which is more precious tlian 
 
 magician's wand, [line. 
 
 The warranty detnl to an est.tto across the 
 Of trees and flowers, of fruit and vine; 
 Of celestial bhxim fi-om celestial growth. 
 And a mansion many countless millions 
 
 worth [heritanco 
 
 Would we ••read our titles clear" to an in- 
 Be3'ond things perishing, our chief purchases 
 
 must be repentance. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1138 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 MRS. MARION E. HARMON. 
 
 At AN early age tins lady was left an orphan, 
 and soon after accepted a position as teacher 
 in the city schools of Oslikosh and Sheboy- 
 gan, Wis. She was married in 1866 to L. D. 
 Harmon, by whom she had a son and a 
 
 MRS. MARION E. HARMON. 
 
 daughter, botli of whom slie hud the misfor- 
 tune to lose after they liad grown to matur- 
 ity. Mrs. Harmon has contributed to the 
 leading magazines and newspapers of Amer- 
 ica. She has also been an active and success- 
 ful writer in the fields of Puzzledom. Mrs. 
 Harmon has publi shed a volu me, a memorial. 
 
 THERES ONE DAY LESS. 
 
 There's one day less 
 To wander, aimless, on life's clouded road; 
 To bear, unsinldng, life's sore-pressing load 
 Of loneliness. 
 There's one day less 
 To pine for tones and glances gone for aye, 
 Still to exist, yet hold the dole away 
 Of mute distress. 
 The sun shall liigh 
 In splendor, as of old, wlien day is born; 
 And in its pristine glory flash the morn. 
 From orient sky. 
 But if that sky 
 Shall downward look upon my anguished 
 
 heart. 
 Or I shall lie a cold, dead thing apart, 
 God knows, not I. 
 
 My only hope,— [gal!, 
 
 Since all life's sweetest wine is turned to 
 This. That I may thus 'neath grim Sorrow's , 
 
 Not longer grope. [pall, | 
 
 Howe'er it be, — 
 If thro' the years my steps must onward go ■ 
 So heavily clogged down with weight of woe 
 
 That crushes me; i 
 
 Or if, at day. 
 My f ranchised soul shorn of its earthly gear. 
 Shall, mounting, soar from this dull atmos- 
 
 Afar,— Away,— [phere, 
 
 I can but guess: 
 Still as the night comes on again, and gray 
 The shadows gather round me, do I s:i5% 
 
 There's one day less. 
 
 WHAT PROFIT? 
 t. The song hath all been sung;"— [be; " 
 .' The thing that hath been, is what yet shall 
 i> Beneath the sun is no new thing to see. 
 Nor hear, nor know ! " 
 In bygone ages, so [day 
 
 Mourned Israel's monarch, and my soul to- 
 Takes up, and chants anew the self-same lay 
 With plaintive tongue! 
 What profit that my heart [will not die? 
 Hold thoughts that burn, and hopes that 
 Some wiser, mightier, loftier one than I 
 The whole hath said ! 
 And generations dead, 
 And turned to dust within forgotten graves, 
 Have hoped and craved as my heart hopes 
 A better part ! [and craves, 
 
 What I may win is won 1 [ago! 
 
 What I may think was thought long yean 
 And all that mortal mind can feel and know. 
 Is felt and known! 
 The sun itself that shone 
 Upon " The Preacher," shines on me to-diiy 
 And even this I heard another say. 
 Whose work is done I 
 So in a ceaseless round 
 The new is old, the old is new again! 
 Then wherefore toil ye eager souls of men, 
 For such avail? 
 To hear an oft-told tale, 
 Must I go pushing, crowding in the race? 
 Or tarry in some quiet, wonted place 
 Where peace is found? 
 Oh, who can answer me? [t^"' 
 
 Can point the path that leads to sweet cor 
 Since, when the speeding iiours are wcl 
 Regret is vain; [nighspeni 
 
 And naught of strife and pain 
 Serve to recall one fit occasion past! 
 And that I may not fail my aim at last, 
 Who can forsee? 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF A.MKIUCA. 
 
 lloJi 
 
 HENRY TARRING ECKERT. 
 
 Born : Northumberland, Pa., Aug. 20, 1842. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Eckcrt have appeared in 
 
 the "Dotroit Froo Pro-^s niul oilior pnblica- 
 
 HENRY TAKllING ECKEHT. 
 
 tions. He follows the occupation of a sales- 
 
 DAWN. 
 Fly fair Aurora o'er the eastern hills. 
 Distill thy dews, flash in the silver rills. 
 Bid night and darkness flee before thy face, 
 And beauty dazzle at tlij' touch of grace. 
 Call forth again the orient god of day. 
 And bid him search with brightest fervid ray. 
 The darkest morass, glade, or noxious fen. 
 And gild with silver light tlie gloomiest glen. 
 Blot out the planets, veil the moon once 
 
 more. 
 And touch with pearl the waves on many a 
 
 shore ; 
 Gild with thy wand eternal peaks of snow. 
 And flood with light the grateful world be- 
 
 . low. 
 Scatter the darkness, urge thy peerless 
 
 steeds. 
 Call on the lagging hours for greater deeds. 
 Chase to their gloomy caverns shades of 
 
 night. 
 Whisper the magic words "Let there be 
 
 light." 
 
 WHIP-POOU-WILL. 
 
 Up rose the moon o'er tlio towering moun- 
 tain. 
 
 Sparkled and danced in the silvery rill. 
 
 While forth from the elm tree liard by the 
 fountain 
 
 Floated the notes of a lone whip-poor-will. 
 
 Softly the breath of the evening allured me 
 Away from my couch, and I leaned on the 
 
 sill; 
 As the calm of the hour again reassured me 
 I heard in the distance the lone whip-poor- 
 
 m. 
 
 Sharp as the swirl of a willow it sounded,— 
 Sharp on the balm of the ev'ning still; 
 Hack from the mountain the clear echoes 
 
 l)i)unded — 
 Hounded the wail of the lone wlujj-poor-will. 
 
 Back to my couch as the evening star f.ided. 
 Back as the breeze from tlie meadows blew 
 
 chill; 
 While th' moon from my visioti by cKunls 
 
 was o'or-shaded. 
 Again broke the plaint of the lone whii)-poor- 
 
 will. 
 
 AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
 
 When blackbirds twitter, and tliistle down 
 
 Floats feathers* on tlie air. 
 
 And orchards are glinting with gold and 
 
 brown. 
 And tlie harvest fields are bare. 
 And quails their coveys are calling 
 In thicket, and swamp and fen. 
 .\nd leaves of autumn are falling 
 On mountain, in wood and glen. 
 
 Then I love to stroll by tlie meadows, 
 'Neath the mild September sky, 
 Witli its Hitting lights and slnidows. 
 That call forth a smile or sigh — 
 And resemble lights now shining 
 Tlirough the misty lapse of time. 
 When each cloud had a "silver lining'," 
 And each bell had a silver chime. 
 
 For autumn time bringrs me remembrance 
 
 Of sh.adowy times long fled. 
 
 And I see in its fadings n>semblance 
 
 That calls back tlie Ijuruil dead. 
 
 Tlie mother who gave me being. 
 
 And "Our baby " my eyelids fill. 
 
 And my tender thoughts are fleeing 
 
 To " the graveyard " on the hill. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1140 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A51ERICA. 
 
 MRS. CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 Born: Portsmouth, N. H., June 29, 1835. 
 This well-known and popular poet is the 
 author of four volumes of verse, the first of 
 which is now in its seventeenth edition. She 
 is a regular contributor to the Atlantic, 
 
 «- 
 
 MRS. CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 Century, Scribner's, St. Nicholas and other 
 leading magazines. When she was very 
 young the father of Celia Thaxter went to 
 keep the lighthouse on White Island, one of 
 the Isles of Shoals, in which barren waste 
 she grew to womanhood. 
 
 THE ONLY FOE. 
 Wild, threatening sky, white, raging sea, 
 
 Fierce wind that rends the rifted cloud, 
 Sets the new moon's sharp glitter free, 
 
 And thunders eastward, roaring loud! 
 A fury rides the autumn blast. 
 
 The hoary brine is torn and tossed; 
 Great Nature tlirough her spaces vast 
 
 Casts her keen javelins of the frost. 
 Her hand that through the summer days 
 
 Soothed us with tender touch of joy, 
 Deals death upon her wintry ways; 
 
 Whom she caressed she would destroy. 
 Life shrinks and hides; all creatures cower 
 
 While her tremendous bolts are hurled, 
 That strike with blind, resistless power 
 
 The mighty shoulder i f the world. 
 Be still, my soul, thou hast no part 
 
 In her black moods of hate and fear; 
 Lifted above her wr.ath thou art 
 
 On thy still heights, serene and clear. 
 
 Remember this, — not all the wild. 
 
 Huge, untamed elements have force 
 To reach thee, though the seas were piled 
 
 In weltering mountains on thy course. 
 Only thyself, thyself can harm. 
 
 Forget it not! And full of peace. 
 As if the soutli-wind whispered warm. 
 
 Wait thou till storm and tumult cease. 
 
 MRS. E. ANKIE S. PAGE. 
 
 Born : Portland, Maine. 
 This lady has contributed poems to numer- ■ 
 ous magazines and literary publications! 
 throughout the country, and a volume of 
 her select poems will be published shortly. 
 A poem entitled Christmas, beautifully illus- 
 trated, was brought out as a holiday booklet 
 by Prang & Co., which met with most flatter- 
 ing success. She was married in 1863 to Mr. 
 Nathaniel Page of San Francisco. 
 
 COMPLETENESS. 
 The perfect day wears not one lustrous blaze 
 From morn to set of sun — it needs soft 
 
 showers, [haze. 
 
 Gray clouds, and falling leaves, and purple 
 And swift winds beckoning out the laggard 
 
 flowers ; [west 
 
 Dusk-shadows chasing from the embattled 
 Its marshalled splendors, star-fllled eve, and 
 
 rest. 
 So life — which is at best but one brief day 
 Of the unending years — this law mustown; 
 Its golden moon be drenched with sudden 
 Its joys fall dead like roses overblown ;[spra5 
 And, fleet or far, its hours unhindered run 
 Through gloom or glory till the day be done 
 Though Suffering clouds the eflfulgeuce ol 
 
 life's morn, 
 Fortune grows recreant, and the tender eyes 
 Which sunned our hearts be suddenly with 
 
 drawn, [lies,- 
 
 Till down the sunset slope grief's shadow 
 Yet star-lit gates of peace shall end the way 
 And life be rounded to the perfect day. 
 
 THE MIRACLE .\T CANA. 
 
 Dear Lord, to me. 
 This is Thy lesson, taught in Galileo. 
 
 By gracious deeds. 
 To fill the chalice of another's needs. 
 
 Within to bear [*a' 
 
 That beauty which transfigures and make 
 
 The paths of men. 
 Bidding life's desolate places bloom again. 
 
 No heed to take 
 For the uncertain morrow, but to make 
 
 Life more divine. 
 Turning its simplest waters into wine. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAr, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1141 
 
 HUGH ALPHONSO WETMORE 
 
 Boun: St. Louis. Mo., >Lvncn 5, 1C51. 
 As ATTrnou iind special corrospoudont, Mr. 
 Wetinoro has met witli very llatlerine: suc- 
 cess. More than a huiidi-cd of bis poems 
 liave appeared in tlie leading- papers and 
 majraziiics. At the ai^-r of (•i;;luiM>ii lie simlicd 
 
 HUGH ALPnONSO WETMORE. 
 
 law, and entered journalism at the age of 
 twenty-two. He was a correspondent in the 
 South during reconstruction days, and in 
 1878 was in New Orleans and Grenada during 
 tlie yellow fever epidemic. About tliistimo 
 Mr. Wetmoro entered mercantile pursuits, 
 and for a while was in tlie real estate and 
 mining' business. He was made a member 
 of the St. Paul Press Club on grounds of 
 authorship. This author and poet wrote tho 
 poem for the St. Paul Ice Carnival of 18T7. 
 
 NEKAMEE. 
 The murliy, mad, mellow Missouri 
 
 Caresses tlie bluff at Rulo. 
 
 Wliere on high do wof ul weeds grow 
 Round the grave of the Indian houri, 
 
 Nekamee, the ••dove " and the ••doe," 
 Who fell by her fierce tribe's fury 
 
 For loving :i pale-face foe; 
 She braved to tlie last the braves' fury 
 
 Over hor loving their foe. 
 Blind was the passion she bore him. 
 
 Reckless the race at his side.— 
 
 Ah, then, the cha.se, wlien espied! 
 She, too, was dead \\ hin thej' tore him 
 
 From nigh her heart, wliere he died. 
 Dreams she liie water weeps o'er him? 
 
 Kiver and r(x;k tlieni divide; 
 Wailing weeds cannot icslore him; 
 
 Still the height hurls back the tide. 
 Filled they his breast like .i quiver. 
 
 Weighed iiiin with shafts barbed of stone. 
 
 Ere from the cliU' he was thrown 
 Into the muddy, mad river — 
 
 Even death could not atone I 
 Till earth her dead shall deliver, 
 
 Resting jilace may he liave none; 
 Nor will lior jieople forgive her. 
 
 Though now he's left her alone. 
 What of thy love, lone Nekamee, 
 
 Perished it with thy last throe? 
 
 Into rank reeds did it grow'/ 
 Do winds above moan, Nekamee, 
 
 That Heaven heeds not thy woe? 
 Love needs no tombstone, Nekamee, 
 
 Naught but wild weeds and the snow; 
 Vet lofty Love's throne, Nekamee, 
 
 Bramble-crowned bluff at Rulo. 
 
 THE SEMAPHORE. 
 ••I say. Jack, what is a scni:ii)horc?" [door. 
 Asked the brakeman's wife at the slianty 
 •• I heard they had one at College Place — 
 Them college fixings is a disgrace I " 
 " You're doubtless hittin' the sophomore," 
 Says .Tack, .a trying to i)ass the door. 
 ••That 1 liaint, then." s.iys Alice Jane — 
 As she kept him standing in the rain. 
 •• You sliant come in, nor a bite shant eat. 
 Till the semaphore you describe complete." 
 •• 'Tis .a thing for savin' of life," says John, 
 •• And all the roads is puttin' 'em on." 
 ••Savin' the devil!" shouts Alice Jane [plain. 
 —Her speech like lier face was plump and 
 ••Where is George Harrity, I jusk j"ou. 
 An' Melvin Roberts? Did it save them two? 
 •• You dare not speak, for fear the road 
 Will give you the bounce, you cringing toadi 
 
 • • How has tho road rewarded your merit? 
 Jagged your hands, and broken your spirit ! 
 •• If a crank comes along with a crank to sell. 
 Though a sleepy switchman may send you 
 
 to hell, 
 ••The road buys tho crank, and a little smoko 
 Makes the thing useless. Horrible joke ! 
 ••IxKikat thishole.where I sit m a flutter [or. 
 Expectin' toseeyou bix)ught homeon ashutt- 
 •• Is this than the farm more snug or fit, 
 ■Wliicli you left, big fool, for a rallwjiy sit?" 
 
 • •There's somethin' excitln' .'iliout this life," 
 Says John. •• Especially to your wife." 
 Says Alice. And John walked from tho door. 
 Cut by her thrust at tlie semaphore. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1142 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EDWIN DEXTER GEE. 
 
 Born; Geauga Co., Ohio, Dec. 2, 1838. 
 Mb. Gee is a ftirmer at Tennj-son, Iiid,, 
 where he is also well known ;is a Proliibi- 
 lioni.st and Suiulay school supeiinlendent. 
 
 EDWIN DEXTER GEE. 
 
 His poems have appeared quite extensivelj' 
 in the periodical press. Mr. Gee was mar- 
 ried in 1862 to Miss Maria Jane Kartell, and 
 has quite a largre family. 
 
 THE FARMER BOY. 
 A jovial farmer boy I'll be 
 
 As free as the birds that sing-; 
 I'll carrol forth my song: of glee 
 
 Amid the flowers of spring. 
 With whoop a-hoy to drive my team 
 
 Before the rising sun. 
 To drink and lave in silvery streams; 
 
 This is my morning fun. 
 The squirrel leaping on the limb 
 
 Within the tree-top high. 
 The lark that soars with matin hymu 
 
 Is no more gay than I. 
 I go and come a farmer boy, 
 
 From city tramels free; 
 T crack my whip and cry wo-hoy, 
 
 A farmer boy I'll be. 
 No place for me the crowded town, 
 
 With pavements liard and dry, 
 With lengthened streets of dusky brown, 
 
 And gloomy houses high, 
 
 Where every boy his ball must bound 
 Upon his neighbor's dome. 
 
 And every shot and every sound 
 Disturl) .some otlier's home. 
 
 SANTA GLAUS' ADVICE. 
 I've come little children to make your hearts 
 
 glad; 
 Your pretty, bright faces should never look 
 
 sad; [ing along; 
 
 I've brought you some presents while pass- 
 Then kindly give ear to my song. 
 Be kind and be good, be kind and be good; 
 Love sister and brother, papa and mama, 
 And never be naughty or rude. 
 While I was just passing I happened to see 
 Tlie littleones gathered herewaitingforme; 
 1 stopped in to leave you some things that 
 
 are nice; 
 Then kindly receive my advice. 
 And now, dear children, I'll leave you tins 
 
 tree, 
 All loaded with presents so nice as you see; 
 For T must be going, I cannot stay long; 
 Tlieii try to remember my song. 
 And now, my dear children, I'll drop you a 
 
 tear 
 A nd bid you good-bye for another long year; 
 When old winter comes with its freezes and 
 
 thaws, [Claus. 
 
 Remember the advice of good old Santa 
 
 t^ 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 'Twas early spring one April daj', 
 
 Sweet flowers were blooming into beauty, 
 When we were called upon to lay 
 
 A sister in the grave so lonely. 
 Oh, how our hearts with anguish bled 
 
 As we smoothed her dying pillow — 
 As we stood round her dying bed 
 
 And saw her cross Death's rolling billow. 
 
 The last she said we heard her say, 
 
 ..Oh, come and kiss me now, dear mother, 
 And when I go from hence away. 
 
 Then bear this messsige to my brother: 
 Tell him that I've gone on before, 
 
 I trust my sins are all forgiven; 
 Tell liini to meet me on that shore. 
 
 That blissful shore higli up in Heaven. 
 •.Farewell, dear father, weep no more, 
 
 I'm crossing over Jordan's river; 
 My sufferings here will soon be o'er; 
 
 There with the blest I'll live forever, 
 Oh, how I long to fly away 
 
 And range the fields of blooming flowers, 
 Where I sliall live througli endless day 
 
 A nd rest beneath those blissf ill bowers." 
 * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL rOETS OF AMEUICA, 
 
 1143 
 
 * 
 
 JAMES F. PEXDELL. 
 
 Bokn: Athol, N.H., June 11, 1835. 
 Under the nom de plume of Fontenelle 
 this write!' has contributed to current liter- 
 ature many fine poems and stories. Since 
 the age of sereii he has beeu totally deaf, 
 
 
 , ••■■•H. 
 
 ''y-^. 
 
 <*^ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 JAMES FONTENELtiE PEXDELL. 
 
 but can understand by the motion of the 
 lips almost as well as if he could liear. Mr. 
 Pendell has a larg-e family and is still a resi- 
 dent of the place of his nativity. 
 
 « 
 
 GTJR BOYS IN BLUE. 
 Our boys in blue! Each passing: year 
 But makes their memories more dear. 
 And swells our grief and starts the tear 
 
 As we review 
 The quiet graves wliere slumber here 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 A migrhty army were they when [plain- 
 They proudly for friends trod the battle 
 One million men their numbers then ! 
 
 But now how few- 
 Alas! a handful but remain— 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 Yes, they are passing fast away; 
 Some died to-day, some yesterday; 
 Behold, In new-made graves they lay, 
 
 The loyal, true! 
 No more to join in march array— 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 The living remnant, scarred and worn. 
 All haggard, crippled and forlorn. 
 
 But tell the suffering they have borne 
 
 For me and you, 
 'Mid war's wild strife, 'mid want and scorn. 
 
 Our boys iu blue. 
 Their time is brief; one dies, and they 
 In sorrow bear the form away 
 To its last resting place, and pay 
 
 A last adieu. 
 A band of brothers true are they. 
 
 Our boys iu blue! 
 This scene is sad as sorrow'.*- wreath. 
 But still more sad the battle heath 
 When carnage swept her shotted breatli 
 
 And Heaven drew 
 Night's darkling veil where lay in death 
 
 Our boys iu blue. 
 Their corpses covered many a plain. 
 While slow disease and prison pen 
 All wrought their havoc o'er again. 
 
 And scarce we knew [then — 
 
 Their fate or how dread, for they suffered 
 
 Our boys iu blue. 
 
 The war's result the world well knows ; 
 Fair Freedom's fame unsullied glows. 
 And Peace her golden joys disclose 
 
 For me and you. 
 All this, and more, our country owes 
 
 Our boys iu blue. 
 
 Let us be grateful while we may. 
 Their service great we ne'er can pay 
 Except by kindly deeds each day 
 
 To the brave few 
 Who soon must join those passed away— 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 
 Their orphans, widows, let use cheer; 
 The paths they tread are gloomy here. 
 And they do shed full many a tear 
 
 Unknown to you. 
 This debt we owe from j'ear to year 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 
 And let tis, each Momorial day 
 Gather the fairest flowers of May, 
 And o'er the graves in bright array 
 
 Them gentlj- strew. 
 To keep in memory fond each day 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 Kind Nature holds no gifts too dear 
 For patriot dead, afar or near; 
 Lo! bloom and spray bounteous appear 
 
 For us to strew 
 O'er those who lie in glory— 
 
 Our boys in blue. 
 Oh, keep their memories green, good friends! 
 Oh, take what Nature's hand extetids, 
 And know that God e'er kindly bends 
 
 Above thi)so true 
 And loyal sons, and still rlefends 
 
 Our boys in blue! 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1144 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FRED EMERSON BROOKS. 
 
 Born: Waverly, N. Y., Dec. 5, 1849. 
 After graduating- iu 1873 from the Madison 
 University of Hamilton, N. Y. Mr. Brooks 
 went to San Francisco, -which city he has 
 since made his home. He was married in 
 1884 to Miss Mary Emma Fregidg-o. Mr. 
 
 I- liED EMERSON BROOKS. 
 
 Brooks has gained quite a reputation in the 
 golden state as a poet, and as an elocutionist 
 he has no superior in the west. His poems 
 have appeared in book-form. One Hundred 
 Choice Selections, and in the leading maga- 
 zines of America. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MIRACLE CAN A. 
 The water-pots were filled at God's behest— 
 Yet in the marriage wine no grape was 
 
 pressed ; 
 No tired feet the weary wine-press trod 
 To make this sacred vintage of our God; 
 As nature doth proclaim a power di-vine. 
 Each drop of moisture turned itself to wine. 
 
 In spite of arguments, in Jesus met. 
 
 The world is full of doubting skeptics yet; 
 
 Believing naught but they themselves have 
 
 seen, 
 They doubt the miracle of Palestine: 
 They find the Holy Bible filled with flaws, 
 And pin tlieir doubting faith to nature's 
 
 laws. 
 
 Ye scoffers of our sacred Lord, pray tell 
 Who tinted first the water in the well? 
 Who painted atmospheric moisture blue; 
 Or gave the ocean waves their constant hue, 
 Whose moisture raised in clouds all colors 
 
 lack, 
 The fleecy ones so white, the storm-king's 
 
 black. 
 
 Save where the evening sun's bright rays 
 
 incline 
 To turn the fleecy moisture into wine, 
 And lay a benediction on them all 
 Like purple grapes hung on a golden wall! 
 'Twas thus our Lord a sacred radiance shed. 
 Slow turning Cana's water vintage red. 
 
 If lilies at his bidding from the soil 
 Spring up, that neither know to spin or toil; 
 In beauty yet more gorgeously arrayed 
 Than he of old who that great temple made; 
 Then why may not the gentle evening dew 
 At God's command take on a ruddy hue. 
 
 This whirling, surging world was made by 
 
 one 
 Who could have made the wine as rivers 
 
 ru n ; 
 Yet put a sweeter nectar in the rills. 
 Fresh ripphng from the vintage of the hills. 
 
 Watch Nature's miracle when day is dead. 
 And blushing Helios his good-night said, 
 Slow dipping his hot face in cooling brine. 
 Turns all the ocean billows into wine. 
 
 The sun and rain stretch o'er the earth a 
 
 bow 
 With tints more beautiful than wine can 
 
 show ; 
 A frescoed arch in gorgeous colors seven— 
 A bridge where weak belief may walk to 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Who hath not seen, at sunset on the plain, 
 A passing storm-cloud dropping blood-red 
 
 rain; 
 A great libation poured at Nature's shrine 
 To fill Sol's golden cup with evening wine? 
 
 Since Nature doth such miracles perform. 
 Why may not He, who makes and rules the 
 
 storm. 
 Of all his miracles the first and least. 
 Tint a few drops for Cana's wedding feast? 
 The greatest marriage at the end shall be 
 When time is wedded to eternity; 
 All hidden are, the greatest and the least. 
 To taste the wine at heaven's great wedding 
 
 feast. 
 Whore all the ransomed uiiiversi> shall sinf?: 
 Hosanna! to the everlasting King! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1145 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. SARAH W. BENEDICT 
 
 Bokn: Guilford, Conn., Jan. 9, 1813. 
 This ladj- lias written about seven hundred 
 poeni.^, miiny of wliicli have received exten- 
 sive pulilii'.ition In tlie periodical press. Slio 
 Nvas married in 1^'>:1 In Klias Benedict; was 
 
 ;AUAI1 WAUL) BENEDICT. 
 
 left a widow in 1881, and her only daujrliter 
 died a few years later. Mrs. Benedict is a 
 member of the Methodist Episcopal church 
 in Roscoe, 111., where she still resides. 
 
 *- 
 
 WHAT THE BIRDIE SAID TO ME. 
 A bright little birdie sang- to me to-day 
 While it sat all alone on a sweet leafy spray. 
 It seemed to be saying- when life would be 
 
 o'er 
 There still would, for me, be a sunshiny 
 
 shore: 
 That I would find roses most sweetly abloom. 
 Surpassing the blossoms on this side the 
 
 tomb ; 
 That I had my garlands awhile here to braid 
 Ere I could see blossoms that never would 
 
 fade; 
 That though I was pining for love that was 
 
 mine. 
 They were waiting to fold me where love 
 
 was divine. 
 Was the birdie a messenger sent from above 
 To speak to a heart that had buried its love? 
 
 THE HIDDEN KEV. 
 
 I relied on myself in my searcli for the key 
 That would unlock the gate for a sinner hke 
 
 me. 
 I searched all around, but the search seemed 
 
 in vain. 
 And my heart was so full of an undefined 
 
 pain. 
 Oh, my heart was so heavy I the night liad 
 
 grown late. 
 And I had not found the key to the gate. 
 
 I went back to childhood, my life I lived o'er. 
 And searched all along from shore to shore; 
 Hut no key could 1 find, not even a trace. 
 And the tears seemed to deluge my poor 
 
 wrinkled face. 
 Oh, how hard it was, when it was so late. 
 That I could not find the key to the gate I 
 
 Oh, I must have hope, for I must have the 
 
 key! 
 And then I asked Jesus to come and help 
 
 me. 
 He came, and it seemed a miracle wrought. 
 For there, in my heart, was the key tiiat I 
 
 sought. 
 My heart had been crusted quite over with 
 
 care. 
 And I never once thought that the key could 
 
 be there. 
 
 A warm wave of love, when the Savior drew 
 near, [^witli fear. 
 
 Soon thawed out my heart that was frozen 
 
 My heart has grown warm, for the Lord on 
 me smiled. 
 
 And I have become as an innocent child; 
 
 Am loving, and trusting, clasp firmly each 
 band, 
 
 For love brings us close, like a family band. 
 
 Oh, the l)(>autifiil key I the love-burnished 
 
 key : 
 That can unlock the kingdom of Heaven for 
 
 me. 
 It never can tarnish, its prisms so bright 
 Will sparkle and glow in a glorified light. 
 A new life came to me when dear Jesus 
 
 came 
 To show me the key when I called on His 
 
 name. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Grander, grander notes are swelling 
 
 From the v.nlleys and the hills; 
 Tears of thankfulness are welling 
 
 As my soul with music fills. 
 Cliristian workers, we'll be voicing 
 
 All the notes we've learned to-day. 
 And together go rejoicing 
 
 Tliat we've found the better way. 
 
®- 
 
 1146 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS.CATH HERRING MILES 
 
 Born: Springfield, Tenn., Oct. 8, 1841. 
 
 Over two hundred aud fifty poems have ap- 
 peared from the pen of Mrs. Miles, many of 
 which have received publication in the peri- 
 odical press. lu 1869 she was married to W. 
 
 ,;,t^/',\ 
 
 MRS. CATH HERRING MILES. 
 
 R. Miles, and resides at Cedar Hill, Tenn., 
 with her husband and two sons — John W. 
 Miles, born in 1870; and William H. Miles, 
 born in 1875. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 Rippling brook I love to hear 
 Murmuring-, murmuring, soft and clear, 
 Bubbles rise and float away; 
 Oh, who can spend a life so gay! 
 
 Birds are singing, flitting near. 
 Unto the brook a welcome cheer, 
 Welcome water crystal clear, 
 Welcome, welcome a thousand years. 
 
 Flowers bedeck thy mossy brink, 
 Rocks and pebbles ever drink; 
 Drink in thy clear cry.stal drops. 
 Which float o'er beautiful rocks. 
 
 Beautiful nature surrounds the scene. 
 Flowers in varied hues arc scon. 
 Mosses and grasses grow by thee; 
 Welcome sweet brook, thrice welcome by mc. 
 ^ 
 
 TO THE WATERS. 
 
 Beautiful waters, gently flowing. 
 Oh! who can tell where you are going; 
 Perhaps to quench the thirst of youth. 
 Who smiles in beauty and in truth. 
 
 Perhaps to fill the toper's glass. 
 Who firmly clasps and madly quaffs. 
 Reveling in old Satan's grasp. 
 Not wishing to recall the past. 
 
 Drops so pure and gently flowing; 
 Oh ! could each toper view you, knowing 
 That your mission here on earth 
 Is but to bless, and not to curse. 
 
 Gentle drops, could you but impart 
 The truth to each and every heart; 
 The maiden sweet a blessing lend. 
 The toper's glass a deadly fiend. 
 
 Had I the power but to fill 
 Your drops so pure with magic skill, 
 Then all would hear you sweetly say, 
 Mingle not my drops with wine to-day. 
 Your voice would be low and mild. 
 That it might the hard hearts beguile; 
 And teach them through life's journal say: 
 We'll mingle your drops no more that way. 
 Then you would joyfully say to all, 
 Drink ! my drops from heaven doth fall, 
 A blessing sent from God's right band, 
 To cheer the drooping heart of man. 
 A blessing now, a blessing then — 
 A blessing to all earth's within. 
 Drops so pure from heaven sent, 
 God help us all to be content. 
 
 SPRING. 
 Spring has come wreathed in beauties. 
 Singing birds and blossoming flowers. 
 Mosses green and fern above them, 
 All to cheer this heart of ours. 
 
 Trees are tall and stately waving 
 Their rich dress of dark green. 
 Birds are flitting and rejoicing 
 In the beauties of the scene. 
 
 Air so balmy and delightful 
 Waft the odors of rich flowers. 
 Growing in secluded spots 
 Or in some frequent bowers. 
 
 Violets fresh and blooming gayly 
 By the babbling brook of ours; 
 Come, drink the beauties of the season 
 And gather, gather ye wild flowers. 
 Love the scene which God hath given you, 
 Beautiful nature surrounds us all, 
 Then to Him you owe yoiu" heart, 
 Your life a ransom to His cause. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKIUCA. 
 
 1147 
 
 FRKD WARREN HOWARD. 
 
 Born: Wabasha, Minn., Sept. 30, 18(i8. 
 ^[u. Howard has Icanioil tlio carpenter, 
 stoue-uiusou ftud boat-building- trades. Ho 
 
 ODE TO MRS. JANE SHIPLEY PFEIFEU. 
 
 Mystified form, departed 
 
 From the flesh, the blood, the bone — 
 
 Essence of earthly elements. 
 
 Form of the breath — 
 
 The knowlcdg-e — cohabitant 
 
 Of every virtue, yicldinf? light 
 
 To an encumbered soul 
 
 Left embodied, with listening- car. 
 
 And watchful eye and liaiinting memories 
 
 Of the few past happy hours 
 
 Tliat came and went 
 
 But as a short summer; 
 
 And of the flower that flushed 
 
 As a blooming rose 
 
 That swiftly yields 
 
 To the elements that composed it. 
 
 And none shall know thy destination, 
 
 Be thou with the beloved, 
 
 Or far from troubled scenes. 
 
 To know, or not to know. 
 
 And, knowing, sympathize 
 
 FRED WARREN HOWARD. 
 
 has written poems from his youth, which 
 have appeared in the local press. He owns 
 a farm in Murray county, where he resides. 
 
 With the mourners left behind. 
 
 "Peace" is a loved one's prayer. 
 
 And guide his steps to lliee, dear Jane. 
 
 IIOTICELLIS DREAMING. 
 Seel what face has lost its beaming. 
 While in slumbrous calm she's dreaming. 
 Pale as in the sleep of death. 
 Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. 
 And tiie balm that soothes a lover's lieart. 
 Courses gently through her breast. 
 While she's dreaming, dieaming, dreaming 
 Of the one that loves her best. 
 While she's dreaming of the one that loves 
 
 her best. 
 Watch her on the couch of sjumbers. 
 Dreaming of tlie fleeting summers 
 And the one that loves her best. 
 Dreatning, dreaming, dreaming. 
 And the balm that sootiies a lover's heart 
 Courses gently tlirough her breast. 
 While she's dreaming, dreaming, dreaming 
 Of the one that loves lier best, 
 While she's dreaming of the one that loves 
 
 her best. 
 See the magic o'er her hover 
 As in joy slie clasps her lover 
 To her tender, snowy breast. 
 Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. 
 And the balm that .soothes a lover's heart 
 Courses gently through her breast. 
 While she's dreaming, dreaming, dreaming 
 Of the one that loves her best, 
 While she's dreaming of the one that loves 
 
 her best. 
 
 MY FLOWERET. 
 Sweeter than flowers obtained by few; 
 Bright as the gleam of morn's silver dew; 
 Fair as an angel — from Heaven apart — 
 Thou art the queen of my bonnie heart. 
 Thou art the light which love doth reveal. 
 And into my soul its rays gently steal. 
 Heaven-sent charms for me and you — 
 Thine are for me which none can subdue. 
 Fair as the flowerets budded to bl<x>m; 
 Sweet as the birds with rendering tune — 
 Flushed as the rose in the crystal dawn — 
 Thou art the theme of my heart's sweet song. 
 
 TO A MORNING GLORY. 
 Tt seems that thou wert made to woo 
 
 This ever-dreary heather. 
 But soon sweet flower thy bloom must fade 
 
 When oonies the winter weather. 
 No flower like thee, so glossy white,— 
 
 So met'k and vi-ry tender. 
 Should gniw on these wild lands of ours 
 
 To bloom unseen forever. 
 
 <^- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1148 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA, 
 
 WILLIAM EVERETT MORSE. 
 
 Born: Colebrook, N. H., Feb. 23, 1856. 
 When sixteen years of age the subject of 
 this sketch read law one year with an able 
 attorney, and then completed a thorough 
 college course of five years under talented 
 tutors. He then studied medicine, and g-radu- 
 
 WIIJ^IAM EVERETT MORSE. 
 
 ated M. D. in New York with high honors. 
 Mr. Morse then studied theology at Boston 
 and Hartford, and with Dr. Clark of Port- 
 land, Me., and commenced an active pas- 
 torate and preached for six years in Maine, 
 when he was called to Middlefleld, Mass., 
 where he has enjoyed a successful pastorate 
 in the First Congregational church. In 1887 
 he graduated as a Ph. D., and that year was 
 offered two professorships in college. In 
 1888-9 he traveled extensively in Europe, 
 Egypt and Palestine. He has refused the 
 editorship of an important journal in Con- 
 necticut, and has been given the degree of 
 D. D. He preached in Jerusalem, Palestine, 
 November 18, 1888, to nine nationalities. He 
 has delivered many lectures on historical, 
 educational and patriotic subjects, and on 
 temperance. He commenced to write prose 
 and poetry for the papers when sixteen years 
 of age, and has had many articles and poems 
 published in New Hampshire, Maine and 
 Connecticut. He was married in 1879 to Nellie 
 M. Simonds, of Old Orchard, Me., and has one 
 daughter — Ruth Pauline. Dr. Morse is a 
 
 natural musician, and has composed a score 
 of selections for concerts and special occa- 
 sions. He lias written much on the "Mira- 
 cles of the Bible," and is now engaged on 
 special lines of scientific and Biblical study, 
 and in the preparation of a " Family Com- 
 mentary on the whole Bible," based partly 
 on his own travels and study in the Orient. 
 
 A LOST MOMENT. 
 'Tis past! to call it back is vain. 
 It will not be with us again. 
 Though we our firmest nerve shall strain, 
 
 'Twill ne'er return! 
 May this thought in my soul ingrain. 
 
 And ever burn. 
 'Twas short,— but one small moment M'ee, 
 Almost the slightest thing we see, 
 And yet, it linked eternity. 
 
 And I it lost ! 
 Now naught is left to do for me. 
 
 But,— count its cost! 
 
 Come, ye who think too small a thing 
 
 To notice, this brief time I sing; 
 
 List, while these scenes to you we bring 
 
 To prove its worth. 
 Had it not been, would ceased to swing 
 
 This very earth. 
 A king once led his army brave 
 Intrepid forth, his crown to save. 
 And shouted, " On ! we'll meet our grave. 
 
 Or stand ahead! " 
 A flash,— he met a minie's wave, — 
 
 It left him dead ! 
 A barque upon the treacherous deep, 
 Against a reef both rough and steep. 
 Was dashed, without a friend to keep 
 
 The life of one! 
 A moment's work, — none left to weep 
 
 Ere rising sun! 
 
 Some cities vast, afar renowned. 
 Where a volcano's summit frowned, 
 Sauk quick as thought beneath the ground 
 
 With direful fall! 
 'Twas but a moment's rush and sound 
 
 — Entombed them all! 
 A nation great, possessed of more 
 Than all the wealth that lays in ore. 
 Though it should reach from Ophir's siiore 
 
 A moment parts! 
 One stroke of pen, and all is o'er, 
 
 Thougli bleed our hearts! 
 How idle then to laugh and scorn. 
 When none can tell if e'er the morn. 
 If e'er the moon's bright silver horn 
 
 Again shall rise — 
 Or, in a moment, all forlorn 
 
 Our fond hope lies! 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1149 
 
 •I* 
 
 « 
 
 Tho bee doth louder teach than I, 
 And nature's voices all do cry — 
 "Improve, O men, before you die. 
 
 With all your power! 
 Grasp eagerly as swift they fly. 
 
 Each shining- liour! " 
 
 Time hurries on with rapid rate. 
 The moment next may bo too late 
 For you to grain the pearlj- gate 
 
 That needs no sun; 
 Lest you should meet so sad a fate. 
 
 Improve each one ! 
 
 THE POKE BONNET. 
 Have you seen it? If not, I assure you you 
 
 must, 
 For it's worth going journej'S to see! 
 'Tls the latest from Paris, and all the young 
 
 belles 
 Say it's "just as recherche" as can be! 
 
 Don't ask me to tell you just what it is like, 
 
 For I can't — being only a man; 
 
 But if you'll excuse the rude ways they are 
 
 put, 
 I'll describe it the best that I can. 
 
 In the first place, its contour is circular, 
 
 straight. 
 Parallel, perpendicular, round — 
 Where its swells' and indentures' beginnings 
 
 or ends 
 Are, as yet, — but three weeks, — I've not 
 
 found! 
 
 Which is handsomest, whether the back or 
 
 the front, 
 I declare I can't tell you, for lack 
 Of good judgment; when my wife first put 
 
 hers on, 
 Just to try me, she put the front back — 
 
 And to praise it I said, "Why, how pretty 
 
 it is! 
 What a real handsome front it has, dear! " 
 Then I know by the way that she smiled and 
 
 looked down 
 That I'd made myself awkwardly queer. 
 
 Never mind; we poor men are forever in 
 
 grief 
 If we try to put one extra dash on; 
 And there's no surer way that we can be sold 
 Thau by trying to follow the fashion! 
 
 One end of it, puckers at each of the sides 
 
 And runs up plumb into the air, — 
 
 While each of the sides from the puckering 
 
 starts 
 And describes a three-quarter moon flare. 
 
 Oh, dear! what is like to the other end now? 
 It is hard to compare it at all,— 
 But the nearest of anytliiug I've ever seen 
 Is a miniature Swiss water-fall! 
 
 Of the color? All hues are termed stylish, 
 I can't tell which is the most right; 
 Some say th' the black is bewitching. 
 While others gaze most at the white. 
 
 How to trim it? There! now you have 
 
 stunned me! 
 No two decked alike one e'er sees; 
 It's the best way to get all you can get 
 And toss it on just where you please! 
 
 Where to wear it? That too is unsettled; 
 T don't believe any one knows; 
 It depends on the wearer's discretion, — 
 Anywhere from the crown to the nose! 
 
 What they've named it? Well, that is the 
 
 drollest 
 Of all of my story, — no joke; 
 It's no higii fandangled cognomen. 
 But simply — a fashionable "Poke! " 
 
 Why it's called so, remains a close secret — 
 It's perhaps so the boys can >• poke " fun 
 At the wearers, without being cruel, 
 Or charged with a nature to pun. 
 
 It's perhaps so the owners may fairly 
 "Poke " into the hearts of their lovers; 
 Or else, to " poke " off verdant zeal 
 From the innocent face that it covers ! 
 
 Fare thee well, all ye past styles so jaunty. 
 From the days of Queen Bess — though so 
 
 rare,— 
 Until now,— not the gaj' " Dolly Varden," 
 For a moment with this can compare! 
 
 Boys, take heed ! Ft)r I know this is certain. 
 That whene'er a bright lassie shall don it. 
 If you're not on your guard pretty strongly 
 She will catch you sure with her "Poke Bon- 
 net." 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 These beauties and perfumes that please you 
 
 so well 
 And call forth your praises, I blush not to 
 
 tell 
 I never would one of them owned to give you 
 If God had not sent me the brigrht sun, the 
 
 dew. 
 The dear gentle zephyrs and warm evening 
 
 rain. 
 From which fruitful sources my sweetness I 
 
 gain. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1150 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN ALBEE. 
 
 Born: Bellingham, Mass., 1833. 
 The poems of John Albee have appeared in 
 numerous staudard collections, and in the 
 leading publications of America. In 1883 ap- 
 peared Poems,a very line volume of excellent 
 verse from the pen of the subject of this 
 
 JOHN ALBEE. 
 
 sketch. Mr. Albee is engaged in literary 
 work, and resides in New Castle, N. H., 
 where he is very popular. In 1864 he was 
 married to Miss Harriet Ryan, and has two 
 daughters — Esther, born in 1866; and Laura, 
 born in 1869. 
 
 MUSIC AND MEMORY. 
 Enchantress, touch no more that strain! 
 I know not what it may contain. 
 But in my breast such mood it wakes 
 My very spirit almost breaks. 
 Thoughts come from out some hidden realm 
 Whose dim memorials overwlielm. 
 Still bring: not back the thing:s I lost;— 
 Still bringing- all the pain they cost. 
 
 *- 
 
 PORTRAIT PAINTER. 
 
 Velvets, silks, and lawn. 
 In these would you be drawn? 
 Or sliall I rather try to trace 
 Diviner passions in your face? 
 Yet of tlie earthly have you part. 
 
 Although it comes not near your heart; 
 So fine the art which you affect. 
 It is not seen what you neglect — 
 You who all outward customs wear 
 Over the secret vest of hair. 
 Acting for inward vantage higd 
 The noble, necessary lie! 
 
 Let me paint the mysteries 
 Of those baffling, withdrawn eyes; 
 Let me catch the secret scorn 
 At seeming from true being torn; 
 Till bidden past j-our spirit's bar 
 I fix in heaven my one more star. 
 
 MISS TIPTY-TOES. 
 She darts from room to room, 
 Like a shuttle through the loom; 
 In and out, away she goes. 
 Who can catch Miss Tipty-Toes! 
 Here she comes, there she flies. 
 Now she laughs and now she cries; 
 Full of joys and little woes 
 Is my sweet Miss Tipty-Toes. 
 Gibble-gabble, how she talks! 
 She's never still, never walks; 
 And o'er all the house it snows 
 With gay bits of Tipty-Toes. 
 Now your whiskers she will tug. 
 Then around your neck must hug; 
 She loves you! no, don't suppose — 
 Passing mood of Tipty-Toes. 
 She's a tliousand things more dear, 
 Thirteen dolls with all their gear; 
 Belike counts you one of those 
 At most, does queen Tipty-Toes. 
 Yet most tender just at eve 
 When all playthings she must leave; 
 Then for little respite shows 
 Artful heart of Tipty-Toes. 
 Still by day and still by night 
 I grow fonder of the sprite; 
 And her heart whoever knows 
 He must love dear Tipty-Toes. 
 A nd I oft look down the j-ears 
 Thinking of the hopes and fears, 
 When the rosebud is a roso 
 And no more small Tipty-Toes. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 I have missed your love after all. 
 
 That whicli I sought to have and hold; 
 You gave it soon and soon recall; 
 
 It was born too late tt) grow old. 
 And all I know or feel is pain. 
 
 Pain endless for my hour of bliss; 
 Oh yet, another's love to gain 
 
 Where not so dear as thine to miss! 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAF. TOKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1151 
 
 HENRY T.STANTON. 
 
 Born : Alexandria, Va., June 30, 1834. 
 Henry T. Stanton is tho author of two vol- 
 umes— Jiicob Ui-own iitul O-ilier Poems, pub- 
 lisliod in 1875; ami The Mouoyk'ss Man and 
 Other Poems, published in 1888, wliieh have 
 been well and favorablj- received by the 
 
 HENRY THOMPSON STANTON. 
 
 public. Mr. Stanton is a prominent lawyer 
 and editor, and is also the Executive General 
 Agent for Kentucky of the Wasliiii<rton Life 
 lusurauce Company of New York, with head- 
 quarters at Frankfort, Kentucky. He was 
 married in 18.")« to Miss Martlia R. Lindsey, 
 and now hasa very interesting- family. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
 Is there no secret place on the face of the 
 
 earth. 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has 
 
 birtli? 
 Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will 
 
 heave. 
 When the poor and the wretched sliall ask 
 
 and receive? [the poor. 
 
 Is there no phice at all, where a knock from 
 Will brin;? a kind anpcl lo open the door? 
 Ah, search the wide world wlierever you can 
 There is no open door for a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's 
 
 light L'l'glit- 
 
 Drives off with its splendor the darkness of 
 
 Where the rich-hanging velvet in sliadowy 
 
 fold 
 Sweeps gracefully down with its trinnnings 
 
 of gohl. 
 And tlie mirrors of silver takeup, and renew. 
 In long lighted vistas the 'wildcring view. 
 Go there! at the banquet, and find, if you 
 
 can, 
 A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching 
 
 spire. 
 Which gives to the sun his same look of red 
 
 lire. 
 Where the arches and columns arc gorgeous 
 
 within. 
 And the walls seem as pure as a soul with- 
 out sin; 
 Walk down the long aisles, see tho rich and 
 
 the great 
 In the pomp and tho pride of their worldly 
 
 estate; 
 Walk down in your patches, and find, if you 
 
 can. 
 Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man. 
 
 Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has 
 
 told Igold ; 
 
 His hundreds and thousands of siher and 
 Where, safe from the hands of the starving 
 
 and poor. 
 Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore! 
 Walk up to their counters — ah, there you 
 
 may stay 
 Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs 
 
 grow gray, [clati 
 
 And you'll find at tlie Banks not one of the 
 With money to lend to a Moticj-less Man ! 
 
 Go, look to yon Judge, in liis dark-flowing 
 
 gown. 
 With the scales wherein law weigheth equity 
 
 down; [the strong. 
 
 Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on 
 And punishes rightwhilst liojustifles wrong; 
 Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid. 
 To render a verdict — they've already made: 
 Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you 
 
 can, 
 Any law fur the cause of a Moneyless Man '. 
 
 Then go to y<iur hovel — no raven has fed 
 The wife wlio has suffered too lung for her 
 bread; [frost 
 
 Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death- 
 From the lips of the angel your poverty lost: 
 Then turn in your agony upwar<l U) God, 
 And bless, while it smites you, tho chasten- 
 ing rod, [span. 
 And you'll find, at the end of your life's little 
 There's a welcome above for a Moneyless 
 Man ! 
 
 ■s 
 
*- 
 
 1152 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S HOLLOW. 
 
 Ou Devil's bill 
 
 The Day-king still 
 His amber robe is trailing-; 
 
 Floats up to sight 
 
 The Queeu of night, 
 Her wliite, sweet face unvailing. 
 
 In silver cars 
 
 Tlie courtier stars 
 With leal allegiance follow; 
 
 As kling-go-ling 
 The cow-bells ring 
 From out the Devil's hollow. 
 
 How smooth and hard 
 
 The boulevard 
 This autumn eve for walking; 
 
 Beneath the cliffs. 
 
 In misty skiffs, 
 I hear the fishers talking; 
 
 Above the bridge, 
 
 'Round Devil's ridge. 
 Still flits the tardy swallow. 
 
 As kling-go-ling 
 
 Tlie cow-bells ring 
 From out the Devil's hollow. 
 
 Oh, mystic scene! 
 
 The still ravine! 
 Tlie bridge! tlie elm! the river! 
 
 For love and rhyme 
 
 Tliis twilight time 
 Should linger here forever; 
 
 No meeter field 
 
 Was e'er revealed 
 For Daphne or Apollo, 
 
 As kling-go-ling 
 
 The cow-bells ring 
 From out the Devil's hollow. 
 
 Though nights to be 
 
 Come fair to me. 
 Beyond my fancy's bringing. 
 
 When light shall steer 
 
 Some gondolier. 
 With maids to gittern singing. 
 
 From distance long, 
 
 Shall float the song. 
 Above their tra-la-la-la. 
 
 The klang-go-lang 
 
 The cow-bells rang 
 A-down the Devil's hollow. 
 
 DOWN THE ROAD. 
 The overhead blue of the summer is gone, 
 
 Tiie overhead canopy gray'd ; 
 Tlie damp and the chill of tlie winter is on. 
 
 And the dust of the highway laid. 
 I sit in the glare of the simmering beech. 
 
 At the hcartli of the old abode. 
 
 ■*- 
 
 And I look with a sigh at the comfortless 
 reach 
 Of the farm-lands down the road. 
 
 The wind is astir in the camp of the grain. 
 
 The tents of the grenadier corn; 
 The sentinel stalk at the break of the lane 
 
 Hath a wearisome look and lorn ; 
 Yet it hasn't been long since into the blades 
 
 The sap of the summer-time flowed. 
 When I and my ox-team loitered the shades 
 
 Of the oak-trees down the road. 
 
 There wasn't a day that T didn't go by 
 
 Tlie house at the swell of tlie hill — 
 Tlie cattle had broken the close of the rye. 
 
 Or something was wanted at mill: 
 And Kitty — she stood in the porch at her 
 wheel. 
 
 And the gold to her shoulder flowed; 
 And what did I care for the "turn of the 
 meal," 
 
 Or the rye-fleld down the road? 
 
 In the seeding-time when I followed the plow 
 
 And furrowed the mellow ground. 
 There wasn't that labor-like sweat of the 
 brow 
 
 That honester husbandry crowned; 
 For tlie fdiry was there at her wheel and spun 
 
 As I plowed or planted or sowed, [done 
 And mj' labor was never right faithfully 
 
 In the grain-fields down the road. 
 
 And then in the heat of the harvesting-day, 
 
 When the sickle and scythe went through. 
 It was only the veriest time for play 
 
 "J'hat ever a harvester knew; 
 For there was the maid at the humniing 
 wheel yet 
 
 Just fronting the swath that I mowed. 
 And the scythe ran slow, for my eyes were 
 set 
 
 On the old porch down the road. 
 
 Then the autumn at last came into the year, 
 
 And life took a mellower mood: [wliirr 
 Wo gitthored the grain, and tlie quail with a 
 
 Went out of the field to tlic wood. 
 And I tried to be steady and brisk; but still 
 
 It was liard to be plying the goad 
 When my indolent oxen balked at the hill 
 
 By the farm-house down the road. 
 
 Now Kitty has eyes of the teiiderest blue, 
 
 And hair of tlie glossiest gold. 
 But never a word of my loving so true 
 
 To Kitty have ever I told. 
 And the winter is here and the winter may go 
 
 And still I can carry the load — 
 The green of the spring cometli after the 
 snow 
 
 In the grain-flelds down the road. 
 * 
 
9- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL ANU NATIONAL POE 1 S OF AMEKICA. 
 
 11. VJ 
 
 GEO. W. ATKINSON, PH. D. 
 
 Born: Virginia, Jdne 29, 1845. 
 Mb. Atkinson is a Virginian and graduated 
 from the Oliio Weslcyan Uuivcrsity in 1870; 
 took i>()st pradnate course at Mount Union 
 College; studied law two years; attended 
 lectures at Coluiiibian University, and gradu- 
 
 0k w 
 
 GEO. W. ATKINSON, PH. D., LL.D. 
 
 ated from tne law department of Howard 
 University; was admitted to the bar in 187.5, 
 and has since successfully practiced; was 
 four years U. S. Marshal for West Virginia, 
 and was elected to the Fif ty-flrst Conjrress as 
 the representative of the Wheeling, West 
 Virginia, district. He is the author of six 
 different books, all of whicli had a large sale. 
 He has written many poems on different sub- 
 jects. His scholarship is broad and varied. 
 
 OCU RECORDS. 
 As melts the snow beneath the sun. 
 
 So vanish words when spoken ; 
 \Ve soon forget the deeds we've done. 
 
 The promises we've broken. 
 We think at least all wrong acts die 
 
 As soon as they're forgotten; 
 Ah vain the thought — it is a lie, 
 
 And of tlie wish begotten. 
 For silent as the snowflakes fall 
 
 A record we are writing 
 Of all our acts, the great, the small, 
 
 And every fault indicting. 
 
 Unlike the snow that melts away, 
 
 Those lines with all their shading 
 Are written once and yet for aye — 
 
 That record is unfading. 
 God pity all who fearless are 
 
 Of records not inviting. 
 That in His book so white and fair 
 
 The many now are writing. 
 A record not for time alone, 
 
 Since all mankind are framing. 
 In sun or shade should every one 
 
 For nobler deeds be aiming. 
 As clean as snow, as dear as gold. 
 
 Thine actions all recorded, 
 The Judge will come, the scroll unfold, 
 
 And tliou will be rewarded; 
 A passport true to endless rest. 
 
 In heaven's own light and glory. 
 We'll read it there among the blest, 
 
 And oft repeat its story. 
 So write; and no false entry make; 
 
 Nor blot nor blur shall ever 
 A joy from thee or others take. 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 IN THE DARKNESS OF NIGHT. 
 
 Like a gem tliat bedecks tlie cerulean dome 
 
 Is the ..Night-blooming Ceres'' when it 
 breaks from its home 
 
 In the womb of the bud for a place with the 
 fair. 
 
 And breathes forth its sweets on the calm 
 evening air; 
 
 And it opes wide its petals thus born in the 
 night, 
 
 To prepare them to meet with the sun's 
 scorching light: 
 
 So are earth's rarest jewels like flowers that 
 blwmi [gloom ; 
 
 In the darkness of night all shrouded in 
 
 So the tones of iho harp to our ears sound 
 the best 
 
 When Nature Is sleeping and the world is at 
 rest. 
 
 But sweeter than flowers Is the river of Life, 
 
 That drowns every sorrow and quells every 
 strife; [the pure. 
 
 For it flows from the land of the blest and 
 
 And it fixes the heart on the things that en- 
 dure. 
 
 Thus our lives are made sweeter, more Joy- 
 ous and bright 
 
 By the thoughts tliat are born in the black- 
 ness of niglit. 
 
 May the flowers bloom on, and the music 
 ne'er cease, 
 
 As we journey through life with the Master's 
 sweet peace. 
 
*■ 
 
 1154 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF A^IERIC'A. 
 
 LOVES " FOKGET-ME-NOT." 
 
 What is Love? I know not; 
 Yet to the beurt it clings — 
 Flowiug- as never-ceasing' springs, 
 And to tlio weary brings 
 
 Unending joj', if love's our lot. 
 
 What is Love? Tliey alone can tell 
 Whose hearts its sweep have taken. 
 By powers mysterious whicii awaken 
 Into nobler life, unshaken 
 
 By pulsations divine, that we know so well. 
 
 What is Love? It's the seraph's lot 
 To tell. For it's divine — eternal. 
 Which makes the world fraternal 
 With peace and joy supernal; 
 
 It ever lives — dear friend, forget-me-not. 
 
 REV. THOMAS S. ROLIE. 
 
 Born: Gorham. Me., Sept. 21, 18.34. 
 In 1859 Mr. Rolie was ordained a minister of 
 tlie Congregational church. He has filled 
 pastorales at Waldoboro and \\'est Falmouth 
 
 *- 
 
 REV. THOMAS S. ROLIE. 
 
 in Maine; Salmon Falls and New Ipswich in 
 New Hampshire, and numerous other cities. 
 Rev. Thomas S. Rolie has found lime to court 
 tlie muse, and many of his poems have been 
 published in the periodical press. He was 
 
 married in 1859 to Miss Virginia D. Penfel- 
 tou, and now has a family of children grown 
 up to maturity. 
 
 COLLEGE POEM. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Fit emblems all of life's revolving stage. 
 Infancy, youth, manhood, declining age, 
 
 Staid Livy guides the Freshman's feeble way, 
 The Soph is trained by Horace courteous and 
 
 gay — 
 
 The Junior tests his powers potential, 
 By scaling curves and chasing differentials, 
 
 Receiving blessings from kind old Tacitus, 
 Before the ofttimes fatal strife with Cal- 
 culus; 
 
 But no such boyish games engage the mind 
 When once are reached the Senior's fair con- 
 fines — 
 
 The mind turns upward now and dwells afar. 
 Penetrates the skies and flees from star to 
 star; 
 
 As should the aged one, his labors o'er, 
 From earth arise, to higher regions soar. 
 
 Among the incidental joys of college-life. 
 That oft the weary student's mind revive, 
 
 Are those afforded when vacation comes, 
 And we depart to our separate homes; 
 
 When not only we may show the talent 
 Gathered here, but proudly act the gallant 
 
 And win the esteem of some lady fair. 
 Whose angel smiles may drive away dull care. 
 
 But let the inexperienced Freshman 
 Take warning while they listen to a story 
 drear. 
 
 One day a student was bade to trace 
 A certain curve amid its winding ways- 
 Forthwith he obgy'd and straght way niarcbiU 
 
 And tooh his seat, soon ordered to explain - 
 He anon begins, but a sudden pain 
 
 Of wonder strikes him as he sees. 
 By accident or some strange fatality, 
 
 The initials of a distant lady fair. 
 Succeeding his in one connected pair- 
 He sees no more; mist floats before his eyes. 
 He falls alas! and nigh a lifeless figure lies. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 ]..> 
 
 MRS. AMY C. V. SCIiAEGGS. 
 
 Born: Blue Mounds, Wis. 
 Under tlic noni do phimo of Stanley Fitz- 
 patrick, tliis lady has become well-known in 
 the literary world. Several hundreds of her 
 poems Iiave appeared from time to time in 
 
 MiJS. A>n' ( . V. -Ill \ i I ,. ,- 
 the periodical press, wliicii wiil soon he col- 
 lected and publislied in book-form. She is a 
 widow, and a resident of San Diego, Cal. 
 
 CHARITV. 
 We shall chide a weaker brother. 
 
 Or an erring- sister blame: 
 Love and i)ity one another — 
 
 Blessed Charity proclaim. 
 Shall we deal back blow for blow — 
 
 Or give good for evil still; 
 Shall our hearts with jtassion glow, 
 
 Tho' we're wronged and treated ill? 
 Who shall sit in judgment stern. 
 
 On the wrong we daily see? 
 Shall we let our anger burn. 
 
 The' it touches you or me? 
 What the' our love be met with hate — 
 
 Pity wakens only scorn — 
 Or reaching for the rose of peace. 
 
 We feel the sharp and cruel thorn. 
 What matter, brotlier, tlio' the pain 
 
 Bitter bo, and long and deep; 
 Its lesson cannot be in vain — 
 
 Nor in vain the tears we weep. 
 
 ('ease not, brother, lliy endeavor, 
 
 'J'ho' the blinilhig tears still fail — 
 Lo\o — still love — and love forever — 
 
 Charity is best of all. 
 Sweet Charity cndurcth long- 
 Highest stands among the •• three," 
 Let it cover o'er cacli wrong 
 
 Tho' it touches you or me. 
 O, chide nottlien a brother's fall. 
 
 Nor a weaker sister's sliame, 
 God only knows wiiat caused it all — 
 
 Pity give instead of blame. 
 What are we that we should dare 
 
 Weaker ones to crush or kill. 
 By adding to the load they bear 
 
 One poison drop of scorn or ill. 
 Nay, lighten if ye can their load. 
 
 Let tlieir faults and follies rest, 
 And smootlic for them life's rocky road- 
 
 For God-like Charily is blest. 
 Stripped of its mantle, white and fair, 
 
 O, my brotiiers, wliat are we? 
 Witliout its soft veil could we bear 
 
 All that touches you and me? 
 
 MV IJABY ROY. 
 "Out on the hillside, under the oak. 
 My golden-haired baby boy will stand." 
 
 O where is my boy, my baby boy, 
 
 Witli his curls of gold and his eyes of blue; 
 The child of my hope, and love, and joy — 
 
 His lips like a rose-leaf wet with dew. 
 O where is my boj-, my cherub child. 
 
 Wlio came in the hours of grief and pain? 
 Wlio scarce in liis eartiily liomo liad smiled 
 
 Ere angels took back the gift :igain. 
 O never under the soft spring skies, 
 
 Or under the oak on the liillside fair. 
 Shall T meet the glance of his 1:iughiiig eyes. 
 
 Or catch tho gleam of his golden hair. 
 O never shall T sootlie and hush my boy 
 
 Again to a sweet and dre:imless rest; 
 Or feel the thrill of a nameless joy — 
 
 His golden head to my Viosom pressed. 
 O never again shall my aching heart 
 
 Be filled with a motiier's hope or fear. 
 Or tremulous beat with tho joyous start 
 
 Awoke by a baby's smile or tear. 
 Far to the East, 'ne.ath the darker skies — 
 
 Where the sighing summer gnisses wave. 
 My tender golden-haired bal>y lies 
 
 Asleep in liis lonely prairie gr.ive. 
 O tender golden-liairtMl baby Iviy I 
 
 Tonight my heart cries out for you 
 With a love tliat knows no base alloy — 
 
 Witli a love that all these years is true. 
 
5<- 
 
 irre 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. JOSEPH p. PRESTON. 
 
 Born: Galena, C, Jan. 10, 1837. 
 Mr. Preston received a full course iu the 
 Oberliii Theological Seminary, and was or- 
 dained a Congregational minister iu 1808. 
 He has filled pastorates in many prominent 
 churches, and is now oHieiatiug- at Brazil 
 
 *- 
 
 REV. JOSEPH PERRY PRESTON. 
 
 Mills, Nebraska. He lias also lectured ex- 
 tensively, and is always enthusiastically 
 received, as he manages to Ivecp the audi- 
 ence in a g-ood humor with bright sparkles 
 of wit from start to finish. Rev. Joseph P. 
 Preston was married in 1874 to Miss Mary 
 Raymond, and now has a family of children. 
 
 EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Through the long vista of eighty years 
 Backward T look through smiles and tears 
 O'er the track of Time's onward sweep, 
 Like billows of the surging deep. 
 Time then began an era new. 
 When, leaping from the azure blue. 
 He took thee in his kind embrace. 
 And toward Life's problem set thy face. 
 Now, speak it low, but tell me true. 
 Has not Old Time been kind to you ! 
 Though oft along the desert sand. 
 Yet oftener through fair Beulah land. 
 From less to more tliy life has been 
 As reaching toward the fair unseen, 
 Whether in shadow or in sheen. 
 Like onward flow of purling strenm. 
 
 The sun that shone on thy 3'oung head. 
 
 And turned tliy girlish cheeks to red 
 
 So many, many years ago. 
 
 Has still the same effulgent glow. 
 
 The stars that then looked kindly down 
 
 Are running still their ceaseless round. 
 
 One purpose doth forever run 
 
 Througli course of atom or of sun. 
 
 Then do not think thy life has been 
 
 Outside the realm of law or plan. 
 
 For, onward toward a life complete 
 
 An angel guides the willing feet. 
 
 What hopes were born in days long gone. 
 
 And of a noble purpose born — 
 
 Born and died in the swelling tide 
 
 That laughs at human hope and pride. 
 
 Or, what has blossomed into fruit? 
 
 We cannot say, our lips are mute. 
 
 But hopes that die bear fruits on high 
 
 Rich and full in the Bye and Bye. 
 
 And eiglit decades of light and shade 
 
 Have woven colors ne'er to fade, 
 
 For inwrought life that may seem dim 
 
 In beauty yet shall leap like flame. 
 
 God's love was thine through all the years. 
 
 Amid the joys, amid the tears. 
 
 And he wlio notes the sparrow's fall. 
 
 Doth hear his children when they call. 
 
 Beloved friend and mother true. 
 
 We've come to shake a hand with you. 
 
 And to rejoice that still we find 
 
 A spirit sweet and genial mind. 
 
 Since first thine eyes did'st see the light 
 
 Nations liave crumbled out of sight; 
 
 But may a score of greetings yet 
 
 Be yours, like this, for wliich we've met. 
 
 MARION W. SAYFORD. 
 
 This lady is the daughter of John M. Say- 
 ford, a prominent citizen of Harrisburg.Pa. ' 
 The poems of Miss Sayford liave appeared in 
 the Cliristian Advocate and other promlnent,i 
 publications. ' 
 
 THE PRESENT NOT JOYOUS. 
 
 A pansy said, Alas! why should I grow , 
 
 Wlien every morn the darling flower I sho\^ 
 
 Is plucked by a cruel hand? : 
 
 Wliyis it thus? What right, it murmurliu 
 
 said. 
 That all my efforts fail, my hopes be dead? 
 
 I cannot understand. 
 My neighbor keeps her flowers, though nots. 
 
 fair. 
 Site has so many, she could surely spare 
 A few, nor mind the loss. 
 
* — 
 
 LOCAL AND XATIOXAL POETS OF AMKIUC.V. 
 
 1157 
 
 Why roust T sit in g-looni and sadly woep. 
 While she smiles on niul may her treasures 
 
 It is a bitter cross. [keep? 
 
 A zephyr floating by heard the lament. 
 And quickly to the plant his course lie bent, 
 
 And jrently whispered low: 
 ••Ah foolish flower, lift up tliy drooping head. 
 Thou grievest that tliine own \mov hopes 
 have fled. 
 
 And so art filled with woe. 
 
 "Thou dost not see that greater plans than 
 
 thine 
 Are worlring' out for thee whilst thou repine. 
 
 In murmuring- grief and tears. 
 Wliy did"st thou not sit calm and wait. 
 Assured of some good purpose kind and 
 
 And put away thy fears? Igreat, 
 
 ••Thy flower must needs be plucked that in its 
 
 place, 
 A larger, fairer one may grow, of all its race. 
 
 Of richly varied hue. [content. 
 
 Thy neighbor keeps her flowers and smiles 
 But she has missed tlie joy that's to thee sent. 
 
 They're small and plain to view." 
 
 The zephyr having given his message clear. 
 Kissed the foir plant and winged his way 
 with cheer 
 
 To other souls in need, [sunk deep. 
 While in the pansy's heart the thought 
 And o'er her face a smile began to creep, 
 
 Which we may gladly read. 
 
 CASTLES IN SPAIN. 
 Ah, stately do they rise, my castles fair. 
 Which wait for me beyond the horizon's 
 
 bound. 
 1 dream full oft of them, so closely wound 
 Are they about my heart, I even dare 
 To firm believe that sometime free from care, 
 I shall go forth my joyous feet unbound. 
 To possess my fair estate, by fancy crowned 
 With wondrous grandeur to my vision rare. 
 And yet methinks e'en now I've entered in, 
 And full enjoyment have in all its bliss — 
 Ah! sweeter far, and high above the din 
 Of regal pomp and splendor, e'en to reign, 
 A monarch o'er a mighty realm, is this 
 The matchless joy of castles dear in Spain. 
 
 MRS. AXGELIXA ALLSOPP. 
 
 BORX : Nkw York, Dkc. 28. 1815. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared for 
 more than half a century in the periodical 
 press. She received lier education in France; 
 has been married three times and has travel- 
 ed in North and South America. Europe, and 
 in the wilds of Africa, and has led a very 
 
 eventful career. This lady is a resident of 
 Norili Tcmescal. Cal. Mrs. .\ll>i>pp has a 
 
 MRS. ANGEL1N.\ ALLSOPP, 
 
 Story of jjri'eat interest which she hopes to 
 publish at an early date. 
 
 MANKIND. 
 Oh ! gross and base as ever base could 1k\ 
 Is the mean brood tliat Adam sprung from 
 
 thee; 
 So foul the clay of which this God-like man 
 Was form'd and kneaded, not even Heaven 
 Arrest its loathsome progress to decay, [can 
 Or daunt the putrid worm that claims its 
 
 prey. 
 Yetsycoi)hatits ye are to Heaven's throne 
 To Ijeiid. to cringe, to plead for wealth alime. 
 O eurs't. O wretched, mean and d:istartl race. 
 Your very soul is printed on your fjicc; 
 A pleasing semblance of the monkey sort. 
 To ogle, grin and chatter as you're t.-iught; 
 Such, such is man, if mate for him you seek. 
 Go ask fond woman what has palinl her cheek ; 
 Ask why the sigh, the teardrop fn)m an eye 
 Whose every beam in pity seeks the sky — 
 Seek in lier heart the secret of such wo«\ 
 'Tis man, she cries, for him must my tears 
 
 flow. 
 >[y hapless sex a guide, protector, sought. 
 We found nn ape instead of what we ought, 
 A constant scourge, a tyrant at whose will 
 We bend and bn^ak. but hri>akuig love on 
 
 still. 
 Till Heaven in pity claims our weary soul. 
 Frees the piwr slave trom man's accurst 
 
 control. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1158 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 G. ED. NAFTZGER. 
 
 Bobn: Lima, Ohio, April, 30, 1859. 
 In 1879 Mr. Naf tzg-er -was editor of a literary 
 paper known as Our Boys aud Girls, and 
 later published the Sunday Morning Gossip 
 at Edfferton. Since that time he has been 
 identified with the Ohio newspapers, and is 
 
 G. ED. NAFTZGER. 
 
 at present associate-editor of the Spencer- 
 ville Journal. Mr. Naf tzg-er is not so widely 
 known as a poet, but lias gained an enviable 
 reputation as a humorous writer of prose 
 under the nom de plume of Lynx, having 
 contributed many brilliant articles to the 
 Detroit Free Press, Atlanta Constitution, New 
 Orleans Picayune, and other papers of note. 
 He is also well-known as a lecturer and actor. 
 He was married February 21, 1890, to Effa 
 Maud Hunter, a well-known actress and 
 vocalist. 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN'S WAY. 
 Boys, when you pop the question 
 
 And the girl tells you nay, 
 Don't despair, for you'll get there — 
 
 It was only a woman's way. 
 
 Her sweet blushes tell a diffei-ent talc, 
 
 There is hope for you to-day. 
 So be not cast down by a girlish frown — 
 
 It was only a woman's way. 
 
 She must not be too easily won. 
 
 She begs for more delay. 
 In your hour of bliss remember this — 
 
 It was only a woman's way. 
 
 And when once you are married. 
 She'll dive into your monthly pay. 
 
 For she'll want a bonnet with flowers on it— 
 But it is only a woman's way. 
 
 So it will be your whole life through, 
 Until your hair turns gray — 
 
 It may be absurd— she'll have the last word- 
 But that's only a woman's war. 
 
 ONLY A BABY. 
 
 "Only a baby small," hark, how it cries; 
 Only a chubby face, two tearful eyes; 
 Only two little teeth fit for a mouse; 
 Only ten sticky fingers all through the house. 
 
 " Only a golden head," witli one little curl; 
 " Only a tender flower," only a girl; 
 Onlj' two little ears, ten little toes: 
 Slie may wed a millionaire — nobody knows. 
 
 Only a baby small, never at rest. 
 Crawling o'er the floor, rigged in its 'ocst, 
 "Only a baby small," gone like a breath. 
 Growing to womanhood, loving till death. 
 
 WEARY, OH, SO WEARY! 
 
 I am tired of hustling, hustling. 
 On the cars jostling, jostling — 
 Onward, onward, always bustling; 
 
 I am wearj' — oh, so weary. 
 
 I am tired of flurrying, flurrying. 
 To the depot hurrjing, luirrj-ing — 
 Late for trains, always worrying; 
 
 I am weary —oh, so weary. 
 
 I am tired of fumbling, fumbling 
 In my trunk, wardrobe tumbling. 
 Wigs and powder always jiimbling— 
 I am weary — oh, so weary. 
 
 I am tired of playing nightly — 
 Houses light! Yes, verj- slightly, 
 'Tis ever thus; I'll tell you rightly — 
 I am weary —oh, so weary. 
 
 I am tired of ghost not walking. 
 Seldom now comes salary stalking. 
 Manager hopeful — always talking, 
 
 I am wearj- — we are Inistod. 
 
 Then for home we're tripping, tripping. 
 From our faces sweat is dripping; 
 'Tis time we were -skipping — 
 
 I am weary — oh, so weary. 
 
 It makes me tired not riding, riding. 
 But kejit busy hiding, hiding. 
 While the f rt'ight lies on the siding — 
 I am weary— oh, so weary. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1150 
 
 MRS.HATTIE I>RUE URICH. 
 
 Born: Canada. Feb. 10, 1834. 
 For many years this lady has written poems 
 from time to time, whieh liave appeared in 
 the periodical press. She was married in 1849 
 
 MBS. HATTIE LA RUE URICII. 
 
 to John Urieh, and is now a resident of Wil- 
 mot, Dakota. Mrs. (Jrlch has liad quite an 
 eventful career; in her youth she was stolen 
 from home, and was tlie cause of litigation. 
 
 TIRED. 
 I am tired of this busy world. 
 So full of bustle and of strife. 
 For me is left no peaceful rest or fond re-' 
 
 pose; 
 Though half a century has bleached 
 My once dark hair. 
 Those fifty years have brought me 
 Naught but weary work and care. 
 
 Sometimes I wish tliat I might look 
 Into the world unknown. 
 To see if there be peace and harmony 
 Whltlier our friends are flown ; 
 To know if happiness and rest 
 Witli tlie future life is given. 
 Or if perchance that weary souls 
 Beyond the tomb are still by care and sorrow 
 driven. 
 
 SUICIDE. 
 One more unfortunate, rashly importunate, 
 tired of life; 
 
 Wearied of tills world and all Its bitter strife; 
 In he plunged madly, — no matter how coidlj' 
 
 rail tlie river deatli; 
 Madly lie went witlioiii any summons, where 
 
 none return mortal breath to breatli. 
 Tlic poor victim owned that his master wa.s 
 
 drink, 
 And relentless the master persuaded till his 
 
 soul he did sink; 
 At the noonday of manhood lie liii<l Iiis own 
 
 life down. 
 While the world looks on with a smile and a 
 
 frown. 
 But there were bereaved ones left at the 
 
 pretty prairie iiome; 
 Cliildren with fatlier dead, and the mother 
 
 gone to roam ; 
 Two lonely babes, twin sister not yet a sum- 
 mer old. 
 Are left to the care of strangers, or to charity 
 
 so cold. 
 Yet men look coldly on and drink. They 
 
 quaff tlieir cups just the same. 
 No matter though the same fate Is waiting 
 
 to blast their own life and name. 
 Then on ye friends of prohil)ition, let your 
 
 works resound [found. 
 
 Till not a drinking den within your reach be 
 
 THE MIM.EXIUM. 
 
 The Millenium, Oh the Millenium, will it 
 ever be. 
 
 When will every one from prejudice be for- 
 ever free. 
 
 When will each man grant his neighbor fra- 
 ternity, paternity? 
 
 Then would liarmi>tiy reign, and truth be the 
 rule to all eternity. 
 
 When, Oh when will the love of gold forever 
 cease. 
 
 And when will the world be with each otlier 
 at peace? [man's diKir: 
 
 Then there would be no beggjirs at the rich 
 
 No more of jioverty and rags no more, never 
 more. 
 
 Will the strikes and riots be things of the 
 past, [last? 
 
 And the laborer allowed his just rights .-it 
 
 Tliea no need would there be for the soldiers 
 trained. 
 
 To strew the fields o'er with the dead und the 
 mninicd. 
 
 But methinks the Milleniiiel can never dawn 
 
 Till the gold from the coffers of the mil- 
 lionaire be drawn 
 
 And scattered and divided o'er the earth 
 broadcast, 
 
 Tlien would the golden rule be law. and peace 
 proclaimed at last. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1160 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EMORY D. BAKER. 
 
 Born: Clarion Co., Pa., April 28, 1863. 
 Commencing to teach at theatre of nineteen, 
 Mr. Baker lias followed the profession ever 
 since, spending- his vacations in attending- 
 school and farm labor, and his spare mo- 
 iiientr-in -^vritinp- poetry, music, etc., and in 
 
 EMORY D. BAKER. 
 
 reading the C. L. S. C course, in which he 
 graduated with the class of 1889. He has 
 written poetry and some prose for the past 
 eight years, and every poem of his ever of- 
 fered for i>ublication has been accepted. 
 Mr. Baker is a great lover of music, and has 
 set some of his poems te music. He can 
 speak Pennsylvania German, and being still 
 single, resides with his parents on a farm at 
 Rimersburg, Pa. 
 
 SAILING OER LIFE'S OCEAN. 
 We are sailing o'er life's ocean. 
 
 Bound for Canaan's happy land; 
 There we'll meet our blessed Savior 
 
 'Mid the pure and heavenly bund. 
 Long have we been on our journey. 
 
 On the ocean far and wide, 
 "Mid the mist and spray so dreary. 
 
 And the ever-surging tide. 
 Oft we storms of doubt encountered. 
 
 And the rams of bitter tears; 
 Oft we've had fierce fightings. 
 
 And within our anxious fears; 
 
 But we soon shall reach the harbor, 
 
 Tho' the tempests loudly roar, 
 If we trust our captain, Jesus, 
 
 We shall safely reach the shore. 
 Tho' fierce billows now are swelUng, 
 
 Breakers roar upon the lea. 
 Still securelj' are we sailing. 
 
 Trusting all, O Christ, to thee. 
 Tho' there's many a hazard threatening 
 
 'Mid the dang'rous rocks and shoals. 
 Yet our ship has landed many 
 
 Of the faithful pilgrim souls. 
 Brightly gleams the light of dawning; 
 
 Soon the storms will pass awaj% 
 Then there'll bo an endless morning. 
 
 And our night be turned to day. 
 God has called hence many loved ones; 
 
 We have seen them leave our side: 
 With our Savior we shall meet them 
 
 When we, too, have crossed the tide. 
 We are sailing o'er life's ocean 
 
 Fast as time can roll along; 
 Few the hours of our devotion 
 
 Here on earth in prayer and song. 
 Soon will all our days be ended. 
 
 And our earthly toils be o'er — 
 All our ships be safely landed 
 
 On the bright and shining shore. 
 
 SISTER IDA. 
 My mind's borne back to days gone by, 
 When together in childhood's day we'd ply 
 Our childish talk, as then we played 
 In orchard and garden, where oft we strayed. 
 But row our youthful days are gone, 
 And sister has joined the heavenly throng; 
 But still her form's before my eyes, 
 Altho' her soul has long fled to the skies. 
 Methinks I hear her sweet voice ring 
 As it did when at home she used to sing. 
 Oh, 'tis but my imagining! 
 For her to me I can nevermore bring. 
 No words can e'er express the loss — 
 Aliho' earth's greatest gain's always but 
 
 dross — 
 I felt when her they bore away 
 To lay her deep, deep beneath tlie cold clay. 
 'Tis but one year ago to-day 
 They covered her o'er with the yellow clay; 
 To me it seems quite twice that long 
 Since Ida from earth and her friends hat 
 
 gone. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Be kind and be gentle, 
 
 Be faitliful and true. 
 And strive hard each da.v, friends. 
 
 To learn sometliing new. 
 
 •i"- 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OK AMEIIICA. 
 
 1101 
 
 MRS. AMANDA E. BF.LK. 
 
 Born: Gahnett Co.. Ga.. Jan., IS^."]. 
 In 1852 the subject of this sketcli was ir.ar- 
 ried to Andrew A. Belk, and now resides- iu 
 
 PP'^^r 
 
 MRS. AMANDA E. BELK. 
 
 Jasper, Texas. The poems of Mrs. Belk 
 have appeared in the Texas Baptist and 
 Herald and other publications. 
 
 * 
 
 THE COMMISSION TO MY GOLDEN 
 SPECTACLES. 
 Go preach, I give you g-ladly. 
 
 Though you've served me well and long; 
 Go tell the world of Jesus, 
 Be not only eyes but tongue. 
 
 Go tell the preacher to be faithful — 
 
 Theirs is no common charg-c; 
 The call is loud and ui'gent. 
 
 The fields are white and large. 
 
 Go tell them to be zealous — 
 
 No time for trifling here. 
 To take the old Jerusalem blade 
 
 And wield it far and near. 
 
 Go tell them to be vigilant. 
 
 And earnestly contend 
 For the truth what was delivered. 
 
 And preserve it to the end. 
 
 Go preach to heathen nations 
 
 Till all the sound have heard. 
 Then come, dear, blessed Savior, 
 
 As thou hast promised in thy Word. 
 
 May you last and preach the gospel 
 
 Till tlie last of Adanj's race 
 Shall bow tiie knee to Jesus 
 
 And His precious name confess. 
 Farewell, my golden glasses. 
 
 With frame of i)urest mold; 
 I hope to meet tlio fruit you bring 
 
 Where the streets aie paved with gold. 
 
 THE TRUTH IN LOVE. 
 
 As I boarded the train. 
 
 And she Hies amain. 
 
 When to the far, far West I'm bound. 
 
 We've naught to do 
 
 But to silently view 
 
 Tilings transpiring around. 
 
 They're oflf and on at every stage. 
 
 From the babe of a month to hoary age- 
 
 The rustic from the plney wood. 
 
 The smiling miss, the gallant dude. 
 
 I'm glad they could not read my thoughts. 
 
 Though now I will confers 
 
 The thing that toolv my eye the most 
 
 Was tiie way the ladies dress. 
 
 What a great mistake 
 
 The Loi'd did make 
 
 When he took the rib from the side! 
 
 When he placed the pack 
 
 On the camel's back 
 
 Instead of on Adam's bride. 
 
 Then he gave her a forehead smooth and 
 
 Where beauty and intellect glow; broad. 
 
 But she says by lier acts, •• Not so, my Lord, 
 
 For there's where the hair ought to grow." 
 
 When folds and frills and tucks are made. 
 
 And a high-crowned liat adorns her head. 
 
 Her waist must bo trim and quite small, too. 
 
 And a tliree instead of a five for her shoe. 
 
 To church she must go. 
 
 For she's pious, you know. 
 
 And vacant her seat must not be; 
 
 So sweei ly she sings. 
 
 And she prays perhaps, too; 
 
 But why should she bend the knee? 
 
 Her dress miglu pet soiled. 
 
 And the drapei'y spoiled. 
 
 And thus interfere with devotion; 
 
 For how could slie pray. 
 
 Or worshii) aright. 
 
 With mind and dress all in commotion? 
 
 Then her bottle's a treasure, though rum 
 
 she don't lake; 
 It's a wide-mouthed bottle of four-square 
 
 make. 
 Witli a very small stick witli a brush at the 
 
 tip. 
 For how could she be social and not take a 
 
 dip? 
 
*- 
 
 1162 
 
 LOCATi AND KATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MATILDA A. ANDERS. 
 
 Born: Plymouth, Iowa, Sept. 9. ISTl. 
 The poems of Miss Anders luive appeared in 
 
 the Norlliwood Ancln)r, Indi;jii; 
 
 MATILDA A. ANDEli.'^. 
 
 ;ind other local pupers. She is still a resident 
 of her native place. 
 
 BARLEY LOAVES. 
 Five barley loaves, tlirce fishes small — 
 
 And sliall I olfer these poor gifts 
 To Christ, the Lord of all? 
 
 To Christ who stills the angry wave. 
 And who controls the storm; 
 
 Surely he hath no need of me. 
 And these, my gifts. He'll scorn! 
 
 Yes! He hath need of thee! 
 Come, bring thy loaves of bread; 
 
 Behold ! With them, when Jesus speaks, 
 The multitude is fed. 
 
 *• 
 
 GETHSEMANE. 
 
 When the moon's bright silvery light 
 Breaks through fleecy clouds so bright :- 
 Oft I think of Gethsemane, 
 And my lieart throbs with pain. 
 In the full moon's gleam so bright, 
 Kneels my Savior's form of light 
 Praying: " Father can it be. 
 Then take this bitter cup from me. 
 Yet Thy will, not mine, be done.'" 
 (Father, hear Thine only Son !)— 
 
 Ere the sun from Heaven shone, 
 
 Christ the traitor's kiss did own. 
 
 Peter, too, the Lord forsook. 
 
 His Friend Divine he did o'erlook:— 
 
 And before the cock crowed twice 
 
 He denied the Master thrice. 
 
 When the moon's bright silvery beams. 
 
 Through the cloud-rifts shed their gleams 
 
 Then my lieart will throb with pain. 
 
 As I think of Gethsemane. 
 
 THE CROSS WITH ROSES. 
 A cross, twined with roses 
 In life is our fate, 
 By God it is given — 
 So rich, so great ! 
 It is not all roses — 
 Not crosses alone — 
 His love hath thus willed it, 
 We should not moan. 
 A cross with roses 
 How well — how good I 
 O learn to bear it 
 As a Christian should! 
 'Tis true the ro.ses 
 Will wither and fade:— 
 The cross it will down 
 At the grave be laid: 
 But — may it all wither 
 And all decay;— 
 The root to the cross 
 Will cling ahvay. 
 Then nurse the bright bud. 
 Though tender and small; 
 And bear witii patience 
 Thy sorrows all. 
 Soon must perish 
 This earthlj- dross:— 
 Life's fruit shall ripeu 
 On the cross. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The summer fair is coming, 
 
 And winter must retreat: — 
 The busy bees are humming 
 
 And gathering honey sweet. 
 O! smell the fragrant clover, 
 
 The modest violet blue,— 
 And, liark! yes, 'tis the plover 
 
 Pipes in the hedges new. 
 Gay little feathered songsters 
 
 Are singing everywhere. 
 Their sweet and thrilling melody 
 
 Fills all the balmy air. 
 Briglit summer! how we welcome 
 
 Thj' annual return; 
 When in the winter dreary 
 
 For summei''s flowers we yearn. 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 11G3 
 
 G. HENRI BOGART. 
 
 Bokn: Cincinnati, O., Oct. 26, 1857. 
 The subject of this sketch is a school tcaelior 
 and journalist, :iud for a while followed the 
 occupation of a painter and decorator. For 
 a while lie was educational editor of the 
 Laurel Review, and subsequently political 
 
 G. HENRI BOGART. 
 
 editor of the Franklin Democrat. Mr. Bogart 
 has written nearly five hundred poems, in- 
 cluding many line .song-s and recitation 
 pieces. He was married in 187S to Miss Jodie 
 F. Duncan, has several children, and resides 
 in Brookville, Ind. 
 
 OPTIMISIA. 
 Deep in the lieart of the savapest man. 
 Is a tender spot you should touch if you can ; 
 For no matter how sullied l)y error and crime, 
 Still burns one sparklet, God-like, divine. 
 
 The Deity planted the g-erm on that day 
 When He breathed His own spirit into the 
 
 clay, 
 Man, ever striving, must yet reach the goal. 
 Less of the animal, more of the soul. 
 
 Over in Europe, in days we call old, 
 Men lived for title, for blood, and for gold; 
 Only the warrior, and he by his birth 
 Accounted as worthy to live on the earth. 
 
 Forth from his castle rode each stubborn 
 knight 
 
 Preying on commerce, his unchalleagcd 
 
 right. 
 Who crossed his domain must grant lilm a 
 
 share. 
 Never a tradesman his gnisping could spare. 
 
 Stanley, of late, in the wild Congo land. 
 Paid a like tribute to each savage band: 
 So miglit made tlie riglit in the ages of steel. 
 But 'tis strange in these days we such rigor 
 should feel. 
 
 Little by little the tradesmen gained strcngrth. 
 Supplanting the warrior and chieftain at 
 
 length. 
 Till they grasped for the prey which the wai^ 
 
 rior had lost. 
 Still robbing the weaker, no matter the cost. 
 
 Past wore the days of the sword and the 
 
 brand. 
 But tariff laws flourished in every fair land; 
 We who are living in this age of gold 
 Are as ruthlessly robbed as the peasants of 
 
 old. 
 
 True, they have system and law at their 
 
 backs. 
 Only the bloodshed tlie method now lacks; 
 Yet it is crushing the laboring man. 
 And the change in the robbery only its plan. 
 
 But the spirit of freedom grows brighter and 
 
 higher; 
 Naught can extinguish its pure, holy Are. 
 Tariff by rapine or tariff by state. 
 Each one an outrage, must meet the same 
 
 fate. 
 
 This from barbarians we pattern in sbbme. 
 Stealing, but called by ambiguous name. 
 Freemen arise, lielp enfranchise the earth. 
 Ever push forward, and thus prove your 
 worth. 
 
 AMONG THE JOYS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 There arc beauties all around us. 
 There are joys should aye surround us. 
 There are griefs should not confound us. 
 As we tread our earthly round; 
 And wo have enough of sorrow, 
 That no e\il we should h<irrow 
 From the future, life's to-morrow. 
 
 There is sadness with each pleasure. 
 There is dross among the treasure; 
 But our happiness we measure 
 By the fragments which we keep; 
 I^iOt us then like miners olden 
 Hojird the grains of Joy .«> golden. 
 Spurn the evil, spurn the gloom. 
 
 .* 
 
*- 
 
 1164 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ADOLPHE FLAMANT. 
 
 Born : Fuance, Feb. 13, 1841. 
 Adolphe FiiAMANT foUows the occupation 
 of an olive grower, and in 1884 pUiuted sixty 
 acres of olive trees on tlieniost uninviting- 
 and barren portion of what lias been known as 
 the Simoutoii ranch, six miles west of Napa. 
 
 ADOLPHE FLAMANT. 
 
 Some of these trees now promise a yield of 
 four gallons of berries to the tree, and con- 
 sequently Mr. Flamant has made a success 
 of his venture. He has published a practical 
 treatise on Olive Culture, wliich will undoubt- 
 edly do much toward fostering- this new in- 
 dustry. Most of the poems of Mr. Fhimarit 
 are written in Frencli, and have appeared in 
 the Franco-Californian of San Francisco. 
 
 L'ALBUM DE ROLLA. 
 
 Quand tu me verses I'ambroisie 
 Qni coule a tiots do ta beaute 
 Si les dieux a ma pocsie 
 Accordaient rimmortiilite. 
 
 Aux oiseaux, aux flcnrs, aux etoilcs, 
 Aux celestes clartcs dii jour 
 A la nuit aux pudiques voiles 
 Je m' adresserais tour a tour. 
 
 Depuis les profondeurs de 1, onde 
 Jusqu'au front dcs monts sourcillcux 
 J' ii'ais a la .source fcconde 
 M' inspirerde chants glorieux. 
 
 A mes desirs donnaut des alles 
 M'aidant des plus divins transports 
 En des louanges immortelles 
 Naitraient de sublimes accords, 
 
 Et dans des elans de g-enie, 
 Proclamant ton nom aux echos 
 Les airs seraient tout harmonic 
 Et Ton verrait fremir les flots. 
 
 Depuis les rives du Permesse 
 Jusques anx bords les plus loiutaiiis 
 Des chants d'amour et d'allegrcssc 
 Viendraient se joindre a mes refrains. 
 
 A chaque mot, chaque sourire, 
 Chaque pensee ou mouvement 
 Touchant les cordcs de ma lyre 
 Tout serait dans I'enchantcment. 
 
 Quand de tes prunelles ardentes 
 Un regard prendrait son essor 
 On croirait aux nues eclatantes 
 Voir sciutiller des rayons d'or. 
 
 Quand ta voix ce f erait entendre 
 Les oiseaux amoureusement 
 Seraient I'echo fidele et tendre 
 De ton divin gazouillement. 
 
 Quand tes levres, roses vermeilles 
 S'entr'ouvriraient pour nous ravir 
 Les cieux repandant leurs mervcilles 
 A nos yeux viendraient resplendir. 
 
 Quand folatrant dans les prairies 
 Tes clieveux flotteraient au vent 
 Etincellants de pierreries 
 On verrait le soleil levant. 
 
 Quand tu cucillerais une rose 
 Pour en orner ton chaste sein 
 Tons les charmesdontDieu dispose 
 Viendraient eclore sous ta main. 
 
 Quand tu dormirais sous 1' onibrago 
 Les tleurs en te deiflant 
 Viendraient carresser ton visage 
 Des doux parf urns de I'Orient. 
 
 Quand, tu voudraisde cettoterrc 
 Tarracher a I'eclat trompcur 
 J'iraisdans ladivine sphere 
 M'inspirer lecoeur dans ton coour. 
 
 Et quand reveuse sur ta eouche 
 Etirant tes bras gracieux 
 Mon nom sortirait de ta bouehe 
 L'Univers serait radieux. 
 
 Alors, au temple dc Memoire, 
 Les dioux rcmplis d'un dou.x emoi 
 M'offrant les palmes do la gloire 
 S'inclineraient tous dcvant toi. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 L<X'AL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 ll(io 
 
 THOMAS STREET. 
 
 Born: Gunthorp, Ohio, Nov. 29, 1821. 
 Thomas Stref.t is a resident of Viucland, 
 N. J., wliero he is very popular. He lias 
 writti'ii numerous acrostics of great merit. 
 
 . 
 
 
 ^* 
 
 ■^" 
 
 Hnti'' 
 
 
 
 ' /r^ '^ 
 
 u^^^tSb 
 
 k . )^. 
 
 mim- 
 
 %f.-^ ' \ 
 
 ^j^-" 
 
 
 j^^ s^ 
 
 
 ^^Hlt 
 
 K^_. :m^ 
 
 ^^^^^ 
 
 a. ^j- AffijwH^^^^^B 
 
 ^^H[ 
 
 k^JWWl 
 
 
 ▼ '^ 
 
 THOMAS STREET. 
 
 which have won for him a national repu- 
 tation. Hundreds of the poems of Mr. 
 Street have appeared from lime to time iu 
 the periodical press. 
 
 SWEET SEA ISLE CITY'S. 
 Sweet Sea Isle City's splendid strand, 
 Sliall I essay thy eulos?y? 
 Sure there cannot on earth be found 
 Superior beach than thine to me. 
 
 Wlio will witli words sufBcient tell, 
 Wliat of thy t;lory may be seen? 
 NViiere is the heart inspired so full 
 With language to declare thy fame! 
 
 Enrapturing- ever each one's eyes. 
 Ever belioUling sights so grand; 
 Each distant vessel as it flies 
 Ennobling tliouglits should fill our mind. 
 
 Ever evading evil ease. 
 
 Each surging wave says work right ou — 
 
 Eternity will give no peace, 
 
 Except we boldly work out wrong. 
 
 Then there though tlioughtless, cue, lieed not 
 The lessous given all around, 
 Tliey '11 learn that hard w ill be the fate 
 That they endure whore idle found. 
 
 Sea spread so wide Atlantic sure 
 Shall we not look o'er tliy expanse. 
 See in thy billows, hear thy roar 
 Some tokens of omnipotence. 
 
 Ever each wave eternal ebbs. 
 Endless succeeds thy flowing tide; 
 Even where rocks raise rugged heads 
 Emerged at times thou dost them hide. 
 
 As all along thy coast around, 
 Atlantic ocean so sublime. 
 Are cities seen on higher ground 
 All hail thou city on the plain. 
 
 Isle, in thee I see improvement. 
 It exceeds our sanguine thought; 
 In its vast development 
 It was by a genius wrought. 
 
 Sure such strides so great and grand. 
 Such as has been seen before. 
 Splendid glory of the laud. 
 Seen in Vineland heretofore. 
 
 Lo, like that, let this live ever, 
 T.aiid tlie Landis from wl)()so thoughts 
 Led the van e:ich wild doth cover. 
 Load with bloom these sandy lots. 
 
 Eai'h entering here ever enjoy 
 Ennobling thoughts from what is seen. 
 Evading all tliuigs that annoy. 
 Enraptured by the good that's done. 
 
 Cities came from conquest carnage. 
 Causing horrid human woe. 
 Came this not doing such damage 
 Come in jieace that pe.ice might grow. 
 
 In its sweet, inspiring impulse 
 I would live with others too. 
 Impressed with the vast imi)ortance. 
 It should be our aim to know. 
 
 That tlie truth tlio' endless, lasting 
 Through eternity the same; 
 Tho' it often m;iy bo hidden. 
 To the surface it will come. 
 
 Young in years, you're yielding pleasure, 
 Yes. to hundreds that do come 
 Yonr grand beach to trample over. 
 Yielding njt to loaded team. 
 
 So secure, solid and steadfast. 
 Safe when rolling tides retreat. 
 Sign there is not of a quicksand. 
 Sinking 'neath the passer's feet. 
 
1166 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. VELMA C. MELVILLE. 
 
 Born: Greenwood, Wis., 1858. 
 At the age of sixteen tbis lady commenced 
 to teach school, and four jears later she was 
 happily married to James Melville, a gradu- 
 ate of Wisconsin State University, and now 
 
 MRS. VELMA CALDWELL MELVILLE. 
 
 well-known in the educational and prohibi- 
 tion world. Mrs. Melville lias written several 
 serials, and her poems and sketches have 
 appeared in nearly a hundred publications. 
 She is now a resident of Poynette, Wis. 
 
 *- 
 
 MEMORY'S PICTURES. 
 I see them now. on memory's wall, 
 
 Tliose pictures rare and old; 
 With a glint of light thrown over all 
 
 By the sunset's fading gold. 
 
 I treasure them now as time's best gift, 
 
 By invisible fingers traced; 
 And wonder if, in the coming life 
 
 One line will be effaced. 
 
 There's one where the softest halo falls, 
 The face of my mother dear; 
 
 And often a,t shadowy eventide 
 I linger longest here. 
 
 Beside her, but far more dimly, I sec 
 
 Another, a sainted dead; 
 To save the flag for you and me, 
 
 He nobly fought and bled. 
 
 But here I pause with a feeling vague. 
 That 'tis sacrilege to unfold 
 
 To stranger eye, the pictures fair, 
 To me of worth untold. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 Her mantle is wrought in gold and crimson, 
 
 Her veil bangs low, of purplish hue. 
 Her nights are gemmed with solar splendor. 
 
 Her mornings sparkle witli sunlit dew. 
 She smiles and kisses the earth so warmly. 
 
 She glides along with fairy tread: 
 We scarcely dream but she'll last forever, 
 
 Till we wake some morn to find her dead. 
 
 WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 
 Right to love and be beloved. 
 
 Right to queen it o'er man's heart. 
 Right to help him bear his burdens. 
 
 Right to do a woman's part. 
 Right to smooth the path of childhood, 
 
 Right to guide each tiny foot. 
 Right to lead them to life's fountain. 
 
 Right to plant faith's priceless root. 
 Right to soothe the sick and wear}-. 
 
 Right to turn their thoughts above, 
 Right to point them to the Savior, 
 
 Right to tell them of his love. 
 Right to walk and talk with Jesus, 
 
 Right to feel him In her heart. 
 Right to dwell with him forever. 
 
 Bight to claim the blood-bought part. 
 
 LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 Look on the bright side ever, dearie, 
 
 Look and smile and hope; 
 Clouds will appear if you want them, dearie. 
 
 If you cry and frown and mope. 
 Look on the bright side ever, dearie. 
 
 Though it scarcely be In view; 
 Tliere may be only a rift in the cloud, dearie, 
 
 But that rift was meant for you. 
 Look on the bright side ever, dearie, 
 
 Tliough tempests o'er you roll; 
 There's a Master hand at tlie helm, dearie. 
 
 He'll guard and keep thy soul. 
 Look on the bright side ever, dearie. 
 
 Till life's liist sunset grand; 
 Then close your eyes witli a prayer, dearie, 
 
 And ope them in Buelah Laud. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 O'er and o'er I ask strange quest iot.s, 
 
 Full of "Can it be?" refrain. 
 Trembling if the day be drouglily, 
 
 Lest the morrow bring tlie rain ; 
 Pausing often in my prayer.«. 
 
 Fearful that e'en they're in vain. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OE IS OK AMKltlCA. 
 
 1167 
 
 MINNIE MURPHRY. 
 
 Born: Decatur, III., Nov. 11. 1865. 
 This lady received licredueatioti in tlie Con- 
 vent in Decatur, and at Knox Academy and 
 Knox College of Galesburg, 111., to which 
 latter city she removed in 1875. In 1891 Miss 
 Mnrphey look up her residence in CliicajiO 
 
 MINNIE TRANCES MrRPHEV. 
 
 with lier father, a prominent lawyer and 
 brother of Judge T. H. Murphey, who was 
 Circuit Judgeof AIcHeiiry county for twenty 
 years, and afterward Cliief Justice of the 
 Appellate Court of Illinois. The poems of 
 this autlior and jioet have appeared in the 
 Galesburg Free Press, and Galosbiirg Repub- 
 lican Register, Chicajjo News, Chicago Times, 
 and many other well-known publications. 
 
 THE UNWRITTEN SONG. 
 As some far siglit beyond the eyes. 
 No pen details nor artist's note, 
 Approacliing but to melt mist-like — 
 
 The song he never wrote. 
 Or yet a bird of swiftest flight. 
 That knew no rest by land or boat. 
 But hovering low with broken wing — 
 
 The song he never wrote. 
 A jeweled harp that useless lay. 
 With chords no human hand had smote. 
 That whispered to the wliisp'ring winds — 
 
 The song he never wrote. 
 
 Hut once in h;ilf-awakenod dreams 
 The land drew nigh lie loved so well. 
 The bird Uew by on mended wing. 
 
 The harp awoke with joyous swell; 
 O, pulse of life and death outlived I 
 O bliss and joy tliat caught the note I 
 For now he sang with quivering voice 
 
 The song he never wrote! 
 A song that knew not earthly rules. 
 That rose and fell in heavenly bars. 
 Whose sweetness touched tlie human heart, 
 
 Whose echoes swept the stars; 
 The end so bright no heart need hope. 
 And O how near tho' named remote! 
 All this and more he told within 
 
 The song he never wrote. 
 
 One night he died, and at his tomb. 
 Friends weeping said with shaken breath, 
 "Dear God! tlie songs he sang for us 
 
 Can know no grave — no death ! " 
 Hut one out-lingered all the rest. 
 Whose love up-swelled from heartand throat. 
 And to the gloom he sighed, '-alas! 
 
 The songs he never wrote! " 
 Each shackle broken — free at last. 
 Now Love and Hate had lost their name. 
 Regret a story — Hope out-run. 
 
 And sorrow gone on wings of flume. 
 The soul the .same, yet not the same. 
 Low whispered to the glowing skies, 
 •• O. once 1 thought to sing on earth 
 
 The songs of Paradise ! " 
 O ecstasy! eternal — sweet! 
 The stars rang out to farthest mote — 
 At last he sings before his God 
 
 The song he never wrote. 
 
 SONG. 
 One evening when the glimmering land was 
 still. 
 When day was dark and but the night was 
 clear. 
 Contentment and a strange enchanted peace 
 Came o'er me fnim a spirit standing near. 
 
 As when tho earth revolving, yet is still. 
 
 So in that Presence time had ceased to be. 
 While tlius I plead, ..O. blessixl Angel stay! 
 
 And dull my soul to all the world but thee. 
 Li't love that masqtierades In borrowed mhos 
 
 Of Hope, forget this happy lieart of mine. 
 Anil let me drift tbni" nil eternity 
 
 Unconscious of all other power than thine." 
 But as I spoke the cistern sky uplit, 
 
 A song-bird whistled In a tree above. 
 And gravely smiling as he t,n>k my hand. 
 
 Tlie Spirit softly whU|)ered. •• I am Love." 
 
1168 
 
 LOCAr< AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 I tliitik of thee 
 When lily cradled is the honey-bee, 
 When the white rose woos the violet dew. 
 And wafts her spices to the tulip tree. 
 
 When thiiikest thou of me? 
 
 I think of thee 
 By the purple coast line that fades away. 
 While the shimmering- milky sails speed on 
 To kiss the rose lips of another day. 
 
 Where thinkest thou of me? 
 
 I think of thee 
 
 With tear-lit eye and passion-haunted heart. 
 
 Tempestuous longings that are never stilled, 
 
 For coming- days -when we shall never part. 
 
 How thinkest thou of me? 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHELL. 
 Unnumbered miles from shore, I hold a shell 
 That ceaseless music makes, as if the sound 
 Of Summer-tides had endless echoes left 
 Within 
 
 That song- the distant waves once taught 
 Can never be forg-otten, or unsung:; 
 And if, methinks, the shell should shattered 
 
 lie. 
 Each part would whisper still, tho' brokenly, 
 Of its far home — the sea. 
 
 Within my heart. 
 Sweet maid, there is a dearer song- than this. 
 Learned Jong ago of thee, and tlio' the way 
 Between us seems impassable and fixed. 
 It hath no end, but chanteth on and on. 
 Of its far love as this lost shell the sea. 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 When in the red vintage of the western sky 
 
 Dissolves the pearl of light away. 
 
 In a far-off ruby-gold sea ; 
 When the dim wings of Twilight are rustling 
 by. 
 
 And tender penciled fancies play, 
 
 I think of thee, I think of thee. 
 When parted the purple curtains of the night. 
 
 And on her couch of dewy space 
 
 The earth has loosed her robes of pearl; 
 When the gray moon is lost in another's light 
 
 And dreams in noiseless resting- place. 
 
 Thou art my world, thou art my world. 
 When the never-ceasing tide of passing feet 
 
 Streams thro' the crowded market-way, 
 
 And pale Care slowly beckons me; 
 When throbbing veins of the city wildly beat, 
 
 And Tumult drives the car of day, 
 
 I think of thee, 1 1 hink of thee. 
 When roses droop,love-languid,'neath breath 
 of noon. 
 
 When pulseless is the heavy land, 
 
 And stilled the lightest trill of birds; 
 Across the crescent of liquid azure bloom 
 Thy name is traced by unseen hand 
 In golden words, in g-oiden words. 
 
 When dream the milk-white blossoms on 
 stilly lake. 
 
 When pjission flowers are gem'ed with dew 
 
 And acacias doze on the lea; 
 When crimson petals no longer keep awake. 
 
 And the jessamine nods adieu, 
 
 I think of thee, 1 think of thee. 
 
 THERE COMES A TIME. 
 There comes a time when golden-hearted 
 noon 
 Will yield to twilight's chill embrace. 
 When sighing- winds will shed the summer's 
 bloom. 
 And waft their sweetness into space. 
 When locks are gray 
 As winter's day. 
 And lips of faded red will say; 
 "There comes a time when we grow old." 
 From far across the shoreless ocean's breast 
 The dying sunlight faintly streams, [crest, 
 While unseen barks are speeding- o'er its 
 And rosy hope is lost in dreams. 
 For wearj' hands 
 The day hath spanned. 
 And feebly trace o'er sallow sands, 
 "There comes a time when wegrrowold." 
 There comes a time when on the viewless tide 
 
 Is heard the boding- tone of fate; 
 When Galen's baud is summoned to our side 
 To check the foe within the gate. 
 Strict guard they keep. 
 Yet in our sleep 
 A voice comes whispering o'er the deep, 
 " There comes a time when we grow old." 
 Unbroken shades ne'er traveled by the sun 
 
 Form barriers round a dark domain. 
 Where time's far-reaching stream shall never 
 run. 
 Or measure Death's unbreathing reiffn. 
 Forgetfulness 
 Hath come to bless. 
 And pallid lips shall ne'er confess, 
 " There comes a time when we grow old." 
 There comes a time when watchers thro' tlif 
 night 
 In silence wait tho coming- day, 
 When ghostly tapers give their tremblinj! 
 light. 
 And hope and hearts alike decay. 
 And then how dark! 
 But oh, the sijark 
 Tliat onward guides tlie phantom hark 
 Whore we shall nevermore grow old. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1169 
 
 ALVA AM ASA TANNKR. 
 
 Born; So. Cottonwood, Utah, Dec. 26,1849. 
 The poems of Mr. Tanner have appeared in 
 the Woman's Exponent and the local press 
 of his native state. In 1887-8 he traveled as 
 a professional phreuoloj-'ist. Heisnowjus- 
 
 ALVA AMASA TANNER. 
 
 tic e of the peace, and hiis held numerous 
 public positions of trust and lionor. Mr. 
 Tanner was married in 1871, and engaged in 
 farming at Oakley, Idaho, in 1883. 
 
 TELL ME NOT. 
 Tell me not, O, do not tell me 
 
 All is blank beyond the grave, 
 That in endless, dreamless slumber 
 
 Sleep the good and true and brave; 
 That our friends from earth departed, 
 
 And tliese loved ones clierished so 
 Are as if tliey never had been 
 
 When they leave us here below. 
 Tell me not, O do not tell me 
 
 That in God 'tis vain to trust — 
 Vain to hope for life eternal 
 
 When our bodies turn to dust. 
 Can He not, the Great Creator, 
 
 Give us life forever there? 
 If not, why not? who can tell us 
 
 Who has made us wliat we are? 
 
 TRUTH, CHARITY AND LOVE. 
 Shall I, vuiknown to man abroad. 
 And known but slight the village round. 
 
 Profess to teach the Word of God, 
 Or spread abroad the gospel sound? 
 
 Not so, and yet 1 will explain 
 What others know as well as I, 
 
 And tliey as will may teach the same. 
 Or Ijetter if the3- only try. 
 
 And now the task is here begun. 
 
 If this the gospel I explain 
 Shall prove a benefit to one. 
 
 My efforts are net wholly vain. 
 
 Truth, Charity and Love I sing — 
 These three of such essential worth. 
 
 Which can to us such blcssinjrs bring. 
 The grandest motio is on earth. 
 
 Of these all goodly men approve. 
 And they who do not, do not see 
 
 The proper way wherein to move. 
 To bless that tliey may blessed be. 
 
 Except WG live for othei-s' good. 
 To bless and lighten others' pain. 
 
 We do not live the life we should. 
 And life with us is spent in vain. 
 
 To live but for one's self alone 
 Ne'er can bect)me the good and true; 
 
 And we are men with hearts of stone 
 Who think aright and will not do. 
 
 We should be kind to all we meet. 
 
 No matter who or where or when. 
 In conversation be discreet. 
 
 And prove our worth to other men. 
 
 Small favors we at times may do 
 Oft makes an enemy a friend. 
 
 Do good, and wo will find it true, 
 We fare tlie better in the end. 
 
 Christ taught us liOve and Charity 
 And Truth, and in them did excell; 
 
 As all by reading well may see. 
 He did His task exceetiing well. 
 
 So let us His example take. 
 
 And bear unceasingly in mind 
 Tliat Christ has labored for our s.ake, 
 
 And for the sake of all mankind. 
 Should any doubt or disbelieve 
 
 That Christ for our reth-mption came. 
 The poor must charity receive, 
 
 Tlie sick attended to tlie same. 
 And sliould the doubter fail in this. 
 
 However much lie may complain, 
 'Tis he liimself has gone amiss. 
 
 And all his clammering is vain. 
 And tlio' a christian loudly pray. 
 
 Or if he bend in secret prayer. 
 His Gml hears not what he may say 
 
 Unless good works have been his share. 
 
*- 
 
 1170 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THOMAS OBA CHISHOLM. 
 
 Born: Simpson Co , Ky., July 29, 1866. 
 After teachiug for six years, Mr. Chisholm 
 entered jourualism in 1888 as associate-editor 
 of Franklin Favorite published at Franklin, 
 Ky. He then published the Adierville 
 Times, and later founded the Franklin Week- 
 
 *- 
 
 THOMAS OBA CHISHOLM. 
 
 ly Times, but is at present again with the 
 Favorite. Mr. Chisholm was elected poet of 
 the Kentucky Press Association, and in 1890 
 read a well-received poem before that body. 
 His poems have appeared in the Louisville 
 Courier-Journal and other iniblications. 
 
 MY BEAU IDEAL. 
 Her brow, perhaps, may not be fair 
 As alabaster, nor her hair 
 A wealth of golden curls; her eyes 
 
 May be — I care not— black or blue. 
 If in them I see no disguise. 
 
 And just a pure soul looking tlirough. 
 She may not have a perfect face 
 DivMne in feature, color, grace, — 
 A model in an artist's sight — 
 
 Yet it is beautiful to me. 
 If it but wears the lovely light 
 
 Of virtue and of purity. 
 Her voice may not be soft and low 
 As airs of spring that gently blow, 
 Nor yet so sweet as songs of birds. 
 
 Nor musical as silver bells ; 
 
 Yet if she speaks the burning words 
 
 Of truth, this all the rest excels. 
 Her language may not be so chaste 
 And polished as to please the taste 
 Of a linguistic connoisseur. 
 
 Yet if her thoughts are each a gem, 
 I can quite easily endure 
 
 Her errors in expressing them. 
 She may not covet rich display. 
 Nor be so very blithe and gay. 
 Nor dress with such testhetie taste 
 
 As some may do, but still if she 
 Has manners simple, mild and chaste, 
 
 I'm sure she's good enough for me. 
 Her head may not be overwise 
 With knowlrdge of the sciences, 
 ?he may not know of protoplasm. 
 
 Nor what a trilobite may be. 
 Nor understand agnosticism,— 
 
 This model gir], this girl for me. 
 
 She may not touch the ivory keys 
 With rare precision, grace and ease 
 Untwisting all the chords that tie 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony.— 
 On other charms does slie rely,- 
 
 This model girl, this girl for me. 
 
 She may not know the latest ..craze," 
 Nor be well versed in fashion's ways; 
 Her teeth may not be rows of pearl 
 
 Nor she so fair as sea-nymphs be, 
 Yet if she is a modest girl 
 
 I'm sure she's good enough for me. 
 
 No simpering, no silliness. 
 No ..too-too literariness," 
 No nausea-breeding languid air. 
 
 No masculine effrontery 
 Belong to her whom I declare 
 
 To be the very girl for me. 
 
 If she is free from all deceit. 
 In bearing gracious yet discreet. 
 If she displays no cold hauteur, 
 
 Exliibits no coquettishness. 
 She wins my praise, tliough rich or poor, 
 
 Maud Muller or a marchioness. 
 
 If she can fully comprehend 
 Life's fateful meaning and its end, 
 If she has noble purposes 
 
 And heart tliat's largo and womanly,— 
 I care not what her station is ; — 
 
 I'm sure she's good enough for de. 
 
 If she is patient, loving, kind. 
 Confiding, gentle and refined. 
 If she possess rare sense, I care 
 
 Not what lier other cliarnis m;iy be. 
 No virtues can withtlieso coniiiare. 
 
 And she's the very girl for me. 
 
s.^- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AJMKKICA. 
 
 171 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARY E. TILLOTSON. 
 
 Bokn: Central New York, 1816. 
 
 I.v HER youth tliis lady taught school; stud- 
 iofl medicitio; and later advocated liygiene 
 l)y voice and pen. Slio was also devoted to 
 ^i':ence, literature ;iiid universal reform. In 
 1S43 she bepraii writing for the press both 
 
 MRS. MARY ELLA TILLOTSON. 
 
 prose and verse, contributing' over two hun- 
 dred poems, and a poetic volume of two 
 hundred pages entitled Love and Transition. 
 She is also tlie author of Progress vs. Fashion, 
 and Woman's Way Out. In 1850 she was 
 married to C. B. Tillotson, a distant relative 
 of the same name as her own. She has one 
 son, Ray, who was born in 18.5.3. Mrs. Tillot- 
 son now resides in Vineland, N. J., and is a 
 lady of frank, cheerful nature, and besides 
 her high literary ability she is an accom- 
 plished expert at needlework ornamentation 
 and kindred arts. 
 
 *■ 
 
 UNWRITTEN POETRY. 
 Prized, pressing Thoughts that move the 
 lieart. 
 And seek translating sound; 
 That throng their bounds, but ne'er impart 
 
 To asking minds around 
 The glow and charm of breathings warm 
 
 From inborn melody. 
 Are pathos lacking rhythmic form, 
 Are purest poesy. 
 
 Let tlii'ni 1)ut speak enough to show 
 
 What mines lie buried there; 
 Let eyes reJlect the jewel glow 
 
 Their gem-flrcs ever wear; 
 Let P"ervor's coy reserve control 
 
 The curled, the voiceless lips. 
 And I'll believe a loving soul 
 
 Inspiring nectar sips. 
 
 What poet e'er had power to tell 
 
 A lithe the thoughts conceived. 
 Or felt not in him yearnings swell 
 
 Expression ne'er relieved? 
 He who most passion, power, and pride 
 
 Threw on liis thrilling lute. 
 Declared lie lived and sung and died 
 
 With thoughts all sheathed and mute. 
 
 What tho' the fickle world ne'er know 
 
 Great thoughts are le!it us here? 
 The Spirit owns a latent tlow. 
 
 And clasps a Ijoon so dear. 
 A few will sense the hidden depth. 
 
 Respond the silent call. 
 Fan the i)ure fiames with kindred breath. 
 
 And bless, as yet must all. 
 
 Full many a one has lived and lives 
 
 Sublimely, yet unknown, 
 Wliose merely outer voicing gives 
 
 No high-born feelings tone; 
 Who lists with joy intense the strains 
 
 Of eloquence and song; 
 Yet whose pent words the tongue retains 
 
 Where they would flow along. 
 
 And I liave felt that if the thouplits 
 
 My brain and prompting breast 
 Send out for truths with goodness fraught. 
 
 And find seraphic rest. 
 Had voices for the precious sweets 
 
 They gather in the flight. 
 They'd say their nn\nsion glows and beatis — 
 
 A |K)et's shrine of light. 
 
 The world may wink at all we say, 
 
 And scowl at all we sing. 
 May ne'er appreciate a lay 
 
 From soul-harps' lithcsi string: 
 But teach it this, the feeblest streams 
 
 And flames soul-depths contain 
 Alone find vent in uttert>d themes. 
 
 While floods and flros remain. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1172 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 Resign me. Soul, where'er may run 
 Tbe pathway I may journey on; 
 And tho' it wind 'mong- thorn and hedge. 
 And asps beset from yawning ledge. 
 Let me rely on goodness still. 
 And cull its gems where gathers ill. 
 
 If true beneficence shall lead 
 Where worldly fortunes crown my head; 
 Where Pleasure's walks my feet invite, 
 And peaceful friends my days delight, 
 A spirit firm and meek insure. 
 Against Pride's retinues secure. 
 
 If hovering Health, with florid wing. 
 Upon my cheek her rubies fling; 
 Or if Disease, in callow flight, 
 With piercing talons on me light; 
 Let me be grateful for the first. 
 Or, well resisting, bear the worst. 
 
 TO A LIBERAL JOURNAL. 
 
 Speed, speed on thy mission, mild herald of 
 gladness; 
 The tidings of mercy and justice proclaim : 
 Shed light, love and peace on the children of 
 sadness. 
 And kindle in darkness free thought's liv- 
 ing flame. 
 
 Go scatter the gloom superstition entaileth 
 On vassals who fain would in freedom re- 
 joice; 
 Where rancor and proud persecution pre- 
 vaileth 
 Lift boldly, yet kindly, a powerful voice. 
 
 Go travel where ignorance deeply hath 
 shrouded 
 That mightiest marvel of nature, the mind; 
 Illumine lone spirits long crushed and be- 
 clouded; 
 Be strength to the falt'ring and sight to 
 the blind. 
 
 Descend the dim vale, climb the cliff-tra- 
 versed mountain, 
 Wherever a sorrowing soul may abide; 
 And point the deceived and debased to the 
 fountain 
 Of truth, where redemption to deeds is 
 allied. 
 Search out every nook that hath aught to 
 make tearful. 
 And soothe by the hope of a peace-hallowed 
 day. 
 When naught shall remain to molest or make 
 fearful; 
 Haste, haste on thy mission; speed, speed 
 on thy way. 
 
 GIVE ME BUT TRUTH. 
 
 Truth — let the false world frown, or what it 
 will; 
 Let friends who fawned in other times for- 
 sake; 
 And kindred e'en, forgetful to fulfill 
 Tlie duties which their natal unions make, 
 Turn cold away in silence, or betake 
 To censure which no mingling has of ruth; 
 
 And, if it must be so, affection shake. 
 The choicest treasure lent to age or youth; 
 But alway grant this meed, my own heart's 
 
 perfect truth. 
 With this I'll float upon the waves of time. 
 
 And feel my lone existence yethascharms; 
 Altho' dread falsehood, ignorance and crime 
 The dear ones sever from my eager arms 
 Whom I'd have shielded with my life from 
 harms. 
 Tho' throngs around me in false modes unite. 
 And, blind to fate, have but for me alarms; 
 To learn and live the truth be my delight, 
 Tho' every vile voice hiss, and every vain 
 
 hand smite. 
 And if my words shall fall as a form in sand. 
 And my love flow as winds that ne'er return, 
 If no congenial renderings reach my hand. 
 No faithful heart respond when mine shall 
 
 yearn ; 
 Still, sordid policy and place I'll spurn, 
 And social wrong, and world-deflled renown:'. 
 Serenely then life's less'ning lamp mayi 
 burn — 
 Calmly I'll lay a well-used body down, 
 And know I wear from earth Truth's ever- 
 lasting crown. 
 The'multitude a little longer j'et [blest — 
 Must grope in twilight, faltering and un- 
 Pursue the pageants, fashion, pride, and get 
 Their certain thorn-wreaths knit into the 
 breast; [rest. 
 
 But, sure as love is sweet, and heaven is 
 The time must come when their fell ways 
 shall cease; 
 When Folly's struggling votaries oppressed 
 With meet confusion shall in shame release 
 Their scorn of honest lives, and plead for 
 
 truth and peace. 
 Oh, what a paradise will earth become 
 
 When all her children good alone pursuel 
 All vagrants will find virtue, health and 
 homo— [nres true- 
 
 All homos contentment, thrift and pleas- 
 All tyranny and rule their levels due; 
 Slaveries .shall ond.rcft spirits 1)0 made whole, 
 Pervading kindness rush all liosoms thro"; 
 Bliss, Love's full edict, o'er the nations roll. 
 And Truth's all-glorious sway enrapturt 
 every soul. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONTAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1173 
 
 GEORGIE LEE BRUCE. 
 
 Boun: Mahsiiall, Texas, June, 1868. 
 
 The poems of Miss Bruce have appeared in 
 the press of California and Texas, in whicli 
 
 GEORGIE LEE BRUCE. 
 
 latter state slie still resides in her native 
 town. Her poems have generally appeared 
 under the nome de plume of Edith Dexter. 
 
 REGRET. 
 
 A lonely, dreary sense of sadness — 
 A memory of longr-passed Kladticss. 
 That haunts the lieart and weary brain. 
 And calls to life forgotten pain. 
 
 A feeling that the heart knows well. 
 And only sorrow to the soul can tell; 
 Memories that it were better to forget 
 That is w^hat wc call regret. 
 
 O'er our life its shadows cast. 
 And will remain while life shall last; 
 From the past it brings us withered flowers 
 That recall to memory happier hours. 
 
 It robs our joys of their light and beauty. 
 And brings to mind forgotten duty; 
 It bids the shadows of each hoi)e depart. 
 To leave all desolate and lone the heart. 
 
 Till youth is gone and hope is dead, 
 And every joy trom life Inis lied. 
 Slowly the years pass, one by one, 
 But regret remains till lif(! is done. 
 
 THE HOSE. 
 In Eastern lands for beauty famed 
 
 The sweetest roses grow — 
 That shed a Uagrant perfume 
 
 Where Oriental breezes blow. 
 
 Tradition claims all flowers were white 
 
 Till Cupid danced and slied 
 A cup of nectar o'er the rose. 
 
 When it blushed a brilliant red. 
 
 The Scottish jioet o"er the seas 
 
 Sang of his love so true. 
 And his bouuie lass did likea 
 
 To a rose of ruby hue. 
 
 The feast of roses, time of mirth. 
 
 Was held in gardens rare. 
 Where the Queen of Flowers reigned royally 
 
 The stately rose so fair. 
 
 Apollo caused a lovely queen, 
 
 Wlio ruled o'er Corinth's laud, 
 For her beauty to become a rose 
 
 And among the flowers to stand. 
 
 While Egypt's queen in other lands 
 
 Trod on floors of roses fair. 
 And wore the sweetest ])l(wsoms 
 
 In her lovely raven hair. 
 
 Oriana, from her gloomy tower 
 
 Far up, all else above, 
 Threw her lover a dew-washed rose, 
 
 That told of her grief and love. 
 
 Roses were England's b:idgc of war — 
 
 The crimson and the white; 
 But those colors now are blended. 
 
 After weary years of strife. 
 
 In sculptured roses, on festive days, 
 Athenian lialls were all arrayed. 
 
 So that stories told by no))les there 
 Would never be betrayed. 
 
 The Eastern legends tell us 
 
 That the rose, so dewy bright. 
 Is wedded to the nightingale. 
 
 The sweet song-bird of night. 
 
 Fair roses! earth seems gladdened 
 
 By this work of nature's hand. 
 And poets sing their praises 
 
 Thrt)ughout every age and land. 
 
*- 
 
 1174 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HARL W. HATHAWAY. 
 
 Born: Norwalk, O., Oct. 24, 1866. 
 Mr. Hathaway is one of the managing edi- 
 tors of the Nassau Literary Magazine of 
 Princeton College, and he has written many 
 
 HARL WALLACE HATHAWAY. 
 
 poems of more tliau ordinarj' merit. He is 
 a teacher by profession and is now a resident 
 of Jersey City, N. J. 
 
 FOLLY. 
 Deep in the greenwood forest 
 
 Where mosses clotlie the trees, 
 Down where a streamlet murmura 
 
 Unmindful of the seas. 
 A fairy sprite was dancing 
 
 Upon the bubbles bright; 
 When on a honeysuckle 
 
 He blew with all his might. 
 And troops of fairies gathered 
 
 In answer to his call; 
 And after eager list'niug, 
 
 They scattered, one and all. 
 But soon retui-ned, and stamens 
 
 And flower stems each bore, 
 And built upon the bubbles 
 
 A bridge from shore to shore. 
 They gilded it with pollen. 
 
 And spread upon the frames 
 The pet Ills of the violet 
 
 And wild flowers without names. 
 
 But as with pride they viewed it. 
 The bubbles burst ! And then — 
 
 The bridge swept down the streamlet, 
 And passed from sight and ken. 
 
 TO HOMER. 
 
 Thou Universal Guest! thou art the same. 
 
 Both yesterday, to-day and for all time. 
 Great Zeus made thee immortal — verse and 
 name. 
 
 But granted unto thee, thou bard sublime, 
 That thou shouldst evermore with us abide. 
 That Homer lives no more is falsely said. 
 
 How strange 'twould seem to waken on a 
 
 morn [er's dead. 
 
 And hear the passers in the street say, "Hom- 
 
 That Master bard, the greatest poet born!" 
 Thou dost attend on each succeeding year. 
 Thy tales are friezes on the walls of time. 
 
 Before which ages gather and admire; 
 Their coloring ne'er dims with age or clime. 
 
 But seems to have been set with heav'nly 
 fire. 
 And jet 1 hey say t hat t hou wast wholly blind. 
 
 VESPER. 
 How dear to me the sunset hour, 
 
 'Tis then the Master Painter plies 
 
 His unseen brushes on the skies; 
 Reveals His wealth of power. 
 Of other days come memories 
 
 When life was brilliant as the West. 
 
 By them my soul is lulled to rest 
 As though by well-loved melodies. 
 
 THE ANGELUS. 
 The sombre hour draws on 
 
 That paints the twilight hues; 
 The summer sun has gone. 
 
 And fall the voiceless dews. 
 The distant trees and spires 
 
 Are tipped with crimson light — 
 The kiss the sun requires 
 
 At parting for the night. 
 Soft on the quiet air. 
 
 From distant, darken'd tower, 
 The vesper bell for prayer 
 
 Rings out with mystic power. 
 And list'ning in the field 
 
 The toilers cease and raise 
 To Him, the unrcvcalcd. 
 
 The whisper of their praise. 
 Well ended is the day. 
 
 At liallowod evening time. 
 To bow our lieads and pray 
 
 When peals the distant chime. 
 And wlien life's evenings end, 
 
 And we have labored well. 
 Our praise will still ascend 
 
 At our last vesper bell. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKIIICA. 
 
 1175 
 
 -* 
 
 REV. LUKE WOODARD. 
 
 Born: Near Richmond, Isd., Mau. 12, 1833. 
 At tlie age of thirty the subject of this 
 sketch became a minister of the gospel, and 
 he lias since traveled extensively iu many of 
 the states as an evangelist. He h;i8 served 
 as pastor in Toronto. r;in:id;i; Glen's Kails, 
 
 BBV. mKE WOODARD. 
 
 N. Y., and in Oskaloosa, Iowa. Rev. Luke 
 Woodard is the author of two volumes of 
 prose of nearly four hundred pages each, 
 entitled The Morning Star and Gathered 
 Fragments. He has also published two vol- 
 umes of poetry, one entitled In Memoriam, 
 and the other Childhood Days. Mr. Wood- 
 ard was married in 18,'»3 to Miss Elvira 
 Townsend. and has a son and two daughters 
 now grown to maturity. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE SNOW STORM. 
 
 FIRST DAY. 
 
 The morning sun ro.se dull and red 
 Presaging that a storm was nigh; 
 
 Anon the dark mists overliead 
 Fulfill the morning's prophecy. 
 
 With wrapt delight I watch the clouds 
 Shake from their folds the feathery flake?. 
 
 While the cold earth herself enshrouds 
 With sheet the mystic weaver makes. 
 
 We cannot see the hand that piles 
 The shuttle with which Winter weaves 
 
 A wiuding sheet, when Autumn dies. 
 And drojjs to earth her faded leaves. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The morning sun rose dull and red. 
 The evening sun set clear and bright; 
 
 The storm had p:issed, and overhead 
 The stars kept vigil through the night. 
 
 The north wind sported with the snow 
 And piled it o'er my window sill, 
 
 And tossed it wildly to and fro, 
 Then ceased, and the cold air was still. 
 
 SECOND MORNING. 
 
 The earth Is robed in stainless white 
 Alxive the cloudless azure bends; 
 
 The sun comes forth with dazzling light. 
 Slowly the river's mist ascends. 
 
 And on my window panes are traced 
 Fantastic scenes, like fairy land. 
 
 Drawn with such matchless skill and taste 
 As 'twere the work of fairy hand. 
 
 The forest standing on the hill 
 With sparkling diamonds is arrayed. 
 
 And that huge wlieel in yonder mill 
 Seems as of solid crystal made. 
 
 Naught breaks the stillness of the hour 
 Save ns the snow chimes 'neatli the wheels 
 
 Of passing coacli, or from the tower 
 The bell rings out its matin peals. 
 
 Aye, thou hast beauties all thine own, 
 O, Winter I and we welcome thee; 
 
 Tho' flowers are dead and birds are flown, 
 Thy frostwork has its charms for me. 
 
 HUDSON RIVER. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Rhine of America! Thou hast thy .source 
 
 Among the i>ine-clad Adirondack hills; 
 Thence onwaid flows thy ever-widening 
 course. 
 Fed bj* a thousand sparkling springs and 
 rills. 
 
 Through sheltered glens, ravines and o'er 
 cascades. 
 There calm, here dashing with impetuous 
 haste, 
 Round mountains gliding, then through ver- 
 dant glades. 
 Thy waters sweep till lost In ix?eans <vaste. 
 
 Who knows thj- history? Ere tho foot of 
 man 
 
 Had ever trod this western hemisphere. 
 In solitude and unseen grandeur ran, 
 
 Agi^ after nge, thy mighty current here. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM HIBBERT WARE. 
 
 Born : England, Dec. 24, 1863. 
 Mr. Ware's graiiclfather was the late Dr. 
 Samuel Hibbert, M. D., P. R. S.. who was the 
 oldest representative in a straight line of Sir 
 James Ware, the Irish historian, and as- 
 sumed the name of Ware by Roj'al License 
 
 * 
 
 WILLIAM HIBBERT M'ARE. 
 
 of Ulster King- at arms, and is the author of 
 Hibbert Ware Annals in the British Museum. 
 The subject of tiiis sketch was left an orphan 
 when an infant, and he was placed under 
 the charge of his uncle. Sir Robert Stuart, 
 late Chief Justice of N. W. India. Mr. Ware 
 has only recently come to this country, but 
 is thoroughly imbued with the freedom and 
 fairness which characterize its institutions. 
 To America, to a great extent, must be en- 
 seribed the c;iuseof the inspiration which 
 tlie muse has imparted to him. Mr. William 
 Hibbert Ware resides in Trenton, N. J., where 
 he is engaged as an accountant. His pooms 
 ha.ve appeared extensively in the eastern 
 press. 
 
 SOME BETTER PART OF NATURE. 
 
 Those dormant sensibilities tliat lie 
 
 Deepdowii.wlMiintlielieart's pathetic well, 
 Watered with tears and pruned by little 
 pangs, 
 
 Some day will lolossom and with goodness 
 swell. 
 
 'Neath blackest heart, choked by depravity, 
 There lies the tenderest chord, susceptible. 
 
 Which, if but reached and gently exercised. 
 Will ope the floodgates of the heart's deep 
 well. 
 
 I care not if the heart be e'er so hard; 
 
 Tlie soul be e'er so far depraved or bad, 
 There lies some quantity of sense that's good ; 
 
 Some tender spot that's full of pathos sad. 
 
 Of every tear that flows adown the cheek; 
 
 Of every pang that rends the human heart. 
 There comes an after, melting influeiice 
 
 That ushers into life some better part. 
 
 SPRING'S CHEERING LESSON. 
 
 The earth is young and fair — and old winter, 
 Silvery with hoary locks has departed. 
 Yielding up his tenemeni to blushing youth. 
 Taking, in his flght his 'Jnantle, 
 Wherewith he warmly clad the mountains 
 
 high 
 And valleys sweet — protecting them froui 
 
 chill 
 Of nipping frost. 
 
 The glorious sun gives strength 
 To all the bursting buds of Nature's field. 
 The canop3' is one blue arch o'erhead. 
 And mankind treads upon a carpet soft. 
 In verdant richness grown, and jewelled o'er 
 With daises sweet and golden buttercups. 
 The hum and murmur of the insects gay, 
 With variegated colors richly decked; 
 The perfume of the mignonette and rose. 
 Of violet and sweet-smelling briar wild. 
 In all these we read the advent of spring! 
 And in the early morn of this bright time. 
 The lark, that oft doth build her lowly nost 
 Upon the ground, soars grandly liigh on 
 
 wing. 
 And chants lier grateful carol in the sky. 
 It is a time when timid roe and hart 
 Flee nimbly acro.ss the greensward common. 
 Drinking in Nature's airy i>erfuine sweet. 
 This is a season much beloved by young — 
 Fair Cupid's hour— when lovers woo, and 
 
 plight 
 Their troth, in some sequestered, floral nook. 
 This is the time of year the wisest men. 
 Of every age and clime, have ever loved. 
 A season when old and young, rich and poor- 
 All mankind -.should learn the wholesome 
 
 lesson 
 Spring teaches, by its wonted liarmony; 
 A mighty trutli that's grandly sweet, there 
 
 is no death. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAI, POETS OF AMEItlCA. 
 
 1177 
 
 JOHN VANCR CHENEY. 
 
 Born: Dec. 29, 1848. 
 After teaching' for awliile, Mr. Cheney en- 
 tered a law ofHce, and was admitted to the 
 bar a few j-cars later. lU-liealtli compelled 
 Mr. Clieney to visit the Paeiflc coast, where 
 he now rebidcb at Sau Francisco. He lias 
 
 JOHN VANCE CHENEY. 
 
 published three volumes — the Old Doctor, 
 Thistle Drift and Wood Blooms — the flrst a 
 prose work, and the latter two volumes in 
 verse. He was married in 1876 to Miss Per- 
 kins, a handsome and brilliant lady who had 
 just returned from a sojourn of six years in 
 Europe — a graduate of the Royal Conserva- 
 tory of Stuttgart. Mr. Cheney is an indus- 
 trious man and is librarian in the Free Li- 
 brary of his adopted city. 
 
 MY CHOICE. 
 
 I'd rather be 
 
 'Neath a greenwood tree. 
 
 With a song and a handful of daisies. 
 
 Than the darling of victory 
 
 In the blaze of the wide world's praises. 
 
 I'd rather ride 
 
 On the wings inside. 
 
 Which waft where the world may not after. 
 
 Than fold fair Fame as a bride 
 
 To feed on her sighs and her laughter. 
 
 FANCY'S FLOCK. 
 Fancy's flock in dreamy close. 
 Soft tliey rise wlien darkness goes; 
 Tasting sweets of sun and shade, 
 Down the meadow, up the glade, 
 Here the field and there tlie grove, 
 Now they rest and now they rove. 
 Up and down all happy ways 
 Fancy's flock at pleasure strays. 
 Dp and down and far and wide. 
 Pretty slieidierds at their side. 
 Some before and some behind. 
 Lest they meet the chilly wind — 
 Hark! the little silver bell! 
 Pretty shepherds tend them well. 
 
 A DAY DREAM. 
 'Twas not 'neath spectral moon, 
 But in the day's high noon. 
 That, pillowed on the grass, 
 
 I saw a vision pass. 
 
 Strange quiet folded 'round. 
 Strange silence, close — profound; 
 Sweet peace, sweet peace, and deep. 
 Bade every trouble sleep. 
 
 "O spirit! stay with me. 
 
 Lying all quietly; 
 
 If this is death," 1 said, 
 
 II Be my lot with the de.id." 
 
 MY CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 Or in the esist or in the west. 
 Where shall I build my bird a nest; 
 Nortliward or southwaril — whither roam 
 To build my little love a home? 
 
 Up yonder, in the clean, sweet air, 
 I think that 1 could keep her, there: 
 Too much aa angel for the ground. 
 For Heaven somewhat too — warm and 
 round. 
 
 DEATH OF AUTUMN. 
 They have led her away. 
 Up tlie stairs of day; 
 Stej) b.\ LUt'p in the mellow light. 
 Hare led her away 
 To the turret gray 
 Where morning meets the night. 
 
1178 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JAMES C.Hx\RVEY. 
 
 Born: Danbuky, Conn. 
 Mr. Harvey received his education in Mid- 
 dlebury College. He now resides iu New 
 York City, engaged in literary worii. In 
 1889 this author and poet published Lines 
 
 and Rhymes, a magnificent little volume of 
 some of his finest poems, many of them 
 especially suitable for public recitation and 
 reading. The poems of Mr. Harvey number 
 over three hundred, and have appeared 
 from time to time in the leading periodicals. 
 
 But it waits for us in a Land of Rest, 
 And a perfect thing we shall never behold 
 Till we pass the portals of shining gold. 
 
 WHY. 
 Wliy do I love thee? Ask the flower 
 
 riiat nods by the woodland stream 
 \\liy it loves the light of the morning sun 
 
 And kisses each golden beam; 
 Ask of the blushing clover bloom. 
 
 In the light of the dawning day, 
 Why it presses the dew-drop close to it' 
 breast 
 
 And droops when it steals away. 
 
 Ask why the moonbeams kiss the sea. 
 
 Why the lily loves the rain, 
 Why the morning glory bares its breast 
 
 When the sunshine comes again. 
 Ask why the song bird loves its mate, 
 
 why tlie daises love the lea; 
 •\nd learn from them, they'll tell thee true, 
 
 Why thou art dear to me. 
 
 IMPERFECTUS. 
 T wonder if ever a song was sung 
 
 But tlie singer's heart sang sweeter I 
 I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung 
 
 But the thought surpassed the meter! 
 I wonder if ever the sculptor wrought 
 Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thoughtl 
 Or if ever a painter, with light and shade. 
 The dream of his inmost heart portrayed! 
 
 I wonder if ever a rose was found 
 And there might not be a fairer! 
 
 Or if ever a glittering gem was ground 
 And we dreamed not of a rarer! 
 
 Ah ! never on earth do we find the best. 
 
 IN NO-MAN'S LAND. 
 Two shaiies were walking on the strand 
 One starlight night in no-man's land — 
 
 Two shapes that, during mortal life. 
 Gave hate for hate in deadly strife. 
 
 They met. Swift forth their falchions flewt 
 Each pierced the other through and through 
 
 Yet neither fell. Again they strove 
 For mastery, and madly drove 
 
 To right and left their falchions bright: 
 Nor sound nor cry profaned the night. 
 
 Tlirough corselet, casque and visor, too. 
 As through the air their swift blades flew 
 
 Until, amazed, they stood aghast. 
 And on the sands their weapons cast. 
 
 Then laughed they both at mortal strife, 
 The passing dream of earthly life. 
 
 And clasping each the other's hand. 
 They walk the shades of no-man's laud. 
 
 THE RING. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 A band of burnished gold 
 
 My fingers gently hold. 
 And through the magic circle of its rim 
 
 Before my dreaming eyes 
 
 A thousand memories rise 
 And fill my soul with longing, vague 
 dim. 
 
 .*- 
 
» 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAI- AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUIfA. 
 
 117!» 
 
 JOHN B. VAUGHAN. 
 
 Bohn; Near Bowman, Ga., June 16, 1800. 
 In coiiuection with the assistance oT caring: 
 for a blind fatlicr, Mr. Vaughan made tlie 
 study of music and poetry a specialty from 
 boyhood, and though laboring under disad- 
 vantages, has written many of the most 
 
 JOHN B. VAUGHAN. 
 
 popular hymns and tunes now sung in the 
 south. He is author and publisher of sev- 
 eral widely known and highly esteemed Sun- 
 day school and revival song books. He is 
 also editor of a popular musical journal, 
 the Music Leader, published at Atlanta, Ga. 
 
 " EXQUISITE SWEETNESS." 
 "Exquisite sweetness," what art thou 
 
 Oh, can thy meaning be defined. 
 Dost thou e'er visit earth below. 
 
 Art thou in other spheres confined? 
 I know thy name, I know it well. 
 
 Yet can thy meaning ne'er express. 
 In breast of mortal dost thou dwell 
 
 To banish sorrow, soothe distress? 
 Tliou art a virtue sent to earth. 
 
 For lack of thee we'd weep and mourn 
 Her sunny smile first gave thee birth. 
 
 In ecstasy so sweetly borne. 
 ••E.xquisite sweetness," blissful thought, 
 
 I know thee now, I prize tliee well; 
 Nothing but pleasure hast thou brought. 
 
 Yet what art thou, I cannot tell. 
 
 • • E.X(iuisitc sweet iies-^," ever near. 
 
 Since first 1 knew thee. Jewel rare 
 Thy message sweet I love to lii'ar; 
 
 It drives away all pain and care. 
 " Exquisite sweetness," leave me not, 
 
 Bereft of thee, how sad and lone; 
 The world would be a dreary spot 
 
 If from my presence thou werttorn. 
 
 • •Exquisite sweetness," blessed charm. 
 
 Bright sunbeam in this checkered life. 
 Thou knowest nauglitof shame or harm. 
 Thou knowest naught of sin or strife. 
 
 • •Exquisite sweetness," guiding star. 
 
 Making my gloomy pathway bright. 
 Oh never stray from me afar. 
 For thou dost guide my life aright. 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 To-night I sit alone 
 
 Beneath Toccoa's hills, 
 I think of days now gone. 
 
 Their sorrows, sweets and Ills. 
 My mind I often turn 
 
 To childhood's happy hours. 
 Misfortune ne'er can burn 
 
 Hope's sweetest, fairest Bowers. 
 Many a change has come 
 
 Since that bright, happy day; 
 Some loved ones are at home. 
 
 Others have gone away. 
 Dear father's dead and gone. 
 
 His jilace knows him no more; 
 He's resting safe at home. 
 
 He's on the other shore. 
 His life was full of pain. 
 
 Adversity and woe. 
 His conduct without stain. 
 
 He sought his God to know. 
 My mother dear yet lives. 
 
 The thought of her how sweet; 
 No richer btxin God gives 
 
 Than mother dear to greet. 
 Oh ! some have gone away 
 
 To towns or peasant homes. 
 While I alone do stniy. 
 
 The only one who roams. 
 I've traveled in the west. 
 
 Oft back anil forth I go, 
 To seek a j^laee of rest. 
 
 That I might roam no more. 
 To-night T sit alone. 
 
 While all is hushed and still, 
 F<irlorn, without a home. 
 
 Great tears my eyes do fill. 
 Alone Id rather be 
 
 Than in the halls of pride: 
 A visage now 1 .-^eo 
 Which doth my fiHitstops guide. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1180 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. MYRON EELLS.D.D. 
 
 Born: Walker's Prairie, Wash., Oct. 7, '43 
 This gentleman was ordained a minister in 
 1871 at Hartford, Conn., and tliree years later 
 was married to Miss Sarah M. Crosby, and 
 now lias five children. He has filled many 
 irn|iortant pastorates, and has ])ublislied 
 several prose works of acknowledged exccl- 
 
 BEV. MYRON EELLS, D. D. 
 
 lence. Since 1875 he has been a missionary 
 to the Indians in Washing-ton, under the 
 American Missionary Association. Rev. 
 Myron Eells is an associate member of the 
 Victoria Institute of Great Britain; Anthro- 
 pological Society of Washington, D. C. ; vice- 
 president of the Whitman Historical Society, 
 Walla Walla, Wash.; and has been trustee 
 of many prominent educational and reli- 
 gious institutions. Mr. Eells has a collection 
 of geological, Indian, Chinese, and other spec- 
 imens, about three thousand in number. 
 His poems principally are written for the 
 Indians in their jargon. 
 
 I LIVE HERE NOW. 
 I live hero now, 
 
 On the earth. 
 Not long shall I be gone 
 
 From the earth. 
 Where I shall go 
 For a long time I did not know; 
 Dark was my mind about 
 
 Tlio far-off land. 
 
 God lives far off 
 
 In Heaven. 
 
 He wishes me to go 
 
 To Heaven. 
 If I am good here, 
 And do nothing wrong, 
 He will wish me to go 
 
 To Heaven. 
 
 Good people live far off 
 
 In Heaven. 
 Bad people live below 
 
 In the great fire. 
 Only if I am good, 
 
 Throw away everything bad, 
 Truly this God 
 
 Will carry me there. 
 
 • — I ^ I — ♦ • 
 
 OBURN R. HOLLAND. 
 
 Born : Webster, Iowa, Sept. 30, 1863. 
 At the age of eighteen Mr. Holland entered 
 Norton Normal and Scientific School at Wil- 
 ton, Iowa, where he remained quite awhile 
 as student and teacher. Later he taught in 
 pubUc schools, and in the Business College 
 at Clinton, Iowa. His poems h.ave appeared 
 in the N. W. Christian Advocate and other 
 publications. Mr. Holland is at present a 
 commercial traveler for a large wholesale 
 house. 
 
 TRUST. 
 As home we plod at close of day 
 
 Through thick mists dark and drear, 
 When liomely comforts are not seen, 
 
 Altho' we k!iow them near; 
 When vision does not pierce beyond 
 
 The narrow path we tread. 
 We still press on, content that yet 
 
 We see one step ahead. 
 So we trust God. Full oft it seems 
 
 His ways are wrapt in gloom: 
 Full oft we see no way of 'scape 
 
 From some impending doom. 
 Yet we pass quietly, without fear. 
 Through ways He bids us tread. 
 Trusting that He will ever make 
 
 Clear the one step ahead. 
 
 AN AWAKENING. 
 On Easter eve a weary toiler sought 
 
 To drown in sleep the burdens of the day; 
 Night to his spirit blest oblivion brought, 
 
 Day's strife and turmoil all were swept 
 away. 
 His was a sordid life; earth's dreary strife 
 
 Had driven all tlie brightness from his 
 Day but another stretch of weary life,[way; 
 
 Night b>it (he waiting for another day. 
 
 ^- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1181 
 
 Sleeping, lie dreamed; man's paltry stir was 
 stilled, 
 A blessed silence hovered o'er the earth; 
 A restful pe;ice his troubled spirit filled, 
 Bnheard thesouiidsof pleasure's sensuous 
 mirth. 
 The risen Christ looked down upon our 
 world ; 
 Where'er he gazed beheld his mighty 
 power ! 
 The things of sense and passion all are 
 hurled 
 Back Into shadow in that fatal hour. 
 
 A sanctity earth never saw before, 
 A glory mortals ne'er before had blest, 
 
 A heavenward turning of all life, and o'er 
 All things the presence of the angel Rest. 
 
 He rose at morn, but on his wakened sight 
 There broke a glory wondrous strange 
 and new; 
 Wrapt in the halo of the dawning light 
 Earth lay before him, bathed iu glistening 
 dew. 
 
 Unto the toil which yester night he spurned 
 With weary hands and doubly wearied 
 heart. 
 
 His face, no more unwilling, now is turned; 
 With lifted eyes he welcomes now his part. 
 
 MRS. JULIA A. B. DAVIS. 
 
 Born : Pawtucket, R. T., April 19, 1837. 
 This lady wrote prose for the New York 
 Weekly for ten years. Her poems have re- 
 ceived insertion in Peterson's and others. 
 
 HEART BREATHINGS. 
 I love to sit at the evening hour 
 
 In a cove near the foaming sea. 
 And watch the storm king's mighty power — 
 
 Fit emblem of life for me. 
 I love to see the lightning's flash. 
 
 To hear the thunder's roar. 
 There is music in the deafening crash. 
 
 As I watch the raindrops pour. 
 I love to hear the moaning wind 
 
 Through the leafless treetops sigh; 
 In the sound my heart a requiem find 
 
 For hopes which buried lie. 
 But these are thoughts of my darker hours, 
 
 Born of my spirit's strife. 
 When my soul forgets the Heavenly powers 
 
 In the weary battle of life. 
 For 1 have moments of brighter hue, 
 
 A lull in this spirit storm. 
 When I seek the shade of the bending yew. 
 
 And a prayer in my heart is horn. 
 
 MARY KATK DAVIS. 
 
 Born: Feb. 13, 1868. 
 Mary Kate Davis is the daughter of Mrs. 
 Julia A. B. Davis, who is elsewhere represent- 
 ed in this work. Miss Davis has written 
 quite a few poems, which have received ex- 
 tensive publication in the periodical pre.ss. 
 She resides with her parents in Central Vil- 
 lage, Mass. 
 
 KITTYS CRADLE SONG. 
 Kitty was rocking the baby to sleep, [beat; 
 While hor voice kept time to the cradle's 
 This was the story I heard her repeat: 
 Sad is the fate of wandering feet. 
 A chicken did in the meadow play 
 One very pleasant autumn day; 
 His mother called, "Come, go to bed." 
 " I'll not go yet," the chicken said. 
 " I'll stay in the meadow to-night. 
 Chasing bugs in the bright moonlight." 
 Freedom was sweet, his lieart w;is light. 
 But he missed his mother's wing at night. 
 O! foolish chicken he was to stray 
 Far from his mother's nest away; 
 The ducks were safely housed and fed. 
 The chicken could not find his bed; 
 
 But peep! peep! oh, sad his p'ieht! 
 Poor chicken out in the cold all nij-ht — 
 Out where the stars were shining bright. 
 Dying alone iu the cold that night. 
 Seen by the light of breaking day. 
 Close by the wall the poor thing lay; 
 Under its shelter he had crept 
 To shun the winds which coldlj* swept. 
 They found him when the ducks were fed, 
 Poor little chicken, cold and dead. 
 •• Cold and dead," I heard her repeat. 
 This was the fate of Iiis w:indering feet. 
 So, out alone in the world so wide, [side. 
 
 Children have strayed from their mother's 
 Seeking for pleasure briplit and gay. 
 Far from the s:ife lionie nest away. 
 Vainly they wish for the tender fold [cold. 
 When the hours grow dark and tlie world is 
 • •The world is cold," we heard them repeat. 
 Bitterly cold for wandering feet. 
 Over them sweep the cold storms of life. 
 Vainly they shrink from its bitterest strife; 
 Sadly for them some mothers will pray 
 Father, keep watch o'er the footsteps that 
 
 stray, 
 Lead them at last in the Savior to find [blind. 
 Strength for the weak and sight for the 
 •• Sight for the blind," the echoes repeat. 
 Blind to the snares for wandering feet. 
 
9> 
 
 1182 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ISABELLA BARNES. 
 
 Born: Dexterville, Wis., March 18, 1867. 
 In 1887 this lady was married toOtlio Barnes, 
 and now resides in Teanaway, Wash. Mrs. 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^y& 
 
 ^^ "" 
 
 
 ,1 '-^m 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 i^^Hlk 
 
 
 /I 
 
 ^gg^g^^^ 
 
 R^^i'irii 
 
 MRS. ISABELI.A BARNES. 
 
 Barnes has written quite a few poems that 
 have appeared in tlie local press. 
 
 HOPELESS LOVE. 
 Can one liv'e on liope 
 Without any reahty. 
 Or must he be satisfied 
 And love immortality. 
 Then if such cannot be 
 Oh love fly from me. 
 And cast your g-lances 
 On some bride to be. 
 Forget all how can I, 
 To fret and regret I, 
 Oh for a clasp 
 Of your love warm hand. 
 Never more can we wander 
 Our stories to ponder. 
 And tell of the hearts 
 That have once happy been. 
 
 WRONGED BY LOVE. 
 How can I bear such grief. 
 Knowing not when 'twill end. 
 How can I be bereft of sister, brother and 
 friend? 
 
 Oh for tlie love that can never be. 
 
 All I can do is in silence grieve, 
 
 And if my heart should break 
 
 All I ask is lieaven's leave. 
 
 I often wonder and ask myself 
 
 If there ever was one so wronged as I, 
 
 And I even feel as if it would be 
 
 A blessing for me to die. 
 
 NVhat is there for me in the coming years, I 
 
 wonder. 
 More trouble and bereavement, 
 ( )r perchance another blunder? 
 I think I have made enough of them. 
 So I will be most sure. 
 The next I choose for my better half 
 Will be the one I adore. 
 
 DAVID GROSSER. 
 
 Born : Scotland, March 15, 1815. 
 The subject of this sketch came to America 
 ill 1855, and settled in Clay county, Indiana 
 ill 1869. He is a miner by occupation, but 
 like many of Scotland's noble sons, is a 
 natural poet, and has written several popu- 
 lar campaign songs. 
 
 MY DOG. 
 
 My dog he sprung from noble breed. 
 But now a green tree marks his lair: 
 
 He was a faithful friend indeed. 
 Though but a beast and clad in hair. 
 
 Where'er I went he wished to go. 
 Where'er I was he wished to be; 
 
 But now he lies as cold as snow 
 Beneath yon weeping willow tree. 
 
 No more he meets me at the door. 
 Or barks aloud to welcome me; 
 
 No, no, poor Heanen's troubles o'er. 
 He lies beneath yon willow tree. 
 
 Poor dog, he had no soul to save, 
 
 Nor had he one to condemn. 
 But all was over in the grave 
 
 With Mother Earth, from whence hecarut 
 
 But men and beasts are not at par: 
 Death takes us to some other sphere. 
 
 To stand at God's great judgment bar 
 To answer for our past career. 
 
 Soon and on great Nature goes. 
 First calls to live, rhen calls to die; 
 
 Men study hard, and then suppose. 
 But cannot tell the reason why. , 
 
 But this we can substantiate. 
 
 And no one takes it for a lie: 
 The man, the beast, both small and great. 
 
 When time is called they have to die. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1183 
 
 * 
 
 DAKIEL J.O'CONNKLL. 
 
 Born: Cincinnati. O., Dec. 12, 1859. 
 Leaving home at the age of twelve, Daniel 
 has battled the world alone since that time. 
 He taught school at the age of seventee n and 
 h;isbeen several t imps a candidate for import- 
 ,iil nll'n-.'-. M 1. ( I'l ciiiiiii hiis colli lil lilted ar- 
 
 D.\.MEL. J. u L' J.\.M-i.i-. 
 
 Iticles in prose and verse to many of the lead- 
 jing papers throughout the northwest, and 
 bas some reputation as a public speaker. Ho 
 lias conducted newspapers in Iowa and Min- 
 nesota, and is now the editor and publisher 
 if the Democrat at Owatonna, Minn. .where ho 
 Jves with his wife whom he married in 1885. 
 
 I THINK OF THEE! 
 I think of thee when morning gleams 
 And gilds the blue and welkin dome. 
 In thoughlo that fill my daily dreams 
 With jo3' and peace,with love aud home. 
 And in the bright resplendent noon, 
 The sighing zephyrs whisper sweet. 
 And tell my aching heart tliat soon 
 Shall come the joys I long to greet. 
 I think of thee when twilight fades 
 And evening dons the robe of night, — 
 When through the softly falling shades 
 Sweet Luna lends her lambent light. 
 'Tisthen, through Fancy's magic power. 
 
 1 build my future calm, serene; 
 And dwell in love's seijueslered bower 
 With thee, my own, my Ernestine. 
 But nil too soon my rapture dies, 
 And all too soon has hap'ncss Uuwn; 
 For sudderdy I ope mitie eyes, 
 Andean but sigh "Alone, Alone." 
 
 THE GliT. 
 The little gift which thou hast given 
 Is sweeter, dearer to my sight 
 Than gems that deck the brow of ev'n, 
 Aud shed their luster o'er the idght. 
 For oh, it sheds within my soul 
 The light of Friendship, Hope and Love, 
 And lights my footsteps to the goal 
 Where thou shalt bid me cease to roam. 
 It bids me ever tliink of thee. 
 As oft at eve, with pen in hand, 
 I revel in sweet reverie 
 Like one who dreams of fairy -land. 
 And o'er my dreams, as one divine. 
 The goddess of my heart reigns queen : — 
 Tis sweet to worship at her shrine. 
 Since 'tis none else than Ernestine. 
 One other gift I ask more sweet; 
 But oh, 'tis not a work of Art : 
 'Twas made by Nature's hand complete. 
 And that my dear, that is— j-our heart. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Sweet evening now, with silver crtiwn. 
 Reigns (iueensui>renu'both near and far. 
 While twilight lets her curtain down. 
 And sweetly pins it with a star. 
 How sweet it is, wlien nil is still. 
 To wander through the moon-lit grove. 
 And feel the old accustomed thrill 
 Whene'er we think of her we love! 
 Oh! here, in Nature's calm retreat. 
 Our sweetest thoughts will le;iru to speak. 
 Long parted liearts come here to meet. 
 And mine is here for thine to seek. 
 I gaze upon the briglitest star 
 That gilds tho dome of heaven's blue. 
 And wonder if, away so far. 
 The one I love beholds it too! 
 As if in answer to my dreams. 
 The lieavens wear a sweeter liuo; 
 The star I vii'w full brighter plivims. 
 And now I know thou view'st it uto. 
 For that which makes thy life morebriglit 
 A gild of liappiness casts o'er mine; 
 Hence dare I hope this .same sweet light 
 Eternal over both may shine! 
 Thou need'st not nsk who this may be. 
 This idol of my every theme. 
 For there's but one frotn sea to sea. 
 And thou art she. my Ernestine! 
 ^ 
 
*- 
 
 1184 
 
 LOCAL A:ND national poets of AMERICA. 
 
 REV. E.F.BURR, D.D., LL.D. 
 
 Born: Westport, Conn. 
 
 In 1850 Mr. Burr became pastor of the Con- 
 gregatloual Church of Lyme, Conu., which 
 position he still fills. lu 1868 he commenced 
 to lecture on the Scientific Evidences of 
 l!eli"ion, in AmhersD College. He has lectur- 
 
 KEV. E. F. BUtSR. 
 
 ed to leading clergymen of New York and 
 Boston on The Latest Astronomy Ag:unst 
 t),e Latest Atheism.and on kindred subjects. 
 Mr. Burr is the author of a score of books on 
 religious topics, and two volumes of illustra- 
 ted poems, Thy Voyage, and From Dark to 
 Day. 
 
 A SUMMONS. 
 What, ho! ye many idle men. 
 
 In market-place still sitting, 
 Tlioufjh sun is up and working hours 
 
 So fast away are flitting: 
 Is there no harvest work to-day, 
 
 No master fair to hire you. 
 That ye sit here with loins ungirt, 
 
 Aiid hands that hang beside you? 
 
 Behold a vineyard nigh and wide: 
 
 Its gates are widely open ; 
 And from within come loudly forth 
 
 These words by Master spoken : 
 
 .. Up all ye many idle men. 
 Into my broad field come ye. 
 And work with Me till sun go down- 
 Then rest in heaven with Me." 
 
 Now list ye to these goodly words 
 
 That from the Lord come sounding, 
 And set to work like faithful men 
 
 In all his field surrounding: 
 Think ye what Master great ye have 
 
 To watch and work beside you; 
 Think of the wage of endless life 
 
 Which he will soon provide you! 
 
 Nor man can want nor world can give 
 
 Afield so worth your tilling: 
 Strange that to till such field as this. 
 
 All men should not be willing! 
 If I were you no earthly thing 
 
 Without this field should keep me; 
 And, once within, no earthly power 
 
 Without this field should sweep me. 
 
 See through the gates some men you knc 
 
 For God sublimely toiling; 
 They plow and plant, they till and reap, 
 
 Yet whitest hands not soiling. 
 Now rise, ye drones, and join these men,: 
 
 Be every whit abreast them: 
 What matters work to weary men. 
 
 It heaven at last shall rest them? 
 
 Will ye sit here the livelong day, 
 
 While God for work is calling, 
 And crowns to pay for faithful work. 
 
 Like showers of stars are falling? 
 What will ye do when day is done. 
 
 If ye no work can show Him, 
 In all his wide and needy field, 
 
 For all the work you owe him. 
 
 What will ye do when day is done. 
 
 If ye no wage have taken. 
 And find that they who work forsake 
 
 Must be of God forsaken? 
 Know worklcss men are worthless men 
 
 Let him who will deny it— 
 And chaflf like winds shall fly away 
 
 When God with fan shall fly it. 
 
 Then up, ye many idle men! 
 
 Sl>aro not nor lime nor sinew; 
 Be not ye as the flying chaff 
 
 When God his wlieat sliall winnow. 
 The I'.ours of work are wasting fast; 
 
 Soon day to night shall darken— 
 Happy the man in market place 
 
 Who to this call shall hearken! 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAl. AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 1185 
 
 CALVIN GRKKN. 
 
 Hokn: Albany, N.Y.. Dec. 21, mm 
 Mit. (iKEEN served iu tlie war three years, 
 and returned from it witli shattered liealth, 
 from w)iiL'h he has never fully recovered. 
 
 C.\L,VIN GREEN. 
 
 His poems have appeared occasionally in the 
 local press. Mr. Green was married in 185:3 
 to Harriot L. Fisher, and he now resides at 
 Hebron, Wis. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 As tinkling cymbal and sobbing brass is he 
 Fitly compaied who lacketh Charit)-, 
 And though the Rift of propliecy be given. 
 To understand all things in earth and 
 
 heaven. 
 And knowledge, with all faith mountains to 
 
 move. 
 Yet without Charity these nothing prove. 
 And though his goods bestow upon the poor 
 Who throng his waj' and clamor at his door; 
 And though his body to the flames be given, 
 If void of love, it goes for naught in Heaven. 
 Long sulleroth Charity, yet continues kind, 
 Vaunteth not itself, nor enviously inclined; 
 Is not puffed up, and kindness shows to all. 
 Foregoes her own when other's interests 
 
 call; 
 Not soon provoked, and ovil thinks of none. 
 Rejoices in the truth, wrong-doing sltuns; 
 
 Endures all things, us well as all things bear. 
 And ever hopeth, ne'er yielding to despair. 
 Prophecies shall fail, and tongues sluiU also 
 cease, L'^reeze; 
 
 And knowledge pass, as p.'Lss the summer 
 I5ut Charity itself shall e'er endure 
 As guest with all the holy, just and pure. 
 Now Love, Faith, Hope, all the holy three 
 Abide with all, but fli-st stands Charity. 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 My native land I love. 
 Blessed gift of God above. 
 
 Land of the freel — 
 Free from oppression's power. 
 Free from its earliest hour. 
 Oh, may our Father's dower 
 
 Ever thus be! 
 I love its history's fame. 
 Its starry tiag and name. 
 
 Its rivers grand; 
 Its mountains topped with snow. 
 With broadened plains below, 
 \11 cause my heart to glow, 
 
 My native land! 
 But this I love, if more. 
 Its rights of ancient lore, 
 
 God's gift to all — 
 A gift and right to man, 
 To worship only him 
 Whose love may glow within, 
 
 And hears each call. 
 Then let no tyrant hand 
 Its constitution brand 
 
 Willi a foul wrong. 
 To take from me the right 
 To servo God as I might. 
 And darken all the light 
 
 That to me belong. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 KXT1«.\CT. 
 
 Temptation comes in such a form 
 
 So sly and unaware 
 That e'er we think, unless wo watch, 
 
 We're caught within its snart>. 
 Its whispers soft our hearts beguile, 
 
 And ere we think wo stray 
 Far from the path of iunticeuce. 
 
 Unless wo watch and pray. 
 With human nature on its side. 
 
 It works its way within; 
 There pl.ints its jxiwcr, and with guile 
 
 Leads on to every sin. 
 In childho<id days it plies Its skill. 
 
 Habits of wrong to form. 
 And if success its efforts crown. 
 
 Youth bends before Its storm. 
 
 •i"- 
 
*- 
 
 1186 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. SUSAN C. CLARKE. 
 
 Born: Lincoln Co., Me., 1822. 
 About two hundred poems have appeared 
 from the pen of Susan Caroline Clarke, 
 and have received extensive publication. 
 
 MRS. SUSAN C. CLARKE. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke was married in 1846 to E. W. 
 Clarke and has several cliildren, and now 
 resides in Livermore, Iowa, where she is 
 verj- popular for her many social and liter- 
 ary attainments. 
 
 WEDDED. 
 Sweet sister! hast tliou entered on 
 
 Life's higli and solemn way; 
 Most earnestly I wish thee joy. 
 
 And fervently I pray 
 That as a guardian angel 
 
 Upon tliy path may shine 
 A high and holy, heavenly light, 
 
 Even a love divine. 
 
 Sweet sister! hast thou entered on 
 
 The way unknown, untried, 
 To walk in holy, silken bands. 
 
 Thy chosen one beside; 
 Kneel down before God's altar 
 
 In humble reverence bow. 
 And ask of him for strength to keep 
 
 Thy precious marriage vow. 
 
 There comes a time in every life 
 
 Of sad and darkened hours 
 Wlien ii.auglit maj- save the sinking heart 
 
 Save faith in God alone. 
 Sweet sister, bow thee humbly down 
 
 Before His holy throne. 
 
 And ask of him his blessings on 
 
 The years that yet shall be. 
 For faith and hope and charity 
 
 And sweet humility; 
 And for the fervent, trusting love 
 That thrills thy bosom now: 
 Then m;iyest thou ever surely keep 
 
 Thy precious marritigc vow. 
 
 OVER THE THRESHOLD. 
 " Over the threshold only, 
 
 Out of the night of pain," 
 Risen above the sliadows. 
 
 Never to sigh iig-an. 
 
 Even in Heaven's glory, 
 Bj- bright, immortal's bed; 
 
 Sweet and beautiful story — 
 Life from the silent dead. 
 
 Blest and beautiful spirit. 
 Borne on thine upward way; 
 
 Angels shall sing the merit — 
 Life from the silent clay. 
 
 Over the threshold only. 
 Out of the night of pain. 
 
 Risen above the sliadows. 
 Never to sigh again. 
 
 For your life is not all sunshine. 
 Strewn over with summer flowers; 
 
 WELCOME. 
 ..Westward the Star of Empire takes its 
 
 way," 
 Thus wisely one of old was heard to say. 
 And we repeat that maxim, just and true. 
 Friends from the East, ghidly we welconn" 
 
 you 
 To the green prairies of the fertile West. 
 The future Slate of Empire, loved the best, 
 O proudly floiits our banner free and high; 
 There is no prouder 'neath the starry sky 
 Of all the constellations East or West, 
 We read upon her ricli and glowing crest 
 The grand words, "Progress! Upw.ard! On- 
 
 w:irdl True! " 
 Friends from the East, again we welcome 
 
 you 
 To tlie grand, fertile State of Iowa, 
 Yet we .still truly love our fatherland. 
 The free, the great states that lie upon the 
 
 sea — 
 God bless them in the years that yet shall 
 
 be! 
 
 *- 
 
1 LOCAL AND NATION', 
 
 vL I'OET.S OK AMEUICA. 1187 
 
 HANNAH AUGUSTA MOORE. 
 
 EVEN-.SONG. 
 When the hot and weary day 
 
 BouN : WisCASSET, Me. March 15, 1828. 
 
 Sinks behind the mlsly west. 
 
 This lad.vlias written several thousand poems 
 
 What a comfort 'tis to lay 
 
 wliieli have appeared in the leadiiia- public- 
 
 TireJ-out bodies down to rest! 
 
 ations of America. When a child she remov- 
 
 Grateful on the plexsant bed. 
 
 ed witli her parents to Pliiladelphia, andin 
 
 Cool and fresli and safe fn)m liarm. 
 
 that city ?ho first conimenci'd her literary 
 
 Bows tiic heavy iroubhd liead. 
 Wooing sleep's refreshing cliarm. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Ah! when to the dreamless sleep. 
 
 
 
 All earth's U)il and sorrow done,— 
 
 
 
 To the bed so still and deep,— 
 
 
 
 Silent goes the weary one. 
 If a sense of perfect peace. 
 
 Such as heralds healtliful rest. 
 Meet him there, where changes cease. 
 
 'f-. 
 
 
 Slumber in the grave is blest. 
 
 THOSE LITTLE HANDS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 Oh ! say, do you remember, Bert, 
 
 # ■ 
 
 
 The days of long ago. 
 
 
 And the little, slender, faithful hands 
 
 
 
 That used to liold us so? 
 
 
 
 And how our mother used to say. 
 
 
 
 Wlien wo teased some sliow to see. 
 
 
 
 " Yes, if you'll hold your sister's hands 
 
 
 
 Till she leads you homo to me." 
 
 
 
 Then how wo capered at her side 
 
 
 
 The city's streets along. 
 
 
 
 And how slie charmed us all the way 
 
 
 
 With story and with song. 
 
 
 
 Once to a fine menagerie 
 
 
 
 Thus held and led wo went. 
 
 
 
 Do you remember what a danco 
 
 
 
 We led her rounil that tent? 
 
 HANNAH Al (il STA MOOKK. 
 
 
 But not one moment could we 'scape 
 
 career. Fur several jcars she resided in New 
 
 These slender Angers' hold 
 
 York, but in 1886 returned to lier native state. 
 
 Dear little sister-keeper true- 
 
 The volume entitled Plymoutli Notes was pre- 
 
 But nine short summers old. 
 
 pared by Miss Moore, forty thousand copies 
 
 And as the yellow sunset streamed 
 
 of which were sold in Europe tlie first year. 
 
 Down Chestnut's pleasant street. 
 We three went skl|>ping, laughing home 
 
 Our mother's smile to meet. 
 I feel e'en now those fingers sm.-xll. 
 
 Their cl;isp so firm, so w.irm. 
 Can see, ;us you can too, I know. 
 
 Our sister's agile form. 
 
 THE BROOK AND THE UIVER. 
 Whither away tliou brawling stream, 
 
 Wliither away so fast? 
 Fleeinjr for life and death you seem; 
 
 Speak as you hasten past. 
 
 Answered the brook with a pompous roar 
 
 Ah! how. as we grew up, she tried 
 
 Tossing its creamy foam. 
 
 To hold and lead us still— 
 
 " I go my flood in the main to pour; 
 
 Al;is those han<ls were all t«K> weak 
 
 Listen, O sea, I come! " 
 
 To curb our way wartl will. 
 
 Whither away, thou river deep, 
 
 Bert, if those dear, clinging hands. 
 
 Flowing so still and calm? 
 
 Could chusp our own oneo more 
 
 Thy gentle waters seem half asleep. 
 
 And through tlii> dangers of our way 
 
 And cliantiiig a drowsy psalm. 
 
 Safe lead us as befort-; 
 
 Answered the river with whisper low 
 
 How glad were she, and thou and I, 
 
 Swaying its lilies fair. 
 
 My brother, would we come. 
 
 •• Down to the fathomless sea I go 
 
 If she could hold our h.inds again 
 
 The sea will not know I am there." 
 * 
 
 To our dear mother home? 
 
*- 
 
 — r 
 
 1188 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. EMMA L. STAPLEY. 
 
 Bokn: Eagle Point, III., June 7, 1833. 
 
 Under the nom de plume of Mildred Merle 
 the poems of this lady have appeared in 
 Woman's Work, The Christian Press, and 
 numerous otlier newspapers and magazines. 
 
 She was married in 1874 to H. L. Stapley, and 
 resides with her husband at Elkhorn Grove. 
 The poems of tliis lady have heen highly 
 praised by the press and public. 
 
 NATURE'S CARPET. 
 Heaven's blue vault is the ceiling 
 
 Of a room larg-e, airy, and grand. 
 Its manifold beauties admiring 
 
 On a velvet carpet I stand; 
 Its elegant tapestry woven 
 
 By Nature's skillful hand. 
 
 Dark, richest green is the groundwork. 
 While scattered o'er each fair fold 
 
 Its spacious surface bedecking. 
 Are leaves in numbers untold, 
 
 Wearing the bright hues of autumn. 
 Mottled tvith scarlet and gold. 
 
 Varied with amber and russet. 
 Mingled with matchless care; 
 In stately palace or temple 
 
 Never was carpet more fair, 
 Than this of Nature's own weaving, 
 In her temple of air. 
 
 MY BLOSSOM. 
 Just two years ago our darling died; 
 Our little lamb, our treasured pride- 
 Just two years ago this beautiful May; 
 All our sunshine grew so dark that day. 
 
 Though early roses were bursting bloom | 
 Wlieu they bore lieraway to the silent tomb— i 
 Herself a rosebud more sweet and fair, I 
 
 Unfolding its petals in heaven's pure air. | 
 
 I 
 Though tears of sori'ow flow freely to-day, j 
 From the litt le mound will I look away, I 
 
 With the eye of faith to that lovely shore, j 
 Where my rosebud blooms for evermore. | 
 
 With patience we'll await some sweet spring 
 
 day. 
 When One more fair than the flowers will say, 
 With joy take thy beautiful blossom; for see, 
 All these years I have treasured it for thee! 
 
 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 For years within a secluded spot 
 Have I treasured a sprig of forget-me-not. 
 It has a story, this blossom blue, 
 Oh, yes! with pleasure I'll tell it to you. 
 
 'Twas sent me in girlhood's sunny day- 
 Many years since have passed away— 
 By one who is more than life to me, : 
 
 Whoso love is deep as the fathomless sea, 
 And whose pathway in life is by my side. 
 'Twas before I became his cherished bride. 
 
 While languishing on a bed of pain. 
 
 From whicli ho might never rise again. 
 
 He sent me this flower of azure hue. 
 
 In token of love, strong, deep and true, 
 
 Thinking that it perliaps might be 
 
 His last fond gift on earth to me. i 
 
 But thanks to him whose loving care. 
 Saw fit my darling's life to spare. 
 In His love and each ether's we're truly blest, i 
 As we journey toward the land of rest. 
 
 So the emblem I've cherished for many 
 
 years- 
 Years of joy and sorrow, hopes and fears; 
 Yet, in glancing backward o'er the past, 
 Nearly all seems sunshine- but few clouds 
 
 cast 
 Over ray mcm'ry a sombre hue. 
 Because our love was always true. 
 
 «- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 1189 
 
 MRS. X. D. MARIAGEE. 
 
 Born: Denmark, April 26, 1850. 
 This lady bas written both prose and verso 
 for tbe Betroit Free Press, Pacific Rural 
 
 Pri's-- lUc'ilaiul Muiiihl.w and uilu'r lu-oiiii- 
 
 MHS. NOAMI DAGMAR MARIAGEE. 
 
 nent publications. Slie lias traveled exten- 
 sively in the United States and Europe, and 
 has led au eventful career. 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 Would'st thou a poet be. 
 
 Thy soul at sea in the old skald's mead? 
 Gaze then on all tilings feelingly. 
 
 And then thy cause with fervor plead. 
 
 Would'st thou a hero be? 
 
 Think nobly as tlie days po by. 
 Give feeling, quick delivery 
 
 By movement, hand and tongue and eye. 
 
 Would'st thou an artist be? 
 
 Dip thy brush deep in thine heart's flow; 
 Then paint thy pain and joy, that we 
 
 In picture speech thy soul may know. 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 What am I in the field of mental younglings? 
 
 I'd gladly know, but cannot even guess; 
 My swift succeeding, slowly poising wing- 
 liugs [o)ipress. 
 
 Would gladly that they should none else 
 
 Thus know I that I'm not a climbiug vine. 
 
 To bind and smother one who'd hold mo 
 kindly: 
 A self-supporting pride is nature mine, 
 
 Wliicli could not prey nor sttKip to groping 
 blindly. 
 Just what tlie pl.int is that my soul similes 
 
 I do not know; but this 1 may confess: 
 'Tis what it seems, and it mt tliorn conceals; 
 
 'Tis seusitive. yet sturdy, and no less 
 True to its candid jiromise than 'tis free 
 From over-sweet or over-bitter taste; 
 
 And like the common weed it cannot be; 
 So, in its growth it slowly doth make hustc. 
 
 A WISH. 
 May your eyes be strange to weeping. 
 
 Lady fair. 
 And your heart find worthy keeping 
 
 In love's care. 
 May the storms of life be gentle as you pas8, 
 
 Fate's gifts to know. 
 And a mint of joys for memory you amass 
 
 As you go. 
 
 THE HEUO. 
 Hero Is he wlio feels a deep compassion 
 For those who sutler, from whatever c;iuse: 
 Who, in intelligent and kindly fashion. 
 Acts nobly 'gainst or for the world's ap- 
 plause. 
 
 TIME. 
 Succeeding ages came and past 
 
 Ere we stepped on the stage of life, 
 And age on age will, too, be massed 
 
 When we :ire gone from all earth's strife; 
 And millions will be born and die. 
 
 While tears and smiles all have their day. 
 Thus shall we 'twixt Time's pages lie 
 
 Till Time falls also to decay. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 The swordsman skilled may duly reach 
 
 The piiuiade of f;ime; 
 But breaks his sword — that hour will teach 
 
 Him, in his pain and shame. 
 That those who praised him most will each 
 
 His former skill defame. 
 
 MISTAKES. 
 Time comes when well we understand 
 
 The words to speak ami tieods to do, 
 The motives false or truly grand. 
 
 The maid to shun, the one to woo. 
 The man to cheer, the one to chide. 
 
 The aims to honor, alms to hate. 
 Alas! the knowledge Is no guide, 
 
 Since it, to servo us. comes too late. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1190 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM OLIVER FEGELY. 
 
 Bokn: Breinigsville, Pa., Jan. 8, 1867. 
 In 1884 tlie ■subject of this sketch attended 
 the Keystone Normal School at Kutztown, 
 Pa., and subsequently taught school. In 
 
 1887 he entered Muhlenberg- Colleg-e at AUen- 
 
 WILLIAM OLIVER FEGELY. 
 
 town and graduated from tliat institution in 
 1890. Mr. Fegely is a student of theology at 
 tlie Lutheran Theological Seminary at Mt. 
 Airy in Philadelphia. 
 
 THE TREASURE. 
 
 Another day is spent at last; 
 
 Its dizzy journey run; 
 A page upon the lurid past 
 
 Tells all that has been done. 
 If virtue freely strewed our path 
 
 With soul-ennobling deeds; 
 If vice the venomed sting of wrath 
 
 Has hampered all our seats. 
 All this and more, with awful truth, 
 
 The bygone day repeats. 
 To-day your fortune chanced to pass 
 
 With quickening steps extolled, 
 Like winds, excite the watery mass, 
 
 Tlius unconcerned it railed. 
 "It rolled perhaps forever on" - 
 
 Thy careless vigils sing: 
 Oblivion, the treacherous one. 
 Had stayed the moment's wing. 
 
 *- 
 
 The treasure was within thy arms; 
 
 Wiiat more need nature bring! 
 The fairest of all country maids 
 
 Tliat ever graced the earth, 
 " Her birth was in the forest shades," 
 
 Her home the glowing hearth. 
 The greenest bough, the brightest sky 
 
 That mark the sylvan land. 
 All blend their beauty in her eye; 
 
 Her lip the rosy strand. 
 Like breezes skim the fragrant flower, 
 
 So light she skips the sand. 
 The rosy blush, so mild, serene. 
 
 Upon her waxen clieek; 
 In rainbow colors could be seen 
 
 What impure tongues must speak. 
 The rippling stream that leaps the rocks 
 
 'Midst fairest herbs and flowers. 
 Which weave their beauty in her locks, 
 
 Her faintest smile embowers. 
 Herself grand Nature could not hold 
 
 Such awful, winning powers. 
 And winning as they seemed to be 
 
 So truly had they won ; 
 The rose was plucked from off the tree 
 
 Ripe with love's shining sun. 
 Nor toil nor cautious hours could end, 
 
 And cares that are untold. 
 The wooer's sleepless nights attend, 
 
 Like Una's breast of old. 
 Yet such a treasure craves them all 
 
 As silver and pure gold. 
 
 LOVE A CONQUEROR. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 • A living frame of flesh and blood. 
 
 Together with a soul. 
 Created by the hand of God, . 
 
 Shows that He has control j 
 
 O'er everything alive or dead ; 
 
 In all this wide, wide world, ; 
 
 Invigorates us not to dread 
 
 The missiles at us hurled. 
 He then endowed with noble powers 
 
 His children every one. 
 And to control. He said, was ours ' 
 
 Tlie pilgrimage begun. 
 But in life's journey very soon 
 
 Love, liatred and great sorrow ^ 
 
 Did harshly with themselves commune, i 
 
 Duccrtain made tlie morrow. 
 When true love — the all-conquering cm 
 
 Has won a heart so true. 
 Then, also, liatred has begun 
 
 To rend apart the two; 
 And sorrow, on the other liand, 
 
 Yet ever and anon. 
 Tends these two loving hearts to rend, i 
 
 When hatred's work is done. I 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1191 
 
 MRS. EMMA M. WHITE. 
 
 BoiiN: DoSTox, Mass., Ju.nk 16. 1850. 
 At thk ajre ot sixtooii this ladj- was left an 
 orpliaii. without known rolaiives, and witli 
 a little sister dependent on lier for support. 
 In 1875 she was married lo Clarence Elmore 
 White, and has one son - Murtini.r F.linore 
 
 MRS. T:M:>r.v si. ■wniTE 
 
 White, born in 1870. Mrs. White lias written 
 Inndredsof short stories and romances over 
 a Mom do plume, eontrilmting- to Youth's 
 Companion. Boston Tra use ripf, St. Nicholas. 
 W(iniat\'s Mafj-.-izinc. Frank Leslie's puhliea- 
 lions, .'ind the leadiTif?- periodicals of America. 
 >'rs. White is still a resident of Boston, where 
 she is very popular. 
 
 * 
 
 HIS HERITAGE. 
 
 1 !oved no more the violets 
 
 ( ' hey sprang so thick above my dead), 
 Nnieinqucfoil'sstar.nor wind-flower's g'race. 
 
 1 left them all upon their bed. 
 
 The flowers had lost their sweet surprise. 
 
 Gone half the charm of bird and bee; 
 I watched no more the hills' blue bloom. 
 
 W'hen darling- brought all b;ick to me. 
 
 His fre.sh heart links itself to nu'ne. 
 The world p^rows brijrht with his pold hair. 
 
 And for my precious child's dear sake. 
 
 I thankful am that earth is fair. 
 I watch with him the robin's flight, 
 
 Ui>on the tret^top glows her breast: 
 I follow, with his musing eyes. 
 
 Her fervid dash into her nest. 
 My darling's fresh delights are mine. 
 
 From i)ussy willow's silver fur. 
 And magic beauty of the dew. 
 
 To whispers of the pine-tree's stir. 
 I train the bending vines and smile 
 
 That the red roses will come soon; 
 Lead his small footsteps down tlie slope 
 
 Where all the baby bluets bhKjm. 
 The lilies white will blossom sirow 
 
 Along the water by an<l by; 
 The roses bud; .and summer brings 
 
 His playfellow, the butterfly. 
 If, witli his soft hand warm in mine, 
 
 I fear for him what living is. 
 I still the beating of my heart 
 
 By thinking that these still are his. 
 
 RELTXQUISHED. 
 
 O wild birds of the springtime. 
 
 Sing loud !ind clear and bold. 
 His little ear ni.ay quicken. 
 
 Though underneath the mold; 
 O, >\ ild l)irds of the spritigtime. 
 
 My giief cannot he told! 
 Sing loud and sweet and piercing. 
 
 And fill the silent wold. 
 
 O. roses sweet of summer, 
 
 Unshciithing fold bj- fold, 
 liurgeon and bloom your brightest. 
 
 Your brightest ever told! 
 O. roses sweet of summer. 
 
 Be everj- leaf unrolled. 
 Fragrant, fair and tempting. 
 
 For his little hands to hold. 
 
 O, autumn leaves of crimson. 
 
 And autumn leaves of gold, 
 F.'ill on the gravr of my darling. 
 
 Where the withered grass is old; 
 Fall down thick and softly. 
 
 Fall in your red and gold. 
 .And wrap, all close and warmly. 
 
 His little feet so cold! 
 
 O, soft, white snow of winter, 
 
 rnheoiled still J pine! 
 No music, warmth or fnigranco 
 
 Lures back my child divme: 
 O. soft, while snow of winter. 
 
 Your hush is but a sign 
 •'EUir hath not beard; " his unclosed eyes 
 
 See fairer sights than mine. 
 
 -•!> 
 
*- 
 
 1192 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. ROSE H. THORPE. 
 
 Born: Mishawaka, Tnd., July 18, 1850. 
 California has long- been the home of Rose 
 Hartwick Thorpe, her present residence be- 
 ing- at Bona Vista Cottage, Pacific Beach. It 
 may not be generally known that Mrs.Thorpe 
 is the author of the famous poem, •» Curfew 
 
 MRS. ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. 
 
 Must Not Ring To-night." It is of course her 
 most successful work. This poem has been 
 celebrated for years. It has been translated 
 into several lang-uages, set to music, played 
 upon t!ie stage and used by most of the elo- 
 cutionists of the times before the young 
 author had sufficient courage to attempt 
 writing for Eastern magazines and the press. 
 The most remunerative of her writings have 
 been her novels, among- which are The Feu- 
 ton Family, The Chester Gu-ls, Nina Bruce 
 or a Girl's Influence, Fred's Dark Days, The 
 Year's Best Days and The Yule Log. She has 
 also written many temperance poems, bal- 
 lads, etc., and is now getting out a book for 
 young people. The poems of this noted poet 
 have appeared in the Youth's Companion, 
 Now York Independent, St. Nicholas, Wide 
 Awake, Peterson's Magazine, Lippincott's, 
 and the leading newspapers and magazines. 
 The honorary degree of Master of Arts was 
 conferred upon Mrs. Thorpe by the faculty 
 of Hillsdale College, of HilLsdale, Mich. She 
 was married in 1871 to Edmund Carson 
 Thorpe, and has but one child, a daughter, 
 Lula May, born in 1873. 
 •« 
 
 SIESTA. 
 After the toil and the strain 
 Of muscle and heart and brain; 
 After the fever and fret and pain, 
 Siesta! 
 Under the whispering trees. 
 Kissed by the balmy breeze; 
 Under the calm ethereal seas, 
 Siesta 1 
 After the struggle of years; 
 After the heartache and tears, 
 A glimpse of the " Jasper gate " appears. 
 Siesta! 
 Under the daisy sod. 
 Under the golden-rod. 
 Storms rebuked by the voice of God, 
 Siesta! 
 We wake from the day-time sleep 
 To labor and fret and weep. 
 Ever again and again to seek 
 Siesta! 
 Over the silent lake, 
 Redeemed for Jesus' sake. 
 No more to weary, no more to take 
 Siesta. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 The heart is a garden, and never a seed 
 
 Dropped into its fertile mold 
 But grows and g-rows, be it thistle or rose. 
 
 Weed or blossom. Its leaves unfold. 
 Our thoughts are the seeds that grow to be 
 The part that shall live through eternity. 
 
 LILIES OF FAITH. 
 We stood in youth's fragrant meadows. 
 
 Where the tall Faith lilies grow. 
 The sunny slopes of the hillsides 
 
 With pink trust blooms were aglow. 
 And down in the mossy hollows 
 
 Hope fluttered its plumes of snow. 
 Our hearts were drunken with gladness. 
 
 Keeping time with the katj--did's tune. 
 The flowers made love. The bold cowslip 
 
 Touched lips with the clover bloom. 
 And the heart of the rose unfolded 
 
 'Neath the laughing eyes of June. 
 Then the future swung out before us. 
 
 All golden from rim to rim. 
 And the pink trust flt)wiM-.s went marching 
 
 With the lilies tall and i)rim. 
 While over their blooms Love beckoned 
 
 And we gladly followed him. 
 It is twenty years, and it seemeth 
 
 But a golden Summer's day. 
 For love lias laughed at the shadows 
 
 And danced on the sunbeams gay, 
 
 And the lilies of Faith were with us, 
 
 And the trust bloom, all the way. 
 
 — ^ 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 iii»;^ 
 
 MRS. L. GREENE RICHARDS. 
 
 "Born: Kanesville, Iowa, April 8, 1849. 
 At the ng^o of twenty-ihree this ladj' beciime 
 tlie editor of tlie Woman's ExpoiK-iit — the 
 first woni.-in's piiper imblisiied iii Utali; licr- 
 si'lf Utali's first lady editor. The year follow- 
 iim- she married Lesi WiLlard Kicliards, but 
 
 MRS. L. GREENE RICHARDS. 
 
 five years later she was compelled throug-h 
 failing health and domestic duties to relin- 
 guisb her business pursuits and to turn tho 
 publication over to the hands of Mrs. Emme- 
 line B. Wells, under whose care it still flour- 
 ishes. At an early ag-e this writer attracted 
 local attention by her creditable productions 
 in poetry and prose, and her poems are al- 
 ways eagerly accepted by the prominent 
 newspapers and magazines. Mrs. Richards 
 is still a resident of Salt Lake City, Utah. 
 
 TREASURES. 
 " Will you keep my new knife, mother? 
 
 I might dull the shining blade; 
 Please to keep it ready for me. 
 
 Or I'll lose it, I'm afraid." 
 " Yes, I'll keep it for you, darling," 
 
 And I kiss the rosy lips. 
 While upon his golden ringlets, 
 
 Softly rest my finger tips. 
 " Please to keep my marbles, muzzer. 
 
 So zey won't get rolled away; " 
 ••And my pretty bead and buttons; 
 
 And my top string, while I play." 
 
 Four dear boys thus bring tlicir treasures, 
 
 I must keep them all iu reach; 
 Four loved forms to watch and care for. 
 
 Four bright infant minds to teach. 
 As to me they bring their treasures, 
 
 So to Thee, oh, God above: 
 I entrust them, ever i)raying, 
 
 Keep them safely in Thy love. 
 And, lest I should spoil or lose them, 
 
 'Mid eartii's busy cares and strife, 
 Teacli me. Father, how to bring them. 
 
 Back to Thee with Endless Life! 
 
 THE BABY AND THE SHOWER OF RAIN. 
 This morn mj' baby waked with strange sur- 
 prise. 
 And to the window turned enquiring eyes; 
 For the first time the pattering rain he heard. 
 And all his wondering powers at once were 
 
 stirred. 
 He's eight months old to-day, my baby "Lo," 
 Yet rain before he has not chanced to see — 
 At least to notice — and from window pane 
 He turned to me with looks of "Flense ex- 
 plain." 
 You know, dear sister, how we mothers think 
 We understand the baby's nod and wink. 
 And learn as much from •• coos " and cun- 
 ning looks 
 As scientists from nature and from books. 
 
 '• It is the rain, my birdie pet," I said ; 
 
 He raised his head and sagely shook his head ; 
 
 "It looks like water" — then ho stopped to 
 
 sneeze — 
 The same that runs along below the trees; 
 The same you use to make mo clean and 
 
 sweet, [feet; 
 
 In which I love to splash with hands and 
 And now you call it — what? ••the rain, my 
 
 love." 
 •• Well, I can't see what brings it from above ; 
 
 "Or how it stays there till its time to fall — 
 I cannot understand the thing at all ! 
 I think that I must wait until I grow. 
 And when I'm big like you, then I shall 
 
 know." 
 And so ho dn>pped (he subject for a time. 
 And dapped his bauds and sang a baby 
 
 chime. 
 How nuich. I thought, we older folks appear 
 Like this meek child with matters nut quite 
 
 clear. 
 Things are presented which are mysteries 
 
 grand. 
 We see and hear, but cannot understand; 
 Yet to our Father they are nil as plain 
 And simple lus the falling of the rain. 
 
* 
 
 1194 
 
 LOCAI, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. GARFIELD. 
 
 Noble, honored, yet afflicted! 
 
 As this morn I bow the knee, 
 From my heart unto our Father 
 
 Flows a pleading- prayer for thee. 
 Though a nation sorrows with thee, 
 
 Tliousands all to thee unknown; 
 None can share thy secret burdens, 
 
 Thy great loss is thine alone! 
 Only He who " feeds the ravens " 
 
 Can bestow that peace and rest. 
 Which may soothe the deep emotions 
 
 Of a soul like thine oppressed. 
 Surely, surely He will aid thee. 
 
 All thy griefs to bravely bear; 
 Little children, pure as angels. 
 
 Lisp to-day thy name in prayer. 
 Every wife and every mother. 
 
 Bowing at the sacred shrine, 
 With a sister's tender yearnings. 
 
 Feels her own heart bleed with thine! 
 
 IT'S BETTER TO LAUGH THAN TO CRT. 
 
 I am only a girl in the cold, proud world. 
 
 Working from day to day ; 
 But this is my plan, wherever I can. 
 
 To brighten the lonely way. 
 I look around me, and where they stand. 
 
 The weary and sad and weak, 
 I smile and offer a friendly hand, 
 
 And these are the words I speak: 
 " It is better to work than to idle be. 
 
 As it's better to live than to die; 
 To sustain one's self and thus be free, 
 
 And it's better to laugh than to cry." 
 I have a heart of charity full 
 
 For these sorrowing worms of dust. 
 And would brace them up while they drink 
 life's cup. 
 
 So bitter, though oft so just. 
 But I know that the Lord is over all. 
 
 Who can every comfort bring; 
 So attention to this great truth I call, 
 
 And this is the song I sing: 
 " It is better to work than to idle be, 
 
 As it's better to live than to die; 
 To trust in God and His mercies see. 
 
 And it's better to laugh than to cry." 
 I often think as the world moves on. 
 
 And we trample and crowd and shove. 
 That a world like this, full of loveliness, 
 
 Should be much fuller of love. 
 We all admit that it riiust be so. 
 
 When God shall all things restore; 
 And this great, beautiful truth I know. 
 
 And I love to keep telling it o'er: 
 •• It is better to work than to idle be. 
 
 As it's better to live than to die; 
 To help each other and all agree. 
 
 And it's better to laugh than to cry." 
 There's plenty of work for us all, my friend 
 
 And blessings that all may earn. 
 If we'll hold to the plan, wherever we can, I 
 
 To offer a kindly turn. ' 
 
 I'm only a woman bearing a part j 
 
 In the world's great, busy throng; 
 Yet I may comfort some sadder heart, 
 
 By the sound of my cheery song: 
 " It is better to work than to idle be, 
 
 As it's better to live than to die; 
 To assist the Lord in His wise decree. 
 
 And it's better to laugh than to cry," 
 
 WE CAN. 
 The dearest of all precious treasures. 
 
 The pet and the pride of our hearts. 
 What sunshine and sweetness and gladnes.* 
 
 Its heavenly presence imparts! 
 Our darling- will stay with us, surely; 
 
 For its future we lovingly plan ; 
 We "Couldn't keep house" without Baby- 
 Yet it goes, and we find that we can! 
 Wliat wealth of intelligence reigneth 
 
 In manhood's awakening powers; 
 What purity crownelh our maidens. 
 
 Like th' freshness of opening flowers, [ii 
 Oh! the young folks, our hope, who are ta 
 
 First parts in life's beautiful "play;" 
 Death comes and selects, oft tlie brightest 
 
 We can bear it — there's no other way. 
 The kindest and truest companion. 
 
 The fondest and gentlest friend. 
 At whose loss every prospect seems blighte ; 
 
 Life's interests all suddenly end: 
 Such are called, and half blind and bew 
 dered. 
 
 We rise from the groveling dust; 
 We stagger and reel, but we gather, 
 
 And stand, for we can when we must. 
 The leader of people and nations. 
 
 The men whom we value and prize. 
 And look upon as without equals. 
 
 So noble and gifted and wise; 
 Tliey leave us, and yet we press onward, 
 
 As earnest and seemingly strong; 
 There is no standing still for the people, 
 
 We must and we can move along. 
 We can live, though bereft of the blcssinp 
 
 Wliifh seem more than half of oiu- lives: 
 The babies, the youths and the maidens. 
 
 Even jiarents, and husbands and wives; 
 Our Prophets, indeed, may be taken. 
 
 And we bow 'neath the chastening rod. 
 Till the blessed, sweet Comforter cometh- 
 
 We can do without all but our God I 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1193 
 
 REV. ALMON T.CLARKE. 
 
 Horn: Ticonderoga, N.Y., Feb. 19, 1S40. 
 Lv 18T3 he graduated (roiii Aiidover Tlioolog:- 
 ical Seminary, and was ordained tlie same 
 year as a CoiiHivj.'-ational minister. Rev. Al- 
 mon T. Clarke has lield pastorates at Tivcr- 
 Inii, R. I.. Crown Point, N. Y., Parishville, 
 
 REV. AL.MO.N T.\VLOR CLARKE. 
 
 N. Y., Sheldon, Vt., Franlilin, and a year in 
 Florida. In 1889 he became editor of the 
 Southern Conffresratioualist, published at 
 Atlanta, Ga., where he now resides. He was 
 married in 1866 to Marietta T. Whitney, by 
 whom he lias several children. This minister, 
 journalist and poet is a member of the Phil- 
 osophical society of Great Britain, and sev- 
 eral other institutions of learning. 
 
 * 
 
 BIRDS AND FLOWERS. 
 Where the feet of sad mortals have trod. 
 
 O'er all lands and the isles of the sea. 
 The flowers in their seasons e'er brighten the 
 sod, [God, 
 
 To gladden the heart and lead thought up to 
 
 Who scatters love tokens as free. 
 They are prophets of joys n 3ver dim. 
 
 Tender thoughts of our God traced below; 
 
 They speak of the love and the goodness of 
 
 Him [dim. 
 
 Who dwelleth "mid light that can never grow 
 
 Afar from this region of woe. 
 
 Where tiic sad tones of grief have been heard, 
 
 On mountain and valley and pitiiii, 
 Oh, there have been trilled the dear notes 
 oftliebird, [been stirred, 
 
 And the air by the sweetness of song has 
 
 To cheer hearts o'erburdened by pain. 
 'Tis the prelude to th' angels' sweet hymn — 
 
 The flowers are the smiles of their jny ; 
 The Without and Below to the AlK)ve and 
 Within, [of Him 
 
 Have been joined in the love and the wisdom 
 
 Who leads to the limitless Joy. 
 •' Why sing of the birds and the flowers? " 
 
 O mortal, in thy darkness dost cry? 
 Not all is for use in this bright world of ours; 
 Its beautiful things, e'en its birds and its 
 
 Are types of the beauty on high, [flowers. 
 
 A MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Under the sod — 
 The turf laid over his breast; 
 
 Gone to our G<xl, 
 Where the earth-weary evermore rest. 
 Lone is the i)ath where he trod; 
 
 Dark is my breast. 
 Where was joy, ere he hastened to God. 
 
 "All is well;" this ye sjieak. 
 My anguish of .soul to allay; 
 
 Ah! but I'm weak — 
 Humanity's tears must liave way. 
 
 Mj' dariing is borne — 
 Torn away 1 
 Would God bid me weep not to-day? 
 
 Deep, dark and deep. 
 Ts the grave where my darling doth rest; 
 
 Deep, dark and deep. 
 Is the grave of my joy in my breast. 
 
 Take me to task. 
 Ye with sunshine of life on your liead. 
 
 Calmly to ask, 
 " Is there not bliss for little ones dead? " 
 
 Yes, it may be. 
 But the sharp pangs of woe I must feci; 
 
 The loss is for me. 
 And it maketh my reason to reel. 
 
 Say, " All is well," 
 Ye who sioile, while my darling is dead; 
 
 Ah, but I say. 
 Could ye smile 
 If the light of your own home had fle<l? 
 
 Oh : wildly I cry. 
 In the night of my grief that has come; 
 
 Dear Ix)rd! I must try 
 To be patient and lioiK-ful. and dumb — 
 Thro' the dark reach the hand of my faith. 
 
 While I Iiope 
 To receive back my darling fmm death. 
 When for me, too, the iH'arly gates ope. 
 
<i*- 
 
 1196 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IEKICA. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 There are shadows ou the ceiliug. 
 
 And I watch them come and go. 
 While my heai't is faintly beating 
 
 'xVeath its heavy weight of woe; 
 Shapes fantastic pass before me, 
 
 Ghosts of loved and long-lost joys. 
 And the types of nearer sorrow 
 
 That my present peace destroys. 
 There appears one form of beauty, 
 
 With soft eyes and sunny hair. 
 Flowing back in wavy tresses, 
 
 From a brow divinely fair; 
 Love-lit eyes beam sweetly on me — 
 
 Bacisward rolls grief's chilling tide, 
 For I had a dream of heaven — 
 
 Dreamed that she would be my bride! 
 Now T feel a moment's rapture; 
 
 Melting glances meet with mine; 
 But dear lips give back no answer 
 
 To the passion-cry of mine. 
 All but life dies out within me. 
 
 As with woe that passes speech, 
 I behold the dear form fading — 
 
 Passing from my sight and reach. 
 While with fixed eyes I am gazing. 
 
 Shadows deepen on the wall; 
 No dear form of beautj' answers 
 
 To my heart's beseeching call: 
 And within the shadows deepen, 
 
 With a darker weight of gloom. 
 While with hands outstretched in longing, 
 
 I am pressing toward the tomb. 
 
 WHEN MORNING IN THE EAST RISES. 
 When morning in the east doth rise, 
 
 Roll back the gloomy shades of night. 
 While modest stars in purple skies 
 
 Conceal their glories from the sight; 
 While charms of morning greet my eyes. 
 
 Blest is the dawn of day to me. 
 For all that's bright in earth or skies. 
 
 Speaks sweetly to my heart of thee. 
 And thoughts of one to me so dear. 
 
 So dear because so pure and fair, 
 Alone have power my lieart to cheer. 
 
 Through all the hours of daily care; 
 And after th' sun with lingering beams 
 
 Dips downward in the blushing west. 
 They gild with glory blissful dreams. 
 
 Through all the quiet liours of rest! 
 Thine they would be, if I could give 
 
 Joys that no mortal e'er hath known; 
 And peace that present joy doth give. 
 
 Would ne'er by time be overthrown ; 
 True friends would ever greet thine eyes. 
 
 Thy foes — thou shouldst not have a foe. 
 But all that's bright in eartli or skies. 
 
 Its radiance on thy pathway throw. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 To Thee, my God, who still dost give 
 Me strength for Thee and love to live, 
 I lift my voice in grateful praise, 
 For mercies rich that crown mj- days. 
 Thou hast conferred much earthly love. 
 And trained mj- soul to look above; 
 Taught me the faith, 'mid grief and pain. 
 The lost to earth I may regain. 
 And stars that brightly beam on high. 
 Seem whispering that I cannot die; 
 From all Thy works, one moving word 
 To fait>i divine my soul hath stirred. 
 Oh, there are hearts to me so dear, 
 I praise Thee for my being here; 
 While love doth closely 'round them twine, 
 Still trusting purposes divine. 
 What countless blessings Thou hast sent. 
 With grace to trust and be content — 
 Sweet, heavenly balm for every fear. 
 In faith to feel that Thou art near. 
 Grateful for all Thy mercies past, 
 I crave Thy presence to the last. 
 That r with hol3' joy may go 
 To light above from light below. 
 
 SORROW. 
 There are no lasting joys on earth; 
 
 How often thus we, weeping, sigh, 
 And e'en count joys of little worth. 
 
 For joys and friends are doomed to die; i' 
 And change is written on the tide. 
 
 And o'er the boundless fields of blue, 
 And on man's glory and his pride. 
 
 As on each flower of varied hue. 
 Thank God that 'tis so; He doth know- 
 He of the infinite heart and mind — 
 That which is best for us below. 
 
 While we " know nothing, and are blind.' 
 His wisdom grasps the scope of years 
 
 That circle round the Eternal Throne; 
 He's wiser than the liopesand fears 
 
 That all His creatures e'er have known. 
 He sees relations that e.\ist 
 
 Between the Now and the To Be, 
 While wc are walking in a mist. 
 
 And e'en the present cannot see; 
 And while He rules in love and knows 
 
 What fruit life's direst ills may bear, 
 He gives us joys and only woes 
 
 High wisdom sees that we should bear. 
 So. when life's way doth darker grow, 
 
 And fall like summer showers thy tears, 
 Or when thy lot seems sad below 
 
 While thinking o'er the pains of years. 
 Roll Sorrow's tide of feeling back, 
 
 And bid Hope spread for thee her store, 
 While Faith beholds the sliining track 
 
 Of those who've gone to Heaven before. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 11!»7 
 
 MRS. MARY N. J. BORAH. 
 
 Born: Roanoke, Ind., May 23, 18C4. 
 Graduating from the liig-h school in 1882 as 
 valodietoiiiiii of her class, this hidy then 
 t;uipli scliool for several years, when she at- 
 tended the De Pauw University of Green- 
 castle, Ind. Since then slie has tauffht 
 
 MRS. MARY N. J. BORAH. 
 
 - iiiiol iM Kansas, Indiana and Oliio, and in 
 1 .'0 was married to D. A. Borah, and now re- 
 -Mis in Gove City, Kansas. About one 
 hundred poems have appeared from the pen 
 of Mrs. Borah, many of wliieli received pub- 
 lication from time to time in the press. 
 
 HEART SONG. 
 When the heart is full of music. 
 
 The world is full of song. 
 But still tlie harp witliin us 
 
 And tlie brightest days are long'. 
 The songbirds and the flowers, 
 
 On the sweetest day in .Tunc, 
 Lose their melody and fragrance 
 
 When the heart is out of tune. 
 Heaven's light may fall and linger 
 
 Unseen along our way. 
 But let inward sunshine greet it, 
 
 And then 'tis perfect day. 
 Oh, th(! world will join in chorus 
 
 When the heart is full of song. 
 But still the harp within us 
 
 And the shortest days are long. 
 
 THE SUNLIGHT. 
 'Tis God's great love in llie sunlight 
 
 That gives it its wonderful glow; 
 'Tis his peace and strength and beauty 
 
 That makes us love it so. 
 Straight from the heart of heaven. 
 
 Filled with its holy Are, 
 It sets all nature striving. 
 
 And kindles a keen desire 
 To press upward, onward, ever. 
 
 To the fountain-head of light. 
 To reach the source eternal 
 
 Of wisdom, truth and might. 
 'Tis God's great love tli.at makes It 
 
 So thoughtful of other's cheer. 
 Raising the drooping tiow'ret 
 
 And drying the falling tear — 
 Greeting the tiniest insect. 
 
 With all its wealth of love. 
 As kindly in hut as in palace. 
 
 As kindly on earth as above; 
 Teaching by purest example 
 
 Lessons of priceless worth. 
 In gentleness, kindness and mercy. 
 
 How to make heaven on earth, 
 Oh, glitter and glow and glisten. 
 
 Beautiful sunlight siill. 
 Call to our hearts, and they'll listen. 
 
 Whisper your message at will. 
 Heaven is radiant with glory. 
 
 Earth's running over with love. 
 And the music of all this sweet story. 
 
 Like an echo, vibrates from above. 
 Yes, glitter and glow and glisten. 
 
 Beautiful sunlight, do; 
 Call to our hearts, and they'll listen 
 
 Till Gods own voice breaks through. 
 Then all life's shades will scatter. 
 
 To gather never again. 
 And out from its mists and shadows 
 
 The " Way of Life " stands plain. 
 
 ACROSS THE YEARS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The roses bloom and witlier. 
 
 The sunbt>am9 flash and fade. 
 The cloud-tints come and vanish, 
 
 Life's sheen is lost in shade: 
 Tlie storm-clouds brood and gather, 
 
 The snowdrifts silent come. 
 The meadows lose their greenness 
 
 The bird deserts its home. 
 And yet the fragrance lingers. 
 
 And loitering sunbeams throw 
 Soft tints on clouds that threaten 
 
 To All life's sky with woe. 
 
*- 
 
 1198 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FRANKLIN L. THOMAS. 
 
 Born: White Co., Ind., Oct. 29, 1868. 
 The subject of this sketch has received a 
 good education, and graduated with honors 
 at the Normal of Valparaiso, receiving- the 
 degree of Bachelor of Sciences. In 1890 ho 
 
 FRANKLIN I^EONTINE THOMAS. 
 
 was married to Miss Amy A. Wright, of 
 Ohio. The poems of Mr. Thomas liave ap- 
 peared in the periodical press of his native 
 state, and have been highly praised. 
 
 FOND MEMORIES. 
 
 What nameless longing swells my breast? 
 
 Why often do I sigh? 
 What snowy wings, when I'm at rest. 
 
 Glide thro' the quiet sky? 
 And waft me, draft me, out in the lea 
 Down thro' the valley, 
 Roses do rally. 
 As gently these wings do carry me. 
 
 'Tis at the silent tide of thought 
 
 The lonely hours watch o'er. 
 And keep divine the soul tlius sought 
 
 On tliat sweet, distant shore. 
 Remind me, find me, in the gay lawn. 
 Under the branches. 
 
 False avalanches, 
 So sweetly bidding adieu at the dawn. 
 
 Ah ! those wings that glide away, 
 
 In leafy bow'rs seek rest, 
 Within tlie courts of some sweet May, 
 
 None other to molest. 
 And there, so fair, dear Alice, I love I 
 Weaving the roses, 
 Lilies and posies, 
 And cooing songs for me like a dovi : 
 
 Wings, marry, carry thee on lo Elern 
 There will I rest with thee. 
 Peace on this restless sea 
 Can not be found. 
 
 MY SOLITUDE. 
 
 In the fields of maize and mallow. 
 Where the tingy grass is dry. 
 
 There I love to muse and ponder- 
 There 1 love to sit or lie. 
 
 In the w.arm sunlight of bcautj', 
 
 Where Dame Nature molds her duty, 
 Sending blessings to the sky. 
 
 Listen to the changing music 
 Of the tlirush, as quick or slow. 
 
 Like the lieart when beating rapture 
 Sends its pulses high and low. 
 
 To the soul's supernal gladness, ' 
 
 Quick expelling fear and sadness, | 
 
 His sweet song would overflow. 
 
 Stop, O brook ! and tell me f rank'y 
 Of your chimes, now passed away. ] 
 
 God knows what is in the future, 
 But not any man to-day. 
 
 Then repeat your ancient learning. 
 
 This to me is all concerning; 
 Greet mo with your precious lay. ,' 
 
 Ah! you need not blush, you rooster. 
 With your double comb upraised; 
 
 You threw oaths of slang aad boasting 
 At your victim so ill-praised, ; 
 
 And in smothered breatli you hissed him 
 
 And with strokes of lialred kissed him. 
 Like a pugilist gone crazed. 
 
 Darling daughter of the rural, ' 
 
 Who can give us more than this? 
 From your hands all seed are sown. 
 
 With your lips all flowers you kiss. 
 And in liarvest time .you bring us 
 All our souls could ask. You king us 
 With a crown of eartlily bliss. 
 
 This my .solitude sliall bo 
 Till tlie .scatliing, restless sea 
 Belches forth its deadl 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
LOCAL ANL> NATIONAL I'OKTS (»K AMKItlCA. 
 
 IIUU 
 
 VIRGINIA V.DODGK. 
 
 nous: Beveki.y, O., March 13, ia59. 
 This huly has written more tlian one liun- 
 drcd poems, besides a number of transla- 
 tions, whieli have recei%'ed pubMcation in 
 tlie leading periodicals of America. Miss 
 S'irginia DdiI.l;^ Ikis received her education 
 
 VUifilNIA V. Donr.E. 
 inincipally from private masters, and h;i..s 
 attained a thorougli knowledg-e of Latin, 
 German, Frencli and Spanisli. She is a per- 
 son of briUiant attainments intellectually, 
 and lias traveled quite extensively for the 
 purpose of study. As an artist she posseses 
 Kreat talent, and paints and'draws with more 
 tlian ordinary excellence. The poems of 
 Miss Dodge will shortly be collected and 
 publislied in book form. 
 
 THE DEATH OF AN ARAB SHEIK. 
 O Allah -Allah -Allah! 
 From supremest realms 
 Hold out Thy hand. 
 Tliou alone can'st lend the 
 Broadening pity which transcends 
 Tliat of all liumnii aid, whicli 
 Closes in the hour of danger 
 And rescues me from barm. 
 Allah I Allah mine I 
 Who to the faintest end of time 
 Wilt show what holy strength 
 
 Tliy love empowers in nirn; 
 How, freed fnini feai, Ihi-y entor 
 Willi it the strantre new Hpliert) 
 Of eartlily mkIiI unseen: 
 Exceedln^^ aught else wonderful 
 Wliereon we here may dream. 
 So ariiutid my bier 
 Ce;ise I'aeh lliy werping, 
 Ft)rmy soul, passed 
 Into His safe keeping. 
 Thou h:ist no need to mourn. 
 
 JACKS EASTEK DAY. 
 Once in flurry of late griow 
 Hctween fiercest winds were caught 
 I'lie blushing bouglis of oreliard. 
 Dire ruin tliis Helat brouglit. 
 Drifts tossed as waves tif sea 
 Itose over our gray walls; hid 
 Die gnarled trees; liuslic<l mute 
 The requiem of liemlocks tali. 
 \ow I stand in youth's own day 
 Alone in that spring storm, yet 
 Untrodden seems tlie dei>p poreli-way 
 Of t!ie liouse wliere I was l)orn. 
 .-^oftlyl this purity's a pall 
 Sacred; it covers all once 
 Living liere who loved me. 
 Tlicir work is done, tliey rest beyond. 
 1 cling to the casement edge 
 III the bitter, creeping cold. 
 Hungry for glimpse of liglitand warmth 
 I >hared in days of old. 
 My face cliills against the pane 
 Listening, so wearj'— long! 
 My feet are slipping— life wanes — 
 O for just a snatch of song. 
 One's mother — men learn it late; 
 Unselfish ever slie will keep 
 The watch-fire in the home grate 
 Briirlit, though hers is cause to weep. 
 Loving us. her source of cheer. 
 Ah, I pity tJie man who 
 Knowing not, conies l)ack some year 
 And finds tliat fire gone out. 
 If tlie d(M>r would only open 
 And I could liear lier say 
 •• My son " ill siicli tender tone. 
 Could the world lure me away? 
 Tlie faitliless world. itj» tokens. 
 Fame and passion, cups and gold. 
 Even most loves it holds 
 Erst found, are troths broken. 
 Some He leaves to wander long; 
 The saints takes unto Him, 
 But surely at tlie reckoning 
 Nothing can come between. 
 
*- 
 
 1200 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 ANNIE R. JOHNSON. 
 
 Born : Portland, Me., June 3, 1863. 
 Miss Johnson is the daughter of Dr. W. R. 
 Johnson of Portland, Maine. She received a 
 good education in vocal and instrumental 
 music; also in the Simond's School for Girls, 
 
 ANNIE R. JOHNSON. 
 
 the Gorham High School, and the Caswell 
 Boarding School. The poems of this lady 
 have appeared in the New York Observer, 
 The Christian Union, Portland Daily Press, 
 Portland Globe and other publications of 
 prominence. 
 
 *■ 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Even as some noble sculptor 
 
 Plain might see, 
 An idea of youth and beauty. 
 
 Though it be 
 Invisible, but to the mind, 
 Till in the molding-clay he find, 
 Reflection of the vision dear, 
 
 Doth appear; 
 
 So may virtue be the model. 
 
 Which with care, 
 Thy soul's vision shall discover, 
 
 And soon there. 
 Of thy own being shall bo wrought. 
 
 The master-piece which thou hast sougl 
 Virtue shall incarnated be, 
 E"en in thee. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Dear face thou dost bestow on me 
 
 The light of heaven. 
 Thou dost imbibe this radiance free, 
 And then, diffused in colors seven, 
 It is shed out to me, to be 
 
 A light along my way, 
 Seest thou. 
 Dear face, how? 
 Thou canst not say, 
 I'll tell to thee 
 How this can be. 
 
 Sometimes, when I'm in need of graCe, 
 I wait, and look at thee, dear face; 
 And in thy presence all so calm 
 I find my need, lose my alarm. 
 
 This doth invigorate my soul 
 
 To haste to the desired goal. 
 
 I do not say this light is thine, 
 
 But only it through thee doth shine; 
 
 As good a gift as God bestows 
 Is in the countenance of those. 
 Who, by a calm, inspiring ray. 
 Guide others out into the day. 
 
 Shine on, dear face, till in thy light 
 I shall possess new hope and might, 
 Shall re-collect the colors seven 
 To form a guiding light to heaven. 
 
 YULE-TIDE. I 
 
 If life's fair morn upon us now doth daw 
 And, as soft purple crowns the waking d ' 
 So on our cheek still rests some rosy ray; 
 Or if 'tis noontide, and to us are born 
 Pleasures and cares wo dreamed not o) it 
 
 morn; 
 Or do the vesper glories fade away, 
 While a voice whispers, •• earth's joys n t 
 
 decay;" 
 Whate'er life's hour, as before liave gom 
 To heaven,our gifts of love at glad Yulc-t ', 
 We'll bring, not to the manger, but (i s 
 
 throne, 
 An off'ring of sweet song and sacrifice; 
 Then swell, each merry bell, the ant n 
 
 wide. 
 Each happy heart beat time to praise a\< i>! 
 So shall the earth re-echo paradise. 
 
 ^' 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 121)1 
 
 GKORGK D. COPKLAND. 
 
 Rohn: Waddinc.ton, N. Y. 
 At the ajro of four the subject of this sketcli 
 rumoved witli his pureiits to Goshen, Ind., 
 where ho grow to m;iiiliood and received his 
 common sciiool and academic education; 
 afterward attending the State and N;itional 
 
 (iKOKGE D. CUI'KLAMj. 
 
 Law School of Poufilikeepsie, N. V. For ten 
 years lie practiced the profession of law in 
 Ooslien. Ind., and edited the Goshen Times 
 for two years; and w;is also U. S. Assessor 
 for eijrht years. In 1873 Mr. Copeland re- 
 moved to San Dieg'o. Cal., where he was ap- 
 pointed postmaster in 1881, which position 
 he filled nearly five years. He then organ- 
 ized the San Diego Flume Company, and 
 was its president for two years, during 
 which time the great enterprise of bringing 
 water from the mountains, fifty miles awoy, 
 wiis accomplished. Afterward Mr. Copeland 
 ( engaged in the electric railway and lighting 
 business, and is now President and Manager 
 of the companj'. San Diego is largely in- 
 debted to George D. Copeland for its bounti- 
 ful supply of pure mountain water, its cable 
 railway and electric ligliting system. 
 
 TOLL THE BELLS FOK GRANT. 
 Lei the fun'ral bells toll; 
 Let the solemn sound roll 
 The wide world round; 
 
 Let it cross the main. 
 And the mournful strain 
 Of st)rrow and of grief 
 For our fallen Chief 
 
 Be echoed o'er fair England's wide domain. 
 Let tlie land of I,al-'ayette 
 With tears be wet. 
 Along the Rhine, along tlie Uhono 
 Let the great moan 
 Of the Kepubllc swell 
 O'er ev'ry hill, througli ov'ry dell. 
 Let the dear old land 
 The German loves so well 
 Toll the grand cathedral liell; 
 Let the pondYous bells of Moscow 
 Voice the grief of Russia 
 O'er our hero chief. 
 Lot Garib:ildi"s sunny land 
 Uplift its friendly hand. 
 And toll the bel's of Rome 
 Till every hill and dome 
 Shall catch the funeral strain 
 A Till send it on, and on again. 
 \ m1 let the land of poets, song and story. 
 Jul II with its tribute to his worth and glory. 
 Let some new Homer a new Iliad write. 
 Wlierein shall shine in truthful colors bright 
 No fabled myth, no Gtxl of War, 
 But simply he who wore tlie star 
 Columbia placed upon the bar 
 That crossed his shoulders, modest, true. 
 As erst he wore the Nation's blue. 
 Let Egypt in her dust and ashes rise, [skies. 
 And cause to we?p her cloudless, rainless 
 Adowii the Vale of Kinlron. al >ng the Jonl- 
 Oer all the land where Jesus live<l [an's tide 
 Let mountain, hill and lowly vale^nd died. 
 Take up the worlii-wide, plaintive wail. 
 And send it on to Indla.tniplc land of old[told 
 Where Vishnu songs are sung and tales are 
 Let Siam's dusky Hindoo chief 
 Take up the plaint of Orient grief. 
 Let China, with its walls and ancient ways. 
 Its voice of grief and heartfelt sorrow raise. 
 Until, the circle of tin' world complete. 
 Pacific's shores the stilemn sound shall greet. 
 Let our dear land, of all the lands the best, 
 Lay the dead Wiirrior gently down to rest. 
 Let North and South, from shore to shore. 
 Clasp o'er his bier their hands once more. 
 lA*t inutlk-<l drum and tolling Ix-ll. 
 Let tears of grief unnumberd toll 
 How grandly, nobly, ami how well 
 Our hen) lived, how bnive he fell. 
 Let lessons of his (|uiet. uioilest worth 
 Be told, till vaulted dome and solid earth 
 Shall pass away. 
 
 And on her scroll st> broad let honest fame 
 Preserve for ayo this peerless soldier's name. 
 
 *- 
 
*^ 
 
 1202 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 SIMON DEWITT HUBBELL. 
 
 Born: Ithaca, NY., Feb. 24, 18.37. 
 Mr. Hubbet^i> removed to California in 1854, 
 and since ]R.")(5 lias been almost eontinunnsly 
 
 eny.-iiiiii in till' nr\vs|i;iinT l)iisim'ss, and liris 
 
 SIMON DEWITT HUBBELL. 
 gained quite a repuiutiun as au euiineut 
 journalist and poet. He was married In 1883 
 to Susan Goldston,and resides inLompoc,Cal. 
 
 LA SIESTA. 
 Wind, idling' in fond play 
 Where coy the wild rose creeps, 
 Haste, chase that bee away ! 
 She sleeps — 
 My darling sleeps. 
 Ferns, waving- o'er her brow. 
 Where light the gold hair sweeps. 
 Shading- the sun's kiss, bow. 
 She sleeps — 
 My darling sleeps. 
 Violets, in mossy bed, 
 Where brisht the fountain leaps. 
 Sweet perfume round her shed, 
 She sleeps — 
 My darling sleeps. 
 Fay, that from rosy nest, 
 Shy at her beauty peeps. 
 Safe guard her happy rest, 
 She sleeps — 
 My darling sleeps. 
 
 THE THREE LINKS. 
 There's no doubt that oft times you have 
 wondered 
 At the emblem which Odd Fellows wear, 
 And to know, as often felt curious. 
 
 The meaning these Golden Links bear; 
 Then, list, while the secret T tell you — 
 
 'Tis simple, yet noble and grand — 
 For these links form the great bond of union 
 
 Of our Order, in Heart and in Hand. 
 The first unto Friendship is sacred — 
 
 A friendship unselfish and true; 
 Which bids you unto a Brother to be 
 
 Just what he should be unto you: [ger, 
 
 A true guide and stanch shield when in dan- 
 
 An aid and solace in sorrow; [to-day. 
 
 Standing firm by his side thi-ough the dark 
 
 Till dawns the brighter to-morrow. 
 The second unto Love is devoted — 
 
 A love that all trials will stand; 
 That opens the heart to a Brother 
 
 And makes warm the grip of the hand; 
 That enjoins us to guard and to give him. 
 
 And watch o'er his course night and day, 
 Striving- ever our best to keep him 
 Walking upright in wisdom's way. 
 The third is to Truth consecrated — 
 
 The most precious link in the chain — 
 For that virtue tarnished and missing. 
 All friendsliip and Love are in vain. 
 But as long we're true to our Oi-der 
 
 And the lessons sublime it doth teach, [er 
 The Three Links will grow brighter and long- 
 Till embraced the world in their reach. 
 And wherever a Brother or Sister 
 
 May roam, this bright emblem they'll see 
 Three links on chain, vest, coat or bosom, 
 
 Encirling the •• F. L. and T." — 
 And know that in danger or in trouble 
 
 They have but the aid to command. 
 And at once, all willing and ready. 
 
 Will outleap the Heart in the Hand. 
 And unto these links is appended 
 
 A jewel we prize very high. 
 Which possesses the mystical virtue 
 
 Of eluding a curious eye; 
 But, when in the home of a Brother, 
 
 Odd Fellows assemble to cheer. 
 It is seen in its glorious splendor- 
 
 And we call it Sympathy's Tear. 
 Now. if more of the meatiing intended 
 
 By these links you are anxious to learn. 
 Knock a right at the doors of onr lodge rooms, 
 
 And their secreto yon soon will discern: 
 For all of our beautiful emblems 
 
 Teach lessons to eye. ear and heart, 
 Which in all their grandeur and beauty 
 We in no other way can impart. 
 
 *- 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 1203 
 
 RKV. W.WILKES, I). D. 
 
 This goiitlonuui is a resident of Syllacaug'a, 
 Ala., where lie is very popular as a minister. 
 
 Tiio pofiii^ fif Mr. Wilkes liavi' (H'L';i'<iiiiiai;\ 
 
 UEV. W. -will 
 
 appeared in some of the leading publica- 
 tions, from whicli they have been exten- 
 sively copied by tlie local press. 
 
 CENTENNIAL SABUATH-SCHOOL HYMN. 
 Yes. we are the heirs of freedom 
 
 By the flat of our God; 
 Througrh thick clouds of strife and tedium, 
 Through our Fatlier's tears and blood. 
 
 Jesus led them * 
 
 Onward through the crimson Hood! 
 Long the soul was bound in fetters 
 Till the last one hundred years! 
 Men unknown to fame for letters 
 Counseled justice, not tlieir fears. 
 
 Weakness ei)n(iuered 
 By His miglit who rules the spheres. 
 Few contended with the many. 
 Inborn riglits fought human law; 
 Pity (oh! if there were any). 
 Weeping, only could witlidraw! 
 
 Wondrous surprise. 
 Waiting angels watched with awe! 
 Freedom 'rose from graves and dungeons! 
 Conscience leiiped nt victory's call: 
 Zion left her galling irt)iis, 
 
 Liberty was gained for all. 
 
 Glorious trophy! 
 Freedom wou for great and small 1 
 Sacred be our Fatlier's memory, 
 I5e adorned their conquering King! 
 Deathless be their bloo<l-won victory, 
 (irateful otlerings let us bring. 
 
 Hallelujah! 
 Sing, ye ransomed children, sing. 
 
 HOME. 
 Thougli in a wilderness be cast our lot. 
 'I'lie favored have a resting spot; 
 That rosy spot is home. [bow'rs. 
 
 Sweeter its charms than .ancient Eden'.s 
 .\nd briglit as .M:iy-day robed in flow'rs, 
 Ilarth kiKJws no place like home. 
 Here sweet, congenial si)irits blend in one. 
 And every tear and sigh is known 
 And understood at liomo. [whim. 
 
 Each one forgives each other's fault or 
 Nor posture, word, nor dress, nor trim 
 Is criticised at home. 
 
 The old hearthstone, the gentle oak-w(X)d 
 With cosy sitting room, conspire [fire, 
 
 I'o cheer tlie humblest home. 
 Kndearing names and bright, inviting mieu 
 Unite to consummate the scene 
 Of paradise at home. 
 
 Religious song and fervent, earnest prayer, 
 Keading God's Word for all to hear. 
 Will scatter gloom from home. 
 Union in practice, i>lan and sentiment. 
 Insures success and sweet content 
 To those who dwell at home. 
 Earth has no ciiji of nectar half so sweet. 
 With which her roaming sons to greet. 
 As that we find at home. 
 A cottage is a palace, though obscure; 
 Sorrow has joy, sickness a cure. 
 In virtuous life at home. 
 E'en poverty is sweetened into wealtli, 
 And pining ills are turrunl to health 
 By loving ones at home. [tongue, 
 
 A crumb's a feast, one drop ccxils parebing 
 And groans are music, sighs are songs, 
 'Mong pious souls at home. 
 How should we weep for those po»ir helpless 
 For whom all feeling nature moans, [ones. 
 As they lament — •■ No home! " 
 Hungry and ragged, wandering up and down 
 Through land and ocean, vlllo and town. 
 They languish for a liome. 
 So had tlie Savior here no liouse or hut. 
 Nor palace, slieltcr. dome or cot, 
 Onl}' a desert home. 
 
 Fo.\es had holes, birds of the air hud Dcsts, 
 Yet nature bowed at his behests 
 Who had no earthly home. 
 
* 
 
 1204 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAiM G. PARK. 
 
 Bokn: Mystic River, Conn., May 24, 1867. 
 William giaduated from the Mystic Vallej- 
 Eng-lish and Classic Institute in 1888 and was 
 valedictorian of his class and class president. 
 He then taught at tliat institution for one 
 year, when he became Principal of the South 
 
 ■nTLLIAM. G. PARK. 
 
 Windsor High School one year. Mr. Park has 
 also talien a college course with the Wesleyan 
 University of Bloomington, 111. 
 
 THE LAKE. 
 A quiet lake, like a picture fair. 
 
 Lies low at the foot of the purple hills; 
 Where the dreamy sunshine ling-ers long 
 
 And softly gleams on the silver rills. 
 The waving pines with their tossing plumes 
 
 Like sentinels stand on either side 
 To guard the calm of the silent spot. 
 
 Unbroken save by the rippling tide. 
 The wild-rose blooming along the banks 
 Is reaching down to the water's edge, 
 It's flowers are bathed by the crystal stream, 
 
 Or lost to sight in the dark -green sedge. 
 The butterflies with their painted wings 
 
 That flash and gleam in the sun's bright 
 Sail slowly by as if borne along Lglow, 
 
 By summer winds as they gently blow. 
 A quiet lake; on its bosom floats 
 I The water-lilies, whose golden hearts 
 
 Are opened wide to receive the sun, 
 tjt ■ 
 
 As they feel the warmth of iis flery darts. 
 The tall reeds wave in the gentle breeze, 
 
 The rose leaves fall on the sparkling tide; 
 The floating clouds reflected gleam 
 
 O'er the lake's calm surface far and wide. 
 Here let us rest by the water's edge. 
 
 And dream of the hours that are no more: 
 Forget for a time .all thoughts of grief. 
 
 And fondly muse o'er the days of yore. 
 Till the soul is touched by the power divine 
 
 That rules the lake and the wooded hills. 
 The solemn pines and the stately reeds. 
 
 The lilies fair and the silver rills. 
 A quiet place, where the burdened heart 
 
 shall find a rest from its toil and care; 
 Where the wearied mind may seek release 
 
 In the perfect balm of the summer air. 
 
 THE VOYAGERS. 
 When the glorious king of morning. 
 
 Rising from a sea of gold. 
 Painted fleecy clouds with crimson 
 
 Blent with colors manifold. 
 From the clear and shining strand. 
 From the green and verdant land. 
 
 At the dawning of the day; 
 When the shadows scarce had fled. 
 Ere the early hours had sped. 
 
 Youthful voyagers sailed away. 
 Slowly drifting past the meadows. 
 
 Fragrant with thebreath of flowers. 
 Where the songsters' merry carols 
 
 Echoed from the woodland bowers; 
 Past the ranks of willow trees. 
 Waving gently in tlie breeze. 
 
 Drifting, drifting on and on. 
 In the sunlight and the shade. 
 Past the valley and the glade. 
 
 Into shadows dim and wan. 
 Wider grows the stream and wider. 
 
 As the voyagers onward sail, 
 Down the calm and tranquil river. 
 
 Leaving meadow, field and vale; 
 Drifting out into the sea. 
 With their young hearts light and free, 
 
 In the joyous summer time. 
 Drifting- down the silent stream 
 In the sunlight's golden beam. 
 
 Drifting on to Manhood's prime. 
 Now the crested waves are rising. 
 
 And the boundless sea appears. 
 And the voyagers leave the river. 
 
 For the Ocean of the years; 
 While the storms of life arise, 
 Clouded now the azure skies. 
 
 And their trembling bark is tossed 
 Here and there upon the waves. 
 While the tempest fli^rcely raves. 
 
 Bringing ruin, wreck and loss. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 12ft5 
 
 BENJAMIN HATHAWAY. 
 
 The volume of Art Life and Other Poems 
 places Mr. Hailiaway on an equal standing 
 with the most popular poets of the country. 
 His de-;criptivo pcuin.Tlie Leatrue of the Iro- 
 
 quois, isamarveliif It-freinlurj luio, and will 
 be appreciated by every earnest reader. In- 
 deed, it has the charm of Longfellow's Hia- 
 watha. The works of Mr.Hathaway have been 
 well received, and the press is unanimous 
 in their praise. 
 
 *- 
 
 TO A WATKU-LILV. 
 
 O Lily! that dost sit witli queenly brow 
 
 Lapped on the tranquil wave in regal bloom. 
 
 The fairest, thou 
 Of all the hosts wliose beauty lights the gloom 
 Of leafj' haunts, where no rude step in- 
 trudes; 
 Vour Declared sweets intense afar perfume. 
 The wildwood solitudes. 
 Thou hadst thy birth in some ecstatic hour 
 Of Nature's youthful passion undeflled; 
 
 O peerless flower! 
 By many a reedy tarn, her dearest child 
 The mother-breast still nurtures, warm 
 and true; 
 And taught are all the creatures of the wild 
 To yield their liomagc due. 
 The Sun-flsh watching by her uubatched 
 spawn. 
 
 Oft turns to gjize upon thy wondrous show; 
 
 The gentle Fawn [slow 
 
 That slakes his noontide thirst as wading 
 
 Tlie limpid pool, thy slender stem beside. 
 Bends wi.stful on thy diadem of snow 
 His wild eyes wonder-wide. 
 
 Tlie Bobolink, whose Joyous carol thrills 
 With music rare the woodlands fur away. 
 
 One mome!it stills 
 His matin song to look ou thee, and pay 
 
 Obeisance low, and tlien more glad and free 
 Exultant pours in raptured roundelay. 
 His loyal heart to thee. 
 The Waves witli gentle arms do thee enfold 
 With soft caress their love for thee declare; 
 
 As half untold. 
 They round tliee linger, press thy bosom fair 
 Then pass the tranquil mere's full-brim- 
 miug urn, 
 A far the river's rocky channel dare — 
 The Wiiiting mill-wheel turn. 
 
 With passion pure the Zephyr stmips to kiss 
 The dewy lips till faint with ecstasy; 
 
 Or drunk with bliss 
 That in fond heart .ispires, he wanders free. 
 Anon low whispers to the listening grove. 
 In mystic tongue, his lavish praise of thee,— 
 A lover's tale of love. 
 In thee there dwells a chastened spirit fine. 
 That in all matchless grace doth thee array; 
 
 What are divine 
 In waxy leaf and pearly petals — yea. 
 
 Of loveliness, what miracle sublime! 
 And thou didst spring out of the miry clay — 
 Out of the muck and slime. 
 And did there come down to thy prisoned 
 heart 
 Some dream transcendent of the days to be? 
 
 Tlie pain and smart 
 Of vain, long, weary yearning to bo free? 
 
 The premonition of a glory won, 
 Thronetl in thy splendor on tiie purple sea. 
 
 With kisses of the sun? 
 O Lily! In thy form do I behold 
 Our being typed? Do we, tot>,'iipward grow? 
 Our life enfold. 
 As doth thy bud, asummcr's nidlant show? 
 And all tliis sense of longing, doubt and 
 dread — 
 Is it the spring-time rpilckening, felt below, 
 Down in the mucky tio<l? 
 Witliin the soul a world of beauty lies: 
 Out of this earthly soil of gloom and night 
 
 We too shall rise 
 Ere long to realm unseen of mortal sight, 
 
 Wliereof liath p«K?t sung and prophet told; 
 And in that fairer clime of love and light 
 Life's perfect flower unfold. 
 
* 
 
 1206 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 THE IMAGE-BREAKER. 
 
 Though hushed siuce Delphi's tragic doom 
 
 Each mighty oracle's response, 
 
 Though every magic shape that haunts 
 The dusk of intervening gloom 
 Be silent — nor the shrouding tomb 
 
 Give answer to Love's yearning wants,— 
 Oh, spare those idols of the Past 
 
 Whose lips are dumb, whose eyes are dim; 
 
 Truth's diadem is not for him 
 That comes the fierce Iconoclast; 
 Who wakes the battle's stormy blast. 
 
 Hears not the angels' choral hymn. 
 In any creed, no heart-full prayer 
 
 To faithful devotee is lost; 
 
 Though dread-englo()med,and error-crossed 
 
 Whate'er doth fruits of mercy bear, 
 Is true ; — for this each error spare. 
 
 Nor heap a common holocaust. 
 The faith that hghts the pilgrim's way 
 To loving Heaven — though not for you 
 Its truth, to him must needs be true; 
 The rose that newly blooms to-day 
 Is pencilled by the primal ray: 
 
 The New is old — the Old is new. 
 And if thy path no longer lies 
 Through spirit-haunts of moor and fen,— 
 If, as of old to prophet ken. 
 To thee the hills of Canaan rise. 
 With broader fields and ampler skies. 
 And peopled wide with holy men,— 
 Remember still in charity. 
 Thy brother's need is not as thine; 
 Or, conning deep each darker line. 
 You too may find the mystic key 
 To every ward of mystery. 
 And see in all a Truth Divine. 
 
 CHICKADEE. 
 What time the Oriole 
 Through verdured haunts by spicy breezes 
 fanned 
 Pours his full soul. 
 Par off in tropic land, 
 
 In wildest minstrelsy,— 
 If not so glad and gay. 
 Here in December woods, as blithe and free, 
 I hear thy gleeful note the livelong day — 
 My Chickadee! 
 Is all this storm and gloam 
 Of Winter vain to chill thy heart of song? 
 
 Dost never roam 
 With the proud minstrel throng 
 To climes beyond the sea? 
 What secret dost thou hold? 
 Is in thy breast the wondrous alchemy. 
 
 Transmuting all these leaden skies to 
 My Chickadee? \.So\A — 
 
 Oh, for the subtle art 
 To share thy life, unsoiled of strife and diu: 
 
 A life apart 
 We may not enter in — 
 
 A realm of mystery ! 
 Yet, though we may not cross 
 Its hidden bound, we feel it cannot be 
 
 A weary world of ill and pain and loss — 
 My Chickadee! 
 Within thine eyes so bright 
 No shadow lies of care or want or dread: 
 
 There shines a light 
 H ore than of summers dead 
 Or summers yet to be: 
 Like to the morning glow 
 On Eden hills serene; —say, canst thou see 
 The fairer world behind this fadingshow, 
 My Chickadee? 
 Is thine the vision rare 
 To pierce the gloom that hides the heaven- 
 ly bourn 
 Where all is fair? 
 The hidden land we mourn 
 
 Unsorrowed dost thou see? 
 Then at thy cheerful slave 
 I marvel not, indeed, nor how it be 
 
 Thy tiny breast can bear a heart so brave. 
 My Chickadee ! 
 Oh, what a joyous song 
 Above this gloom and darkness would I 
 pour — 
 How free and strong 
 This weary heart would soar. 
 
 That Morning Land to seel 
 Where blight and storm and frost 
 And grief and pain and parting may not be; 
 Where glorified do wait our loved and lost. 
 My Chickadee! 
 Sole friend the Summer hides 
 That does not flee when Summer hours are 
 tied; 
 That still abides 
 When vernal blooms are dead 
 O'er hill and vale and lea; 
 Oh, when the roundelays 
 Of rarer throats are hushed, still keep forme 
 Some breath of song to cheer life's darker 
 days — 
 My Chickadee 1 
 
 POESY. 
 Thou Beautiful! In thee 
 The artist hides that all things glorifles; 
 That robes all life, as sunset far the sea 
 With splendor dyes. 
 In every flower that blows 
 A semblance of thy radiant form I see; 
 No charn\ that crowns the all-impcnal Kose 
 
 But hints of thee. 
 
 •*- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAf. POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1207 
 
 CHARLES M. DICKINSON. 
 
 Born: Lowville, N.Y., Nov., 1843. 
 This gentleman received liis education at 
 Fiiirfleld Seuiinarj' and Lowville Academy, 
 in his native state. In 188!) lie publislu'd a vol- 
 ume of poems in New Yorli and Loudon, en- 
 
 CHARLES M. DICKINSON. 
 
 titled Tiie Cliildron, which received high 
 praise from press and public. Mr. Dickin- 
 son is the editor and proprietor of the Bing- 
 liampton Kepublican, a verj' popular and in- 
 fluential newspaper. He was married in 1867 
 to Miss Bessie Virginia Holchkiss, and has 
 two sons— Charles H. Dickinson and Guy 
 H. Dickinson. 
 
 *- 
 
 "COME UNTO ME." 
 In the night-watches when no leaf Is shaken, 
 And eartli lies still, as if the stars on high 
 Had so entranced lier; then my senses waken. 
 Roused by the silence or some spirit's sigh ; 
 And, like a voice through happy visions steal- 
 ing. 
 Both heard and felt, and therefore, sweeter 
 far 
 Than any sense of hearing or of feeling. 
 Fall straight from iieaven as light as any 
 star. 
 Those wondrous words to all my soul appeal- 
 ing:— 
 "Come unto Me. O weary man and maiden; 
 Come; lean upon my breast. 
 
 All yc that labor and are heavy laden. 
 
 And 1 will give you rest." 
 In the bright day when clanging wheel and 
 hammer 
 And throbbing engines shake the affright- 
 ed air. 
 And trade and greed set up their selflsli 
 clamor. 
 And loud comphiint falls from the lips of 
 care ; 
 Then straight into my inmost soul retreating, 
 Where cloistered Memory shuts out sound 
 and sight. 
 And, like a nun her sacred beads repeating. 
 Tells oer those words heard in the still mid- 
 night. 
 Intone of calm command yet so entreat- 
 ing:- 
 '. ('. iTiii' unto Me, O weary man and maiden, 
 
 ( .nil': lean upon My breast. 
 Ail i f that labor and are heavy laden, 
 And I will give you rest." 
 
 Voice majestic I yet so low and tender. 
 That the soft footfall of a worldly thought 
 
 May drown its|)leading. lielp'metosurrender 
 Each clamorous earthly want my heart 
 
 liath sought. 
 All gain or comfort that my life hath 
 wrought; 
 And, if all sense, all rest and pleasure fail me. 
 Keep my soul watchful of each sound and 
 light. 
 That when the night comes on and storms 
 assail me. 
 And I must walk by faith and not by sight, 
 
 1 still may follow through the clouds that 
 
 veil uie. 
 Those far, soft accents, calling through 
 the niglit:— 
 "Come unto Me, O weary man and maiden; 
 
 Come; lean upon My breast. 
 All ye that labor and are heavy laden. 
 And I will give you rest." 
 
 SHE SLEEPS. 
 How soft she breathesl How still she lies! 
 When gentle slumljers close her eyes. 
 Her warm heart sets in either cheek 
 A sign that more tlian words can speak,— 
 A sign that tliougii she is st> .still. 
 And supple is her strt>ng, sweet will. 
 Her gentle pulses are not chill. 
 Alas, dear girl, what tears wcMiid How, 
 Wliat heart witli muffliKl tread would go 
 On to the gnive,wlth weight t)f woe. 
 
 If no sweet sign of life were set 
 In your young cheek, like a rose in blow. 
 
 Or if. like rose or mignonette. 
 Your breath no more should come and go. 
 
 « 
 
*- 
 
 1208 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 I love you. Dear, but I tremble and start. 
 
 When I think there is only a single place 
 In all this world, and that my heart. 
 
 Where heaven and hell embrace. 
 
 When I talk with you, when I walk with you, 
 The world is so lovely, so free from care, 
 
 If the fairest dream of heaven came true, 
 No heaven could be so fair. 
 
 Things skip and fly that once did creep; 
 
 The humblest bird like an angel sings; 
 What wonder that all my soul should leap, 
 
 And struggle to use its wings! 
 
 For, the commonest weeds have a scented- 
 breath 
 And all the colors of earth and sky ; 
 And there's nothing in all the world, 
 but Death, 
 That is sad enough to die. 
 
 But, if one glance of your love-lit eyes 
 Go out to another, the flend of Hate 
 
 Springs up in my heart, and earth and skies 
 Are blackened and desolate. 
 
 And beauty is crushed and the jealous knife 
 Of Hate strikes deep m the heart of love;— 
 
 A hate that would pull down the temple 
 of life. 
 And die in the ruins thereof. 
 
 And yet, the demon that rageth thus, 
 Red-handed as hell and as black as night. 
 
 Has a look like the angel that walked with us. 
 When the world was so happy and bright. 
 
 Ah, I love you. Dear, but I tremble and start. 
 When I think there is only a single place 
 
 In all this world, and that my heart. 
 Where heaven and hell embrace. 
 
 THE LILIES. 
 The lilies do not toil, and the lilies do not spin ; 
 They have to hold their chalices to catch the 
 
 raindrops in, 
 To wash their raiment white as snow, from 
 
 golden heart to hem 
 To justify the words of praise the Master 
 
 spake of them. 
 
 IN THE GARDEN. 
 When the night comes down 
 Over field and town. 
 And hides all the flowers and meadow daisies 
 I turn my eyes to the blossoming skies, 
 To the far-off gardens of paradise, 
 The mistletoe boughs in the starry mazes. 
 The daisy borders, white and dense. 
 And the nebulous meadi)ws of innocence; 
 
 To the radiant spots 
 Of forget-me-nots, 
 The jasmine Harp; and twinkling down. 
 The anemones in the Northern crown; \ 
 
 To the tiger-lily that nods and glows 
 
 In the crescent bed of the larger Lion, 
 The stars of Bethlehem and Sharon's rose, i 
 And the great, white river that heavenward . 
 goes, • 
 
 And waters each plant and flower, then flows. 
 
 Right ou to the beautiful city of Zion; ' 
 
 And my heart is so filled with the wondrous . 
 
 view. 
 
 That it overflows In reverend praises. 
 
 And mourns no more for the violets blue, ; 
 
 For the roses sweet and the meadow daisies. ' 
 
 i 
 
 IN THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Gentle jailer, turn the key 
 'Twixt the outer world and me, 
 Shutting out its care and din. 
 Shutting all sweet fancies in; 
 With such a prison and such a guard. 
 Who would not be Bonnivard? 
 
 Well I know the winter's snow 
 Folds the buried world about; 
 
 But a sweet smile as we part 
 
 Falls upon my budding heart. 
 Lets the sunshine in and out. 
 
 With a few warm tears unwept. 
 
 That some tender sorrow kept ; 
 And anon the fond thoughts stir 
 Where some happy memories were 
 
 Buried out of sound and sight, 
 
 Feeling blindly for the light; 
 
 Through each tender root they move 
 With the warmth of early love. 
 Filling all this little room 
 With a sense of coming bloom. 
 
 Tint of rose and scent of myrrh; 
 And as if the earth had swung 
 
 Sudden down the tropic zone, 
 I can see the pink clouds hung 
 
 On the peach trees, newly blown ; 
 
 I can hear the birds and bees 
 In Floridiaii orange trees. 
 Where the faint, o'erburdened breeze. 
 With the whole earth's sweetness goes, 
 Southern jasmine. Northern rose,— 
 Where the lazy stream scarce flows. 
 And the senses swim and swoon. 
 In the soft .•md slumbrous light. 
 In the perfume-breathing night. 
 As March stealeth into .Tune;- 
 All from that sweet smile that shono 
 When you left me here alone. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAI- AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 1201* 
 
 THE CHILUKEiV. 
 Wben the lessons and tasks are all cndcfl. 
 
 And the school ft)r tlie day is dismissed, 
 The little ones g-atlier around me. 
 
 To bid me g-ood nigrht and be kissed; 
 Oh, the little white arms tliat encircle 
 
 My ueck in their tender embrace I 
 Oil, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
 
 Shedding sunshine of love on my face I 
 
 And when they are gone, I sit dreaming 
 
 Of my childhood too lovely to last,— 
 Of joy that my heart will remember. 
 
 While it wakes to tlie inilso of the past, 
 Ere the world and its wickedness made me 
 
 A partner of soi-row and sin. 
 When the glory of God was about me. 
 
 And the glory of gladness within. 
 
 All my heart grows as weak as a woman's. 
 
 And the fountain of feeling will flow. 
 When I think of the paths steep and stony, 
 
 Wiiere the feet of the dear ones must go,— 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them. 
 
 Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;— 
 Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy 
 
 As the Innocent heart of a child! 
 
 They are idols of hearts and of households ; 
 
 They are angels of God in disguise; 
 His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. 
 
 His glory still shines in their eyes; 
 Those truants from home and from heaven ; 
 
 They have made me more manly and mild ; 
 And I know now how Jesus could liken 
 
 The kingdom of God to a child. 
 
 I ask not a life for the dear ones. 
 
 All radiant as others have done, 
 But that life may have .iust enough shadow 
 
 To temper the glare of the sun; 
 I would pray God to guard them from evil. 
 
 But my prayer would bound back to my- 
 self ;- 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
 The twig is so easily bended, 
 
 I have banished tlie rule and the rod; 
 I have taught them the goodness of know- 
 ledge. 
 
 They have taught me the goodness of God. 
 My heart is the dungeon of darkness. 
 
 Where I shut them for breaking a rule; 
 My frown is sufficient correction; 
 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 I shall leave the old house in the autumn 
 
 To traverse its threshold no more; 
 Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
 
 That meet me each morn at the door! 
 I shall miss the •• good-nights" and tlie kisses, 
 
 And the gush of their innocent glee, 
 ■• " 
 
 Tlie group on the green, and the tlowers 
 That arc brought every morning for mo. 
 
 I sliJill miss them at morn and at oron. 
 
 Their .song in the school and the street; 
 I shall miss the low huinof their voices. 
 
 And the tread of their deliciite fi-et. 
 When the lessons of life are all ended. 
 
 And death says: "The school is dismissed!" 
 May the little ones gather around me. 
 
 To bid me good-night and be kissed! 
 
 BY THE KIVER. 
 The sun had set, and left at his declining 
 
 The stars, as pledges of his morning rise. 
 And all the river like a memory shining. 
 
 Of its far, native skies. 
 
 Thus glorj'-laden, its soft watchword saying 
 To all the piers, it crossed their shadowed 
 bars; 
 
 And overhead the Milky Way was straying— 
 A river deep with stars. 
 
 How like a holy thing, while there we ponder- 
 ed. 
 Young Venus glowed upon the brow of 
 even ! 
 And earth, we knew, had lost her way, and 
 wandered 
 More than half way to heaven. 
 
 We knew it by the anchored moon entangled 
 In tree-tops on the neighboring mountiiin's 
 hem. 
 By stars so near that all the grass, dew- 
 spangled. 
 Made images of them ;— 
 
 By the deen hush, as if the whole earth listen- 
 ed 
 To catch the vespers of the choirs alMive; 
 And that near sense of heaven, when souls 
 
 arc christened 
 With first fond thoughts of love. 
 
 Ay, thoughts of love! and yet we talked of 
 letters; 
 
 'Tis thus we mask each feeling and desire. 
 And link our language into icy fetters. 
 
 To smother hearts of Are. 
 
 Since then, the river's soul ha!> gone to 
 lieaven. 
 
 And oft returned In the orabodlod rain. 
 But souls we love have left us at life's even. 
 
 And come not back again. 
 
 Again we walk by the Impatient river. 
 Returning to the heaven it munnurN of; 
 
 And now no more wo speak of books; but 
 ever 
 Wo think and talk of love. 
 
>*- 
 
 1210 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POE 1 S OF AMERICA. 
 
 RUDOLPHUS N. VAN TUYL. 
 
 Born: Jerusalem, N. Y., April 5, 1834, 
 
 For ten years Mr. Van Tuyl taught school; 
 for three years was engaged in county clerk's 
 office; and for the past twenty-one years 
 has been engaged in mercantile pursuits. 
 During a busy career Mr. Van Tuyl has writ- 
 
 RTTDOLPHTTS NICHOLAS VAN TUYL. 
 
 ten many fine poems, which have received 
 publication in the periodical press. In 1891 
 he was elected town supervisor of Pratts- 
 burgh, N.Y. In 1873 Mr. Van Tuyl was mar- 
 ried to Miss Mary H. Squires, by whom he 
 has one son — Ralph, born iu 1874. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 Now the honest " son of toil " 
 Lifting "murphies" from the soil 
 With a hook,— and annual ache 
 In the region vertol)rate,— 
 Meets the chronic smile and .• shake " 
 Of the annual candidate. 
 
 When the tubers and the ballots 
 Are all safely .stored — or sold — 
 The ache and the smile and the " shake ' 
 
 will bo 
 As a story that is told. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 A year has gone: sadly the summer smiled. 
 
 Blending its roses in memorial bloom. 
 And now the white-winged seraphs of the 
 ether wild 
 Are weaving tablets o'er thy hallowed 
 tomb. 
 
 It is a time for memories and for tears: j 
 While Life's poor altar holds her transient ' 
 blaze. 
 Thy grave shall be a Mecca through the roll- > 
 ing years. 
 And this — a Day of Days. 
 
 THE BUSTLE. 
 What, if gentle mother nature 
 Had bestowed that humpy feature? 
 How would each indignant creature 
 Her cruel fate deplore! 
 But, to custom true remaining, 
 Martj'rs all — yet uncomplaining- 
 Each a ponderous load sustaining 
 Like Atlas famed of yore; 
 These whom Fashion, " cruel master,' 
 (Most unmerciful disaster.) 
 Followed past and followed faster 
 Till their backs that burden bore; — 
 From bondage of the fashion plates 
 Lift up themselves no more. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 Why forms? Why creeds? 
 Why pomps? Why pride? 
 Why Fashion's vain display? 
 One wave of Jordan's swelling tide 
 Will wash them all away. 
 
 What matters! if the candidate 
 Be sprinkled, dipped, or poured,— 
 
 If knocking at the "Pearly Gate," 
 He only loves the Lord? 
 
 Round the death-bed of the rich man 
 Friends-in-trouble, wait to grieve; 
 
 And the lawyers wait — to gobble 
 What tlio undertakers leave. 
 
 A worthy divine of Prattsburgh 
 
 Gave the hymn out one Sunday forenoon, 
 
 And waited with martyr-like jiaticnce, 
 
 For some one to hoist uptlie tune; 
 
 Bui the "leaven" liad "soared" in the choir, 
 
 And their music was laid on the shelf,— 
 
 So the plucky D. D. tuned his lyre. 
 
 And lifted the notes for himself. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMKIUCA. 
 
 1211 
 
 WILLIAM H. CAMPBELL. 
 
 Born: Ulster Co., N.Y., Jan.1. 1825. 
 
 Ill 1845 the subject of this sketch entered the 
 liavy, and has siiico sailed to every jiart of 
 tlie globe, atul met with in;uiy stirriiifjr ad- 
 vent u res ;infl baii'-l)iia(llli escapes. lie is now 
 
 Wll^LIAM UENRV CAMTRKM.. 
 
 n resident of Algoiia, Iowa, and has four chil- 
 dren living:. Mr. Campbell is a natural poet, 
 and his poems, which would make a large vol- 
 ume, have received extensive publication in 
 ;lie periodical press, always receiving high 
 praise. 
 
 IOWA. 
 
 Young Iowa grows like a weed 
 
 Upon a fertile soil; 
 
 Her rich productions far exceed 
 
 The delta of the Nile; 
 
 111 stock and hay she holds the reins 
 
 Of many a sister state; 
 
 Tlie steam horse thunders o'er her plains 
 
 Hefore his ponderous freight. 
 
 New villages and cities grow 
 Like mushrooms in the night; 
 Grand colleges and churches show 
 'I'heir spires of snowy white; 
 
 Though Iowa Is in her youth. 
 She is a power still; 
 In enterprise slu- has a growth 
 Which ever tills the bill. 
 
 Her rich products till home demands 
 And .iswell Chicago's store; 
 They are also shipped to foreign lands, 
 Inerciisiug more and more; 
 O'er vast prairies take a view 
 WluTc emigrants repair; 
 Though they be many or but few. 
 They live in plenty there. 
 
 Her banner of benevolence, 
 
 A blessing to the world. 
 
 Is looked upon with reverence 
 
 Wherever 'tis unfurled; 
 
 T.ook o'er her broad extensive breast 
 
 A ml many domes you'll see, 
 
 NS'hich mark the spot where tbousauds rest 
 
 In homes of charity. 
 
 Through bold undaunted pioneers 
 
 Industry took its rise; 
 
 They've shown the world for many years 
 
 Their wondrous enterprise; 
 
 Yet onward is their motto still. 
 
 And upward is their aim; 
 
 Their energy is never still; 
 
 They've ripened into fame. 
 
 With poverty they've had to cope. 
 And still they'd persevere; 
 Grasslioppers ne'er could blijrht their liopc. 
 Though times seemed sad and drear* 
 Of hopper raids they yet can tell. 
 They'd hold their claims or die. 
 Though heavy showers of insects fell 
 Like hailstones from tlie sky. 
 
 This plague which scourged her western line 
 
 For years, has piissed awny ; 
 
 Where now the country teems with swine 
 
 And cattle, grain and hay. 
 
 The pall is raised, the deserts bloom. 
 
 New industries appear; 
 
 Industry drives away tlie gloom 
 
 And fills the land with cheer. 
 
 She'll soon become the brightest rose 
 
 Which blooms in all the west; 
 The tide of commerce over- flows 
 Her iron-checkered brea.-it; 
 The racers of a hundre<l lines 
 Eject their smoke and Are; 
 Dispatches frtim a thousand climes 
 Rush o'er her webs of wire. 
 
*- 
 
 1212 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKRICA. 
 
 She fills a most conspicuous place 
 
 In our great national tower, 
 
 A buttment in its mig-hty base, 
 
 A lever of its power. 
 
 In war her troops have born the brunt, 
 
 They at their posts are found, 
 
 Their guns have thundered in the front 
 
 On many a battle ground. 
 
 They stood the test on Shiloh's field. 
 
 Ten thousand she had there. 
 
 Amid the clash of blazing steel 
 
 Their colors waved in air, 
 
 For all their gallant comrades fell. 
 
 Undauntedly they stood. 
 
 Their rallying cheers were heard to swell 
 
 Upon the field of blood. 
 
 There Beauregai-d came thundering forth, 
 
 Most sullenly he scowled: 
 
 Artillery jarred the solid earth. 
 
 His shells like demons howled; 
 
 In haste the rebel giant came 
 
 With carnage in his view ; 
 
 The first to meet his deadly aim 
 
 Were her brave boys in blue. 
 
 Tho' batteries played upon their flanks. 
 Which made their columns thin; 
 Loud volleys roared along their ranks 
 .\mid the battle's din; 
 At last the rebs were forced to yield. 
 And driven from their grounds. 
 They fled like foxes from the field 
 Before the Union hounds. 
 
 They've silenced many a cannon's mouth 
 
 The Union to support; 
 
 They were a terror to the South, 
 
 A dread to every fort; 
 
 They clipped the Southern Eagle's beak; 
 
 At Gettysburg he bled; 
 
 Through Sherman's raid he got so weak 
 
 He had to lose his bead. 
 
 In points of gallantry, her men 
 
 Have never worn a stain; 
 
 They've sufifered in the prison's den 
 
 And skeletons became; 
 
 They followed Sherman to the sea 
 
 And did their duties well; 
 
 They shouted death or victory 
 
 Where noble Lyon fell. 
 
 Her daughters also need applause; 
 
 They liavo the nation's thanks; 
 They ran the harvesters and plows 
 While men were in the ranks; 
 
 In times of our great national strife. 
 They mowed and stiicked the hay. 
 They battled with the cares of life 
 And kept the wolf away. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE ROBIN. 
 Welcome, little feathered stranger; 
 
 How delightful is thy song. 
 Welcome, bird there is no danger, 
 
 1 will never treat thee wrong. 
 Time has passed and flowers have withered 
 
 Since I hoard thy song before, 
 Robin red-breast, come in welcome. 
 
 Feed around my cottage door. 
 Of all the birds thou art my choice; 
 How pleasant is thy tranquil voice. 
 
 What human heart can e'er oppose thee? 
 
 What evil hast thou done mankind? 
 No, no, my bird, I'll ne'er offend thee; 
 
 Be contented in thy mind. 
 Welcome, 'round my lonely dwelling. 
 
 Here erect thy little nest. 
 Hunt the whole plantation over; 
 
 Feed thy young upon the best. 
 Thou art a bird of liberty. 
 What freeman e'er can envy thee? 
 
 Amid the foliage thou art happy. 
 
 Skipping round from bough to bouKh; 
 And in the furrows we behold thee 
 
 When the farmer starts his plow. 
 Range the grove and plow-lands over. 
 
 Make the noxious worm thy prey. 
 Sing and chirp amid the flowers, 
 
 Cheer the pleasant summer day. 
 Robin, thou art gay and free 
 Appreciate thy liberty. 
 
 When autumn fades the fragrant flowers. 
 
 And chills the odorous atmosphere. 
 What is the reason gentle robin, 
 
 Thj' tranquil voice no more we hear? 
 But soon as Winter veils her visage 
 
 And spring unfolds the lovely flowers, 
 Again thy warbling songs salute us 
 
 From the fields and shadj' bowers. 
 Like, thee I crave a summer clime, 
 And live in summer all the time. 
 
 Gentle robin be contented. 
 
 Void of every danger rest. 
 Boys, though rude, shall ne'er oflfend thee, 
 
 Nor disturb thy little nest. 
 Stay, gentle bird I'll make thee happj'; 
 
 Never sock another clime: 
 Though winter's cold and frosty breezes 
 
 Move upon the wings of time; 
 Sociu'o lliy little ones from harm 
 And bring tlieni safely to my barn. 
 
 4i 
 
 I 
 
 *■ 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 1213 
 
 MRS. MILLIE E. HAPEMAN. 
 
 Born : England, Dec. 20, 1S5T. 
 In 18T3 this la.ly was married to Mr. yi. Y. 
 Hapeman, whii for manj' years lias been in 
 tlie employ of the C. & N. \V. R. R. For over 
 ton year.s Mrs. Hapeniati was an actress, uti- 
 der an assumed name, wliicli profession she 
 
 MRS. MILLIE E. HAPEMAN. 
 
 followed with pleasure. She is now living 
 in Baraboo, Wis., dividing her time between 
 household duties and her children, and in 
 painting and literary work. The poems of 
 Mrs. Hapeman have appeared from time to 
 time in the periodical press. 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 Let us enjoy To-day, 
 To-morrow comes too soon. 
 And e'er its light doth fade 
 In tender shades of gray, 
 We may have passed away. 
 Let us enjoy To-day, 
 To-morrow comes apace — 
 And e'er its sun goes down 
 In golden-glory rosy crown, 
 We may not sec its grace. 
 Let us enjoy To-day 
 With those we love the best, 
 For e'er the twilight shades 
 Doth darken into night. 
 We may be at rest. 
 
 NOT EYE, BUT ADAM. 
 They say that >[other Eve 
 Stole from the knowledge tree 
 An apple, and to Adam gave, 
 And bade him taste and see. 
 I think that was a slight mistake 
 Made witliout ihouglitor reason; 
 (Excuse me arguing the point. 
 But this is apple season). 
 Tilings have changed since Adam's time. 
 And deny very few cau 
 That when tlie fruit is stolen now 
 It is not by Eve but Adam. 
 And they unlike our mothers fair, 
 Tiiough to own it sore I grieve; 
 Alas', are not so generous. 
 For they give tlie core to Eve. 
 
 AIR CASTLES. 
 I sit me down in the arm-chair. 
 
 Being weary and tired to-night; 
 And give my soul up to sweet fancies 
 
 As I rest in the warm firelight. 
 
 Far away in sweet Cornwall, England, 
 Where Mount St. Michael doth stand; 
 
 A rock 'mid the foaming breakers. 
 Close to the beauteous land. 
 
 Oft in the morning early. 
 When fog covers land and see; 
 
 Hiding the distant mountains. 
 The village, the meadows, the lea. 
 
 Slowly the fog uplifted, 
 
 Lea\nng the distant fair; 
 Standing above the fog-clouds. 
 
 Like a Castle in the air. 
 
 Revealing the ivied turrets. 
 The walls begrimed and old: 
 
 The tower with its wishing-chairs. 
 Where fairies dwell, wo are told. 
 
 And the fog still slowly rising. 
 
 Reveals to mortal sight 
 The lovely green of vallej- 
 
 And mountains bathed in light. 
 
 So maybe the fairy Castles, 
 I build in the firelight gleam; 
 
 Are Castles of solid rock 
 That now but Air Castles seem. 
 
 And maybe in the distant future. 
 When the clouds have cleared away. 
 
 1 will live in the fairy Castles 
 I built at the close of day. 
 
 When the fog that obscured our vision 
 Shall have cleared fur evermore. 
 
 Revealing the light of Heaven 
 As we pass to the other shore. 
 
 -* 
 
*^ 
 
 1214 
 
 LOCAL A>JD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GRACE L. SLOCUM. 
 
 Born: Pawtucket, R. I., April 4, 1865. 
 The poems of Miss Grace L. Slocum have 
 appeared from time to time iu the Pawtucket 
 Gazette aud Ciironicle, and the periodical 
 
 1 
 
 GRACE L. SLOCTTM. 
 
 press generally. Slie received her education 
 ill her native town, and was a graduate of the 
 Hig-h School. Miss Slocum is still a resident 
 of Pawtucket, where she is very popular. 
 
 A VENETIAN ROSE. 
 Bid I dream, I wonder that night. 
 
 In Venice palazzo halls? 
 By the rliytbmof musical wavelets lulled 
 
 That rippled by marble walls. 
 While the purple pulse of the even throbbed 
 
 To nightingales' madrigals. 
 On the jasmine wreathed lattice bars, 
 
 Two round arms languorous leaned; 
 From the cloud of her tawny hair, star-like. 
 
 An ardent face on me beamed; 
 On the scented snow of her bosom warm 
 
 A pas-sionsite red Rose gleamed. 
 Then she gave me the slumbrous Rose, 
 
 Her dusky-fringed lids upswept; [hair, 
 
 As I touch her hand through her soft, warm 
 
 Her spell to my rapt soul crept; 
 And 1 laid my lips on the .scented snow 
 
 Where the red, red Rose had slept. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT REVERIE. 
 
 The frosty air is broken into mist 
 
 With bells to-night; 
 A merry, maddening melody that speeds 
 
 The Old Year's flight. 
 
 You lift deep footprints on our heart's Old ' 
 Year , 
 
 Of joy and woe; 
 Half sad, half glad we breathe a mute fan- 
 well 
 Across the snow. 
 
 Time was we built our castles too in Spain, [ 
 And dreamed our dreams. ! 
 
 See ! at the jasmined lattice there, anon 
 
 A fair face gleams! : 
 
 Once more in Moorish halls methinks I hear 
 
 The mandolin; 
 A low, sweet song floats on the perfumed air 
 
 In gardens dim. 
 
 From silver chalice, through the gloom, aye 
 me! 
 
 The moonlight falls 
 In radiant splendor o'er the snow, afar 
 
 From Moorish halls. 
 
 Why linger in the past ! the New Year dawus, 
 
 The shadows flee; 
 Trust on, hope on, thy duty do, that is 
 
 Enough for thee. 
 
 For One who holds us in the hollow of Hi? 
 hand 
 Will lead us on. 
 Till on the wind-.swept heights at last we 
 stand 
 Our guerdon won. 
 
 EXTRACT. I 
 
 Lo, an angel, ere the morning came and roll- < 
 
 ed the stone away ; 
 Thrilled the song tlirough listening ages, , 
 .' Christ the Lord is risen to-day." i 
 
 Then the angel, winged heavenward, left the i 
 
 pearly gates ajar. 
 And the walls of that bright city gleamed ; 
 
 upon my sight afar. 
 Go bring flowers this joyous Easter, typif.v- 
 
 ing thoughts divine, ^ 
 
 Build the walls of precious meaning round j 
 
 the chancel and the shrine; ; 
 
 Twine the iialni-leavcs' and the ivy's emerald 
 
 with the wine-red rose. 
 Strew the violet's gleaming sapphire where ■ 
 
 the jasmine's topaz glows; : 
 
 Let the passion-flower's purple with Its i 
 
 mystic, fervid Ijreath, , 
 
 Telling of the thorn-erowiied Savior, of His 
 
 sufTering and death. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 1215 
 
 MRS. KATIE E. PRIESTLEY. 
 
 Horn: Ho-ng-Konq, China, July U, 1867. 
 THESubjoct of this sketch is a resident of 
 Sua Jose. C;il., the wife of Ernest A. W. 
 Priestley, whom she married iu ISUO. Her 
 
 MRS. KATIE ETJPnE^riA PnrESTLET. 
 
 poems have appeared in the Australian 
 Journal, Tasmanian Mail, and various prom- 
 inent publications, and her production have 
 always received hig-h praise. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 Sweet scenes of my cliildhood ! thou hast fled. 
 Fled beyond recall with stealthy tread; 
 With joys uiiquenclied by dread vt g-rief, 
 With angel-visions ami dreams so brief; 
 The world seem'd full of bliss —all joy above 
 Embalmed in the golden mist of love. 
 Like the beams of a long summer's day the 
 
 future shines; 
 Our thoughts so jnirc, our hopes divine. 
 How soon childhood must float away — liow 
 
 soon must fade, [shade; 
 
 And silently throw on each life's foreboding' 
 Then we know not sorrow, or the luward 
 
 bitter strife. 
 That casts a cloud on the gayest life. 
 Childhood has past — yet how vainly we seek 
 
 the long-lost day; 
 Memory shall cherish it more now Childhood 
 
 has passed away! 
 
 (MHI.HOOD. 
 Ry agentlo hand 1 was ledforlh into Olrl- 
 
 hood, [stood; 
 
 It secDi'd then on the threshold of Heaven I 
 Fancy weaved garlands! my dreams shone 
 
 forth in brigliter hues. 
 
 The harp tliriU'd with harmony my life to 
 
 bodew; [cea.sc. 
 
 Little kiHw 1 tlicn its melody woul<l siMiti 
 
 Withhold its magic haml and mar the (•hr>rds 
 
 of jieace. 
 
 Soon we find each dream of (iirlhood float 
 
 and slip away — 
 We awaken but to find it lost to us for nye. 
 Let us up and break the spell of idle dreams. 
 For we hear tlie distant echo of life's rollinff 
 
 stieams; 
 riiildhood's pleasures. Girlhood's visions, 
 
 like dreams depart. 
 Then wo find each hand, each heart must 
 
 bear life's part. 
 All in sordid care must dwell and feel the 
 
 sting of p.-iin, [vain; 
 
 Fain would we shrink from it, l)ut all in 
 All must be wrestlers on life's tix)ubled se;i, 
 Batter'd, storm-tossed e'er we seek refuge in 
 
 Thee; 
 Then entranced by deluded fancies, sweet 
 
 and strange, 
 They are bu I sparkling bubbles on the stream 
 
 of flitting change. 
 
 WOMANHOOD. 
 On tlie verge of Womanhood I stand. 
 Like one wandering in ii fairy land; 
 The patli to higher destinies to nobler deeds. 
 How many fears to hinder and imped«'. 
 Like a mystic volume from sight obscured, 
 'Tis a hard yet higher part I must now en- 
 I must .-iwakeri, the dream has past, [dure; 
 Life's mystery I must now unmask. 
 A part of joy and sorrow, rest and strife. 
 Now I must make or mar the lioliest sta^e of 
 Need I no stay, no power strong. life; 
 
 No refuge, no loving hand to lead me on? 
 No pilot to guide my drifting bark, 
 Wliile journeying o'er this world so dark? 
 With a deep prayer, rt- verent and divine. 
 Through sun and storm let Thy beacon o'er 
 
 me shine. 
 I dare not walk this path )ingutd*'d, [betide; 
 Hidden dangers and fri'(|uenf sniiri's my w;iy 
 r. uide me Heavenly Faihir. Thy hand Is sure, 
 Under Thy cure from all peril secure. 
 Let my worthless >oul Thy heights attain. 
 And soar upward to the realm I ho|»e to 
 
 grain : 
 Litt my life above this earthly 8od, [God 1 
 In Woman's true footsteps lead me to my 
 
a* 
 
 1216 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 WILLIAM LEIGHTOX, JR. 
 
 Born : Cambridge, Mass., June 22, 1833. 
 This gentleman lias published several books, 
 and is well and favorably known in the liter- 
 ary world. Two dramatic poems from his pen. 
 The Sons of Godwin and At the Court of 
 
 * 
 
 WILLIAM LEIGHTON, JR. 
 
 King Edwin, are very fine; and a long poem 
 entitled Ciiange has been well and favorably 
 received. He has also written several Sliake- 
 sperian sketches and prose essays. :Mr. Leigh- 
 ton was married in 1860 to Miss Mary Jane 
 Keed, and is now living at Concord, Mass. 
 
 THE FLOWERS. 
 I see no use in them, quoth Peter Bell, 
 These wild-flowers of the woods; they bloom 
 
 and die 
 In secret nooks, where not a human eye 
 Looks on their blossoming. It were as well 
 A constant blight their opening buds befell. 
 He knows their use whose heart of sympathy 
 Throbs to the touch of nature's poesy; 
 Who hears sweet song tones and a rhythmic 
 
 swell 
 Of music in the flowers. Though no eye view 
 Its beauty, who can say the blooming vale 
 Is purposeless? or that the painted s<id 
 Hath not a use? the tints of varying liue 
 May sing to angels, as to men, a tale 
 In mystic verse of harmonies of God. 
 
 MOTHER EARTH. 
 
 Old mother earth, so great thy family. 
 
 Small is the share ol love thou giv'st to om 
 Out of thy teeming, ripe fecundity. 
 Brood after brood thy countless cbildre 
 come. 
 Lo, I, thy son, to thy maternity 
 Make my appeal! Hast thou a mother' 
 heart? 
 Or art thou callous to thy offspring's cry? 
 
 Inhuman loves perhaps thou hast no par 
 And all of tenderness to us deny. 
 
 Hath summer's sunshine no beguiling ar 
 To draw thy heart to all the host that cUng 
 To thee? Ah, mother earth, if thou dos 
 know 
 What joy the throbs of sweet affection brinf 
 Thou can'st not then life's crowning bUs 
 forego. 
 
 THE SONS OF GODWIN. 
 Life — a short day— an interval between 
 Nothing and darkness— flitting consciousnes.' 
 Vivid and startling as the lightning's flash; 
 And like that blinding glare beholding all, 
 But in an instant gone beyond recall. 
 Death — a grim phantom ever haunting life- 
 The night that swallows day— a frlghtfi 
 
 pause — 
 The black reverse of glory's shining shields 
 Life's opposite, whose emblem is the grave. 
 Lite, Death —the two conditions of onethinf 
 Whose margins meet; — which is the normi 
 
 state? 
 Which real, and which the shadow?— which i 
 
 health? , 
 
 And which disease? to-day we have the one, ; 
 To-morrow comes the other — a slave's spea:' 
 A random arrow, some disastrous chance, 
 And on this day of life, a black eclipse. 
 To him who dies it is as if the world,— : 
 
 This solid, steadfast earth, on which is writ >J 
 Forever in its sunshine,— at a touch 
 Melted again in chaos. And what then? 
 The future, grandly pictured by the churcl 
 Is it a fact or fable? Let that pass. 
 O Tostig! where thy valor now. thy strengtl' 
 Daring ambitions built above all hope? 
 Two days ago thou wast elate with life. 
 Now as inert and senseless as the sod,_ 
 Cut by the heel's sharp track. 
 And I must meet my motlier; her last wore 
 Harold, be merciful unto my son, 
 Ring in my ears; but louder than her words 
 Fate called to him. He fell, as falls a star- , 
 Across the heavens a bright and gleamiU] 
 
 track. 
 Then quenched its light forever. So to me, J 
 My soul forewarns, will come the shaft ij 
 
 death. l 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OV AMEKICA. 
 
 V2i; 
 
 ANNA J. HAMILTON. 
 
 Bokn: Louisville, Ky., ApiulSO, 1860. 
 After graduiitiiig iit the High Seliool in 
 1878, tliis lady at once accepted a position as 
 teacher in the public seliools. Snbspqiiently 
 she was promoted tuihc tuin nn ( i.iu 
 
 in the Normal school, which professors! lip 
 she still liolds. The poem.s of Miss Anna J. 
 Hamilton have appeared in the Courier- 
 Journal, Times, Truth, of Louisville, and in 
 various other prominent publications, and 
 lier verses have won for her many friends 
 and admirers iu the literary world. 
 
 *- 
 
 GO, BE FREE. 
 I loose thee — feo be free. 
 
 Dear, anxious, tortured licari; 
 Nay, I would not have tlieo sing 
 Wlien tliou liast an eatjer wing. 
 
 Longing for a life apart — 
 Go, be free. 
 I loose thee — go be free ; 
 
 Love lifts tliy prison bar. 
 Now no more for freedom long; 
 Give the world tliy happy song — 
 
 I watch thee from afar; 
 Go, be free. 
 I loose thee — go be free: 
 
 Joy shines within thine eyes; 
 
 To one who goes the world is fair — 
 The stayer feels the keen despair. 
 
 Who in lone anguish cries — 
 Go, be free. 
 
 I loose thee — go he free : 
 
 Ambitious trusting one; 
 When tired tiiy once eager wing. 
 Lost the song tliat tliou wouldst slug. 
 
 And life seems all undone — 
 < ome to me. 
 
 AT SET OF SDN. 
 Tlie soffning twilight creeps apace 
 
 Tlie after-ni(XKl of storniful day, 
 .•\iid close within its fond embrace 
 The yielding shadows pass away, 
 At set of sun. 
 The heart's ."soft twilight creeps apace, 
 
 The after-mood of storraful day; 
 And hides within its calm embrace 
 The pride that held imperial swaj'. 
 At set of sun. 
 
 A PERFECT WOMAN. 
 A sculptor to his friend did say, 
 
 "I'll lay a wager 1 can make 
 I-'rom this huge mass of shapeless claj* 
 
 A perfect woman, sans mistake." 
 • • I'll take you," was his friend's reply. 
 
 And soon the sculptor's work was done; 
 His friend gazed on with earnest eye. 
 
 And with a smile said, •• I have won." 
 •• Woman witliout a tongue, oh my, 
 
 1 think you'll own that I have won." 
 The sculptor smiling made reply, 
 
 •• A perfect woman should have uouc. 
 
 WHEN SUMMER BLOOMS. 
 The mellow land with beauty glows 
 When summer blooms o'er dale tind hill; 
 The smiling sky its brightness shows. 
 As if alike its part to All, 
 
 When Summer blooms. 
 All Laughing leaps the rippling rill 
 To kiss the earth, and kissing wake 
 To new-born hope some seedling still 
 Whose life is glad for earth's sweet soke, 
 
 When Summer blooms. 
 The merry birds from greening trees. 
 Sweet choristers of ecstasy 
 Sing classic songs, the passing breeze 
 Wafts far this HcHHling meliKiy. 
 
 When Summer bUH)ms. 
 The happy land contontment knows 
 When Summer bl<H)ms o'er dale and hill; 
 Joyous the spirit overflows, 
 A purling stream from Love's sweet still. 
 
 When Summer bl(X)ms. 
 
*- 
 
 1218 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 'TIS LIKE A BIRD. 
 'Tis like a bird, thy merry bong-, 
 
 So joyous, wild aud freel 
 Not one among' tlie woodland throng 
 
 Thy rival dares to be. 
 Thy rippling runs, thy witching- trills, 
 
 Fall light as summer rain ; 
 And to the heart new hope instills. 
 
 Life may be lived again. 
 Ah, strang-ely soft our human hearts. 
 
 And sweetlj' soft thy lay; 
 Thou knowest not what impulse starts 
 
 From thy sweet song to-day I 
 
 *- 
 
 MY LITTLE COQUETTE- 
 A heart as light as thistle down, 
 
 A tongue for merry chatter; ■ 
 A face that shows no angry frown 
 
 For aught that is the matter. 
 For tears she gives a loving smile. 
 
 For smiles her happy laughter; 
 Many a heart she doth beguile — 
 
 The pain that follows after. 
 And yet so gentle are her eyes. 
 
 So pitiful and wistful; 
 The tongue is chained with dumb surprise, 
 
 Likewise the feeling tristful. 
 With wondrous grace she wields her pow'r. 
 
 All unconscious of her art; 
 To me she is the fairest flower 
 
 In the garden of loy heart. 
 
 KISMET. 
 Kissed by the sun's benignant ray. 
 
 Waked softly from its stilly dream; 
 Adown the rugged hill-side way 
 
 There comes a merry silver stream. 
 The panorama broad to view 
 
 Shows but the sunshine's golden beam. 
 Enticing by each splendent hue 
 
 This life on which the high lights gleam. 
 It bounds o'er rock and leaps o'er crag. 
 
 And winds the grassy plains about; 
 Hurrying the idlers where they lag. 
 
 Pursuing them with gleesome shout. 
 Now singing here, now joying there. 
 
 Careless and gay as cliildisli mood; 
 Now basking in the sunlight fair. 
 
 Now kissing sorrow's needy brood. 
 Then on it rolls as though to ))rove, 
 
 It asks no other life than this — 
 There runs no stream however smooth, 
 
 But meets some fall or precipice. 
 Thougli left behind the homeward shore. 
 
 Still on and on it eager flows; 
 Gayer, happier than before. 
 
 Gathering friends wliere'er it goes. 
 
 Thus greater grown it sweeps along 
 With ne'er a touch of greater pride; 
 
 Still keeping true the under song — 
 I follow but a higher guide. 
 
 The magic rime king's frosty kiss 
 
 Vaunteth not the kingly power- 
 Disdaining such quiescent liss. 
 It passes-with the passing hour. 
 
 A river waits around the bend 
 Tiie coming stranger to embrace; 
 
 Nor is there aught that will forfend. 
 So meet the powers face to face. 
 
 Lo, straightway yields with charming grace 
 The lesser by the greater won — 
 
 Life's streams were dry, were there no trace 
 Of sweet affection's smiling sun. 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 If I could lay my burden down 
 
 And rest beneath the sod — 
 How many a tired heart hath sent 
 
 This prayer up to God! 
 With faltering feet and whitened lips 
 
 They walk life's dreary way — 
 God! not mine, Thy will be done. 
 
 They learn at last to say. 
 
 LIFE'S SON. 
 The day is filled with golden hours. 
 
 Which fly with winged feet; 
 To those who gather life's bright flowers, 
 
 With perfumed odors sweet. 
 The week is filled with gladsome days, 
 
 Which pass with rapid stride; 
 To those who tread life's pleasant ways. 
 
 And rarely turn aside. 
 The month is filled with precious weeks. 
 
 Which ail too quickly go; 
 To those who bask in fortune's freaks, 
 
 And know no tale of woe. 
 The year is filled with months so bright. 
 
 Which shine with hopeful glow; 
 To those who ne'er misfortune's blight 
 
 Have learned to feel and know. 
 But ah ! the years are filled with care. 
 
 Passing with timely tread; 
 To those who w.-iit witli silver hair. 
 
 Whoso youth long since hath sped. 
 Yet round and round the wheel of years 
 
 Turns on with even turn. 
 Passed is the time in prayer. In tears, 
 
 That brings us to our urn. 
 O! restless wheel of years, turn on: 
 
 Tliough in the gloom to-day. 
 To-morrow's turn will bring the dawn 
 
 To briglit the darksome way. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAIi AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1219 
 
 * 
 
 JOHN MALCOM HARLOW. 
 
 Born: Charleston, III., Jan. 25, 1868. 
 After graduating: Mr. Harlow studied law 
 and was admitted to the bar in 1889. Tliis 
 gentleiuau has taught school six years, is a 
 member of the school board aud a notary 
 public. The poems of Mr. Harlow have ap- 
 
 JOHN MALCOM HARLOW. 
 
 peared quite extensively in the periodical 
 press of his native state. He is the author 
 of a small volume of poems, entitled The 
 Oriole, published in 1890, which has been very 
 favorably received. 
 
 A TEACHER'S MEMENTO. 
 'Tis twelve o'clock, the moon shines bright. 
 
 As in my room T sit. 
 And pondering o'er the law to-night. 
 
 O'er " Blackstone " my brows are knit. 
 My wearied eyes a moment rest. 
 
 Now the volume ope anew. 
 When a fond memento in its place, 
 
 Now breaks upon my view. 
 Two four-leaved clovers do I see ; 
 
 What do they bring to mind? 
 A model form, a winning smile. 
 
 One who was always kind. 
 Tliey bring back thoughts of pleasant days, 
 
 Dear children— friends of mine; 
 Some now are found in prosperous ways. 
 
 And one has crossed death's line. 
 They bring back days of sunshine, 
 
 For all earth was summer then; 
 The skies were blue, sweet birds aud flowers 
 
 Were cheering glade and glen. 
 They bring thoughts of a school I taught. 
 
 Of work too true to last. 
 
 Of battles for truth so bravely fought. 
 
 Of bread on waters cast. 
 Go with me back eighteen long months; 
 
 Hope, love, joy, memory combine, 
 Lovo sometimes touched with saddened tears, 
 
 Hope with bright thoughts sublime; 
 Joy for the future coming year. 
 
 For the pleasant days of fall; [past, 
 
 And the blending of thoughts of time now 
 
 E'en seems to brighten all. 
 
 It seems as though I view the past. 
 
 And those happj' children, dear; 
 I see them glad and happy. 
 
 Yet I brush away a tear. 
 It seems as though 1 do go back, 
 
 I live those biight days over. 
 Away is rolled the scroll of time; 
 
 One plucks a four-leaved clover. 
 And coming lightly to my desk. 
 
 The trophy gives to me, 
 "Say, Mister, you may keep this; 
 
 'Tis curious, don't you see? " 
 1 kept it, yes, I kept it. 
 
 And I still shall keep it, dear. 
 Till the tune of a song I love so well 
 
 Shall fall upon my ear. 
 It may be many a long, long year 
 
 Ere I hear that gentle song; 
 But I know the titue is coming. 
 
 Friends, 1 believe 'twill not be long. 
 That little band of children 
 
 I lead through one bright year. 
 Forever down my walk of life. 
 
 Their faces will bo dear. 
 
 But one has gone and left me, 
 
 I shall never teach her more; 
 Jesus called her 'cross the crystal sea, 
 
 On to a golden shore. 
 So my faithful school can never meet 
 
 As it did in days now tlown. 
 But when we meet together now. 
 
 Dear children, one is gone. 
 My pupils are successful. 
 
 Are climbing high in life. 
 Arc gaining fame and fortune 
 
 In this surging sea of strife; 
 Are gaining honor and renown 
 
 On every hand, I see. 
 Are gaining friends and happy homes, 
 
 And happy destiny. 
 And one has gained eternal joy. 
 
 And friends that naught can sever; 
 And lias gone away to live in heaven 
 
 Forever and forever. 
 And when my work on earth is done. 
 
 My cares and sorrows i)ver; 
 I shall see bright angol-flngers cliisp 
 
 My cherished four-leaved clover. 
 
*- 
 
 1220 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 FREDERIC W. PANGBORN. 
 
 Born: St. Albans, Vt., March 7, 1855. 
 For fifteen years Mr. Pangborn has been 
 connected with the Evening Journal of Jer- 
 sey City, N. J., of which publication he is the 
 managing: editor. From a busy life he has 
 had liitle time at his disposal to court the 
 
 FREDERIC W. PANGBORN. 
 
 muse, yet over a hundred very fine poems 
 have appeared from his pen from time to 
 time in the daily and weekly papers of the 
 East, from which they have been extensively 
 copied by the periodical press generally. Mr. 
 Pangborn was married in 1877 to Miss M. C. 
 Clark of Jersey City, and has two sons — 
 Frederic Werden, born in 1878; and Cedric 
 Douglass, born in 1889. 
 
 LOVE'S DAWNING. 
 Oh blissful hour! Oh moment all too sweet, 
 Wlien loving hearts in first comm union meet ! 
 
 Ah, moment all too dear! 
 Ye witless birds that wanton in the trees, 
 Thou mellow, murmuring, merry evening 
 breeze. 
 
 Be silent all. 
 
 Nor break the thrall, 
 Nor thought of other thing recall; — 
 
 My love is near. 
 Oh happy dawn! Oh golden glorious morn, 
 When souls unite and sweet young love is 
 
 Away all doubt and fear ! [born ! 
 
 Ye whispering voices of the flowery lea, 
 Be hushed and quiet; sweetly silent be 
 
 Ye sounds that dwell 
 
 In wood and dell; 
 Nor break the stillness of the blissful spell; 
 
 My love is near. 
 
 ONLY. 
 Only a spar, a storm-shattered spar, 
 
 Nothing more; 
 High on the beach thrown by the waves 
 
 To the shore. 
 Only a man, gone to his grave 
 
 'Neath the deep; 
 Only a soul gone to its last 
 
 Peaceful sleep. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A HERO. 
 "Dead as his past of duty " — 'tis enough; 
 What finer eulogy ? All the boast 
 Of pomp and glory seems but idle breath 
 Beside the quiet dignity of death; 
 Where death and duty blend — solution most 
 Complete of all life's problems — 'tis enough. 
 Dead — and as his past. 
 
 GOD BLESS THE GFNTLE SLEEPER. 
 
 God bless thee, gentle sleeper, 
 Thy lover's instinct knows 
 Wliat dreams beguile the hours 
 That mark thy soft repose. 
 Upon thy precious tresses my folded hands 
 
 Hay, 
 Praying that God may keep thee from grief 
 and pain alway. 
 Thine eyes, soft slumber-laden. 
 Though veiled from siglit of mine; 
 Yet feel the passion in the gaze 
 Now yearning unto thine. [I lay, 
 
 Soft on their marble portals my lightest kiss 
 Grateful that Heaven doth keep them honest 
 and pure alway. 
 Sweet wife, thy gentle bosom 
 Deep heaving, true doth tell 
 For whom thy breast is waiting. 
 Whose image there doth dwell. 
 Kneeling beside thy throbbing heart, my 
 
 thankful soul dotli pray; 
 Knowing that thou will keep it tender and 
 true alway. 
 Soul of my soul, 
 Dear all in all; 
 It seemeth not mete this life 
 Sliould some-day part the truly wed, 
 The husband and the wife. 
 God grant that in the gloaming of earth's 
 
 ephemeral day. 
 Our souls go forth together,— one love one 
 life alway. 
 
 *- 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 lli21 
 
 HUDSON HARLAN. 
 
 Born: Ci.ark Co., III., Sept. 14, 1857. 
 After sraduating-at tho Urbana University 
 of Oliio, Mr. Hudson Harlan (■tifr:i<;ed in 
 
 HUDSON HARLAN. 
 
 teaching, and is now a resident of Ogallah, 
 Kansas. His poems have occasionally ap- 
 peared in the periodical press. 
 
 SELECTED FROM AN EPIC. 
 
 Oft we would to the sages these queries pro- 
 pound. 
 
 Where may happiness, freedom and wisdom 
 be found? 
 
 Not alone this we ask, but we truly would 
 know 
 
 What the substance as well as the shadow 
 would show. 
 
 'Twas a linnet that sang, and its song was of 
 love. 
 
 Only learned at that Infinite fountain above, 
 
 Welling up as a spring from a passionate 
 heart [art. 
 
 Overflowing with joy, which alike with no 
 
 Not a Handel, nor Mozart its sweet sym- 
 phony 
 
 Might repeat. Now the notes were the 
 sound of the free 
 
 Gentle winds, or the rippling of waves as 
 they How 
 
 Over pebbles, at first in a strain soft and 
 
 low. 
 Then a chorus of loud "Hallelujahs." Its 
 
 song 
 Was the tree and the nest, was its mate and 
 
 its young; 
 While the throng of its blessings It poured 
 
 from the tree. 
 Where it sat as it sang, and was liappy and 
 
 free. 
 But a fowler in passing its sweetness has 
 
 heard. 
 And by spreading his net soon had ca|)tured 
 
 the bird. 
 It is carried away into lands not its own. 
 And is placed in a cage, but a prison alono. 
 All its music is liusbed. From its tremulous 
 
 throat 
 There issues no sound save a sorrowful note. 
 For it pines in tho cage for the nest and the 
 
 tree. 
 Where so often it sang and was hajtpy and 
 
 free. 
 But by chance It escapes while the door is 
 
 ajar. 
 And in freedom once more it may wander 
 
 afar. 
 O how quickly it soars, with a heart that is 
 
 light. 
 But, alas! brief and short is its journeying 
 
 flight: 
 For its pinions, unused, lose the power of 
 
 yore. 
 And dangers dire that it knew not before; 
 Till frightened and weary, it fain would 
 
 alight 
 By the door of the cage at the coming of 
 
 night. 
 
 Is it freedom, I ask you; pray tell me. O 
 
 sage. 
 When the bird of its own will returns to its 
 
 cage? 
 Or why should it seek when it wanders once 
 
 more 
 For the place that was only a prison before? 
 
 Is it not thus in life where our lot may be 
 
 cast. 
 Where we grieve for the pleasures and 
 
 friends of the past. 
 Until time weaves around us a softening 
 
 spell, 
 That our answer must be, •• It Is well, it is 
 
 well," 
 Though we cannot evade the unchanging 
 
 decree. 
 Yet in wisdom resigned we are happy and 
 
 free. 
 
 * 
 
5"- 
 
 1222 
 
 LOCAl- AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 HON. W. L. WILEY. 
 
 Bokn: Saxton's River, Vt., 1830. 
 During an active business career Mr. Wilej' 
 has found time to write many commendable 
 poems, wbicli liave appeared in the Chicago 
 
 HON. WILLIAM LORENZO WILEY. 
 
 Current, Standard, and the periodical press 
 generally. He is a retired banker, residing 
 at Galva, 111., and has but one son living, 
 Jesse L., who was born in 1868. 
 
 THE HUSBAND'S GRIEF. 
 He walked alone o'er the furrow of life 
 
 From the day of that sad event. 
 And a mournful shade encircled his brow 
 
 Into whatever paths he went. 
 
 At home or abroad 'twas ever the same; 
 
 One lingering look of despair 
 Was an index marked of that inward grief 
 
 Too great for a mortal to share. 
 
 As the cart with its sheaves pressed down to 
 earth 
 
 Staggers over the beaten way. 
 The heart thus burdened can only find rest 
 
 In a life of eternal day. 
 
 *■ 
 
 SUNSET. 
 The luminous light of crimson and gold 
 Its tenuous rays with beauty unfold 
 
 Athwart the western sky; 
 The crescent moon, in her wanderings there, 
 Displayed in ethereal robes so rare, 
 
 Modestly rides on high. 
 
 As the curtain of night falls gently down. 
 Appear numerous worlds of less renown, 
 
 Adding their lustrous hue; 
 While the flaming girdle of Vega lies 
 Far up the vaulted belfry of the skies, 
 
 And earth sleeps, bathed in dew. 
 
 So the lights and shadows of life appear; 
 The crimson and gold, the sombre and drear, 
 
 Meet in love fraternal, 
 Gliding as quickly as the shadows flee. 
 Over the waves of the ultimate sea. 
 
 Unto hills eternal. 
 
 THE ABSENT ONE. 
 The heart that beats in sympathy 
 
 With kindred far and near 
 Is one we all should prize 
 
 And ever hold most dear. 
 
 The breath that lisps in gentle strains 
 
 The fervor of the soul 
 Will often sigh for those in love 
 
 As years shall onward roll. 
 
 If not around the social board, 
 Our presence each can spare; 
 
 There is a place we all can meet — 
 At Mercy's seat in prayer. 
 
 To Him who holds us by his will, 
 In language pure and sweet, 
 
 Pray we, may all his children be 
 One family complete. 
 
 THOU ART MY FRIEND. 
 Thou art my friend, ray comfort all, 
 
 Prostrate before thee. Lord, I fall; 
 In thee alone I find relief 
 
 To calm my mind, assuage my grief. 
 
 Thou art my friend; to thee I'll cling; 
 
 To thee my wounded spirit bring 
 And daily seek supplies of grace — 
 
 On thee my best affections place. 
 
 Thou art my friend; O God to thee 
 With all my hopes and sorrovt-s flee; 
 
 In all my thoughts thy goodness share; 
 On thee I call in constant prayer. 
 
 Thou art my friend; I love thee still; 
 
 Thy holy care my soul doth fill; 
 Thy hand alone 'twill guide my way 
 
 To yonder realms of endless day. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1223 
 
 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN. 
 
 Born; Louisville, Ky., Mahch 23, 1865. 
 This poet and writer is the author of four 
 volumes, and he is fast jiaitiiiig- a national 
 reputation. Lyrics and Idjis, puhlislied in 
 IS'.H). is a beautiful voluinonf about two iiuii- 
 
 MADISON JITLIUS CAWEIN. 
 
 dred pages of his choicest poems, which has 
 been favorably received by press and public. 
 By profession Mr. Cawein is an accountant, 
 and is still a resident of his native city. 
 
 THE OLD FARM. 
 Dormered and verandaed cool. 
 
 Locust-girdled on tlie hill. 
 Stained with weather-wear and full 
 
 Of weird whispers, at the will 
 Of the sad winds' rise and lull; 
 I remember, stood it there 
 
 Brown above the woodland deep 
 In a scent of lavender. 
 
 With slow shadows locked in sleep. 
 Or the warm hght every wliere. 
 I remember how the spring, 
 
 Liberal lapped, bewildered its 
 Squares of orchard murmuring; 
 
 Kissed with budded pufifs and bits. 
 Where the wood-thrush came to sing. 
 Barefoot so at first she trod, 
 
 A pale beggar maid, adown 
 The quaint quiet, till the god 
 
 With the seen sun for a crown 
 And the firmament for rod. 
 
 Graced her nobly, %vedding her — 
 
 Her Coplictua; and so 
 All the hill, one breathing blur. 
 
 Burst in blossom; peachy blow; 
 Wonder-stricken whitene.ss pure. 
 Seckel, blackheart, palpitant 
 
 Rained their bleaching strays; and white 
 Bulged the damson bent a-slaul; 
 
 Russet-tree and romanite 
 Seemed beneatli deep drifts to pant. 
 And it stood there, brown and gray. 
 
 In the bee-boom and the bloom. 
 In the murmur and the day. 
 
 In the passion and perfume. 
 Grave as age among the gay. 
 Good with laughter romped the clear 
 
 Boyish voices 'round its walls; 
 Iliire wild-roses were the dear 
 
 Girlish faces in its halls. 
 Music-haunted year to year. 
 Far before it meadows full 
 
 Of green pennyroyal sank; 
 Clover dots like bits of wool 
 
 Pinched from lambs; and now a bank 
 Bright of color; and the cool 
 
 Brown-blue shadows undefined 
 Of the clouds rolled overhead — 
 
 Curdled mists that kept the wind 
 Fresh with rain and fluting shed 
 
 Song among the valleys kind. 
 
 Where in mint and gipsy-lily 
 
 Ran the rocky brixik away; 
 Musical among the hilly 
 
 Solitudes its flashing spraj-. 
 Sunlight-soft or forest-stilly. 
 
 Buried in thick sassafras. 
 
 Half-way up the copsy hill. 
 Moved some cow-bells' muffled brass; 
 
 And the ruined water-mill 
 Loomed half-hid in cane and grass. 
 
 I remember; stands it yet • 
 
 On the hilltop, in the musk 
 Of damp meads, while violet 
 
 Deepens all the dreaming dusk 
 Droning over? holy wet. 
 
 With the slightest dew? while low 
 One long tear of .scarlet gashes. 
 
 Tattered, the broad primrose glow 
 Westward, and in weakest splashes 
 
 Lilac stars the heavens sow? 
 
 Sleeps it still among its roses 
 
 Dewy yellow, while the choir 
 Of the lonesome uisects dozes? 
 
 And the white moon drifting hip^her 
 Brightens and tlie darkness closes — 
 Sleeps it still among its roses? 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1224 LOCAL AND NATIONAL 
 
 POETS OF A3IERICA, 
 
 IDEAL DIVINATION. 
 
 Amaranths are her eyes; 
 
 How I have thought of lier. 
 Her I have never seen ! — 
 Now from a raying- air 
 
 And her hair, shadowy 
 Curlings of scent; and she 
 Breathes at my heart and sighs. 
 
 She, lilse a romance queen, 
 
 If with its slaves I bear 
 
 Flowers a face serene. 
 
 All of life's tyranny,— 
 
 Kadiant in raven hair. 
 
 Worm for the worm,— I caie 
 
 Now in a balsam scent 
 
 Naught if my spirit be 
 
 Laughs from the stars tliat g-leam; 
 Naked and redolent, 
 
 Her's in eternity — 
 
 Her's who did make it dare. 
 
 Bends to nie breast of beam. 
 
 
 Eyes that will make nie dream. 
 
 OVERSEAS. 
 
 Throat that the dimples dent. 
 
 When fall winds morns with mist, it seems. 
 
 Love is all vain to me 
 So: and as dust severe, 
 Faith: and a barren tree. 
 Truth: and a bitter tear. 
 
 In soul I am a part of it; 
 Libratingon the humid beams, 
 A form of frost, I float and flit 
 
 From dreams to dreams. . . . 
 
 Joy: for I wait and bear 
 
 An old chateau sleeps 'mid the hills 
 
 Her who can never be. 
 
 Of France; an avenue of sorbs 
 
 Living- we learn to know 
 Life is not worth its pain; 
 
 Conceals it; drifts of daffodils 
 Bloom by a scutcheoned gate with barbs 
 
 Living we find a woe 
 
 Like iron bills. 
 
 Under each joy we gain; 
 
 I pass the gate unquestioned, yet 
 
 Fardled of hope we strain 
 
 I feel announced. Broad holm-oaks make 
 
 Whither no hope may know 
 
 Dark pools of restless violet. 
 
 Life is too credulous 
 
 Between thick bramble banks a lake — 
 
 Of Time who beckons on. 
 
 As in a net 
 
 Memory still serves us thus — 
 
 The tangled scales twist— silvers glad. 
 
 Gauging- the coming dawn 
 
 Gray, mossy turrets swell above 
 
 By a day dead and gone. 
 
 The feathering foliage. Leafy clad 
 
 Day that's a part of us. 
 
 Rise ivied walls. A spot for love. 
 
 Soul — of life's sins so mocked. 
 
 The garden sad. 
 
 Clayed in the flesh and held. 
 
 Lean, angular windows, awkward seen 
 
 Ever rebellion rocked. 
 
 From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged. 
 
 Battling, forever quelled. 
 
 Beam broadly on the nectarine 
 
 Yearning on heaven spelled 
 
 Espaliered and the peach-tree, wedged 
 
 Over of stars — lies locked 
 
 Twixt drifts of green. 
 
 Supine where torrents pour 
 
 Large butterflies, each with a face 
 
 Hellward; on crags that high. 
 
 Of Faery on its wings, recline — 
 
 Scarred of the thunder, gore 
 
 Beheaded pansies blown that chase 
 
 Heaven;, the vulture's eye 
 
 Each other — down the shade and shine 
 
 Swims, and the harpies' cry 
 
 Boughs interlace. 
 
 Clangs through the ocean's roar. 
 
 And roses! roses soft as vair. 
 
 Notes of seolian light 
 
 Glorying o'er statues and the old 
 
 Calling it hears her lips: 
 
 Brass dial; Pompadours that wear 
 
 Scorched by her burning white 
 
 Their royalty of purple and gold 
 
 Arms and lier armored hips. 
 
 With saucy air. 
 
 Slimy each monster slips 
 
 Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe 
 
 Back to its native night. 
 
 The perfume of her touch; her gloves. 
 
 Kules she some brighter star? 
 
 Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; 
 
 Inviolable queen 
 
 Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves. 
 
 Of wliat the destinies are? 
 
 Lie there beneath 
 
 She with her light unseen 
 Leading my life; a sheen 
 
 A bank of eglantines that heaps 
 A sunny blondness. Naive-eyed, 
 
 Loftier than beauty far. 
 
 With lips as suave as they, she sleeps, 
 
 Oh! in my dreams she lies 
 
 The romance by her open wide 
 
 With me and fondles me: 
 
 O'er which she weeps. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 » 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1226 
 
 MRS. RACHEL B. Rx\Y. 
 
 Born: Asdehson Co., Ky., Jan. 3L1849. 
 For flftpoa years this lady taujrlit school. In 
 1878 she niarriod Judgo E. R. Kay, and now 
 acts as secrot;iry in lier liiisbaiid's law oflice 
 atEuroUa SpiiiiLr^, Ai'l;. Tin- po.iii^ i.i" Mr-^. 
 I{;iy havi.' apprai'i'il i:i \\'i;iiai/> '»\.'i:^ ■ i 
 
 MliS. KACIIEL liEAZLKV H\Y. 
 
 Athens, Ga.; St. Louis Journal of Agricul- 
 ture; American Baptist, of St. Louis, Mo.; 
 and many other prominent publications. 
 She is the autlior of nearly two hundred 
 poems, which have always received the high- 
 est praise. 
 
 LIFE'S TURNINGS. 
 I saw the laugrhing- baby. 
 
 With sparkHng- eyes of blue; 
 Witli curling-, yellow ringlets. 
 
 And cheeks of rosy hue — 
 Climb up and kiss his mother 
 
 And lay his little head 
 To rest upon her bosom — 
 
 The baby's safest bed. 
 
 Again I saw the baby 
 
 Wlien he almost was a man. 
 Stoop down and say to mother, 
 
 "Now kiss me wliile you can; 
 I've something nice to tell you." 
 
 His mother's his best friend, 
 If he can't tell her his secrets. 
 
 On whom can he depend? 
 
 I saw the self-sanio baby 
 
 When his life was in its prime — 
 Before his brow was furrowed 
 
 By the hand of Father Time; 
 On his arm was feebly leaning 
 
 Hisdi'ur motlier, still his friend, 
 But their lives had liad a turning. 
 
 She on hitn now must depend. 
 
 WHEN I GROW OLD. 
 He says it doesn't matter 
 
 If my hair is turning gray; 
 That I'll always be as handsome 
 
 As I am just now, to-day. 
 
 He tells me that he loves me, 
 And calls me good and kind; 
 
 He says a truer, better heart. 
 He ne'er on earth could find. 
 
 I know it isn't flattery, 
 
 Or an idle, silly song; 
 'Tis not just foolish talking. 
 
 For he's told me this too long. 
 
 'Tis love from out a fountain — 
 From a heart that'll ne'er grow cold; 
 
 Oh! what a bliss in knowing, 
 I'll be loved when I grow old. 
 
 LIFE. 
 Stretched out wide before us 
 
 Is a broad and mighty sea; 
 It is bounded first by Time. 
 
 By the next — Eternity. 
 And upon its crested waters float 
 The shapely forms of many a boat 
 
 Each boat should have an anchor 
 
 To prevent its being lost. 
 When tlie billows roll around it. 
 
 And it is so tempest tossed; 
 The cable should Ih' gixid and strong - 
 Plenty of cord to make it long. 
 
 When the sun is shining brightly 
 And the craft does steady float. 
 
 Then the anchor rests securely 
 On the dtck of every lx)at ; 
 
 But when the raging billows roll. 
 
 The anchor should the boatcontruL 
 
 This rolling sea before us 
 
 Is the mighty sea of Life; 
 Man is the boat upon it.. 
 
 And the anchor is his wife; 
 The cable tliat unites tlie I wo — 
 A cord of love and should be true. 
 
9 
 
 1226 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 EUREKA AFTER NIGHT. 
 From the top of yonder hill, 
 With the night-ail- crisp and chill; 
 And the clouds all blown away 
 Just as evening closed the day ; 
 While the stars were shining- bright, 
 And the moon was out of sight, 
 I saw Eureka, wrapped in night. 
 
 The drum had stopped its thumping play, 
 
 The noise of wheels had died away; 
 
 The footman's daily busy rush 
 
 As night came on had whispered " hush," 
 
 And Nature with repose so deep 
 
 Had rocked the city fast asleep 
 
 With only stars her watch to keep. 
 
 Lovely city of the hills. 
 Full of sparkling water rills; 
 Water filling manj' a cup, 
 Caught for invalids to sup; 
 Purest water, cold and chill. 
 Trickling from the rocky hill 
 In the city calm and still. 
 
 Eureka is a lovely sight, 
 
 With her lights all shining bright; 
 
 Clothed in darkness still and deep, 
 
 In her cradle fast asleep; 
 
 With the night-air soft and still. 
 
 And the music of the rill 
 
 From the top of j'onder hill. 
 
 THE OLD PIANO. 
 You say they want it, really? it was the best 
 
 you know. 
 My dear, good, old piano, I regret to see it 
 
 go; 
 Its stood there in the corner, where its stan- 
 
 ingnow so long; 
 And it always has been ready when we cared 
 
 to have a song. 
 
 I know its strings are rusty and a gool deal 
 
 out of tune; 
 How long you say I've had it? Oh, for many 
 
 and many a June; 
 Its always been well cared for,I fondly loved 
 
 it so, 
 My dear, good, old piano, I regret to see it 
 
 go. 
 
 Its tune is just the sweetest that I know I 
 
 ever heard. 
 And it has a little tremor like the voice of a 
 
 bird; 
 If I ever felt quite lonely, or in other words, 
 
 was blue, 
 I'd sit down close beside it and play a tune 
 
 for you. 
 
 Would that revive me? yes, indeed, there 
 
 joy in everj' strain. 
 And almost before I'd know it, I would I 
 
 myself again ; \ 
 
 That blessed old piano's been the solace ( , 
 
 my heart. 
 But the best of friends, they tell me, are tl 
 
 surest doomed to part. I 
 
 i 
 Then the children always loved it, it was Ne ! 
 
 lie's chief delight | 
 
 To stand beside her mother, dearest chill 
 
 with eyes so bright, | 
 
 And watch my nimble fingers as they can ■ 
 
 lessly would stroll, ; 
 
 Hunting music on the keyboard that woul 
 
 almost fairly roll. ; 
 
 I 
 
 And then you know they left us, one by on ; 
 
 as children do. 
 And the house was still and lonely, just mj • 
 
 self at home and you; 
 And you'd sit down close beside me, as I trie 
 
 and tried each day 
 To play some lively pieces that would driv 
 
 the gloom away. 
 
 My fingers now are stiffened with age an 
 
 care and pain. 
 They'll never be as limber as they used to b 
 
 again; 
 Its keys are turning yellow, its face is not a 
 
 bright. 
 As when you brought it home to me tba 
 
 lovely summer night. 
 
 You had better let them have it, it will be o 
 
 use that way. 
 And as it is, its rusting more and more ever. : 
 
 day; 
 Though I know I'll never use it, I regret 1 1 
 see it go, 1 
 
 The dear, good, old piano I have always love* j 
 
 it so. i 
 
 1 
 And when they come to get it and move 1; 
 
 from the wall, • j 
 
 I'll have a table ready, bring the one in fron | 
 
 the hall; | 
 
 Its large, you know, and nearer will fill thi 
 
 vacant space. 
 But there's not a piece of furniture cantaki 
 
 its dear old place. 
 
 We both will miss it sadly because I liked ti ; 
 
 play. 
 And because you liked to listen to my musii 
 
 every day ; 
 We both will feel the absence of its sweet am 
 
 joyous tone, 
 'Twill seem as if a member of the family i 
 
 gone. 
 
 * 
 
H)( AL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMEIUCA. 
 
 11 
 
 MARCUS B. ALLMOND, A. M. 
 
 Born: Stanaudsville, Va., Al'o. 17, 1851. 
 At the agre of twenty-one tlie siibjectof this 
 sketch became principal of the Paris, Mo., 
 High Scliool, witli si.v assistants and 372 
 pupils. The followiiisr j-ear he returned to 
 the University of Virginia and completed a 
 
 MARCTTS BLAKEV ALLMOND, A. M. 
 
 four years' course, receiving' high honors 
 and a fifty -dollar gold medal for the best ar- 
 ticle in the college magazine. This great 
 scholar for many years was professor of an- 
 cient languages in the Male High School of 
 Louisville, Ky., and is now head-master of 
 the University School of that city. He mar- 
 ried Miss Virginia C. Meade, a teacher and 
 the real heroine of Prof. AUmond's famous 
 poem Estelle, a beautiful story in verse of 
 some fifty pages, which wa.s pulilished in 
 1884,in book-form, together with other poems, 
 and has had a very large sale. His next 
 work was Agricola, an Easter Idyl; and has 
 since published several educational works of 
 acknowledged excellence. Prof. AUniond has 
 several other works of prose and verse that 
 will soon appear in book-form, notably Fair- 
 fax, My Lord; Threnodies; Miscellaneous 
 Poems; and a volume of Sketches and Short 
 Stories. His family consists of an accom- 
 plished wife, two little sons and one daughter. 
 
 A CONSOLATION. 
 If the bird but sing its sweetest. 
 
 While it poises on the wing; 
 If the bud IS the complctest 
 
 In the rosy wreath of Spring; 
 If the dewdrop'.s pearly beauty 
 
 Gives new joy unto the leaf. 
 This is life, for tlii.s is duty; 
 
 This is life, though it be brief. 
 In a thousand tltousand niornjws. 
 
 Head it through your blinding tears; 
 Twenty winters with their sorrows 
 
 Are a weary length of years; 
 Twenty summers with their flowers, 
 
 With their birds and bees and braes; 
 Are but one of all the lioiirs 
 
 In the shortest of the days. 
 
 WORK AND WAIT. 
 Would you know the golden secret that has 
 
 made so many groat? 
 Would you rise from out a lowly to .i most 
 
 exalted state? 
 Listen and I'll tell you, friend, how — you 
 
 must work and you must wait. 
 ( 'iioose some good road you would follow anil 
 
 then keep it to the end, 
 I'nrebuffed by all the great world, be it foe 
 
 or be it friend ; 
 Work and wait, and rich fruition on your la- 
 bors will attend. 
 There is courage in the leaping to the can- 
 non's deadly roar — 
 There is manhoo<l in the meeting whom 
 
 you've never met before. 
 And upon the field of battle proving victor 
 
 yet once more. 
 But who works and working waits for the 
 
 dawn in its due time. 
 Keeps his heart all pure and sweet, and his 
 
 footsteps set to rhyme. 
 Shows a stouter soul within andacounigo 
 
 more sublime. 
 So, my friend, if you would fashion your own 
 
 life to a good fate. 
 There's a les^son you should hei-d well ore 
 
 that lesson bo too late; 
 You must trust toGml alM)ve you— you must 
 
 work and you must wait. 
 
 QUATRAINS. 
 Men are their motives, not their deeds; 
 
 The seeming gixxl Is ill. 
 The seeming ill. 'mid woes and wc«ls 
 
 May be the best g»H)d still. 
 To the pure all things are pure. 
 
 They act in light of day; 
 With heart aright and ennscieneo bright 
 
 They care not what men say. 
 
1228 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 HONOR. 
 Boys, Honor, wear it, bear it, 
 
 Ever keep it as your own ; 
 Deem yourselves a richer treasure 
 
 Tlian a king's bejeweled throne. 
 Be ye masters of yourselves, sirs, 
 
 Be ye slaves but to your will; 
 Love the right, and dare to do it — 
 
 Thwarted once, attempt it still. 
 Bow not to the tyrant. Lucre, 
 
 Look him firmly in tlie eye. 
 Say '• Mine honor is mine honor, 
 
 For mine honor I will die." 
 What is life without the knowledge 
 
 That our name is free from stain? 
 What's a soul that counteth dollars 
 
 All in life that we must gain? 
 Oh ! our fathers in this Southland 
 
 Long have loved the name thej- won; 
 Long have kept it pure and stainless 
 
 Under gleam of brightest sun. 
 Rich or poor, sirs, bond and freemen. 
 
 They have held the riglit, the right; 
 Fought the money-monster bravely 
 
 In a free-hand, open fight. 
 But the sinuous, skulking craven 
 
 Gathers new strength from the crj' 
 Of his henchmen who are shouting 
 
 False names to the vaulted sky. 
 Hear the acclaim, " Hail the New South !" 
 
 " Hail the saw-mill and the loom ! " 
 " Hail the arts of money-making 
 
 That will make our deserts bloom ! " 
 But a low voice, sweet and gentle. 
 
 Whispers at our side and says: 
 Fear the entrance of deception. 
 
 Fear shrewd TrafiBc's dubious ways; 
 Brother is against his brother, 
 
 Man against his fellow-man. 
 We are drifting further, further. 
 
 From the great World-muker's plan. 
 Money has but money's value. 
 
 Virtue is not bought or sold. 
 And a nation's wealth is reckoned 
 
 From her people, not her gold. 
 Gold is but a means, my brothers; 
 
 Life's sweet purpose understood 
 Is that man shall work with man for 
 
 Universal fellowhood; 
 And a cup of water given 
 
 To the needy, out of sight. 
 Shall be braver than to perish 
 
 In the forefront of the fight; 
 Shall be greater than the building 
 
 Of proud mansions towering high. 
 Every brick of which entombs 
 
 A widow's wail or orphan's sigh. 
 
 Better is the heart that knowetli 
 
 But the grace of a good deed 
 Than the owner of wide acres 
 
 Gathered by the hand of greed; 
 Than the wearer of high titles 
 
 That belie the wearer's heart; 
 Than the venal-hearted creature 
 
 Whose success is skulking art. 
 Lying is not all in words, sirs, 
 
 Acted lies are worse than those. 
 And a half lie is still stronger 
 
 For the truth it may enclose. 
 Boys, Honor, wear it, bear it. 
 
 Ever keep it as your own. 
 Deem yourselves a richer treasure 
 
 Than a king's bejeweled throne. 
 Be ye masters of yourselves, sirs. 
 
 Be ye slaves but to j-our will; 
 Love the right and dare to do it — 
 
 Thwarted once, attempt it still. 
 Bow not to the tyrant. Lucre, 
 
 Look him firmly in tlie eye. 
 Say "Mine honor is mine honor, 
 
 For mine honor I will die." 
 Money has but money's value. 
 
 Virtue is not bought or sold; 
 And a nation's wealth is reckoned 
 
 From her people, not her gold. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM ..ESTELLE." 
 Ah, well! those lashes, thej' are long 
 
 And cast their shadows o'er the blue 
 That now lies hidden (am I wrong? ) 
 
 Beneath those lids, just out of view; 
 And, oh ! those cheeks, I know a rose 
 
 Has stolen from its parent-stem 
 And left the track of tiny toes 
 
 In dimples upon each of tliem; 
 And lips, Carnation's own they seem — 
 
 Sweet, daintj' lips, the home of bliss - 
 Such lips as Fancy, in sweet dream. 
 
 Would hover round, yet fear to kiss; 
 So pure, they seem for angel-words 
 
 The trysting-place and holy shrine, 
 When with the twitter, as of birds. 
 
 In nuptial joy they intertwine; 
 And, oh! that chin so neatly turned, 
 
 A Grecian artist, yes, the best. 
 With silent envy would have burned 
 
 To see the skill it did attest: 
 And brow! it rose a wreathe of white 
 
 That bordered wide a wealth of tress 
 That now in sunny beauty light 
 
 Fell in fair folds upon lier dress. 
 The wanton breeze with lustful glow 
 
 Now freshened as it stroked her hair, 
 And, as it kissed her brow of snow. 
 
 Declared she was surpassing fair. 
 
 «• 
 
LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1229 
 
 EDWARD T. KIRSCHBAUM. 
 
 Born: New Bedford, Mass., Oct. 21, 1855. 
 Under tlie nom de plume of Herr Cliorry- 
 tree, Mr. Kirschbaum published in 1889 a 
 volume of Prose and Poetry of some eighty 
 pages, and the •'oems certainly show a hig-li 
 
 EDWARD THOMPSON KIRSCHBAUM. 
 
 order of poetic ability, and are cliarming- in 
 ilit'ir simplicity and touching pathos. He 
 was married in 1887 to Miss Myra T. Willard, 
 and is still a resident of his native state at 
 North Grafton. 
 
 ARE WE PULLING OTHERS DOWN? 
 
 In this world of fleeting- chances, 
 
 Where we all desire renown; 
 Do we thrive by mean advances, 
 
 Are we pulling' others down? 
 Rid you gain your place by merit. 
 
 Have you worlsed on honest ground;— 
 Unassuming is the ferret. 
 
 Are you pulling others down? 
 Are you sure you were elected. 
 
 Do you own the envied crown; — 
 Have you craft and fraud rejected, 
 
 Are you pulling others down? 
 Did you win your love by fairness. 
 
 Was your suit witli irutli profound: — 
 Have you left no lieart in sadness. 
 
 Are you pulling others down? 
 
 In this world so great with pleasure. 
 
 Are you spreading cares around; — 
 Have you cruslied some struggling creature. 
 
 Are you pulling others down? 
 Have you felt tiie pangs of hunger. 
 
 Do you look for true renown? 
 Rise by helping one another. 
 
 Love can never pull you down. 
 Lift the fallen, soothe the wretched I 
 
 Let your life witli good abound ; — 
 All are great with tliis respected. 
 
 None shall rise by pulling down! 
 
 MY ALBUM. 
 Tliere'san album on my table 
 
 Filled with faces j'oung and old; — 
 And I will, where I am able. 
 
 Tell j'ou whom these pages hold. 
 Here it is unclasped and open 
 
 To a face so calm atid sweet; — 
 Of one who has gone to Heaven, 
 
 And 'tis her I hope to meet! 
 'Tis the picture of my mother 
 
 That now fills my ej'es with tears — 
 When I thinli she's gone forever. 
 
 Or I live again in years. 
 How the scenes come up before me 
 
 As I loolj upon thy face; 
 And I feel his truth about thee 
 
 None can ever fill thy place! 
 Mother, may thy spirit guide mo 
 
 In tlie right with faultless aim. 
 'Twas thegrcat good God whocalled thee. 
 
 And I know we'll meet again! 
 Of my pieturers none are dearer 
 
 Than the one I hold to view. 
 While I turn upon another 
 
 With a heart both firm and true; — 
 'Tis the one I have selected 
 
 And with whom I weave my life, 
 'Tis the one whom none suspected 
 
 I would make my wedded wife. 
 Now I dote not of her beauty 
 
 Nor a figure so divine — 
 She has more tlian done lier duty 
 
 And met me half way every time: — 
 If 'tis style and handsome creature 
 
 That you want in life's decline. 
 You will find you lack the feature 
 
 That has made our home sublime 
 For a life of peace and quiet 
 
 In our humble little liome. 
 Is the highest in our diet 
 
 And an aiming all our own; — 
 For the flaslt and guilt of fashioa 
 
 But disturb the peaceful tide, 
 'Tis an optical delusion 
 
 Going hand and hand with pride. 
 
*- 
 
 1230 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. JANE LUELLA SMITH. 
 
 Born: Sheffield, Mass., June 16, 184". 
 At the age of eig-hteen this lady graduated 
 from the Westfleld Normal School. After 
 teaching- school for a year she entered a 
 Seminary at North Granville, N. Y., where 
 she graduated a valcdictoriun of the class in 
 
 IRS. JANE LTTET.IiA D SMITH. 
 
 1868. In 1884 she spent <i J cat .ibroad Mrs. 
 Smith has taught school for ten years, and 
 has been principal of several prominent 
 schools. She was married in 18T5 to Dr. 
 Henry H. Smith, and now resides m Hudson, 
 N. Y. She is the author of two volumes of 
 verse — Wayside Leaves, published in 1879; 
 and Wind Flowers, which appeared in 1887. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 
 " Holy Virgin, Vesta sweet. 
 See me kneeling at Thy feet; 
 Holy Goddess, meek and mild. 
 Come in love to kiss my child ! 
 Kiss his lips that lisping- sweet. 
 Precious words they may repeat: 
 Saved from cruelty and guile. 
 Won to Heaven by Thy smile ! 
 Kiss his eyes that never night 
 VwW upon their sjiirit sight; 
 Saved from darkling, fruitless guest, 
 Won by Thee to peace and rest! 
 
 Kiss the forehead, broad and fair. 
 Give him wealth of learning rare; 
 Saved from ignorance and dread. 
 Won to wisdom's ways instead! 
 Kiss his hands and make him great 
 In the deeds that consecrate; 
 Saved from eartlily works that fall. 
 Won to build his castle tall! 
 Kiss his feet that they may climb 
 Up the hills of God, sublime; 
 Saved from wandering astray. 
 Won to keep the upward way! 
 
 Vesta, Goddess, hear my prayer! 
 Take my child in loving care! " 
 Thus a mother, bending low. 
 Prayed to Vesta, long- ago. 
 Then the Goddess kissed him sweet. 
 Till his heart had ceased to beat; 
 Saved him from a world of night. 
 Led him to the Heavenly heights. 
 But the mother wept with woe 
 For her prayer of long ago; 
 Heeding not that answer given. 
 Made her darling- sure of Heaven. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
 • 'What does the wind say?" O child! 
 Its voices are many and fierce and wild; 
 Only to thee it is whispering- mild. 
 
 And telling where roses are red. 
 To some it is sobbing to-night. 
 But see! It has blown out the light; 
 It has come through the churchyard -white, 
 
 And has kissed the names of the dead. 
 To some it tells how forests quake, 
 How ocean waves in surges break; 
 How souls have prayed for Jesus' sake. 
 
 And wrecks have strewn the shore — 
 How noble ships were overthown, 
 (The sea receding with a moan.) 
 Anon, the sparkling billows shone. 
 
 The dead returned no more. 
 Some hearts.as it shrieks,are filled with .ear 
 They tremble & g-roan at the voices they hear 
 The ghostsof their slain arise from theirbiei 
 
 And will not be quiet again. [breeze 
 Tlieir secret, who knows, but God and tin 
 Tlie winds have told it among- the trees. 
 They bear it afar over lands and seas — 
 
 At last to the dwellings of men. 
 Whatever in thy life hath been. 
 Whatever lives thy soul within; 
 Of deep remorse or secret sin, 
 
 Tliat listening, canst thou hear. 
 Each heart must hearken in amaze 
 To tones that echo through the diiys. 
 With words of blame or voice of jiraise — 
 
 Wind-blown through all the year. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIO>JAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1231 
 
 RKV. EDWARD P. MARVIN. 
 
 Rorn: Rkthany, N.Y., Dec. 13, ia34. 
 The subject of this sketch is a minister of 
 the gospel, eiiffiig-ed in that profession at 
 Lockport, N. Y., where he is %'ery popular. 
 Wliile in college he wrote an epic entitled 
 The Wanderer and some classical traiisla- 
 
 REV. EnWARn p. MARVIN. 
 
 tlons; and some poems appeared from his 
 pen while in the Princeton Theological Sem- 
 inary. He has since contributed quite a few 
 fine gems to current literature. Rev. Ed- 
 ward P. Marvin was married in 1863 to Miss 
 Caroline A. Hail, and now has an interestiug 
 family of several children. 
 
 THE RETTEK LAND. 
 There is a place where those that love 
 
 May meet to love again; 
 And feel in tliat reunion sweet. 
 
 They have not loved in vain. 
 There is a clime whose genial air 
 
 Is freighted with perfume: 
 Whose cloudless skie» are ever fair, 
 
 And fadeless beauties bloom. 
 There is a home of saints in light, 
 
 Where weary souls may go; 
 
 A new creation, fair and bright. 
 
 Redeemed from every woe. 
 There is a bright, angelic train. 
 
 Of matchless form and grace; 
 Round by a love that cannot chang'o. 
 
 Nor time can e'er efface. 
 There hearts are ever young and warm. 
 
 And beat forever true; 
 N"o painful sighs the bosom harm. 
 
 And eyes are tearless, too. 
 There sundered souls that wept and pined 
 
 Through life's long, weary way, 
 Sliall meet and full fruition find 
 
 In Heaven's eternal day. 
 
 ONLY WAITING. 
 Only waiting for a letter. 
 
 Only waiting for a word; 
 Re the tidings wt)rse or better. 
 
 Some relief they will afford. 
 Only hoping in the morning. 
 
 Only watching still at eve; 
 Wldle no tidings come to cheer me. 
 
 And my anxious heart relieve. 
 Much in wonder, much in sadness. 
 
 Doubling, but believing still; 
 Trusting that some swt'et to-morrow. 
 
 May my heart with gladness fill. 
 Only thinking of a parting, 
 
 Tlirough the long, long, weary day; 
 Only hoping for a meeting 
 
 Tliat shall every grief repay. 
 Only dreaming, nightly dreaming. 
 
 Of a cherished absent one; 
 Changed, or dead, or hap'ly weeping, 
 
 As 1 weep, alone, alone. 
 Only waiting for a letter. 
 
 Only waiting for a word; 
 Re the tidings worse or better. 
 
 Some relief they will afford. 
 
 GUKETIXG. 
 We shall meet in Heaven's morning. 
 
 When earth's niglit lias pa.ssed away. 
 We shall hail the radiant dawning 
 
 Of the Resurrection Day; 
 When the Lord shall come in glory. 
 
 With our loved ones giine before; 
 Then beyond life's finished story. 
 
 We shall meet to part no more. 
 We shall meet with wondnuis rupture. 
 
 Clothed in rare and ntdiant hlonin; 
 Like our glorious I.ord transtlgure^l. 
 
 All immortal fmni the tomb. 
 HIessed all who love His coming, 
 
 Calle<l unto the feast above; 
 In the city bright and golden. 
 
 And the clime of changeless love. • 
 
*- 
 
 1232 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. WILLIAM T. SLEEPER. 
 
 Born: Danbury, N. H., Feb. 9, 1819. 
 This gentleman is the author of Walks and 
 Talks, and The Rejected Kinff and Hymns of 
 Jesus. Mr. Sleeper is a, Con.tii'erational niin- 
 
 REV. WILLI \M TRUE SLEEPER. 
 
 ister and has held pastorates in numerous 
 Eastern cities. He was married in 1853 to 
 Miss Emily E. Taylor, and has two sons and 
 one daug-hter grown to maturity. 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH. 
 The faithful farmer plows the sod 
 In heat and cold, his trust in God. 
 Broadcast he sows the golden grain, 
 And waits the winter's sleet and rain. 
 The fields from which he hopes to reap 
 Beneath the snow are buried deep. 
 
 At length the birds begin to sing; 
 Winter is gone, and cometh spring. 
 From seeds long hidden in the ground 
 An ample harvest now is found. 
 By death the little grains of gold 
 Are multiplied a hundredfold. 
 
 A thousandfold that man shall live 
 
 Whose joy it is his life to give. 
 
 By labor, pain and sacrifice 
 
 God's wheat is garnered in tlie skies. 
 
 Comes greatest gain from greatest loss, 
 
 And glory crowns the sternest cross. 
 
 MY LITTLE BIRD. 
 My little bird while in the light 
 
 Could never sing my song, 
 Though tenderly I sang to him. 
 
 And patiently and long. 
 
 Sometimes a strain or two he caught. 
 
 Anon he lost the air. 
 And mingled with the other strains 
 
 He picked up here and there. 
 
 At last a curtain thick I laid 
 
 Above mj' wayward bird. 
 Then sang the song I chose for him, 
 
 While in the dark he heard. 
 
 Shut in from luring sights and sounds 
 He learned to sing my song, 
 
 And in the light he poured it forth 
 In cadence sweet and strong. 
 
 There is a song the Lord would have 
 
 His dear disciples learn. 
 But when the world is bright to them. 
 
 To worldly songs they turn. 
 
 And notes of revelry and mirth 
 They mingle with the strains. 
 
 The Master long was teaching them 
 With love's unsparing pains. 
 
 Then clouds of sorrow o'er their homes 
 
 He doth in mercy bring, 
 And shut in gloom at length they learn 
 
 The song He'd have them sing — 
 
 The song of love and peace and trust. 
 On earth their sweetest song ; 
 
 The song of songs in realms of light 
 With all the joyful throng. 
 
 THE BORDER-LAND. 
 
 Waiting in the Border-Land 
 
 To receive the Lord's command — 
 
 " Cross the boundary between 
 
 Earthly things and things unseen "- 
 
 Strains of music, sweet and clear, 
 
 From the Home-Land, reach the ear: 
 
 •• We are coming from the King 
 
 Home His ransomed ones to bring; 
 
 Singing, singing as we come 
 
 To conduct His loved ones home." 
 
 Calm and patiently wo wait 
 Just this side the Pearly Gate. 
 Though the "Silver cord " be frail. 
 And "the golden bowl " may fail. 
 Yet we sorrow not, nor fear. 
 For sweet voices reacli the ear: 
 II We are coming from the King 
 Homo His ransomed ones to bring; 
 Singing, siugitig as we come 
 To conduct His loved ones home." 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NAIIONAL I'OETS VV AMEUICA. 
 
 12:^3 
 
 JAMES TERRY WHITE. 
 
 Born : Newbuhvpoiit, Mass., July :J. 1845. 
 After receiving his education Mr. White re- 
 moved to the Pacific Coast where he became 
 connected witlj the publisliing house of 
 H. H. Bancroft. San Francisco, Cat. He re- 
 mained with this firm for tea year, and in 
 
 *- 
 
 JAXreS TERRY WHITE. 
 
 18T3 lie severed liis connection and became 
 the general agent and nriuager of Appleton 
 & Co., on the Pacific Coait. lu 1886 lie came 
 to New York City, and is now the head of tlie 
 publishing house of James T. Wliite&Co.. 
 which has within tlie space of five years 
 achieved such a measure of success as to 
 command a commercial rating second to 
 none of tlie publisliing houses of New York. 
 He is also president of tlie Yost Typewriting 
 Co., and a stockliolder in several of the 
 banks and business corporations of hiscity. 
 Mr. White is the author ol two holiday vol- 
 umes— Flowers from Arcadia, and A Bou- 
 quet of California Flowers; and his numer- 
 ous other poems have been a valuable ac- 
 quisition to current literature. He was 
 married in 1869 to Miss Florence C. Derby, 
 and has four children; his eldest boy, who is i 
 nearly twenty-<_)ne years of age. has become j 
 his companion and partner in the publishing I 
 
 business. Mr.White lives happily inabeauti- 
 f ul residence in Upper New York.overlookiug 
 the Hudson Uiver and Klvirside Park. 
 
 LAUREL BLOSSOMS. 
 These (lowers of June, 
 The gates of memory unlmr: 
 These flowers of June, 
 Such old-time harmonies reiunc; 
 1 fain could keep the gates ajar — 
 So full of sweet enchantment are 
 These flowers of June. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY GREETING. 
 Between these leaves a fruitage grows 
 Which with eternal sunshine glows; 
 It cheers the heart, delights the eye. 
 And teaches what paternal ties 
 God's thoughts, in Nature's care, disclose. 
 
 Besides this harvest, which bestows 
 On all refreshments and reiK>se, 
 For you another hidden lies 
 
 Between these leaves: — 
 
 Friendship, not touched by winter snows: 
 Ripened affection whieli outgrows 
 
 Tliis earthly clime, and death defies; 
 
 And memories — these but comprise 
 A little of what my tlioughts enclose 
 Betwi'iii these leaves. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 Tlie Christmas bells from hill and tower 
 To-night their benedictions shower; 
 And on the waves of their sweet chimes. 
 Fond thoughts of home and olden times 
 Set sail through memory's Golden Gate; 
 Deep laden with loves precious freight. 
 They speed their liomeward courMj to-night. 
 Across the sea with Ariel flight. 
 
 O jou, who wait returning sails. 
 Wliose eyes hope long-tiefern.'d o'erveils 
 With lowering clouds, lake heart agtiinl 
 For lo! unseen through mist and rain 
 Of tears, a thousand whiti^wingi-d keels. 
 Afloat on billowy Christmas peals. 
 Seek haven in your hearts to-night. 
 Home guided by love's beacon light. 
 
 Dear friends, though sundered far and wide; 
 Though varied quests our thouglits divide. 
 May the.se rich argosies of love 
 My tender, faithful memory pnivo; 
 May they to-night new love awake. 
 And in this festive season make 
 Your hearts forget the old farewells. 
 In greetings brought by Christmas bell*. 
 
*- 
 
 1234 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AWERICA. 
 
 NEMOPHILA. 
 
 ADMIRATION. 
 
 •• Sweetest es'es were ever seen." 
 
 Could the Poet e'er devise 
 Daintier praise, — than gave Catrine 
 Sweetest eyes? 
 
 And which are the sweetest eyes? 
 
 Soft and melting-, lustrous, keen. 
 Merry, — or demure and wise? 
 
 Eyes that shine with light serene, 
 
 Mirrored from Love's happy skies,- 
 Like thine own, dear,— are, I ween, 
 Sweetest eyes. 
 
 COLUMBINE. 
 
 ENTANGLEMENT. 
 
 O Bee-kissed Columbine, 
 
 Tell this sweet friend of mine 
 
 That she. 
 
 Like thee. 
 Hath ruby lip 
 Where I would sip. 
 
 Like wanton bee. 
 
 And too, like thee. 
 She bends her lily head 
 And smiles, — but ties 
 My heart with subtle thread 
 Drawn from her eyes. 
 
 She prisons me,— 
 
 But then, ah me! 
 Her dungeon takes from me 
 All wish for liberty: 
 
 Her sweet bond blesses me. 
 Her stiiile caresses me. 
 And in her gentle heart I lie 
 
 At rest. 
 
 Caressed 
 By Loves delicious lullaby. 
 
 TRICOSTEMA. 
 
 ENTREATY. 
 
 Abide with me, O gentle guest! 
 
 Thy presetice brings to me sweet rest; 
 
 Thy hands bring soothing to my brow; 
 
 Thy words such sympathy avow. 
 Thy going leaves me all unblest. 
 Still fairer shall thy bower be dressed: 
 Anticipated each request; 
 
 One song thy life shall be, if thou 
 Abide with me. 
 I would not longer have thee guest; 
 1 cannot hold thee uncaressed 
 
 So near my heart: Sweet love, be tljou 
 
 My bride; Love's tend'restname allow. 
 And ever in his liappy rest 
 Abide with me. 
 
 MARIPOSA LILY. 
 
 SOLICITUDE. 
 
 Like one of these. Art hath not made 
 Attire that can our eyes so please; 
 E'en Solomon was not arrayed 
 
 Like one of these. 
 
 Consider how they grow in ease 
 
 And leisure, dancing in the glade 
 Like butterflies upon the breeze. 
 
 Then be not thou with burdens weighed; 
 
 If He a flower's need o'ersees 
 Thou too Shalt on His care be laid 
 Like one of these. 
 
 CLEMATIS. 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 If hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain. 
 And somewhere, far above the plane 
 Of e;irthly thought, beyond the sea 
 That bounds this life, they will meet thee 
 And hold thee face to face again. 
 
 in, 
 
 And when is done Life's restless rei^ 
 If I hereafter but regain 
 Heart's love, why should I troubled be. 
 If hearts are dust? 
 
 By Love's indissoluble chain, 
 I know the grav'edoes not detain 
 
 Heart's love. The very faith in me 
 
 Is pledged ot an eternity. 
 Where I shall find heart's love again. 
 If hearts are dust. 
 
 THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Within our hearts what memories dwell 
 
 To-day, and a new love compel! 
 The by-gone days return with only thedr 
 Remembered tenderness, and unaware 
 
 Of age and change the old-time love retell. 
 
 But while we feast we cannot quite dispel 
 Regrets for lost ones whom we love so we! 
 Yet why thus grieve? Here is no vacai 
 chair 
 
 Within our hearts. 
 
 Oh ! friends, does not this constant love foi 
 
 tell 
 A future greeting for each last farewell? 
 Even to-day we trod the Heavenly stair, 
 And now their immortality we share. 
 If our beloved ones forever dwell 
 Within our hearts. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 V2:V) 
 
 MRS. MARY E.IRELAND. 
 
 Bokn: Cecil Co., Md. 
 This lady is tlie aut lior of many short stories 
 and serials, two ol' whicli have taken prizes; 
 while several oiliers were embodied in a 
 novel publislied under the title of Timothy 
 — His Neighbors and his. Friends. Mrs. Ire- 
 
 MRS. MARY E. IRELAND. 
 
 land beg-an translating books in 1884, and 
 since then she has published several volumes, 
 while several other translations of her's are 
 now in press. Her poems have constantly 
 appeared in current literature and various 
 popular collections, from which they liave 
 been extensively copied by the periodical 
 press generally. She is the wife of Jolm M. 
 Ireland, of Kent Co., Md.. who for many 
 years was in business in Baltimore, but now 
 resides in Washitigton, D. C, with bis wife, 
 son and daughter. 
 
 ELYSIAN HOURS. 
 
 Some days, in this prosaic, earnest life. 
 Insentient things conspire to give us joy: 
 The oft-time dross is gold without alloy. 
 
 Within, without, no elements in strife; 
 
 No sad presentiments; no warnings rife 
 Of danger for us; nor is Nature coy: 
 But jubilant, like any happy boy. 
 
 She celebrates our peace with drum and flfe, 
 
 For on such days so joyous, yet serene. 
 The song of bird seems sweeter, skies more 
 blue; 
 
 The air ethereal; flowers radiant gleam, 
 Tiic dew more pearly; clearer meadow 
 stream; [ime. 
 
 Our homes more restful, all our friends more 
 
 Tliose days are heralds of the Life unseen. 
 
 AT THE PARTY. 
 
 I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair; 
 She picked it to pieces while standing there. 
 I praised the deep-blue of licr starry eyes; 
 She turned them upon me in cold surprise. 
 Her white hand 1 kissed in a transport of love, 
 My kiss she effaced with lier snowy glove. 
 1 touched a soft ringlet of golden-brown: 
 She rebuked my daring with haughty fn.wn. 
 I asked hertodanrein most penitent lono; 
 On the arm of a rival she left me alone. 
 This gave me a hint; I veered from my track 
 And waltzed with an heiress to win my love 
 
 back. 
 I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh; 
 And whispered sweet things when my loved 
 
 one was nigh. 
 It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life, 
 This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife. 
 
 OX THE CHESAPEAKE 
 Thank you for your pity, stranger, that my 
 
 life upon tiie Bay 
 Is so full of toil and danger,audno pleasures, 
 
 as you say ; 
 There are two sides to that picture, one so 
 
 clear and warm and bright. 
 That it truly hides the other, as the dear sun 
 
 hides the night. 
 I've a cheery little cottage, loving wife and 
 
 children three; 
 And I know this very moment they are 
 
 watching out for me; 
 In an hour, if God so will it. I shall be with 
 
 them again. 
 And the welcome of their kisses will refresh 
 
 like summer rain. 
 All my toil will be forgotten in the comfort 
 
 of my hearth. 
 And the pat of tiny footsteps be the sweetest 
 
 sound on earth. 
 Our supper will be frugal; but, prepared 
 
 with lovinc liand. 
 No king could feast more royally, with king- 
 doms at command. 
 Yes, we struggle for our living, have our 
 
 trials here and there. [any wliere. 
 
 But trusting to our Savior we are happy 
 Thank you for your pity, stranger, but its 
 
 needed not by me. 
 Give it to some lonely creature, without wife 
 
 and children three. 
 
 -* 
 
m 
 
 1236 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 PROF. VIRGIL A.PINKLEY. 
 
 Born: Gibard, III., Feb. 18,1852. 
 From earl3- childhood Mr.Pinkley manifested 
 an interest in the art of elocution and ora- 
 tory, and is now director of elocution and ora- 
 tory in the College of Music of Cincinnati. 
 
 PROF. VIRGIL A. PINKLEY. 
 
 Besides his numerous poems, lie is the author 
 of a standard work entitled Essentials of 
 Elocution and Oratory, and is fast gaining a 
 national reputation on the platform. 
 
 *- 
 
 BETTER THAN GOLD. 
 
 Better than gold in the miser's grasp, 
 Better than gold in the mean man's clasp; 
 Better than gold which the rich man hords; 
 Better than perishing gold affords,— 
 
 In charity with open hand. 
 
 Extending aid throughout the land; 
 
 Yea, better than the miser's gold 
 
 Is charity — a thousand-fold. 
 
 Better than gold is the word of cheer. 
 Banished far from the heart the tear; 
 Better than gold is a kindly deed, 
 Bettering tlie man in the hour of need. 
 And better far a cheerful life 
 Than gold obtained through toil and strife, 
 A word of cheer is wealth untold. 
 And better than the miser's gold. 
 Better than gold is the wealth we reap. 
 Garnered from knowledge that's broad and 
 Better than gold is a cultured mien, [deep; 
 Sweetening life from a source unseen. 
 And better far than gold refined 
 Is wisdom gleaned to bless mankind; 
 A knowledge deep is wealth untold, 
 And better far than miser's gold. 
 
 Better than gold is a conscience clear. 
 Knowing not sorrow, remorse or fear; \ 
 
 Coming to few as a happy lot. 
 Of tener found in the poor man's cot \ 
 
 Than in the homes of the rich and great, , 
 Or in the halls of high estate. j 
 
 A conscience clear is joy untold, ' ! 
 
 And better than the miser's gold. 
 Better than all that is born of gold. 
 Better is health bj- a thousand fold; 
 Better is virtue, and hope, and rest. 
 Better is love, as a faithful guest. 
 
 To have a heart that's warm within; 
 To live a life unstained bj' sin ; 
 To dare the right with courage bold, 
 Is better far than hoarding gold. 
 
 THE MODEL AMERICAN GIRL. 
 A practical, plain young girl; 
 Not-afraid-of-the-rain young girl; 
 
 A poetical poesy, 
 
 A ruddy and rosj% 
 A helper-of-self young girl. 
 At-home-in-her-place young girl; 
 A-never-will-lace young girl; 
 
 A toiler serene, ' 
 
 A life pure and clean, 
 A princess-of-peace young girl. 
 A wear-her-own-hair young girl; 
 A free-from-a-stare young girl; 
 
 Improves everj' hour. 
 
 No pale parlor flower, 
 A wealth-of-rare-sense young girl. 
 Plenty-room-in-the-shoes young girl; 
 A free-from-the-blues young girl; 
 
 Not a bang on her brow. 
 
 To fraud, not a bow; 
 She's-just-what-she-seems young girl. 
 
 Not-a-reader-of-trash young girl; 
 Not-a-cheap-jeweled flash young girl; 
 
 Not a sipper of rum. 
 
 Not a chewer of gum, 
 A marvel-of-seuse young girl. 
 An early-retiring young girl; 
 An active-aspiring young girl; 
 
 A morning ariser, 
 
 A dandy despiser, 
 A progressive-American girl. 
 A lover-of-prose young girl; 
 Not-a-turn-up-your-iiose young girl; 
 
 Not given to splutter. 
 
 Not "Utterly utter," 
 But a matter-of-fact young girl. 
 A riglitly-ambitious young girl; 
 Red lips-most-delicious young girl; 
 
 A sparkling clear eye. 
 
 That says, «• I will try," 
 A sure-to-succeed young girl. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAI, I'OETS OF AMKItlCA. 
 
 1237 
 
 An honestly-courting' younp girl; 
 A never-seon-flirting young girl; 
 
 A quiet and pure, 
 
 A modest, demure, 
 A flt-for-a-wife youug girl. 
 
 A sought'cvory where young girl; 
 A future-most-fiiir young girl; 
 
 An ever-discreet. 
 
 We too-seldom-meet. 
 This queeu-amoug-qucens youug girl. 
 
 ADAM SC HOLES. 
 
 This well-knDwn author and poet has con- 
 tributed some fine gems to current literature, 
 and his poems always received the highest 
 praise from press and public. Mr. Scholes 
 is a resident of Detroit, where he is very 
 popular. 
 
 *- 
 
 MY BLACK AND TAN. 
 My constant friend, my faithful Dot I 
 My little friend is not forgot — 
 
 Forget 1 never can. 
 How slie would lie down by my side 
 And guard me with a jealous prida — 
 
 My faithful black and tan. 
 
 My fond companion night and day. 
 Content alone with me to stay. 
 
 Her friendship was no sham /- 
 And in the house or on the street 
 She ne'er was far from master's feet — 
 
 My faithful black and tan. 
 
 Poor little Dot ! Her life is o'er. 
 
 She ne'er will meet her master more. 
 
 Or witli joy lick his hand. 
 Ah ! Do not think my mind is weak. 
 Though tears may have suffused my cheek 
 
 For my poor black and tan. 
 
 Her love was pure, it ne'er grew cold — 
 Unlike the love that's bought and sold. 
 
 Which only good can fan 
 Into the semblance of a flame. 
 My dog such love could put to shame — 
 My poor, dear black and tan. 
 
 Her memorj' now is all that's left! 
 Forgive me if I feel l)creft. 
 
 Nor think me loss a man. 
 I'll ne'er forget her winning ways — 
 My friend through dark and lonely days — 
 
 My poor, dear black and tan. 
 
 NEWTON S. BAILEY. 
 
 Rokn: Wem.sdoro, Pa., May \ WA. 
 Aftek receiving his education Mr. liallcy 
 entered the tlcld of Journalism, and Is now 
 editor of the Daily News of Hellefonlo, Pa. 
 About one hundred of his poems have a|>- 
 peared from time to time in the leading 
 papers of his native stale. 
 
 THE FOURTH. 
 Once more drawing very nigh 
 Ct)mes the great Fourth of July, 
 When in a grand, noisy way 
 We're acousionu'd to display. 
 With a patriotic song. 
 Drawn out deep and loud .••.nd long. 
 How our freedom wjis bought dear 
 By brave men who knew not fear. 
 Then, although in numbers few. 
 To convictions they were true. 
 And with grand, united might. 
 Valiantly the foe did fight; 
 Con<iuering thai Flritisli host 
 Which, with pt)mp and show and boast. 
 Came across the oi-ean blue 
 Our few colonies to subdue. 
 Many years have passed away 
 Since that memorable day. 
 When our fathers did declare 
 That before the world the.v were 
 Then (in numbers ten and three) 
 States insep'rable and free: 
 That the British they'd defy. 
 Or in doing so would die. 
 In brave words of living llamo 
 They extolled bright freedom's name. 
 And appended t<i the scroll 
 Names which form a brilliant roll. 
 Names, i>erhaps, we ne'er can find 
 Bold and clear as these were signed; 
 The first, like Gibralter's rock. 
 Stood out clearly — ••John Hancock.' 
 We will ne'er forget that day. 
 Though it long has passinl away; 
 And though ages now have gone 
 'Tis tlie burden of our song. 
 The long, silent mists of time 
 But add to the tuneful rhyme. 
 In which we each gallant deed 
 Crown with praises its full meed. 
 .\s wo celebrate the day. 
 From nnl morn till twilight gray; 
 As we inspiration feel 
 From our patriotic zeal. 
 As we with elo<iuent tongue 
 Tell our thoughts and strain our lung: 
 As wo each perform onr part 
 Let it bo with thankful heart. 
 
*- 
 
 1238 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 — •?• 
 
 MRS. NAOMI M.PHELPS. 
 
 Born: Jacksomtown, Ohio, 1843. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared quite 
 extensively in the periodical press. Her 
 poems are considered beautiful in both 
 thought and versification, and her verses 
 have always beeu (.■xteusively copir-d by the 
 
 MRS. NAOl^n M. PHELPS. 
 
 local press throughout the West. She lived 
 in San Francisco for six years, and spent ten 
 years in the state of Kansas — removing to 
 Idaho Territory in 1880, where she still re- 
 sides in Mountain Home. 
 
 « 
 
 THE FORTUNATE ISLES. 
 Ah, if we only knew 
 When seas are calm and skies are blue. 
 And the golden sun of our youth-time smiles 
 The sure true way to those fortunate isles. 
 We pointed the plow and trimm.ed the sail. 
 She sped like a bird in the fresh'ning gale. 
 No devious channels, but straight, smooth 
 No rolling billows, no veering breeze, [seas. 
 Onward, onward our bark still sped 
 Till over our skies the dark clouds spread. 
 And wild wind.s shrieked through the stream- 
 ing sail Ljrale, 
 That shivered to shreds in the mad fierce 
 While wild waves over our bulwarks broke. 
 Seamed and rent was the heart of oak, 
 And the soul cried, lost 'mid the watery miles. 
 Lost, lost the way to the fortunate isles. 
 
 Then the eyes went back o'er the watery 
 
 track. 
 Blinded away by the flying wreck, 
 To find the spot in those watery miles 
 We had steered away from those fortunate 
 
 isles. 
 Found — where the waves of ambition ride 
 In soft, smooth swells o'er the sea of pride. 
 While the loug,whlte straits of acalm.smooth 
 
 sea 
 Was hid from our eyes by vanity. 
 
 We did look back — and the gravestones led' 
 Up and away from the slumberous dead. 
 Way-marks for us who with compass lost: 
 Up and down on a wild sea toss'd 
 A battered hulk, returned again 
 0"er the seething, foaming main. 
 With tattered sails and splintered spars 
 Searched for the light of the twilight stars. 
 Looked for the gleam of the "moon's white 
 
 shore," 
 Seen in the beautiful long before; 
 Faded away in the twilight's mist. 
 The golden shores that our hopes had kissed. 
 Ere we steered from our course in the glare 
 
 of daj-, 
 From the fortunate isles away, away. 
 Ah, if we only knew 
 When seas are calm and skies are blue. 
 And the golden sun of our youth-time smiles. 
 The sure, true way to those fortunate isles. 
 
 CHARLES H.WILLIAMS. 
 
 Born : Carlton Center, Mich., Jan. 11, 1867 
 Mr. Williams is engaged in farming in liis 
 native state at Stittsville. He has written 
 quite a few poems for the local press. 
 
 TO ONE BELOVED. 
 Tlie one we love has gone. 
 
 The angels carried her away; 
 Her work on earth being done. 
 
 They took her to Heaven to stay. 
 
 She has crossed the threshold of death. 
 
 The same we some day will trend; 
 Her spirit went with the fleeting breath. 
 
 And her form is laid in its narrow bed. 
 It was hard to part w'th onr love. 
 
 Her voice will be heard no more; 
 She has gone to Heaven above. 
 
 To live with the blessed and pure. 
 
 Her spirit is beyond the misty horizon. 
 In that sweet and happy home; 
 
 Wliere before God's tlirone, 
 Slio'll sing many a beautiful orison. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 1239 
 
 THERON BROWX. 
 
 Born: Williamantic, Conn., April 29, 18:32. 
 This editor and poet was ordained as a 
 minister iu 1859 and preaciied for ten years, 
 wlien lie turned his attention to literary and 
 editorial work, and for over twenty years 
 has been one of the editors of the Youtli's 
 Companion. He has written over two liun- 
 dred poems, and they have received puliiiea- 
 tion in the leading newspapers and magazi ties 
 of America. Mr. Brown was married in 1859 
 to Miss Helen M. Preston, and of tlic two 
 children, tlie daughter alone is living, Helen 
 Preston, born in 1865. 
 
 THE SUN IN LIBRA. 
 In the maze of the bloom and the blight, 
 Wlien the darkness is twin witii the light, 
 
 Wlien the scales of Astraea hang level 
 With the weight of the day and tlie night. 
 
 In the calm after line-winds that revel. 
 In the cool after noondays that smite. 
 
 Come the dreams born of incense that curled 
 From the cressets of flowers tliat are furled. 
 
 Come the spells of earth's latest beguiling 
 Under skies that are rubied and pearled. 
 
 Till we tliink, in the shadow and smiling. 
 It is Egypt all over the world. 
 
 Every river is Nile to behold. 
 Every tree in its bonnet of gold 
 
 Is a palm, and the haze-purpled highland 
 Are the temples unsearchable old; 
 
 Every rock is a spliinx, keeping silence 
 O'er the past of a glory untold. 
 
 And the air bring us music that flows 
 From a million of dim long-agoes. 
 
 Till the sense of the seen and the present 
 To a rapture of reverie grows. 
 
 And tlie hues of a life evanescent 
 Turn to haloes of endless repose. 
 
 Where the sun in his circle aboon 
 Glimmers beamless and bald, like a moon, 
 
 Where tliey neither forget nor remember, 
 Wliere is notliing to late or too soon, 
 
 Wliere the climate is always September. 
 And the days are one long afternoon. 
 
 THE OLD WIFE. 
 By the bed the old man, waiting, sat In vigil 
 
 sad and tender, 
 Where his aged wife lay dying; and tlie twi- 
 light shadows brown 
 Slowly from the wall and window cliased the 
 sunset's golden splendor 
 Going down. 
 
 "Is it niglif?" slie wliispored, w:iklng (for 
 lR!r spirit seemed to liover 
 
 Lost between tlie ne.xt world's sunrise and 
 the bed-lime cares of this). 
 
 And tlie old man, weak and tearful, trem- 
 bling as he bent above her. 
 Answered "Yes." 
 
 " Are the children in? " she .isked him. Could 
 he tell her? .All the treasures 
 
 Of their household lay la siieuee many years 
 beneath the snow; 
 
 But her heart was with tliem living, back 
 among her toils and pleasures 
 Long ago; 
 
 And again she called at dew-fall, in the sweet 
 
 old summer weather, 
 " Where is little Charley, father? Frank and 
 
 Kobert. have they come?" 
 " They are safe," the old man faltered — " all 
 
 the children are together, 
 Safe at home." 
 Then he murmured gentle soothings, hut his 
 
 grief grew strong and stronger. 
 Till it choked and stilled him as he lield and 
 
 kissed her wrinkled hand. 
 For her soul, far out of hearing, could his 
 
 fondest words no longer 
 Understand. 
 
 Still the pale lips stammered questions, lulla- 
 bies and broken verses. 
 
 Nursery i)rattle — all the language of a 
 mother's loving heeds. 
 
 While the midnight round the nioiirniT, left 
 to sorrow's bitter mercies. 
 Wrapped its weeds. 
 
 There was stillness on the pillow — and the 
 
 old man listened lonely — 
 Till they led him from the chamljor, with the 
 
 burden on his breiist. 
 For the wife of seventy years, his nianlKHKl's 
 
 early love and only. 
 Lay at rest. 
 
 " Fare-you-well," he .sobbed, " my S.-inih ; you 
 will meet the babes before me; 
 
 'Tls a little while, for neither can the parting 
 long abide. 
 
 And you'll coine and call me .stxin, I know — 
 and heaven will restore me 
 To your side." 
 
 It was even .so. The spring-time in the steps 
 
 of winter treading. 
 Scarcely shed Its orchard blossoms cru the old 
 
 man closed his eyes; 
 And they buried him l)y Sarah— and they 
 
 had their " diamond wedding" 
 In the skies. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1240 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMJCUICA. 
 
 KATHARINE LEE BATES. 
 
 Born : Falmouth, Mass., Aug. 13, 1859. 
 This lady is a graduate of the Newton High 
 School and Wellesley CoUeg-e, of which latter 
 institution she is associate professor of Eng- 
 lish literature. Her poems have appeared in 
 the Atlantic Monthly, Century, Wide Awake 
 and numerous other equally prominent pub- 
 lications. In 1890-91 Miss Bates spent a year 
 in Europe. 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 By the promise of noon's blue splendor in the 
 
 dawn's first silvery g-leam, 
 By the song of the sea that compelleth the 
 
 path of the rock-clearing stream, 
 I summon thee, recreant dreamer-, to rise and 
 
 follow thy dream. 
 At the inmost core of thy being I am a burn- 
 ing fire 
 From thine own altar-flame kindled, in the 
 
 hour when souls aspire; 
 For know that men's prayers shall he an- 
 swered and guard thy spirit's desire. 
 That which thou would'st be thou must be, 
 
 that which thou shalt be thou art; 
 As the oak, astir in the acorn, the dull earth 
 
 rendeth apart, 
 Lo, thou, the seed of thy longing that break- 
 
 eth and waketh the heart ! 
 Mine is the cry of the night-wind, startling 
 
 thy traitorous sleep ; 
 Moaning I echo thy music; and e'en while 
 
 thou boastest to reap 
 Alien harvests, my anger resounds from the 
 
 vehement deep. 
 I am the solitude foldingthy soul in a sudden 
 
 embrace; 
 Faint waxes the voice of thy fellow, wan the 
 
 light on his face; 
 Life is as cloud-drift about thee alone in 
 
 shelterless space. 
 I am the drawn sword barring the lanes thy 
 
 mutinous feet 
 Vainly wret for greenness. Loitering pace 
 
 or fleet. 
 Thine is the crag-path chosen. On the crest 
 
 shall rest be sweet. 
 I am thy strong consoler, when tlio desolate 
 
 human pain 
 Darkens upon thee, the azure out-blotted by 
 
 rush of the rain. 
 All thou dost cherish may perish, still shall 
 
 thy guest remain. 
 Call me thy foe in thy passion : claim mo in 
 peace for thy friend; 
 
 Yet bethink thee by lowland and upland 
 wherever thou wiliest to wend, 
 
 I am thine Angel of Judgment; mine eyes 
 thou must meet in the end. 
 
 POETRY — A QUATRAIN. 
 
 Oh, we who know thee know we know tliee 
 not. 
 
 Thou Soul of Beauty I thou Essential Grace '. 
 Yet undeterr'd by bafiled speech and thought 
 
 Thy heart stakes all upon thy hidden face. 
 
 HELPS BY THE WAY. 
 
 Only a glimpse of roseate west 
 
 O'er the forest tops of pine. 
 And clamorous day thoughts sink to rest- 
 
 The soul is again divine. 
 
 Only the glory of a kindly deed, 
 
 The gleam of a noble glance; 
 And the freshened heart fares on to speed 
 
 The world's deliverance. 
 
 BENONI DICKERMAN. 
 
 Born: Naugatuc, Conn., July 9, 1810. 
 The subject of this sketch is the author of a 
 volume entitled The Blood-Stained Cross, 
 and also two booklets, besides various lyrics, 
 psalms, hymns and spiritual songs of ex- 
 cellence. He was married in 1839, has a fam- 
 ily of several children, and resides near Con- 
 stantia, Ohio. 
 
 BREVITY OF LIFE. 
 In foreign lands, remote from home, 
 A weary pilgrim here 1 roam; 
 Friends of my youth ha%'e passed away, 
 And friends of my meridian day. 
 In pensive solitude I tread 
 Tlie silent city of the dead; 
 Life's crimson current running slow, 
 Will run more slowly well I know. 
 Oft in the stilly night to me 
 Come back the days of childhood glee; 
 The gray-haired dames and su-es once more 
 I seem to see, as oft before. 
 Friend after friend has passed away, 
 I soon, like them, end here my stay; 
 The yellow and the withered leaf. 
 This lesson teach me, " Life is brief." 
 Ten added to my threescore j'ears. 
 The wliole a slender thread appears; 
 What now remains of eartlily bliss. 
 To bind me to a wcu'ld like tills? 
 By faith I see the shining shore 
 Where saints departed meet once more: 
 Departed ones will welcome me, 
 Earth's sorrows shiill forgotten be. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATU)NAL I'OKl S OF AMKIMCA. 
 
 liI41 
 
 -* 
 
 GRACE H.DUFFIELD. 
 
 Bokn: Adria, Mich., Oct. 2, 1860. 
 The poems of Grace Haywood Dufflold luire 
 appeared in tho Century, the New York lude- 
 pendeut, Philadelphia Sunday School Times, 
 New York Observer and other prominent 
 publications. This lady is now a resident of 
 Bloomfleld, N. J. 
 
 DREAMING. 
 Lie quiet lieart and dream of tender things, 
 
 In tender ways; 
 Dream back afe'ain to all the vanished springs, 
 
 The yesterdays. 
 When Love walked with us, hiding close his 
 wings 
 
 From lovers' gaze. 
 Forget in dreams that Love is lost to sight; 
 
 And we alone 
 Are watching where it paled, that vision 
 bright. 
 
 Once all our own. 
 Dream on my lieart, remember not to-night 
 
 All thou hast known. 
 For oh, sad heart, the dream will soon be 
 sped, 
 
 'Tis fading fast; 
 The love we love in dreams will soon be fled 
 
 Back to the past; 
 And thou wilt ask with tears, when hope lies 
 dead, 
 
 " Was this the last? " 
 
 TO NELL. 
 When my sweete girle doth touche herre 
 lippes 
 
 Untoe ye cuppe his own rimme. 
 You'll sweetenesse atte ye bottome flnde 
 
 And sweetenesse atte ye brimme. 
 And he who of ye sugar then 
 
 Withe fulle contentment sippes. 
 Is onely one who has not known 
 
 Ye sweetenesse of herre lippes. 
 
 MARY E. SMYTHE. 
 
 Born: Colu.mbia, Ky., March 13, 1864. 
 Miss Smythe is a school teacher, and still 
 resides in her native town. Her poems have 
 appeared in the local press. 
 
 EVANESCENCE. 
 Is there anything permanent in tliis vale of 
 
 woe'? 
 Where some must sow for others to reap ; 
 Where shadows vanish 'neath the sun's 
 
 bright glow. 
 And the happy smile while the wretched 
 
 weep? 
 
 And I fain would liear the music ttf a voice 
 whose cadence clear. 
 
 Ever fell in silvery accents on my eager Ust- 
 ening ear; 
 
 And bending low to catch them,— Ah niel 
 'tis all in vani; 
 
 I may never hear tlie footsteps, nor the win- 
 ning voice again. 
 
 In fancy, soft and liquid, beam those dark 
 
 eyes into mine, 
 And my arms with wondrous rapture round 
 
 a sylph-like form entwine; 
 But though I strive to clasp them,— Ah mel 
 
 'tis all In vain, 
 I may never see the dark eyes, nor the fairy 
 
 form again. 
 
 The shadows grow and lengthen as tliey fall 
 
 across the floor, 
 I still am standing sadly at the tlireshold of 
 
 the door; 
 Waiting for the radiant morning upon my 
 
 soul to rise, 
 'Till I greet my long-lost loved one in the 
 
 realms of Paradise. 
 
 MARY C. GRANT. 
 
 This lady is a resident of Linden, Va. Her 
 poems have appeared from time to time In 
 the periodical press,and have received favor- 
 able noti'v.'e. 
 
 MEMORIES OF MY OLD HOME. 
 I'm thinking of my dear Old Home, 
 And of my kindred dear; 
 And, oh, so often wlien alone 
 I can't keep back the tear. 
 For thinking of the days that's fled. 
 How many are sleeping with the dead: 
 My father, mother and brothers four. 
 Their forms on earth I see no more. 
 I stood beside tho dying bed 
 Of ray father and mother too. 
 And oh, what bitter tears were shed 
 To bid a last adieu. 
 Some arc buried in a far-off land. 
 And by their graves 1 ne'er shall stand; 
 But some are laid wliero I love to roam 
 In the old garveyard, the dear Old Home. 
 Sleep on dear ones, T hope to meet 
 You all around the Mercy Seat; 
 I hope to meet you on thai shore 
 Where parting sighs will l)c no more. 
 And now that little band that's left. 
 Look sad and lone, they feel bereft ; 
 Around the fireside seem so few. 
 One sister dear and brothers two. 
 
*- 
 
 1242 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA. 
 
 I left that home for a better friend, 
 With whom I hope my days to spend; 
 But still I love that dear old spot, 
 'Tis ever dear, 'tis not forgot. 
 
 THOMAS BENTON FORD. 
 
 Born: Owen Co., Ky., Feb. 7, 1841. 
 For more than a decade the poems of Mr. 
 Ford have appeared from time to time in the 
 papers of Kentucky. He was married in 
 1881 to Miss Mary Elliott, and resides in 
 Frankfort, Ky., where he is clerk of the 
 U. S. District and Circuit court. 
 
 THE SIREN. 
 
 There is a cruel Siren always singing unto me 
 
 Of a bright and happy future, and of things 
 that are to be; 
 
 And her songs they are enchanting, as be- 
 neath a crescent moon 
 
 She chants of bounteous harvests and a gold- 
 en-freighted June. 
 
 And she has sung those songs to me through 
 all the wearj' year, 
 
 And I have watched and waited long in hopes 
 and doubts and tears; 
 
 I watching and a- waiting for the happy 
 things to be. 
 
 That this cruel, cruel Siren sings so con- 
 stantly to me. 
 
 But still the nights grow darker and the stars 
 
 begin to wane. 
 As o'er my rough and rugged way still falls 
 
 that mocking strain; 
 And still I struggle onward towards a silent, 
 
 unknown sea. 
 While this deceitful Siren sings of things 
 
 that are to be. 
 
 i* 
 
 MY VIOLIN. 
 
 Across tha trembling, thrilling strings, 
 Entranced I draw the magic bow; 
 
 And all the quivering twilight rings 
 With echoes of the long ago. 
 
 With sweet, sad strains of by-gone years. 
 Once waked by her who died so young; 
 
 The mingled notes of smiles and tears. 
 In love's exquisite accents sung. 
 
 The tender, wailing air ascends 
 
 Till drifting down through golden bars; 
 An angel anthem with it bletids 
 
 That floats from far beyond the stars. 
 
 MRS. NELLY LARUE BROWN.: 
 
 Born: Boone Co., Mo., June 26, 1859. ' 
 
 After graduating this lady taught school, ■ 
 and in 1882 was married to Geo. H. Brown, ' 
 and has a son. For several years, until 1889, i 
 she was employed as iustructoi- in Latin and • 
 higher mathematics. The poems of Mrs. , 
 Brown have appeared iti the Detroit Free 
 Press, St. Louis Magazine, Louisville Cour- 
 rier-Journal and other publications. She 
 resides with her husband and child in Louis- 
 ville, Ky. 
 
 MNEMOSYNE. 
 Spouse of Zeus, Mnemosyne, 
 Mother of the muses nine. 
 When my lady's vis-a-vis, 
 Clad in costume less divine. 
 Claims f roni her a nod of thine 
 Most discreetly dost thou flee. 
 Spouse of Zeus, Mnemosyne, 
 Mother of the muses nine. 
 
 Were the other robed as she. 
 Matching her in raiment flue, 
 Tliou would'st then not absent be, 
 Thou would'st that high head incline, 
 Spouse of Zeus, Mnemosyne, 
 Mother of the muses nine. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 The babe knows not its needs; for all in sight 
 It reaches out Its eager hands and cries: 
 It wants the mooti; to its enamored eyes 
 In argent disk appears the satellite; 
 What is to infancy a dazzling toy. 
 The child, when once to sober manhood grown 
 Will realize by borrowed light has shone; 
 Thus, moon-struck, many an older girl or 
 
 boy 
 Has learned that wished-for worlds if won 
 Prove planets dead whose motor was the sun. 
 
 Thank God, whom first we love we seldom 
 
 wed; 
 All-wise benefleience hath willed it so. 
 Our souls in stature as our bodies grow; 
 In retrospect we recognize as dead 
 Our former self and its affections fond, 
 And know that if we could have mated been 
 With one who pleased our callow fancy then 
 Round our expanding souls tb^! marriage 
 
 bond 
 Would tighten till it checked our growth. 
 
 Too late 
 We would our folly curse and call it fate. 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAT. AND NA'l lONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 124:j 
 
 REV. WILLI AM HENRY BUSS 
 
 Born : England, Fkb. 6, 1852. 
 Mr. Buss received his education at Oberlin 
 College and the Chicago Seminary, and in 
 1883 was ordained a minister of the Congre- 
 gational church, and has held pastorates at 
 Burlington and West Burlington, Iowa; 
 Deadwood, S. D., and Fremont, S. D., where 
 he is now located. He has contributed poems 
 and delivered sevei-al original poems on 
 public occasions. Eev. William H. Buss was 
 married in 1885, and has a son and daughter. 
 
 SOUL CHARMS. 
 
 Flaxen locks in rich profusion. 
 
 Eyes like stars that flasli and sparkle; 
 Rays of life from blue seclusion. 
 
 Cheeks of rose and roguish dimple. 
 Dainty mouth for kisses priming, 
 
 Lips the tint of rosy morning; 
 Voice as clear as Sabbath chiming. 
 
 To the house of worship calling. 
 Rare indeed such charms external. 
 
 Gifts of Nature's rich bestowing; 
 Yet alone are charms eternal. 
 
 That from depths of Soul are growing. 
 Others all are frail and fleeting — 
 
 In the storm of Time are human; 
 Like the lifeless bust of marble 
 
 Is the handsome Soulless woman. 
 
 AN ADTUMN LESSON. 
 O solemnly, beautiful Autumn 
 
 That weavest a golden pall, 
 Enwrought with purple and amber. 
 
 And spreadest it over all; 
 Allured by thy lavish beauty. 
 
 Alone I wander 'long. 
 And list the leaflets rustle 
 
 Their quaintly mournful song; 
 As silently from the branches. 
 
 Like fickle flakes of snow. 
 They deepen tlse gorgeous carpet 
 
 That softens the way I go. 
 
 constant voice of the forest. 
 How changed thy wonted tune. 
 
 From the melody of summer — 
 
 The harmony of June! 
 E'en while I stand enraptured 
 
 With Beauty's varied glow, 
 
 1 shudder as thou chantest 
 So solemnly and low; 
 
 And cheerless visions of winter 
 
 Are pictured to my brain. 
 Wherein through all the woodlands, 
 
 Nor fruit nor leaves remain. 
 But why in the days of Autumn, 
 
 When deatli is in the air. 
 
 Should all the realm of nature 
 
 Sn) radiant garments wciir? 
 Mayhap the voice of niourtiiiig 
 
 Proceeds from oiherwhere; 
 Mayhap my sok-nin feeling 
 
 The woodlands do not share; 
 Mayhap 'tis human only 
 
 To mourn in Autumn-time, 
 And Nature's mingled measures 
 
 Have not so sad u chime. 
 
 Autumn robes so royal. 
 Have ye a truth for me? 
 
 Can Nature's hour of dying 
 Her hour of triumph be? 
 
 Her ripened fiuit is fallen. 
 And reaped her golden grain; 
 
 What cause hath she for glorj-. 
 What hopes can yet ren.ain? 
 
 1 seem to hear you answer. 
 In dulcet chorus J! rand; 
 
 And eager of instruction. 
 Attentively 1 stand. 
 
 " Except a corn of the harvest 
 
 Fall into the ground and die, 
 Abideth it lone and fruitless. 
 
 And lost to every eye; 
 But if it die in the bosom 
 
 Of nourishing mother earth. 
 Then shall it yield in abundance 
 
 A fruit of heavenly worth. 
 And hence in the Autumn season. 
 
 Though death be in the air. 
 Doth Nature, for this promise. 
 
 Her festal garments wear." 
 
 «• And O, my eager scholar. 
 
 Of all my lessons taught. 
 No one thy heart hatli g-.ithered. 
 
 With higher truth is fraught; 
 And yet it echoeth only 
 
 The truth of Him who gave 
 His life for all the living; — 
 
 His life their life to save. 
 And shait thou less than Nature, 
 
 Yield gladly year by year. 
 Thy life in toil for otliers. 
 
 The noblest fruit to bear?" 
 
 Thus the voice of the woodland 
 
 Seemed to make answer to me. 
 The while no longer mournful 
 
 Its melody seemwl to Ih', 
 But full and rich and Joyous, 
 
 As were befitting one. 
 Who dying sees before him 
 
 His faithful work live on. 
 For he his life that loveth. 
 
 The loss of life shall resip; 
 But he his life that hateth 
 
 Shall life eternal keep. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1244 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARGARET E. RUFFIN 
 
 Born: Baldwin Co., Ala., Aug. 26, 1857. 
 In 1884 this lady published a volume of poems 
 entitled Drifting- Leaves, and she has since 
 contributed many fine poems to the press. 
 She was married in 1857 to Frank T. Kuffln, a 
 civil engineer, by whom she has one daughter, 
 Frances Gildart. JVIrs. Ruffin is thoroughly 
 educated in vocal and instrumental music, 
 and proficient in French, German, Spanish. 
 
 MOMENTS. 
 Only a little moment! 
 
 A tiny fragment of life; [steps. 
 
 To be crushed 'neath tlie great years' foot- 
 To be lost in centuries' strife. 
 And yet, I remember a moment. 
 
 Just a tiny moment like this. 
 That held, in its heart, the giving 
 
 Of the gift of infinite bliss. 
 That won back long years of darkness. 
 
 To the light of the rarest grace; 
 And so glowed with the golden " Forgiven," 
 
 That sin fled from the fiash of its face. 
 Ah ! life of that little moment. 
 
 You live through my length of days; 
 And the grace that fell in your fleeing 
 
 Will fall on all coming ways. 
 I never may slight you, wee moments. 
 
 Seem you ever so brieflj' grasped; 
 Since, all that the future could promise. 
 
 In the touch of a moment, was clasped. 
 For moments so frail and fleeting. 
 
 Ye may bring our lives in your flight. 
 Up to the Day everlasting, 
 
 Down to the endless Night. 
 Ah ! voice of the passing moments. 
 
 How I list as your cadences flow; 
 For I know not which bears the summons 
 
 Of eternal weal or woe. 
 
 *- 
 
 UNCHANGED. 
 Many moons shall wax and wan; 
 
 Many summers flush and fade; 
 
 Many lives be married or made; 
 Ere our paths shall cross again. 
 All the days we dreamt are o'er; 
 
 Our linked lives are broken now; 
 
 And we knew not when or how. 
 We shall meet each other more. 
 Yet our severed souls, I dare 
 
 Believe, o'er time and space have sway; 
 
 Clinging to our latest day. 
 To the life-long love we bear. 
 You may change in deed and name, 
 
 Of the past keep scarce a trace; 
 
 But through change of fact and face 
 Bring me back your heart the same. 
 
 FLETCHER RANNEY. i 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., Sept. 3, 1860. ' 
 After graduating in Roxbury Latin Schoc' 
 and Harvard University.Mr. Ranney studie' 
 law, and graduated at head of class of '8( I 
 and is now a member of the law firm of Eat ■ 
 ney& Clark, of Boston, Mass. In 1886 h- 
 married Miss Amy Porter, and has on' 
 child, Ethel, born iu 1887. Many gems froni 
 the pen of Mr. Ranney have appeared in th ' 
 periodical press. i 
 
 COMMON BALLADE OF AGE AND YOUTF; 
 You, tattered li«y in the wild oak fell, 
 The shadowy branches secrets tell, i 
 
 The gray-lit paths toward far lands lead — ■ 
 In fancies of youth life finds a meed; 
 For me no quail-call, fern-breath sweet, 
 Only the rattle and dust in the street. 
 Only my doubts, my wadded gown — 
 While you look up, and I look down. 
 
 You, barefoot boy in the grasses' swell. 
 The rivulet pebbles secrets tell; 
 School-time is near — but who takes heed- 
 In fancies of youth life finds a meed; 
 My tasks no galloping hours cheat. 
 Only the car-bells and ringing hoof -beat 
 Filling the airless, brick-bound town — 
 While you look up, and I look down. 
 
 No brooks' low voice will my tossings quell, i' 
 
 A-weary I count the midnight bell; 
 
 And you through dream-wood gray elves 
 
 speed — 
 In fancies of youth life finds a meed; 
 Give me your fancies, long nights fleet. 
 Sunrise and tatters, and briery feet. 
 Taking my gold, my gout, renown— 
 'Vbiie I look up, and you look down! 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 For you the wine in nature's creed-- 
 111 fancies of youth life finds a meed: 
 Leaving me doubt and gout and frown — 
 Wiiile you look up, and I look down. 
 
 A SEA GULL. 
 kxtract. 
 Noisily beating its hen vy wings. 
 While arent wave upward its thunder flings. 
 A sea pull breaks from the dripping cliff; 
 Now afloat o'er yon gray skifif. 
 Steadily waving its misty wings 
 Against the blue it closer clings. 
 Waving, fading far away. 
 As shadows fade in the growing day. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 124.5 
 
 * 
 
 REV. ADELBERT E. MOSHER. 
 
 Born: Manitowoc, Wis., Apuil 25, 1S60. 
 In 1883 Mr. Moslier was licensed to preach, 
 and has been actively engaged in the uiiuis- 
 try ever since, principally at Creston and 
 Hiistings, Iowa. He was married in 1885 to 
 Miss Frankie A. Staley, and has had two 
 children, one of whom ho had the misfortune 
 to lose in a railroati accident. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 O Death! again thy mystic bands 
 
 Have circled 'round our liome. 
 And carried to the distant lands 
 
 A subject for a throne. 
 
 A year we watched with tender care 
 Our loved one — now no more; 
 
 For she has met with Him up there. 
 And kindred gone before. 
 
 We saw with pain the color fade 
 From our darling's cheek away; 
 
 We saw the track disease had made 
 Grow deeper every day. 
 
 Our tender care could not avail, 
 Nor human power or skill; 
 
 For the God of Mercy doth prevail. 
 And He had shown His will. 
 
 Our darling child, our sister dear. 
 Has left this world below; 
 
 Her sins, which were forgiven here. 
 Will not become her woe. 
 
 It is not death nor pain to die, 
 As she our loved one shows; 
 
 She gave us all a last "good-bye," 
 And sank in sweet repose. 
 
 Her spirit now is soaring high 
 To God's immortal throne. 
 
 Still parting words do hover nigh, 
 And point us to her home. 
 
 Come, Fatter, comfort our distress. 
 Surround us witli thine arm ! 
 
 Thy will can make our number less. 
 Thy will can shield from harm. 
 
 IDA MARIA STREET. 
 
 Born: Oskaloosa, Iowa, Nov. 21, 1856. 
 Miss Street is a graduate of Vassar College, 
 and won by competitive Thesis the Western 
 Association of Collegiate Ahimual Fellow- 
 ship at Michigan University in 1888-9. She 
 is now a teacher of English literature at Ann 
 Arbor, Mich. Her poems are geras, and have 
 received high praise. 
 
 TWO KINbUEh IJEINGS. 
 Two kindred beings mot. 
 And found their .souls attuned; 
 As if some spirit proud 
 Had parted without wound 
 To fill these human forms, 
 " What art tliou friend'y" one asks, 
 ••Men call me poet. Thou?" 
 " I work at common tiusks." 
 They wistful sigh and part. 
 Inspired, both; one. long 
 Was fashioned unto toil. 
 The other unto song. 
 
 COMPANIONSHIP. 
 The morning air is cool and fraught with 
 
 strong! li. 
 The earth has decked herself witli flowered 
 
 robes. 
 The birds are calling back and forth their 
 
 greetings. 
 The noisy brook is talking to its stones. 
 As we ride blithely up the mountain's side. 
 The scent of roses to our nostrils borno 
 Soft trills our hearts in subtile harmony. 
 Like sweeping winds o'er Eoliun harps, in 
 
 tune. 
 Not caring how we go, like bird and brook 
 We chatter of the way for fellowship: 
 Exclaim at roadside blossoms; in eager tones. 
 Admire each changing cloud and mountain 
 
 peak. 
 While eyes look deep the sympathy un- 
 
 uttered. 
 Or flush the pointof jests — that light our 
 
 thoughts. 
 Like ripplos on a river's quiet face. 
 Each sight and scent and sound gives double 
 
 pleiisure — 
 The joy it ever bears within itself. 
 And subtler joy of human comradeship. 
 
 EORA C. BEACH. 
 
 Born ne.\ii A.<;nTos, Ii.i.., M.\iKn 23, 1863. 
 After receiving her education Miss Beach 
 studied Art at the Wiiealon College. Her 
 poems have appeared in the ^Uulon Signal 
 and the local press. 
 
 BARV. 
 The precious bud so perfect 
 
 Transphmted hlcxims above. 
 In that warm and sunny climo 
 
 Wliere all is light and lore. 
 We miss the little treasure. 
 
 For love and hojH? were strong; 
 But Christ received His jewel 
 
 To dwell with the angel throng. 
 
*- 
 
 1246 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 There we know you are happy, 
 Jesus gives perfect care; 
 
 And in the light of Heaven 
 Will mature in beauty rare. 
 
 No sickness shall mar your form. 
 Or sorrow toucli your heart; 
 
 But ever in loving joy 
 You will bear an angel's part. 
 
 You came a greeting of love 
 To cheer our hearthstone here; 
 
 But now our treasure in Heaven 
 You're guiding us over ihere. 
 
 You have only gone before 
 To enjoy the rich estate ; 
 
 And bid the loved ones welcome 
 As they enter the pearly gate. 
 
 ANNIE R. DONAGHE. 
 
 The poems of Miss Donaghe have appeared 
 in the Stanton Spectator and local press gen- 
 erally. She IS a resident of Parnassus, Va., 
 where she is very popular. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 I'll think of thee at early mora 
 
 When the sweet flowers still 
 Are all enameled o'er with dew. 
 
 Along the gurgling rill. 
 When night o'ershadows with a vail 
 
 This bright, fair world of ours, 
 I'll think of thee still held secure 
 
 By thy bewitching powers. 
 
 Oh rapturously doth love begin. 
 
 But ends in bitter smart. 
 And leaves its lengthen'd shadows oa 
 
 The wounded broken heart. 
 But ah, the world will never hear 
 
 The bitter wail of woe. 
 For little we poor mortals here 
 
 Of one another know. 
 We think that others' paths are bright 
 
 With fairest flowers strown. 
 When if we could but see their hearts 
 
 They are sadder than our own. 
 
 Ah, he will never, never more 
 
 Join the hunters' chase. 
 Nor ever take his rifle down 
 
 From its accustomed place; 
 His faithful dogs are waiting still 
 
 To greet him at the door. 
 With strange instinct they wonder why 
 
 They're taken out no more. 
 
 We're taught liere to smother our grief. 
 To hide the deep wounds that bleed on ; 
 
 Our faces must wear sunny smiles, 
 Tho' all the heart's treasures are gone. 
 
 But oh, how many scars are hid 
 'Neath Pleasure's gilded vest; 
 
 The little robin sang on with 
 The death-wound in its breast. 
 
 STEPHEN H. LOGAN. 
 
 Born: May 4, 18T0. ; 
 
 The poems of Mr. Logan have constautl 
 appeared in the press of Arkansas, where h 
 resides at Coal Hill. He is the inventor of 
 patent lock that bids fair to become unive; 
 sally used. 
 
 AFTER DEATH. I 
 
 I am dead. ; 
 
 Lying in this silent chamber ' 
 
 Where the sunshine enters not, 
 And the ghostly shadows clamber 
 
 Over each familiar spot. 
 I can feel the world go onward 
 
 While my hands are crossed in rest, 
 I have found the peace unending. 
 
 Life was sweet, but death is best. 
 Some have come and stood beside me. 
 
 Whispering to me o'er and o'er 
 Of the grief that comes at parting. 
 
 And the love tlieir true hearts bore. 
 They have loving thoughts and tender 
 
 For the friend that goes away; 
 And my heart gives voiceless answer 
 
 To their last dear words to-day. 
 Some who walked with me while going 
 
 Down the western hill of life; 
 Scarce a thought on me bestowing. 
 
 Say, " Ah, well, he's done with strife." 
 Though their words of love were many 
 
 As we journeyed side by side,' 
 They've few thoughts to give at parting 
 
 To the comrade who has died. 
 Others come, and standing by me 
 
 Thej- rehearse my human faults. 
 And God knows that they were many, 
 
 But my listening soul revolts 
 At the long and grim procession 
 
 They have marshaled into line. 
 As they talk about the follies , 
 
 And the frailties that were mine. ! 
 
 In the knowledge death has brought me,- 
 
 I can know the false and true. 
 Know who mourns for me, whose oarth-work 
 
 Like a troubled dream istlu-ougli. 
 And, O friends, my heart gives answer 
 
 To your loving heart and true. 
 In a language you will utter 
 
 When tho great change comes to you! 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEltlCA. 
 
 1247 
 
 CHARLES ELMER UPTON. 
 
 Bokn: Placerville, Cal,., Jan. 1, 1873. 
 Several of the poems of Mr. Upton have 
 appeared in the local press. He is a printer 
 and still resides in his native state. 
 
 GRADUATION DAY. 
 
 Classmates, 'lis the liour of parting'. 
 Soon our school-life will be o'er, 
 
 Soon we'll leave far, far behind us 
 All those happy limes of yore. 
 
 Ne'er ag-aiii shall we hear the summons 
 Of the loud, clear-ringing- bell. 
 
 Coming in the midst of frolic, 
 Sounding pleasure's funeral knell; 
 
 Telling us that toil and study 
 Are the means by which we gain 
 
 Real success in life and fortune. 
 Blotting out past care and pain. 
 
 'Tis the last time we'll be gathered 
 Where we oft have met so gay; 
 
 To-morrow brings but memories tender. 
 Fading slowly daj' by day. 
 
 Leaving only lingering traces. 
 Kept by many, lost by some. 
 
 Vanishing in life's great battle 
 With the years of life to come. 
 
 Who knows but that another dawning 
 Will find us scattered far and wide, 
 
 Moving on with various changes 
 Like the flowing of the tide? 
 
 Comrades, ere we go forth struggling 
 'Mongst the hundreds so untrue 
 
 Give each hand a hearty clasping. 
 Uttering the word, •• Adieu." 
 
 J. H. OLIVER. 
 
 Born: Douglassvii.le, Tex., July 27, 1866. 
 For many years the poems of Mr. Oliver 
 have occasionally appeared in the local press. 
 He still resides in liis native state at Gran- 
 bury. 
 
 THE CHANGED LIFE. 
 Life, once so much like summer. 
 
 Now fades and is changed, 
 And the chimerical it grows number 
 
 Fancy of the past is deranged. 
 
 Medium in its foliage. 
 Leafless in its future, perhaps. 
 
 Bereft because of tlie wind's rage 
 It will die when deatli raps. 
 
 Life cannot survive the teniptost's trust 
 Because of the life-boat that's upset. 
 
 The shore is gone, eaten by rust. 
 Rust, brought on by a trifliiiK coquett*. 
 
 Well, may it gradually fade. 
 Fast tempests it cannot survive. 
 
 In oblivion, its grave, it will be laid, 
 Nothing again can make It alive. 
 
 PL C. WAITE. 
 
 Born: Albany Co., N.Y., June;JO, 1830. 
 Mr. Waite graduated at the Union College 
 of Schenectady, N. Y., iti 1821, studied law 
 and was admitted to the bar. In lK,'ki he re- 
 moved to M:idison, Wis., and two years later 
 settled in St. Cloud, Minn., where he has 
 since resided. For twilve years Mr. Waite 
 practiced liis profession, when he took up 
 the milling business in which he is at present 
 engaged. Mr. H. C. Waite lias been register 
 of the U.S. land otlice, and has held numerous 
 positions of trust. 
 
 INNER JOYS. 
 Our ,1oys approach us from within. 
 
 Nor may we hope to find. 
 Substantial comforts, other than 
 
 Those of the inner kind. 
 
 Without is foreign to our sphere, 
 
 Within is all our own. 
 As we do find the things anear. 
 
 So fare we further on, i 
 
 If that within be checrfulwise 
 
 Without be cheerful too. 
 The world but a reflection is. 
 
 Of the interior view ; 
 
 And laughs and weeps and loves the while 
 
 As mortals sliould and can 
 The universe is of tlie style. 
 
 And humor of tlie man. 
 
 0, let our lives be grand and high, 
 
 .\iidof sucli nobli' estate. 
 That others, seeing them, must try 
 
 Themselves to imitate. 
 
 EXTUACT. 
 
 Or rich, or poor, it matters not 
 Where sweet coiiteiitmeiit* reign; 
 
 The majesty of wealth is but, 
 A Action of the brain. 
 
 We take a vain and fixtlish pride, 
 III what we call our own. 
 
 A few short years of hopes belted. 
 The ownership is gone. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 1248 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 REV. J. H. PRAY. 
 
 Born : Ohio Co., Ky., Jan. 18, 1859. 
 In 1879 Rev. J. H. Peay graduated, and en- 
 gaged in leaching as principal of various 
 academies. Since 1887 lie has been a minister. 
 In 1878 Mr. Peay was married to Miss Maud 
 Rowan, and now has two daughters, and re- 
 sides in Trenton, Tenn. 
 
 AN EVENING RAMBLE. 
 Late one ev'ning, I was strolling. 
 
 Just as the sun had left the sky; 
 And witli mem'rj-, I was holding, 
 
 A review of the years gone by. 
 
 As I pass the trees and flowers, 
 
 As I gaze with deep emotion, 
 Thej' to me bring bacli the hours 
 
 Of my youth's early devotion. 
 
 Devotion to those scenes of childhood, 
 To those scenes that engage me here. 
 
 To those scenes of home and wildwood, 
 That give joy to a riper year. 
 
 Just before me a mound I view. 
 Upon it my first tear was shed; 
 
 Now another — how unlike the two ! 
 The first just thought " mother is dead ' 
 
 Alas ! The second tear has found 
 How dear an object, 'neath the sod. 
 
 Is that whose spirit praises round. 
 The throne of Him who is her God. 
 
 So well do I yet remember 
 That mother so fond and so dear. 
 
 Who taught me witli care so tender. 
 Before she sought a brighter sphere. 
 
 Taught me in these calm shades of eve, 
 Wrapt in the moon's sweet silver rays, 
 
 To listen to and always breathe 
 Her words of truth in after days. 
 
 Taught me while kneeling by her side. 
 The little prayers I love to say. 
 
 And gave a book to be my guide 
 To lead me on life's dusty way. 
 
 Shall I ne'er meet such care and love, 
 Such fond playmates and mother dear. 
 
 As was given me by her love. 
 As were those comrades resting there? 
 
 those joys of our youthful days! 
 Shall we never meet them again. 
 
 Shall they all in various ways. 
 Be taken from us when we're men? 
 
 While thus pondering in my mind. 
 Of by-gone days and years the same, 
 
 1 see their marks are left behind 
 And force me sadly to exclaim: 
 
 " How happy is one's childhood. 
 How free from care and pain. 
 
 Yet those days are gone soon 
 Never to be lived again. 
 
 " The comrades of those days are gone 
 To a better world than this; 
 
 And my youth, awhile withdrawn 
 Waits for me in the land of bliss." 
 
 WILLIAM GEON PATTEN. 
 
 Born: Corinna, Me., Oct. 3.5, 1865. 
 Mr. Patten devotes his whole time to litera- 
 ture, and his poems and stories are eagerly 
 accepted by many of the leading publications 
 of America. He was married in 1886 to Miss 
 Alice Clare Gardner, and now resides in 
 Manchester, N. H. 
 
 THE WIND BENEATH THE EAVES. 
 The murmuring wind beneath the eaves 
 
 Is sobbing soft and low; 
 The firelight shadows on the wall 
 
 Are moving to and fro; 
 Upon the shelf the old clock ticks 
 
 Forever on and on. 
 How lonely is the old house now! 
 
 The children all are gone. 
 
 The murmuring wind beneath the eaves 
 
 Sounds sadly soft and low. 
 Like voices of lost friends I knew 
 
 In years of long ago; 
 And now I seem to hear the call 
 
 Of children's voices sweet — 
 And iiark! I thought I heard the sound 
 
 Of dead and silent feet ! 
 
 'Twas but the murmuring wind that sobs 
 
 Forever 'neath the eaves 
 Through winter days and summers long, 
 
 And stirs the autumn leaves. 
 I am alone; from the old house 
 
 The children all are gone; 
 And 'neath the eaves the ceaseless wind 
 
 Is sobbing on and on. 
 
 AD ASTRA. 
 In music's throb oft is an undertone [low 
 
 That's strangely sweet, and is so soft and 
 That onlj^ finest ears may catch the strain — 
 
 The rapture of its ni(;lody may know. 
 
 'Tis thus through life an undercurrent runs; 
 
 The blinded coarser soul discerns it not, 
 But wlio, with clearer eyes, its beauty sees. 
 
 Tastes pleasures rare and ue'er to be for- 
 got! 
 
 » 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1249 
 
 MRS. ELEAKOR W. F . BATES. 
 
 Born: Boston, Mass., June 6, 1&5L 
 This lady is an author and poet of aekiiow- 
 leflg:ed ability, and her poems and prose ai- 
 tieles have appeared in Harper's Bazar, 
 Youth's Companion, Springfield Hepublican, 
 Congregationalist and various otlier news- 
 papers and maji.izine.s. Mrs. Bates was mar- 
 ried in 187" to .Mr. Andrew Bates; she now 
 has tliree children and resides in Rosliudale, 
 Miiss. 
 
 A SONG FOR OCTOBER. 
 Here's a song for g-aj- October I 
 She's a lassie far from sober. 
 Lover of the woody vine 
 Wreathed with foliag-e fair and fine. 
 Grapes of amethystine cluster 
 Witli a rare and burnished lustre 
 Fall within her eag-er grrasp 
 As a jewel might unclasp 
 All the fruitage of the j-ear 
 Meets its consummation here. 
 Apples, rosy, russet, yellow. 
 Come within this season mellow; 
 Corn and wheat are stored away 
 Safe agrainst a later day, 
 O the sunrise and the dewl 
 O tlie uDiin's enchanted blue! 
 But the golden afternoon 
 Softens into sliad<)ws soon. 
 There's a mist upou the hills, 
 There's a vapor on the rills, • 
 
 There's a whisper in the woods — 
 (Solemn sylvan solitudes) 
 Say they all with portent sober, 
 "Say good-by to sweet October! " 
 \Vh;it she brings she takes away; 
 S >on November will hold sway. 
 KiiLiel upou the verdant sod. 
 Pluck the nodding golden-rod. 
 Fill your arms with brilliant leaves, 
 Praise the tints the frost-elf weaves. 
 Then with saddened looks and sober, 
 Bid farewell to bright October. 
 
 A WELCOME TO SPRING. 
 
 Bright robin, the king. 
 On a bough a-swing. 
 His delicate plumes wide fluttering. 
 Caroled and shouted to all the birds. 
 In the sweetest and gayest of musie-words. 
 Then whistled his comrade, the oriole. 
 And sang with the strength of a happy soul; 
 Tlie blupbird came with his warbling brothers 
 The thrush and the wren and a host of others. 
 I'he flower-roots hidden bene.ath the sod. 
 Stirred and shot up a blossoming rod; 
 
 The violet languidly opened its eye. 
 The cloudlets paused as they llouted by; 
 The crystalline dewdrops i|uiverrd avain. 
 Each gra.ss-blade li:i.sti'tu-d to liear the strain. 
 And the liquid notes of the birdling choir 
 Grew sweeter and louder and clearer and 
 
 higher; 
 And mortals said, as they lu-jird them sing, 
 "The birds are welcoming buck the spring! " 
 
 MRS. ELIZ.VBETH A. REEL). 
 
 Mrs. Reed is a resident of Chicago, where 
 she IS engaged in lit«'rary work. She occa- 
 sionally contributed poetry to the periodical 
 press, but her time is Uiainly devoted to 
 prose. 
 
 GOLDEN CHIMES. 
 
 Memory singing, gladly tells 
 
 Of wedding bells 
 Which rang with clear and joyous notes 
 
 On autumn air. 
 Bringing from their tuneful throats 
 
 Music rich and rare: 
 They sang the story sweet and old 
 
 Of Eden's pair. 
 Where love's bright promise first was told 
 
 Free from care. 
 Memory singing, softly tells 
 
 Of silver Ixjlls; 
 How their peaceful voices rolled, 
 
 'Neath sunny skies. 
 Where clouds of silver tinged with gold. 
 
 In beauty rise. 
 Bringing peace that passeth pleasure. 
 
 And love never dies. 
 Bringing faith that nt)ne can measure 
 
 In holy lies. 
 
 Hark! How the music rings and swells 
 
 From golden bells. 
 Ringing while the stjirs of even 
 
 In glory shine. 
 Ringing like the bells of heaven 
 
 In holy clime. 
 Still richer grows the story old 
 
 With passing time; 
 Flushed with crimson, tinged with gold. 
 
 In love divine. 
 Hark! How the golden promise tells 
 
 Of other bells; 
 Ofanother wedding golden 
 
 Beyond the tide; 
 Of earth's garment-s, gray and olden. 
 
 Glorified, 
 Foretells the dawning of that niurning. 
 
 The king lioslde. 
 Foretells the glory and the crviwniny 
 
 Of his bride. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1250 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CHARLES W. HUTSON. 
 
 Born : McPhersontille, S. C, Sept. 23, 1840. 
 Several hundreds of the poems of Mr. Hut- 
 son have appeared from time to time in the 
 periodical press. He is a great scholar and 
 the autlior of several prose worlss. and lias a 
 volume of poems ready for publication. By 
 profession he is a teacher. In 1871 Mr. Hut- 
 son was married to Miss Marion J. Lockett, 
 and now has a large and interesting familj'. 
 
 RECONCILED. 
 Lov'd and lost and lov'd again. 
 
 Will my Roundhead lover heed, 
 Lifted lidiiig mask as when 
 
 First I bent from startled steed, 
 Gazing on the waking youth 
 
 Streteli"d beneath yon spreading beech: 
 Can he trust my love for truth 
 
 Since my last so bitter speech? 
 Wonbourne wood is holy ground. 
 
 Glance over the gate and see; 
 Wonbourne wood is lioly ground, 
 
 Tliere he waits for me. 
 Cavalier though Father be, 
 
 Cavalier our curly Miles, 
 Both consent, he lovetli me 
 
 Sweeter than Don Cupid's smiles. 
 Both consent, he's gentle-strong, 
 
 All despite his Hebrew-Greek: 
 Will he, oh ! resent it long 
 
 That I for a time was weak? 
 Wonbourne wood is holy ground. 
 
 Glance over the gate and see; 
 Wonbourne wood is holy ground. 
 
 There he waits for me. 
 Like King David rosy-red. 
 
 Like King David music-fUl'd, 
 Eye and nar and heart he fed 
 
 Till loud war soft notes hadstill'd: 
 Was he like King David then, 
 
 Robb'd of her who liim half-woo'd? 
 Is he like the King again. 
 
 Longing for the love once rued? 
 Wonbourne wood is holy ground. 
 
 Glance over the gate and see; 
 Wonbourne wood is holy ground. 
 
 There he waits for me. 
 
 ANNA BRONSON KING. 
 
 Born: Wooster, Ohio. 
 Miss King is an only daughter of the Bron- 
 son-Alcott family, and resides in Medina, O. 
 Her poems have appeared in the Harper's 
 and other leading magazines, and she is fast 
 gaining a national reputation as a poet and 
 author. 
 
 THE FINGER OF GOD. 
 
 The rev'rent Arab treasures every shred 
 Of parchment that the unregarding wind 
 May fling before liiin, hoping there to find 
 AUali's most sacred name. Shall it be read 
 Less surely in the tender blossom-snow 
 Of May, O poet heart, in ivorj' glow 
 Of chestnut blooms that strew a grassj* bed. 
 Or soft recurrent nuirmurs of the bees, 
 Ere autumn drops her amber-tinted leaves, 
 Or silvered webs the harnessed spider 
 
 weaves? 
 For surely hath He now in all of these,— 
 The ijlossomed loveliness of sky and sod 
 Left his own impress, the Chief Poet, God. 
 
 LUCY E. TILLEY. 
 
 Born: Chatham, Ohio. 
 About two liundred poems from the pen of 
 this lady have appeared in Harper's Weeklj', 
 St. Nicholas Overland Monthly and other 
 prominent publications, and have been high- 
 ly praised. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 That voiceless time when Night takes grace 
 
 From Morning's half revealed face. 
 
 Is like the tender dawn which lies 
 
 Deep in a young girl's wistful eyes. 
 
 The woman steals down, wonder-led. 
 
 Ere yet the sweet child-days are fled. 
 
 Softly within the eyes they meet 
 
 And each through each are passing sweet. 
 
 At JJature's dawn no watchers say, 
 
 " Behold the night, behold the day;" 
 
 None e'er the swift-winged moment told 
 
 When roses from the buds unfold; 
 
 So shall it baffle wisest art 
 
 The woman and the child to part, 
 
 When dawn is folded, tender-wise. 
 
 Beneath a young girl's wistful eyes. 
 
 AT NESTING TIME. 
 God gave that all the bids of sweetest song 
 Should build their nests a little nearerearth 
 Tlian those in whose wee-throats there is a 
 
 dearth 
 Of music. Low tlicy brood and sing among 
 The liedge-rows, a sweet leaven of song to 
 
 stir 
 Witliin the world's tired heart until it liolds 
 No room for disappointment, but -soft folds 
 About a perfect hymn of peace. Come whir 
 Of slender wings, and build thy frail brown 
 
 nest 
 Nearer, still nearer for one heart hath need. 
 Perchance a close-sung brooding-song slmll 
 
 lead, 
 Througli half-forgotten pathways, into rest. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 lijl 
 
 -* 
 
 MRS. MARY JANE MEADE. 
 
 Born: Williamsport, Ind., Aug. 18, 1846. 
 Mrs. Meade has a large family, and i.s now 
 an invalid. Her poems liave appeared in the 
 Practical Housewife and the local press gen- 
 erally. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE PAST. 
 The sun has sunk to slumber in the fair and 
 
 shining' west; 
 The fleece-clouds, bright and golden, adorn 
 
 the mountain crest; 
 But brighter, far more glorious, than the 
 
 evening's sunset glow. 
 Is the ling'ering- light cast round me from the 
 
 days of long- ago. 
 The twinkling stars peep shyly from out 
 
 their azure dome. 
 And the crescent moon is climbing to her far 
 
 off sunless home; 
 The moonbeams glint and glisten as they fall 
 
 upon the floor. 
 While I list to hear a footfall at the threshold 
 
 of the door. 
 75 there anything fixed on the shores of time? 
 That are washed by the terrible flood of 
 
 years ; 
 And the mighty torrent with an onward rush. 
 Carries joys and sorrows, smiles and tears? 
 
 We stand on the brink and watch loved ones 
 
 carried 
 Away from our grasp to the dark yawning 
 
 sea; 
 And with aching hearts feel we ne'er shall 
 
 see them 
 Till we reach that blest eternity. 
 In silence we wait till the twilight gathers 
 Into the shades of night, o'er our bed; 
 Then slumber o'ercomes our weary eyelids. 
 And we are again alone with our dead. 
 
 We are .standing again by the side of our 
 
 loved ones; 
 We are saying again the last farewell ; 
 The morning dawns, tlie dream has vanished, 
 We wake with a sorrow no tongue can tell. 
 
 Like the stars that fade with morn's rosy 
 
 light. 
 Like the flowers that bloom, then witlicr and 
 
 die; 
 So the hop.'S that we cherish so fondly to-day 
 May to-morrow evade us and leave but a 
 
 sigh. 
 
 Like the ice that melts 'neath the warmtli of 
 
 spring. 
 Like the frost on the pane that flees from 
 
 day; 
 
 So the things of iliis life of mystery and 
 
 deatli. 
 Just linger a moment and then pass away. 
 
 FANNIE ELIZA BETH NOYES. 
 
 Born: Ana.mosa, Iowa, Sept. 17, 1871. 
 Miss Noyes is a school teacher, and resides 
 in Onslow, Iowa. Her poems have appeared 
 from time to time in the local press of Iowa. 
 
 JUST LIKE A WOMAN. 
 Just like a woman 1 how often we hear 
 These words in derision, perhaps with a sneer. 
 
 All ! yes, it is true. 
 There are many things that its just like the 
 woman to do; 
 
 Ah! yes, just like a woman. 
 Its just like a woman to soothe with gare 
 The fretful babes, and wiili patience rare 
 
 Have smiles sweet and mild, 
 And gentle words for each leasing child; 
 
 Ah ! yes, its just like a woman. 
 Just like a woman; wlien all are in bed. 
 Bending low o'er each dear little head, 
 
 Murmuring a prayer 
 For the little ones slumb'ring so peaceful 
 there; 
 
 Ah! yes, that's just like a woni:in. 
 Its just like a woman to watch and pray 
 For the boy whose feet go so often astray, 
 
 Witli mother-love true. 
 Asking God tu guide him his life-journey 
 through; 
 
 Ah ! j'cs, it is just like a wonuiii. 
 Just like a woman; with noiseless tread. 
 And willing hand, bending o'er the sufferer's 
 bed. 
 
 Watching each fluttering breatli. 
 Cheering and aiding e'en down to the valley 
 of death ; 
 
 Ah! yes, that's just like :i woman. 
 Just like a woman ; giving her all. 
 In love's service never to falter or fall: 
 
 Faithful and true 
 To those who accei>t it all as tlieir due; 
 
 For its Just like a woman. 
 
 ELI L. IIUGGINS. 
 
 Born: Scuvvi.er Co., III., Atg. 1. I>q3. 
 Captain Ei.i L. Hcooins, 2nd regiment, U. 
 S. Cavalry, left college at the age of eighteen 
 to enlist under the first call for trix>ps in the 
 war of the rebellion. He served tlirougli the 
 war, being tliree times wounde<l, and ri.-ing 
 from tlie r;ink of private to that of first 
 
* 
 
 1252 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 lieutenant. At the close of the war lie en- 
 tered the regulai* army as a second lieuten- 
 ant, and has served continuously since; he 
 now holds the rank of captain of cavalry. 
 About a hundred poems have appeared from 
 time to time In the leading publications of 
 America. 
 
 TO A YOUNG ARTIST. 
 
 The matchless artist of the olden time 
 Knew naug-ht of critic's jargon; to their toil 
 Bending as one that digs a stony soil. 
 Sparing not bloom of youth nor manhood's 
 
 prime; 
 They caught and fixed their floating dreams 
 
 sublime. 
 So must we shun all vain polemic broil. 
 Nor vex our souls with theories turmoil, 
 If to ideal heights we fain would climb. 
 Our vintage time is speeding fast away. 
 The morning faileth, then with double will, 
 In spite of noonday glare or evening chill; 
 Gather the glowing clusters while we may. . 
 So may our failing eyes see some faint beams 
 Shed o'er our work from our supernal 
 
 dreams. 
 
 W. T. CHANDLER, M. D. . 
 
 Born: Campbellsville, Ky., Dec. 12,1852. ' 
 Several hundred poems from the pen of Dr. '■ 
 Chandler have appeared from time to tinit ' 
 in the periodica) press. A small volume pub- i 
 lished by this poet, entitled Rustic Rhymes.: 
 has received high praise. In 1887 Dr. Wood- 
 ruff T. Chandler was married to Miss Sarah ^ 
 E. Webster; he still resides in his native; 
 town engaged in the practice of his pro-| 
 fession. ; 
 
 MARY JUDSON. 
 
 Born: Bellefonte, Pa., March 12, 1872. 
 Miss Mary Judson is a student of the Higli 
 School of Charles City, Iowa. Her poems 
 have appeared in the Maine Gospel Banner 
 and the local press. 
 
 THE CHALLENGE. 
 A Chickadee sat on the limb of a tree 
 And said' as he sang in the notes of his glee. 
 Ho! little Charlie, here is Chickadee-dee, 
 Don't waste all your arrows by shooting at 
 
 me. 
 Then Charlie to Chickadee sent him a note, 
 .. I won't take this advice from your warbling 
 
 throat;" 
 Chickadee pertly answered the lad in reply, 
 "On your bow and your arrows you cannot 
 
 rely." 
 Taunt me. Chickadee, and this arrow so fleet 
 I shall send on a mission of death at your 
 
 feet. 
 But Chickadee answered him — •• Chickadee- 
 dee, 
 Dear Charlie would shoot all his arrows at 
 
 me." 
 So Chickadee sangquitedetermined if wrong. 
 To give little Cliarlle the best of his song; 
 But alas for the song, the bird gave a jump, 
 An arrow brought Chickadee down with a 
 
 thump. 
 
 THE MISER. 
 Why toil and craze, weary and waste, 
 
 Muscle and nerve abuse; 
 Gathering gold from field and flood 
 
 For other hands to use? 
 
 Why call him wise who heaps in store 
 
 By his incessant toil. 
 That other men may feast and fat 
 
 When he is wrecked in spoil? 
 Dead'ning the brain, pois'ning the mind, 
 
 Str; ining through muscles bare; 
 Gold to canker and rot the soul. 
 
 With mis'ry and despair! 
 Robbing the rich, oppressing the poor, 
 
 Hung'ring the pure and fair; 
 Heaping great wealth in sordid heaps, 
 
 For craving want to heir! 
 Here, Old Miser's your epitaph: 
 
 You've lived a life unblessed. 
 Cheated your body, starved your soul — 
 
 Gone to hell for the rest. 
 
 THE LAST LEAF ON THE BOUOn. 
 'Tis only a leaf, a fallen leaf. 
 
 Scared and withered and brown; 
 But it tells a tale of bitter grief. 
 
 As it lies upon the ground. 
 
 On a naked bough alone 'twas tossed, 
 
 And its mates fell one by one; 
 Till the autumn's wind and winter's frost. 
 
 Whirled it at last to the ground. 
 
 Long days and weeks the storms howled by, 
 And thougli it withstood tlie blast 
 
 Of angry wind and threatening sky. 
 It fell to the earth at last. 
 
 To raolder with each scattered mate, 
 Wliich left tlie bougli before it; 
 
 Thus the eternal night of fate 
 Spreads its black darkness o'er it. 
 
 Such is the fate of human leaf. 
 Though long it butlVts time's blnst. 
 
 There comes a day of final grief 
 That whirls it downward at l;ist. 
 
 »=&- 
 
* 
 
 T>OCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMEltlCA. 
 
 12.J.i 
 
 DAVID GRAHAM ADKK. 
 
 Boun: Chelsea, Mass., May 31, 183". 
 David Graham Adee was U. S. comnn.ssion- 
 er to Saiiciwieli Islands in 1883; during tlie 
 war be w;is militury souretary on staff duty, 
 and has practiced law in New York ten yeai's. 
 He is the author of the novel No. 19 Slate 
 Street, and is still largelj' engaged in literary 
 work. The poems of this great jurist have 
 appeared in the N. Y. Evening Post, N. Y. 
 Sun, N. Y. Herald, N. Y. Tribune. Baltimore 
 American and other equally prominent pub- 
 lications, from which they have been copied 
 by the press generally throughout America. 
 Mr. Adee was married in 1878 to Miss Ellen 
 A. .Skeel, by whom he has three children. 
 Tliis scholar and gentleman is now a resi- 
 dent of Washington, D. C, where he is coun- 
 sellor in the U. S. Supreme Court. 
 
 FOUK PHASES. 
 
 Golden ringlets, hazel eyes. 
 
 Deep and dreamy, fixed afar; 
 Thoughts that to the zenith rise, 
 
 Life the sky and he a star; 
 This the boyish poet's rapture 
 Ere the hours his being capture. 
 Chestnut locks about the brow. 
 
 Love and beauty ripe and real. 
 Love, a faith the heart to bow, 
 
 Beauty, a divine ideal; 
 These the poet's manhood gladden 
 Ere the years his spirit sadden. 
 
 Silvery gray the clustering curls. 
 Darkling clouds in autumn sky. 
 
 Youthful gems but melting pearls. 
 Beauty dead and love a lie; 
 
 This the poet's fatal after. 
 
 Bitter tears or blithesome laughter. 
 
 Snowy hair and frosty beard. 
 Kindly glance and cheery saying. 
 
 Fair the phantom once he feared 
 While the soul was still a-Maying: 
 
 Poet, chant celestial measures; 
 Rapt the realm that holds thy treasures. 
 
 WHITTLING CHIPS. 
 
 Chubby hands, so brown and small. 
 Wield the blade and scantling; 
 
 Chips, like driftlets. fly and fall, 
 
 Wasteful liltt'r one and all. 
 In flakes about the bantling. 
 
 Seventy Springs their seed have sown, 
 
 Still, with knife and shingle. 
 The child a white-liaired grandsire grown, 
 His life a dream, his memory flown. 
 
 Sits whittling by the ingle. 
 
 Yet the past lield busy years. 
 
 Works of wondrous glitter; 
 But many a loss brought burning tears, 
 And many a gain regretful fears. 
 
 At best a useless litter. 
 And so, methought, the hopes and schemes 
 
 Of many a worldly witling. 
 When all is told, are idle dreams 
 That lure men on with golden gleams. 
 
 Mere chips of mortal whittling. 
 
 SYRIAN AND MEXICAN. 
 
 The traveler through Syria scans 
 The cradle of primeval faith; 
 
 Quaint hamlets built of mud for man's 
 Abode — in cast of clay his wraitli ; 
 The homely life of lowly huts. 
 And cumbrous carts in rocky ruts, 
 
 Uncomely laden cattle vans. 
 
 The tourist in an Aztec realm. 
 That grave of mediivval rite. 
 
 Views the same hand upon the helm 
 Beneath the sightless stars of night, 
 Where dusky, dark-eyed maidens bloom 
 'Mid scenes of Oriental gloom. 
 
 And sombre dreams the soul o'erwbelm. 
 
 Thus Eastern spells of ages past 
 Are woven in the Western sphere. 
 
 And old dead things are here recast. 
 And inid now scenes again appear, 
 'J'lie rude ox-plough, the wall of earth, 
 The wondering gaze and doomful dearth. 
 
 Tells, last is flrst, and Hrst is last! 
 
 REV. WILLIAM N. BURR. 
 
 Born: Ottawa, 111., Sept. 16, 1861. 
 After being ordained this gentleman was 
 pastor for two years in Silverton, Colo., and 
 is now pjustorof the First Congregational 
 Church of San Jacinto. Cal. He was married 
 in 1886 to Miss A. Louise Field. The iM)oms 
 of Rev. Burr have appeared In Youths 
 Companion and other le.iding publications. 
 
 BESS. 
 Across the field comes merry Bess. 
 
 Cutting the weeil-stalks witli her cane. 
 Whistling, with lM>yish nonchulanee, 
 
 A sailor-like refrain. 
 
 ..Most thoughtless girl in all the town." 
 The neighbors say, with nieuuing glance ; 
 
 ..Giiidy and restless as a doll 
 In Punch and Judy dance." 
 
 Beside the bars she's standing now. 
 
 Leaning upon her willow crook. 
 And toward the far-off mount.-iins turns 
 
 A wistful, wondering look. 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1254 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Only a moment! Tossing- now 
 Her fluxen braids, she trips along 
 
 The beaten path, and gaily sings 
 The jovial sailor song. 
 
 Whence came that touch of earnest thought? 
 
 Is there some silent, hidden spring 
 Wliose depths have never been revealed 
 
 To human questioning? 
 
 God sees with other eyes than ours. 
 He may have noted, as she stood 
 
 Beside the bars, some quickened germ 
 Of earnest womanhood ! 
 
 • — •^»»— ♦ 
 
 LYDIA ANN FOSTER. 
 
 Born: Charlestown, S. C, x^pril 18, 1856. 
 Lillian Foster now resides in Dorchester, 
 Mass. Her poems and sketches have ap- 
 peared iu Table Talk, Zion's Herald, The Cot- 
 tager and other publications. 
 
 LED BY A STAR. 
 
 A twilight 'neath the Eastern skies. 
 All bright it glows with crimson dyes 
 
 Of Orient eve; 
 Its purple, golden sapphire beams 
 Change slowly into silvery gleams 
 
 As daylight earth doth leave. 
 Three pilgrims looking skyward there, 
 As radiant eve doth disappear 
 
 And merge in night. 
 See shining 'bove them in the skies 
 A star that to their longing eyes 
 
 Shows wondrous bright. 
 With splendor filling all the night 
 It leads them on to where the Light 
 
 Of earth they find; 
 That shining light whose steady ray 
 Proclaims Him radiant Star of Day 
 
 To all mankind. 
 Oh, Day-star from on high, to Thee 
 All love and adoration free 
 
 We joyful bring. 
 Shine down within each darkened heart, 
 Light of the World : Thy light impart 
 
 To us, blest King. 
 
 MRS. BERENICE E. HENDRY. 
 
 Born : Otisco Valley, N.Y., April, 16, 1862. 
 After graduating from Iowa College, this 
 lady studied Frcebel's Kindergarten System, 
 and taught it successfully for some time. 
 She spent two years in Southern California, 
 and now resides in Tacoma, Washington, 
 whore she is society and musical editor of 
 the Globe. She was married in 1888 to Ken- 
 
 neth F. Hend)-y, and has one daughter. The 
 poems of Mrs. Hendry have appeared iu the 
 Minneapolis Tribune,Tacoma Morning Globe 
 and other publications. 
 
 PULSE-BEATS OF NATrRE. 
 
 Bounding along 
 
 Tireless and strong, 
 The great heart of Nature sings ever her 
 song. 
 
 May bells ring 
 
 For joyous spring. 
 And birds carol blithely the whole day long. 
 
 Gladsome and free, 
 E'er full of glee. 
 She cradles the birdlings upon her warm 
 breast. 
 She soothes the sad heart, 
 And bids pain depart. 
 And to every tired spirit she gives her sweet 
 rest. 
 Sweet summer days 
 Spread golden haze 
 O'er all the earth, as Dame Nature sings, 
 Of promise fulfilled. 
 Of vain longing stilled. 
 Of comfort and rest underneath her broad 
 wings. 
 O, great heart of Nature, 
 
 Speak, speak to my soull 
 Speak peace to the tempests 
 
 That over me roll. 
 Let me feel thy deep calm 
 
 In my pulses to-day, 
 And in thy great strength 
 Grow stronger alway. 
 
 TO THE HIDDEN MOUNTAIN. • 
 
 I strain for one glimpse of thee, 
 
 Mountain of majesty, 
 
 Hid from my gaze; 
 Mine eyes strive to pierce tlie veil 
 Which wraps thee in beauty,— pale. 
 
 Soft, purpling haze. 
 
 Thrust forth thy glorious brow. 
 Let me behold ttiee, now, 
 Dazzling my sight. 
 
 Peerless 'mong all the rest, 
 
 Lift up thy snowy crest. 
 Beautiful, bright! 
 
 Thou hear'st the star songs clear, 
 Wlien all is silent here, 
 
 And I, asleep. 
 Spheres, ringing music rare, 
 Tiirough upper realms of air. 
 Bound thy crowned head may dare 
 
 Their vigils keep. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 12.5.5 
 
 ERNEST R. OSTROM. 
 
 Born: Near Victor, Iowa, Aprii. 1, 186s. 
 Mr. O-^TKOM is part owner of The Criterion, 
 published at Daubury, Iowa. His poems 
 have appeared in the Housekeeper and the 
 local press. 
 
 A REVERY. 
 
 I am alone in the g-loom. 
 
 My thoughts my companions are— 
 Dayliglit fades all too soon ; 
 
 Memory brings from far 
 The faces of friends I know: 
 
 I hear their glad voices time 
 As in days of long' ag'o. 
 
 I am again a little lad 
 
 Beside my mother's knee; 
 My life is bright and g-lad— 
 
 I list to the lullaby 
 She sings in the even-time— 
 Once more as of old I'm clad, 
 
 And fish with pin-hook and line. 
 
 With old joys the face will beam 
 While in Memory's bowers.— 
 But the Past is soon lived o'er 
 
 And I see dim Future's stream. 
 The Future, unlike the Past 
 
 Refuses its secrets to yield; 
 Its shores are dim— mists are massed 
 
 O'er it as o'er a lowland field 
 Before the red sun doth rise: 
 
 'Tis but a dim outline vast 
 Our views of Future comprise. 
 
 FRANKLIN G.HARRIS. 
 
 Corn: Stockholm, N.Y., J0ne 23, 1854. 
 As TEACHER and minister Mr. Harris lias 
 been successfully cngagred since 1878. A few 
 ot his poems have appeared in the local 
 press. He was married in 1879 to Miss Melis- 
 sa E. Adams, and now has a family of sev- 
 eral children. Mr. Harris now resides In 
 Elba, Neb. 
 
 WEALTH. 
 Long have I pursued it. 
 The swift-winged fairy. 
 O'er water and land 
 It has led me a chase; 
 O'er mountain and valley, 
 In paths smooth and stony 
 I've followed the sprite 
 In a mad fruitless race. 
 
 I've seen its bright form 
 In the marts of the city; 
 
 I've heard its wines rustle 
 Ahead of the plow. 
 It lurks in the woodland. 
 It flies o'er the prairie; 
 But to make it my own 
 I cannot learn liow. 
 
 O'ercome by fatigue 
 I sit down discouraged. 
 And vow that I'll try 
 To o'ertake it no more; 
 It then dances round me, 
 I spring up to seize it. 
 Then I see it fl.ving 
 Afar as before. 
 
 Sometimes I have lacked 
 
 But a hand's breadtii to catch it. 
 
 Again I liave grasped it. 
 
 And thought the race won. 
 
 I sat down to rest 
 
 And rejoice in my fortune; 
 
 I opened my liand. 
 
 And behold it was gone. 
 
 JOHNSON BELLOWS. 
 
 Born: Chicago, III., March 19, 1870. 
 Nearly two hundred poems liave been 
 written by this young jioet, wliich have ap- 
 peared in America, New Vork Ledger, and 
 otlier periodicals. When a boy lie liad a voice 
 of rare quality, and is ijuite proficient in in- 
 strumental music as ;i pianist and organist. 
 Mr. Bellows is now athcologiciil student, and 
 hopes soon to become an episcopal luiuistcr. 
 
 MORNING GLORV. 
 Swaying, graceful morning glory. 
 
 On thy silken stem, 
 Listenimg to the zephyr's story. 
 
 Or the linnets anthem. 
 Bending, tossing merrily. 
 
 In the golden sunlight. 
 How its happy arms enfold thee. 
 
 Floweret bedight. 
 
 From yon snowy apple tree. 
 
 Flecked with blossoms pink. 
 Comes a swell of singing glee, 
 
 'Tis thelx)bolink; 
 Lovingly the south wind sighs. 
 
 Through eacli leafy tree. 
 Heavenward the .songster flies. 
 
 Now 'tis morning gli>ryl 
 
 TO BAHV ISABEL. 
 
 a LVIllC. 
 
 Life is a garden of buds and blossoms. 
 Of sunshine and May-day song; 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1256 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Buds become blossoms of vernal hue, 
 And blossoms iu incense die. 
 
 The skylark sings to the blowing rose, 
 
 And merrily clumts his lay. 
 He looks on the bud of unfolding love. 
 
 And sighs for a distant day. 
 
 That day is nigh with Its sweet sunsliine, 
 Its murmuring leaves and song; 
 
 Tiie bud unsealed breathes forth its life. 
 That shall ebb away ere long. 
 
 Hopes are but buds, and blossoms life, 
 
 While each to each live on. 
 Till at last they shall flower in endless 
 bloom. 
 
 And a realm of undying song. 
 
 WILLIAM W. HANNA. 
 
 Bokn: Philadelphia, Pa., Jan. 2.3, 1866. 
 After graduating at the grammar and the 
 high school, Mr. Haana received a teacher's 
 certificate. He then studied law and is now 
 engaged in real estate and conveyancing in 
 his native city. His poems have appeared in 
 the daily and weekly press. 
 
 TRUE SOURCE OF CONTENTMENT. 
 
 It is not the wealth of millions. 
 That bringeth peace of mind. 
 
 The rich, at times, with care perplexed. 
 No happiness can find. 
 
 Some strive on field of battle 
 
 To win e'erlasting fame, 
 But when at last the goal is reached 
 
 'Tis found an empty name. 
 
 Even the king upon his throne 
 While low his subjects kneel; 
 
 With burdens sore, of state o'erwhelmed. 
 No joy of heart can feel. 
 
 Happy the man, whose lot is cast. 
 
 Where he may useful be 
 Where character and love doth blend 
 
 With heaven-born piety. 
 
 REV. C. E. DICKINSON. 
 
 Born: Heath, Mass., April 23, 1835. 
 This Congregational minister was a grad- 
 uate of the Chicago Tlieological Seminary 
 and was ordained in 1863 at Oak Park, 111., and 
 has filled pastorates in that city, in Elgin. 
 111., and Marietta, Oiiio, where he is now i)as- 
 tor of the First Congregational Church. Mr. 
 Dickinson was married in 1863 to Miss Susan 
 D. Williams of Shelburne Falls, Mass., and 
 now has two sons and three daughters. 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE. 
 Oh, Father Lord, be mine thy will. 
 Let every murmuring thought be still. 
 This prayer alone my bosom swell 
 
 ••Thy will be done." 
 When clouds come darkling o'er my way. 
 Expelling from my soul each ray 
 Of light and joy, oh, then to say: 
 
 "Thy will be done." 
 When friends prove false and foes prevail, 
 And all our earthly treasures fail. 
 In love thou hast directed all, 
 
 "Thy will be done." 
 How sweet when all the world seems drear, 
 No friend, no earthl}' comfort near. 
 E'en then to speak this trusting prayer 
 
 '•Thy will be done." 
 In life, in death, in joy or pain, 
 My all I would to Thee resign. 
 These words shall ever more be mine, 
 
 "Thy will be done." 
 
 *- 
 
 REV. E. H, VOTAW, A.M. 
 
 Born: New Lisbon. Ohio, June 21, 1836. 
 Elihu Hilles Votaw, author of the fol- 
 lowing poem expressive of filial love, is an 
 alumnus of Amherst College, 1869. For sev- 
 eral years he followed teaching in Yonkers, 
 N. Y., and Cleveland, O. Having completed 
 his theological studies he was ordained in 
 the Euclid Avenue Congregational Church, 
 Cleveland, O., Aug. 28, 1874. He has served 
 as pastor of the following Congregational 
 Churches: Rockford, O., seven years; Attom- 
 tic Church, St. Paul, nearly three years; Gen- 
 eva, O., five years, where he is still preaching, 
 and responding to many invitations for pop- 
 ular lectures upon Dreams and D;iy-Dreani- 
 ers. Pessimistic People, Crudities, and others, 
 which have given him an envious fame, as 
 the ••Prince of lecturers on psycliological 
 subjects, popularized," and ••one of the most 
 popular platform speakers in Ohio." He is 
 also author of Pillars and Perils of the Re- 
 public, 1888. 
 
 THE ABSENT MOTHER. 
 
 The young moon flashed her silver light, 
 Our far off mama caught the sight 
 Of shining horns hung out by niglit. 
 And clapped her hands with wild delight. 
 ••That moon," she said ••shall light nic home, 
 To join the loved from whom 1 roam." 
 Her hostess daughter, lately wed 
 Suppressed a tear, and pouting said, 
 •■Tliat silver-footed <iuecn I dread; 
 She tells mo of a mother tied, 
 I do not like thee Luna." 
 ^ * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEHICA. 
 
 12.57 
 
 REV. HENRY S. BURRAGE. 
 
 Born: Fitch burg, Mass., Jan. 7, 1837. 
 After graduuting at Brown University of 
 Providence, R. 1., and Newton Theological 
 Seminary, Mr. Burrage studied in Halle, Ger- 
 many. For four years he was Baptist pastor 
 in Waterville, Maine, and is now editor and 
 publisher of Zion's Advocate, Portland, Me. 
 .Mr. Burrows holds many important positions 
 and has a brilliant military record. He is 
 the author of several volumes of prose, and 
 a poet of acknowledged ability. 
 
 ORDINATION HYMN. 
 How beautiful their feet. 
 
 Who on the mountain stand. 
 And lovingly God's truth proclaim 
 
 To men of every land. 
 The watchmen lift their voice; 
 
 Abroad the message flies; 
 And willing winds its echo roll 
 
 Alotig the bended skies. 
 Rejoice ye sons of men ; 
 
 Redemption's wonders sing; 
 Break forth in joy, Jerusalem, 
 
 The Lord your God is king. 
 
 He bares his holy arm. 
 And saving grace reveals; 
 
 The dead in sins he makes alive, 
 The broken-hearted heals. 
 
 Lord, here display thy power; 
 
 This greatest boon we crave; 
 Grant.with the messenger to speak, 
 
 The arm of might to save. 
 
 WM, D. KEMPTOX , M.D., DD.S. 
 
 Born: Cincinnati, Ohio, June 10, 1850. 
 The poems of Dr. Kempton have appeared 
 in the Bicycling World, Cincinnati Enquirer 
 and other publications. He has been editor 
 of several journals and since 1888 has been 
 Wheel editor of the Cincinnati Commercial 
 Gazette, and is now secretary and treasurer 
 of the Ohio Division of the League of Ameri- 
 can Wheelmen. Mr. Kempton practices bis 
 profession of dentist in Cincinnati, and was 
 f<)raU)ng time president of the Cincinnati 
 Dental Society. He was married in 1877 to 
 Miss Emma Jane Boyer, and of two children 
 only one is now living— Hildagarde, born in 
 1879. 
 
 When in thy broad and handsome brow 
 
 Deep furrows have appeared; 
 
 If then, dear Tom, on Memory's page 
 
 My name shall still be found: 
 
 Recall, I pray, the pleasant hours 
 
 That we've together found: 
 
 The hills that we've together climb'd. 
 
 Together coasted down; 
 
 The chickens and the milk consum'd 
 
 At dear Mia mi town. 
 
 TO THOMAS H. SCHULTZ. 
 When Time has touched thy shapely head. 
 And whlten'd thy flowing beard; 
 
 THE SCORCHER. 
 Charmed by the sweet and mekxlious notes 
 Which poured from a score of feathered 
 
 throats. 
 Breathing the hay's delicious scent 
 As through the fields my course I bent; 
 Far down the road 1 ch;iiicpd to spy 
 A man on wheel whicli seemed to fly. 
 As past where I stood, like a rocket he went, 
 1 saw on his face a kxik so intent; 
 A look of pain and an.xions haste. 
 That seemed to say, "No time must I waste." 
 For blind and deaf to Nature's display. 
 With downcast eyes he sped on his way. 
 "It must be a case of life and death," 
 I said to myself with bated breath; 
 '•At the door of Death some dear one is laid, 
 And he doth haste for medical aid. 
 Oh, fly. thou wheel, with the wings of the 
 
 wind. 
 That he that aid may speedily find. 
 And again to health th;it loved one restore. 
 Hasten I pray thee, beg and implore I" 
 
 Alas, my friends it was all a mistake, 
 
 He was only trying ;i record to break. 
 
 He rode like a fool and never once stopped 
 
 Till, his heart giving out, from liis wheel he 
 
 dropped 
 And gave up the ghost on the ground where 
 
 ho lay. 
 But he beat the record three seconds they 
 
 say! 
 
 LOVE. 
 A little seed by breezes borne 
 
 An abiding place in my bosom found 
 Where a smiling face and two bright eyes 
 
 Had recently made u piercing wound. 
 
 Watered by tears it began to gn>w 
 And into my heart its rootlets dipped. 
 
 Quickly its branches grew and spread. 
 Each with a fragrant blossom tipi>ed. 
 
 Deeply I breathed their fragrance rare- 
 How strange the effect upon my brain- 
 Beautiful thoughts and dreams were mine 
 And gone were every care and pain. 
 
*- 
 
 1258 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 This little plant with mighty power 
 To change a falcon to a dove 
 
 Or chain a giant with a thread— 
 You ask its name?— They call it Love. 
 
 LUCY AGNES HAYES. 
 
 Born : Dedham, Mass., Feb. 10, 1869. 
 
 The poems of Miss Haj'es have appeared 
 in tiie Jonrnal of Education, Catholic World, 
 Overland Monthly, Lippincott's Magazine, 
 and other publications. She is a resident of 
 Maynard, Mass. 
 
 VIA CRUCIS. 
 Say, Tollman, the name of the road I see 
 
 Stretching so cheerless, lone and wild? 
 "'Tis the Via Crucis that beckons thee. 
 
 Amen ! Then take it boldly, child. 
 
 "For the way must be trod by the sons of 
 men. 
 In tears and in silence soon or late." 
 With a sob, the little one now and then 
 Looked back as he passed through the well 
 worn g:ate. 
 
 O, Via Crucis, thy stones are wet 
 
 With tears of travelers j'oung and old; 
 And thy landmarks are white gravestones 
 set 
 Over smiles forg-otten and hearts grown 
 cold; 
 
 But thou bringest peace when the sighs are 
 past 
 
 And after a little thy gorse grows fair; 
 Tliough feet bleed sorely we learn at last 
 
 To bless thee, thou foot of Heaven's stair! 
 
 OVERLAND. 
 Over land and over sea, past the sunset red 
 Stands a stately Refuge Town whither one 
 has fled 
 Who had never sought, I ween, 
 
 All its joys divine 
 Could he ever have foreseen 
 This lone town of mine. 
 
 Smile on lips and harp in hand, 
 
 Vict'ry on his brow. 
 Far from where I weeping stand 
 
 He is singing now. 
 
 Soul of mine canst wish him back 
 
 To the toil and tears, 
 To the tumult, pain and wrack 
 
 Of the weary years? 
 
 Over land and over sea, past the sunset r^ 
 There is also room for thee with iliy hap; 
 Dead. 
 
 EDWIN LUCIEN MCNEILL^. 
 
 BoKN : East Nashvii.le, Tenn., Oct. 13, 186 > 
 
 Mr. McNeilly for a time was a bookkee,! 
 er, but is now a student at S. W. P. Unive 1 
 sity of Clarksville, and will eventually stud [ 
 law. A few his poems have appeared in tlij 
 local press. 
 
 " JES' A PIDDLIN' AROUND." 
 He never seemed to have his min' set 
 On anything, certain for sure, and yet 
 Jes' flxin" ills beehives or workin' his groui 
 Witli a stiing and some rocks, 
 A few nails and some blocks 
 He was alius a piddlin' aroun'. 
 
 We used to laugh, his neighbors en me, 
 Es we'd see liim spade up all 'round a tree 
 En bury some bones in the groun', 
 Fur we didn't then know 
 Thet bones made things grow, 
 And jes' thought he was piddlin' aroun'. 
 
 • •Hit's funny to me," ses I to my wife— 
 "How he gets along I can't see for my life, 
 How he gits all the seed in the groun'." 
 
 But he raised lots o' hay. 
 
 Ell all I can say 
 Is he did it jes' piddlin' aroun*. ' 
 
 When hit rained en frum work we'd all hav<: 
 
 to quit 
 En 'ud set aroun' smoke, chaw terbacker eil 
 •spit, 1 
 
 We could tell in his shoi>, by the souu', 
 He wus workin' away — 
 Er in fact I might say 
 He wus there jes' a piddlin' aroun". 
 
 He turned out one day a curi'us concern; i 
 Whut lie called a '.pedal propeller miiH 
 
 cliurn," 
 En hits equal can't nowhere be fouu'; 
 
 En liit sold right away. 
 
 En a fortune, tliey saj'. 
 Is whut he made piddlin' aroun.' 
 
 En he lives over thar whar I'm pintin' thii 
 
 stick 
 In tliat pretty now house thet's made outei 
 
 brick. 
 En thet's him jos' this side thet moun' 
 On his liands en his knees 
 At the roots o' them trees, 
 Jes' as usual a piddlin' aroun'. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. MARTHA G. BECK. 
 
 Born: Gkkencastle, Ind., 1830. 
 After her niarrias'e tliis lady lived for seven 
 years in Missouri, and fliuiUy located in Yaki- 
 ma, Wasliiiitftoii Territory, where she still re- 
 
 MKS. MAKTH.V G. BECK. 
 
 sides. The poems of Mrs. Beck have appeared 
 from time to time in the local press. She has 
 three children living-, by whom she is adored 
 as a true mother and friend. 
 
 5(- 
 
 AN ORPHAN. 
 An orphan to our home we took — 
 
 A little brown-eyed dove; 
 So winning: in her baby ways. 
 
 We could not choose but love. 
 A home with only sons — 
 
 Unblest by sister's grace — 
 What marvel they claimed her 
 
 To fill the vacant place? 
 Like a sunbeam to our home 
 
 She came, our dull lives to bless — 
 A humming bird amid the g-loom 
 
 That on leafless forest rest. 
 Grown-up oties, though of life a part, 
 
 Excites ni)t the .sympathy. 
 That wells up in the jiarent heart. 
 
 For weak, helpless infancy. 
 Our lives had driftedon the same 
 
 For many, many years : 
 
 Our hearts, like an arid plain, 
 
 Our eyes unu.'^ed to It-ars. 
 She soon awoke our love. 
 
 For it was but iislccp; 
 Eyes not used to tears, 
 
 Alas I soon Icanii'd to weep. 
 Death has nipped our Uowrut. 
 
 With all her winsome charms; 
 For her angel mother came 
 
 And look her from our arms. 
 Ah; our home is lonely now 
 
 Thoujrh wcare neariug- rest; 
 To Our Father's will we bow. 
 
 He governs for the best. 
 
 MEMENTOES. 
 In a drawer of sacred things. 
 Mementoes of the lov'd and lost. 
 Worthless save as memory brings 
 Those who with us on life's ocean tost. 
 Here relics rest so very, very old, 
 (Though once bedew'd with teursi 
 Quietly beneath the mold 
 And apathy of dead'ning years. 
 A pair of shoes little and worn, 
 I've placed amid the precious heap,— 
 A heart so sad with tendrils torn 
 Would break but for the power to weep. 
 They bring the dear one back ag:iin. 
 Every curvt>, the little toes depressed* 
 Surely she will here remain? 
 She has but cast them off to rest. 
 Ah! memory, her face, how w.inl 
 Her bright eye glazed the while. 
 Features that were anguish drawn. 
 Now wreathes them in a smile. 
 And has her guileless spirit flown? 
 Her young life's journey done? 
 Has death my floweret mown? 
 She, wreaths of immortelles won? 
 Fly back again sweet spirit dove. 
 And nestle in these waiting arms; 
 L«'t these yearning eyes my Uive 
 Again behold celestial charms. 
 Linger near awhile dear. 
 Amid these changing scenes; 
 Let me feel thy presence near. 
 As heaven's purifying b«.'auis. 
 This worn amy soon I will lay 
 Aside for garments bright. 
 And you and 1 together stniy. 
 Out into u world of light. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life, a sphere for effort grikiid; 
 A fathondess sea without a shore; 
 An hourghuis with wiustingsand, 
 A realm of mystery none explore. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1260 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAl, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 GEORGE H. CRUIKSHANK. 
 
 Born; Liberty, Ohio, April 4, 1821. 
 
 Mr. Cruikshakk has written one hundred 
 poems, many of which have received publi- 
 ealion in the Delaware Signal, Delaware 
 Star, New Era, and other periodicals. He 
 
 GEORGE H. CRUIKSHANK. 
 
 lias published a small booklet of his poems. 
 Mr. Cruikshank was married in 1850, and 
 three of his children are married, with fam- 
 ilies of their own. 
 
 *- 
 
 THAT CIGAR. 
 O touch it not, my dearest boy, 
 
 For in its folds there lurks a foe 
 That turns to sadness all your joy. 
 
 And leaves a curse where'er you go. 
 
 O touch it not, my dearest boy. 
 For deadly poison lurks within 
 
 Which will your body help destroy, 
 And load your soul with guilt and sin. 
 
 O touch It not, my dearest boy, 
 It leads the way to death and hell, 
 
 And is the devil's chief decoy 
 That lures so many there to dwell. 
 
 O touch it not, my dearest boy. 
 But keep your spirit's temple pure. 
 
 Then you shall share life's sweetest joy 
 And make your happiness secure. 
 
 COUNT THE COST. 
 Before you puflf that cigarette. 
 
 Just count the cost, my boy. 
 That you in tears may not regret 
 
 The act that spoiled life's joy. 
 
 Just count the cost; ah! can it be 
 
 You'll pay a sum so great 
 For that which robs of liberty 
 
 And seals the heavenly gate? 
 
 Just count the cost; oh, will It pay 
 With gold to purchase death — 
 
 To smoke your life and means away. 
 To scent your clothes and breath? 
 
 Just count the cost. Had Walker True 
 
 Left off those cigarettes 
 His days would not have been so few — 
 
 Too late now for regrets. 
 
 Anthony Jones, too, did not count 
 
 The dreadful risk incurred 
 While he his life was smoking out. 
 
 Else it would not have occurred. 
 
 Dear boys, a timely warning take. 
 And shun the tempter's bait; 
 
 Your happiness is all at stake. 
 Beware the smoker's fate. 
 
 A WARNING 
 Beware, dear boys, ot cigaretles. 
 
 Don't touch the nasty things: 
 A poison lurks beneath their folds 
 
 That sure destruction orings. 
 
 You may not see the poisonous bait. 
 
 But it is surely there; 
 By little it is taken in — 
 
 For death you must prepare. 
 
 Keep pure, dear boy, and shun the weed 
 
 Which degradation brings; 
 You cannot be too cautious of 
 
 Those nasty, tempting things. 
 
 As God has made j'ou pure and cleaD, 
 
 So let your lives bo spent; 
 Keep from all habits that are vile, 
 
 That you may die content. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMKIMCA. 
 
 B. ¥. BOYD. 
 
 May it wave forever 
 
 Bokn: Southekn Ohio, May 12, 1850. 
 
 O'er the patriot dead! 
 And dishonor's slain iievi . 
 
 
 The subject of tl)is sketch is the editor of 
 
 Touch tlie blue, tlie white and red. 
 
 the Independent of Lockwood, Mo. He was 
 
 
 m.-irriod in 1874 to Miss Olivia Shackelford. 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE ETERNAL NOW. 
 
 
 tsrr ~ ~~~ 
 
 ] 
 
 List, O man, unto tlie words of truth. 
 As now and ever more they come 
 To thee, fresh and full of might.— 
 
 
 ^■^^- "' 
 
 
 That from each passing momi'ni call 
 
 
 
 
 With voice that swells in deep accord 
 Witli nature's perfect liarinony; 
 
 
 ■ /'" ' ^ 
 
 
 And sweeps and thrills through all 
 
 
 mm .—>• •-- 
 
 
 The universe! 
 
 
 r^ ^-S". ."v- 
 
 
 Mid all the worlds 
 
 
 ■' , V 
 
 
 That countless wheel in space afar. 
 
 
 wmm 
 
 
 Not e'en one mote of dust, one grain 
 Of sand from nothing came, nor can 
 To naught dissolve. The mote 
 Declares the secret of the star 
 
 
 : ^M ^^^^^^Bl^_ 
 
 
 From whence it came and in the form 
 
 
 ^^^^^'' L^i^^Ji^^^ 
 
 
 Of which its kindred are. 
 
 No power 
 Can mar the rhythm of the drifting years. 
 Nor jar one cadence in the tune 
 To wliich the ages dance away. 
 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^B^^^^B^^^^I^? 
 
 
 No god can break the link which Joins 
 This moment to the next and links 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^R'' - .;^H 
 
 
 The death tliat was unto the life 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^K bB 
 
 
 To come. No word of priest cm grasp 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^iMd^flH 
 
 
 The miglity thought that ruslies here 
 
 ^^^m^^^^^^^^iHH^i^i 
 
 
 Upon the brain— Eternity ! — 
 
 li. f. BOYU. 
 
 Iiillnitude! — the wondrous spell 
 
 I'he poems of Mr. B. F. Boyd have appeared 
 
 Is theirs to mold their own at will 
 
 in the local press, and have received quite a 
 
 Foievermore, and from their gnisp 
 
 little praise from the press and public. 
 
 No atom, howe'er small, release shall flud 
 
 
 At sound of angel's trump, or voice 
 Of priest-craft's puny gods. 
 
 OUR PATRIOT DEADI 
 
 Know ye the story ! 
 
 
 
 How fell the brave. 
 
 OKLAHOMA BILL. 
 
 On the field of g:lory. 
 
 EXTKACT. 
 
 Our country to suve ! 
 
 And, still, as fresh as a ye.irling colt. 
 
 How, when tlie war cloud 
 
 He rode right over the flame; 
 
 O'erspread the sky. 
 
 And, like a frozen tliiiiiderbolt. 
 
 Marched they witli firm tread; 
 
 He struck that precious claim. 
 
 Marched fortli to die ! 
 
 
 
 " Rich? do you ask if that soil was rich? 
 
 Know ye how. dauntless. 
 
 What on earth are you talking jibout? 
 
 Pressed tlieir comrades on, 
 
 Why, bless your soul, it's blacker tliati pitch! 
 
 Bravely 'mid the conflict, 
 
 And so strong, I'll have to spread It out." 
 
 And the victory won. 
 
 
 Blest be each brave soul ! 
 
 .. You ccnildn't tell the grass fnmi pane p<iles; 
 It grows .so confoundi-d rank an<l fall. 
 
 Honored bo the brave! 
 
 Come, thou, witli {jratitude; 
 
 And it grows so quick in the early spring 
 
 Bring- tliy tribute for each grave! 
 
 That the cattle never get out at all." 
 
 Hiffh, o'er their deep sleep. 
 
 ..Going back? No. not for a whll.-! 
 
 Raise the gleaming' bars 
 
 I'm behind, clipping coui^ons Just now. 
 
 Of their srlorious banner. 
 
 And I'm boring a thousand holes for ile 
 
 
 Bearing all its stars! 
 
 
 Away out in the Gulf of Mexico." 
 
 ■tH- 
 
1262 
 
 LOCAL, a:nd national pokts of amkkica. 
 
 GRACE E. PICKERING. 
 
 Born near Portsmouth, N. H. 
 The poems of this lady have occasionally ap- 
 peared in the periodical press. She still rc- 
 
 GRACE E. PICKERING. 
 
 sides in her native place, where she has many 
 friends and ardent admirers. 
 
 A SKY PICTURE. 
 
 " Come quick," said they, and into the star- 
 light led the way; 
 In the quiet skies stretching overhead 
 A banner of snow was softly spread : 
 "Are you sure," said they, "Sure that it 
 
 isn't tlie Milky Way? " 
 Oh tlie Milky Way is a film on the blue. 
 Letting stars look through, as through care- 
 less, delicate, open lace; 
 And the Way holds her court in another 
 
 place. 
 But this train of wliite lay in " a wedlock of 
 
 silence and liglit; " 
 A downy strip, on its background blue. 
 While from lip to lip the wonder flew, 
 And within, the immortal questions grew. 
 Sacred and still — slept the pure fleece map- 
 ped on the heavenly hill. 
 Keeping its own sweet secrets well, 
 And hedged about by ti nameless spell. 
 
 MRS. ANNA C. ATKINS.- 
 
 Born : West India Islands, June 1, 184G. 
 When an infant this lady was brought to 
 North Carolina. She was married in 1875 to 
 Rev. Daniel Atkins, and resides with her 
 liusband and children at Corvallis, Oregon. 
 Her i)oems have appeared from time to time 
 in the secular and religious press. 
 
 LET DOWN YOUR GOLDEN BARS, 
 
 WEST. 
 Let down your golden bars, O West! 
 Day's weary hours come trooping in. 
 
 Some bright with joy, some soiled by sin, 
 
 Some deafened by the world's loud din; 
 
 Some eager still lost crowns to win ; 
 
 Some bearing lofty deeds well done; 
 
 Some robbed of laurels justly won ; 
 
 Some fainting 'neath the heat of sun; 
 
 Some quitting work but just begun; 
 
 Some bonnd by habit's iron bands; 
 
 Some bearing day's low ebbing sands, 
 
 Tlie weird procession flies along. 
 
 Around thy portals, halts the throng. 
 Let down your golden bars, O West, 
 Day claims the priceless boon of rest! ' 
 
 Let down your golden bars, O West, 
 Belated hours are hastening in! 
 
 Some come with idle folded hands; 
 
 Some busy with days tangled strands; 
 
 Some soar aloft on rainbow wing; 
 
 Some deep despair and sorrow bring; 
 
 Some clarion notes of victory sing; 
 
 Some sadly to the past still cling; 
 
 Some pressing on with l'i)otsteps fleet; 
 
 Some dragging heavy crime-clogged feet; 
 
 They pass witli steady martial beat. 
 
 And one by one tliy portals greet. 
 Let down your golden bars, O West, 
 We seek night's ebon fields for rest! 
 
 Let down your golden bars, O West, 
 
 Life's weary hours are almost donel 
 
 At last, the slender thread is spun; 
 
 At last, the battle lost or won; 
 
 A moment more and sinks the sun; 
 
 The western wind has ceased to blow; 
 
 Upon the mountain fades the glow; 
 
 The echo dies of footsteps slow; 
 
 A mantle drops to earth below. 
 Let down your golden bars, O West, 
 Beyond are Eden's fields — and resti 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 O, barren fields where daisies grow, 
 You hold a secret, none must knowl 
 Of maid, with eyes of lustrous hue, 
 And lover i)lightingvows so true! 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 Vim 
 
 * 
 
 : JOSEPH ST. ELMO BERRY. 
 
 Born: New Okleaxs, La., April 18, 1871. 
 
 N 1881 lie removed to Denver,Colo., where lie 
 ■esided until 1884, when he entered the pre- 
 paratory department of Notra DumeUniver- 
 liity, Notra Dame, Ind. In 1887 he was regu- 
 arly matricuhited in the English course and 
 vas graduated in 1891. Mr. Berry was ap- 
 minted class poet, taking for liis theme The 
 
 Myth of Hilas. He was on the editorial staff 
 ' of The Notra Dame Scliolastic and is a regular 
 
 contributor to several Catholic pnblieations, 
 I among which are Tlie Rosary and Catholic 
 
 World, besides doing considerable literary 
 I work for proir.inent western journals. Mr. 
 I Berry expects to take up journalism as a 
 
 profession. 
 
 O ROSE OF MAT. 
 
 rose of May ! thy blushing brings 
 The tufted month of love, that rings 
 To n^usic of the lilac bells, 
 Where love-lies-bleeding in the dells. 
 With pale-marked jasmine's starred wings. 
 
 Thy soul a liquid sweetness flings 
 A round, where dew-cupped tulip swings: 
 With seraph's breath thy gold heart swells, 
 O rose of May. 
 
 O Rose of Sharon, from the springe 
 The haloed peace of life, that sings 
 Thy praise, and sweetly soothing. (|uells 
 The passionate heart. Thy love dispels 
 The awe tiiat round thy splendor cliugp, 
 O Rose of May. 
 
 THE EYES I LOVED. 
 The eyes I loved in childhood's day. 
 The eyes of mother, soft and gray ; 
 The eyes, so deep with saintly love. 
 Now shine in Paradise above. 
 With Mary Mother, Queen of May. 
 
 Their starlight now has ceased to str:iy. 
 With love fire in each lingering ray; 
 For God, on earth, has ceased It move 
 The eyes I loved. 
 
 A vision of the p.ast ;ire they,— 
 A treasure in my heart to stay,— 
 The soft eyes of a heavenly dove. 
 The measure of her love to prove. 
 O Godl to see again, I pray, 
 The eyes I loved. 
 
 THE SONG OF A BLOSSOM. 
 
 A blossom fair. 
 
 Of maiden's hair, 
 Sang softly in the breeze; 
 
 Like a chime of bells. 
 
 Its story tells. 
 And the words it sang were these, 
 
 " In a blossom fair 
 
 Of maiden's liair. 
 My soul's a clustered liour. 
 
 The thoughts I breathe. 
 
 "With perfume wreathe 
 The poetry of a flower. 
 
 In the summer sun 
 
 My carols run 
 Like musings of a star; 
 
 My heart is ileep 
 
 As nature's sleep 
 In a serap'li's hymn afar. 
 
 My silken grace 
 
 Is wove in lace. 
 My home is lover's bowers; 
 
 The music sweet 
 
 To my iieart's beat. 
 Is the hopes of golden hours." 
 
 Sang the blossom fair 
 
 Of maiden's hair. 
 And in its song it bluslied,— 
 
 In a maiden's hair 
 
 Is the blossom fair. 
 And the soul of song is hushed. 
 
* 
 
 1264 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIO>TAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ALEXANDER EVANS. 
 
 Born: Middeltown, Ky., Nov. 9, 1814. 
 When flfteeu years of age Mr. Evans en- 
 tered a wholesale dry goods establishment 
 in Louisville, in which he subsequently be- 
 came a junior partner. He served in the 
 army in 1847-48, and in 1861 became major 
 and C. S. in Breckinridg-e's division. After 
 being: two years m the field he was posted 
 
 ALEXANDER EVANS. 
 
 at Madison, Ga., and at the surrender he re- 
 turned to Louisville and agaiu entered iuio 
 commercial life, but lias now retired. Mr. 
 Evans is tlie authorof two volumes, entitled 
 ^neas, and Fashions. About three hundred 
 of his poems have appeared in the Transcript, 
 Courier-Journal, Evening- Sun, News and 
 Post of Louisville, and the periodical press 
 generally. 
 
 ADELTA. 
 
 I saw Adelia's eyes 
 
 Beneath the mooidit skies. 
 
 Row briglit, how soft their lustre beam'd 
 
 Vicing' with stars from lieaven that gicam'd. 
 
 -And whilst 1 ling-er'd long- to gaze, 
 
 Her bright eyes did attract mc, 
 .■^nd in I he moonlight's quivering rays. 
 
 Her beauty did distract me. 
 
 Again I looked, I looked again. 
 Though every look renewed my pain; 
 She sigh'd, she smil'd, then wav'd lierhand 
 And placed her lips at my command, 
 I would not then have shar'd a throne 
 For all the joys th;it were mine own; 
 Let tlirones and scepters vanish far. 
 Since 'Delia is my guiding star. 
 
 WHEN I WAS A BOY. I 
 
 When I was a boy of ten years old, I 
 
 I heard of rivers wliose sands were gold, | 
 I wander'd in valleys gemm'd with flowers, • 
 I dreani'd alone of pleasure-hued bowers; j 
 I saw the sun at his golden birth, ' 
 
 Sprinkle with silver beams the earth; ! 
 
 I saw liis purple-clad clouds at eve, | 
 
 Taking their brilliant farewell leave; i 
 
 I welcomed the flower on April's wing i 
 
 When woodland birds their love-notes *slng, '■ 
 And in the w,ild forest of nature's trees. 
 Kept time with the music of passing breeze. 
 But oh, these scenes so golden fair. 
 That spring brought forth with her balmy \ 
 
 air, ' 
 
 Have all, like the summer morning's dream. 
 Dipped their fancies in Letlie's stream; 
 Wild grief has shadow'd my aged soul. 
 Dark waves of sorrow around me roll. 
 In seas of anguish my heart is lost. 
 On stormiest wave my bark is toss'd. 
 All my young loves have gone to their rest 
 And sorrow alone is left to my breast. 
 No hope but the hope that beams from afar 
 And points the lone wanderer to Bethlehem's 
 
 star. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The golden sun ascends the sky. 
 The lark in triumph darts on liigh. 
 The glittering drops of diamond dew. 
 Retreat as Phoebus' face they view. 
 The birds in singing all combine 
 To wake my love, my Adaline. 
 
 The busy hum of morning's voice 
 Doth make the heart of man rejoice. 
 The lambkins sporting on the green. 
 With hearts as light as shadows e'en, 
 All seem to say in every sign 
 Arise my love, my Adaline. 
 
 With lilies pa]o and violets blue, 
 With roses ting'd of every hue. 
 With snow-drops pure as morning air 
 With Spring's green mantle broad and fair, 
 AH in one bright wreath entwine 
 To deck my love, my Adaline. 
 
 * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 128.5 
 
 MRS. PHKBE A. SPURLOCK. 
 
 Born: Canton, III., March 2V, 183L 
 In 1857 the lady was married to Rev. M. Spur- 
 lock, of ilieCeutial Illinois Conference. Slie 
 was for six years corresponding- secretary 
 of tlio Woman's Home and Foreigrn Mission- 
 ary Societies, and lectured for eight years 
 
 MRS. PHEBE A. SPURLOCK. 
 
 in mission and temperance work. Many of 
 her poems have been set to music, and liave 
 appeared in standard works of sacred songs. 
 
 QUEEN OF THE NIGHT. 
 Cteeping- slowly down the lull 
 The shades of night the valley flU, 
 While lo! beyond the eastern star 
 Tiie orb of night is rising far. 
 In salutation's penciling light 
 Bleak ghostly forms recede from sight; 
 With gauzy wings her halo falls 
 Upon the shades of nightly pall. 
 O triinquil eve, sweet hour of rest 
 No stalking demons e'er behest. 
 To rob thee of thy jewels fair. 
 Which soft winds fan in dewy air. 
 Thou fairy moonlight, softly tread 
 That one might wish all sorrow ded. 
 While pearly rays of crystal light 
 Breaks on the visioo -rapturous sight. 
 The drama of fond memory's life 
 Tiiat nestles iu vaiu vision's strife. 
 
 Conies rusliiug back of long ugo 
 Like fairy scenes of moonlight's glow. 
 i'lio quivering lip, the throbbing sigh, 
 The hurried glance, the last good-bye. 
 Comes up as halcyon days of yore. 
 The moonlight hours in memory's store. 
 
 Like magic dreams cf nightly rest 
 To weave fair garlands o'er the breast ; 
 Of nature's art the heart inspire 
 To wake anew the harp and lyre. 
 
 In chanting i)raiso let power be given 
 To thee, most beauteous orb of lii'.HVen; 
 'I'liy mantle dipped in sparkling dew 
 Now trembling o'er the quivering blue. 
 In majesty thou sit'st on high. 
 The nightly queen to passers by; 
 Like lurking phantonis shadows fly 
 When chased by thy soft gleaming eye. 
 The scenery grand— so pure, complete. 
 Thy charms extend i>'er billows deep; 
 Thou giv'st to all thy silv'ry rays; 
 All hail thee queen ! all give thee praisel 
 
 STORM CLOUDS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 O, bear away, away, away. 
 
 Ye winter's wind of iiorn, 
 The dark fringed clouiis that so obscure 
 
 The breaking of the dawn; 
 Give back yc iron gates of night. 
 
 Let airy visions fall. 
 As sunlight breaks througli lattice shade 
 
 Upon my ceiling wall. 
 But lo, the clouds are fleeing, flying: 
 
 The storm has passed away. 
 And bursts o'er earth in visions bright. 
 
 The effulgence of the day. 
 All nature wrapt in calm repose. 
 
 And frost infused in air. 
 The crested icetlakes glit'ring hang 
 
 As jewels in the air. 
 Then let the sunshine briglit and gay 
 
 Within these walls to glow. 
 And may their warming rays reach far 
 
 Down in the valleys low. 
 Thanks to my God for tunny hours. 
 
 They bre:ithe of dull decays. 
 And point to briirhter scenes than these - 
 
 The mild sweet summer days. 
 So may ray life be calm ns ihey. 
 
 From darkue.ss e'er Ir' riven. 
 No clouds of terror to t)l)soure 
 
 My onwanl course to he.iven. 
 Tln-n drive them back to isles of storm 
 
 Where angry clouds l>eloDg. 
 They have no charm within my breast. 
 
 Nt) phice within my song. 
 
 * 
 
* 
 
 1266 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A31ERICA. 
 
 DR. URIAH D. THOMAS. 
 
 Born: Jamestown, Ohio, July 8, 1830. 
 This physician and lecturer is the author of 
 more than two liundred poems, wliieli liave 
 appeared in Boston True Flag, Waverly Mug. 
 azines, Peterson's Ladies' Mauaziue, Lake- 
 
 DR. URIAH DAVIS THOMAS. 
 
 side Monthly, and various other publica- 
 tions. Dr. Thomas has had five children, 
 and resides in Grand Rapids, Mich., where 
 he is very popular. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE MAGIC LUTE. 
 There lies a lute in a temple fair. 
 
 In tlie realm of monarch mind. 
 Aliove it murmurs enchanted air, 
 
 Witliin it are pearls enshrined. 
 Though brightest of jeweled things, 
 
 Its mysteries none may know. 
 But angels often attune its strings 
 
 To measures of joy and woe. 
 
 Ona comes, with dark and luminous eyes 
 
 TImt rival the stars at niglit, 
 .\nd on tlie lute a melody tries — 
 
 A madrigal soft and liglit — 
 A murmuring sound of wings, 
 
 A blending of songs and sighs. 
 Awakens the lute's responsive strings. 
 
 And strains bewildering rise. 
 
 Sweet tones in liquid harmony float. 
 
 And strangely the temple fill; 
 The soul of feeling in every note 
 
 Evinces immortal skill. 
 A deep, voluminous swell 
 
 Ascends to the heavens above. 
 And all who feel the rapturous spell 
 
 Are blessed by the angel Love. 
 
 Then one draws near, with disheveled 
 
 And lustreless eyes and dim, 
 To breathe on the lute a plaintive air- 
 
 A sorrowful, dirge-like hymn. 
 To the dirge-like, mournful strain, 
 
 The tremulous lute replies; 
 A sound of tears, in the low refrain — 
 
 Sad tears and dolorous sighs. 
 
 Through the wonderous temple tall 
 fair. 
 
 What fitful melodies glide; 
 They rise and fall on the humid air. 
 
 An ebbing and flowing tide 
 A tide of sorrowful words 
 
 In a musical wail depart. 
 When Love has yielded to Grief the ch 
 
 Of that magic lute, the heart. 
 
 ni:d 
 
 ords 
 
 VOICES. 
 Into my saddened soul, 
 
 Fervid with feeling. 
 Voices tumultuous roll. 
 
 Strangely appealing — 
 Thrilling, beyond control. 
 
 In their revealing. 
 Sounds on the pulsing air, 
 
 Swelling and dying — 
 Weird echoes everywhere 
 
 Sadly replying — 
 Love, in unanswered prayer 
 
 Mournfully sighing. 
 
 Hearts in their woe forlorn. 
 
 Hopeless and tearless, 
 Vaiidy beseeching morn. 
 
 Sunless and cheerless- 
 Hearts, through neglect and scorn. 
 
 Reckless and fearless. 
 
 Lured to deceptive goals — 
 
 Shores dimly lighted — 
 Stranded amoug the shoals, 
 
 Lone and benighted. 
 Linger despairing souls — 
 
 Hearts early blighted. 
 
 Heaven gloom-overeast — 
 
 Sorrow assailing. 
 Over a darkened past. 
 
 Sad souls are wailing — 
 Destined to find, at last. 
 
 Anchor unfailing. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAr. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKIIICA. 
 
 « 
 
 1267 
 
 JOHN D.CONWAY. 
 
 Born: Holyoke, Mass., May 4, 18,50. 
 In 1875 appeared Conway's Poems, a vol- 
 ume of two hundred pagesiand in 1877 Daujili- 
 ter of lunisfail, a four-act drama. Since 
 that time his poems hare appeared con- 
 stantly in the periodical press. Mr. Conway 
 is in business in Lawrence, Mass., in book 
 
 JOHN D. CONWAY. 
 
 and job printing:, and is also the publisher 
 !ind proprietorof the Lawrence Call. Mr.Con- 
 way was married in 1880 to Miss Mary Ann 
 Seymour, and now has an interesting family 
 of si.\ children. 
 
 ! *- 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 Rinfr loud and lively all those bells 
 
 That peal from day to day. 
 Just change the tone to heavenly swells. 
 
 And honor Christmas day, 
 111 joj'ous peal let anthems steal 
 
 From lofty towers of man; 
 Along the air enchantment bear. 
 
 And waft where breezes scan. 
 
 Ring! massive bells, in cheering tone. 
 
 The sounds we've heard for years,: 
 To-day, we want no plaintive moan. 
 
 No calling 'round the biers 
 Ring loud and clear the tidings dear. 
 
 That God and man are king, 
 That heaven bestows it s joys on those. 
 
 Who love to Christ will bring. 
 
 Ring! chimes, above the sacred walls, 
 In tones that speak of joy — 
 
 Jeliovali reigns tin's day, and calls — 
 
 In praise we make reply. 
 With joyous heart let love impart 
 
 True worship for the King, 
 Who rules a throne none here can own. 
 
 But worsliip to it bring. 
 
 Let merry children's voices raise 
 
 Glad pa?iis to above. 
 And join each other giving praise 
 
 To Him. the God of Love. 
 With pleasant face, wish every grace 
 
 Tli:it life accords to man ; 
 And help the poor, who seek your door. 
 
 With all the good you can. 
 
 A merry Christmas let it be. 
 
 Throughout this niighiy realm. 
 And carols loud be sung for Thee, 
 
 Great pilot at the helm. 
 The ship of life can stem the strife, 
 
 O'er sea's great rolling wave. 
 When He commands the willing bauds 
 
 To man the sails he gave. 
 
 Though loud the winds of ocean roar. 
 
 Around our lonely bark. 
 And drive us toward the rocky shore, 
 
 Where sin lias left its mark. 
 He still can guide us through the tide. 
 
 To lands of bli.ss and love 
 And anchor clear of ail we fear. 
 
 In calmest seas above. 
 
 Let the tintinnabulations 
 Of the bells, for generations. 
 Large and siimll, of all creations. 
 Send, in joyous variations. 
 
 Sounds of gladness to the breeze. 
 All along this sphere of wonder. 
 Let the heavy bells in thunder. 
 Bid by people living under. 
 Tell that they, in praise, can nnniber. 
 
 Willing Ideals, the Lord to pleu;se. 
 
 Let each loud reverberation. 
 With the people's acclamation, 
 Show that He lias veneration 
 In the bosom of the nation. 
 That without His aid is weak. 
 
 Sing of life, in bliss forever. 
 Where no binding ties will sever— 
 God is friend to aiiKels ever 
 In the holy sphere where never 
 
 Can the demon, siti, invade. 
 Sinj; of Christ. Rtdcemir holy. 
 Born to sutrer for us solely. 
 Hjw He looked not on us coldly. 
 When He came among the lowly, 
 
 God as ever, man-like made. 
 
1^ 
 
 1268 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POEI S OF AMERICA. 
 
 RICHARD D. DOYLE. 
 
 Born: Norfolk, Va., Oct. 8. 1850. 
 After receiving- the degree of bachelor of 
 l;iw at the university of Virginia, and grad- 
 uating- in moral philosophy and logic under 
 the celebrated Dr. M. Guffey, Mr. Doyle went 
 to Indianapolis and practiced law and edited 
 a weekly newspaper. He later became as- 
 sistant attorney general of the state of 
 Indiana. lU-iiealth compelled Mr. Doyle to 
 return to Norfolk where he has since held 
 
 RICHARD DEVEREUX DOYLE. 
 
 tlie position of city attorney and counsellor, 
 and received the nomination for maj'or and 
 commonwealth attorney. Mr. Doyle is still 
 eng:aged in the practice of his profession. 
 His poems have always received high com- 
 mendation. 
 
 A LAWYER'S QUERY. 
 Why is it when before me lies 
 A musty deed or moldy will, 
 I see before it two blue eyes — 
 Why is it? 
 
 Why Is it that in crowded dance, 
 Witli pretty girls on every side, 
 My heart desires but one eye's glance ■ 
 Why is it? 
 
 Why do I bate to see a rose. 
 Or smile bestowed on any one; 
 Why is it I can scarce repose — 
 Wliy is it! 
 
 Alas I I feel a vague unrest, 
 A rush of doubts and hopes and fears, 
 Forever in mj' faitliful breast — 
 Why is it? 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER HAVING JESTINGLY DE- 
 CLINED TO LEND A VOLUME ENTITLED 
 ROMANTIC LOVE AND PERSONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 You do not need to read the book, 
 
 1 would not lend to you. 
 Because whene'er to choose to look 
 
 'Tis spread before your view. 
 Romantic love is plain in me, 
 
 My charming little lass. 
 And personal beauty you can see 
 
 By looking in your glass 
 
 THE BLUE-EYED LASS. 
 No Delaware peaches her cheeks can surpass. 
 
 Nor tiie skies, nor the deep blue sea 
 Can excel the eyes of my favorite lass, 
 
 So I think when she's looking at me. 
 
 Angelo's chisel alone could trace. 
 
 Or Raphael's brush portray. 
 Her graceful form and saintly face 
 
 As fresh as the break of day. 
 
 Oh, for the wings of gay Tom Moore, 
 
 Or Byron the bard divine. 
 To poesy's realms I then would soar. 
 
 For thoughts of this girl of mine, 
 
 But alas, for me, a dull-witted youth. 
 
 My muse is none of the nine. 
 And yet 1 can tell this simple truth. 
 
 No love can be greater than mine. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Wallack, of the military, 
 A soldier brave as well as merry. 
 Says, "Wliat's the good of leading style 
 If I'm to be left all tlie while? 
 The time is sadly out of joint, 
 I'll air my clothes down at Old Point." 
 And then a crowd in fierce array. 
 Came on quite eager for the frjiy. 
 With tennis rackets higli in hand. 
 They looked indeed a wiirlikc band. 
 .'The dudes of Portsmouth, too are here," 
 I cried and quaked in abject fear. 
 Such fierce assults I could not stand 
 From tlio indignant slighted band, 
 A nd so, by Jove, I quickly swore. 
 That 1 would sing of dudes no more. 
 But sonnets write of witcliing curls 
 Adoi-ning- the brows of beautiful girls. 
 
 --* 
 
«- 
 
 LOCAl, AND NATION AT, POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 12fi9 
 
 JAMES PHINNEY BAXTER. 
 
 James Phinney baxter, well known ;is " the 
 Poet of Maine " has a national reputation, 
 and is the author of more than a dozen popu- 
 lar works. The puhlication of his Idyls of 
 the year 1884, placed him at once in tlie front 
 rank of American poets, and he is reg-arded 
 by many, at homo and abroad, as second to 
 none in New Eng-land. Mr. Baxter's winter 
 home is at Portland, Maine, and his sum- 
 mers are passed, wlien not abroad, at his 
 elegant island home in Casco Bay, known as 
 
 JAMES PHINNEY BAXTER. 
 
 Mackworth Manor, wherefore his poetry has 
 been said to "smellof the sea," that being- 
 the principal theme of his pen. Upon im- 
 portant public occasions lie is often called 
 upon to deliver poems, and atallsuch times 
 has achieved marked success, atid won the 
 applause and admiration of critics. Mr. Bax- 
 ter is also known as a historical writer, and 
 has published many valuable works relating 
 to American history. He is the honored 
 President of the Maine Historical Society, 
 and built and presented to the City of Port- 
 land its magnificent Public Library build- 
 ing, the most beautiful structure in the city. 
 He alsofoimded the Portland Society o. Art, 
 and, as an amatuer artist, contributes to its 
 exhibitions. The following are from his pen. 
 and will serve to illustrate his style. 
 
 DECKESCENDO. 
 There is no splendor on the shadowy hills: 
 Their gauds of gold the woods no longt-r 
 wear: 
 A dreamy haze the empty welkin Alls, 
 And reigns a strange, sad silence every- 
 where. 
 
 Save for the lonely bittern's wistful cry 
 From foodless marshes Uoatiiig drearily; 
 
 Or plover's fitful plaint borne shrilly by; 
 Or wail of waves blown from the far-ofl'sea. 
 
 On your bleak slope, by slowly freezing 
 
 springs 
 
 The sluggish geese by sudden instinct fired. 
 
 Wave wide with clamorous cries their windy 
 
 wings. 
 
 As if to summer realms they fain aspired. 
 
 And in the pasture, comfortless and bare. 
 Where shelter scant the shuddering birches 
 yield; 
 Pathetic in their patience, dumbly stare 
 The huddling sheep across the snow-flecked 
 field. 
 
 Where erewhile lisped the willow all the day 
 In sweetest mystery to the impassioned 
 stream ; 
 
 A shivering skeleton stands stern and gray. 
 The phantom of a onc« delicious dream. 
 
 And listless drops the ash its beads of red 
 
 From shriveled fingers slowly one by one; 
 As if the final orison were said 
 For all the beauty which from earth has 
 gone. 
 Whither, ah! whither hath t he summerflown 
 With all its wondrous witchery; all its 
 bliss? 
 Its roses' breath? its fields witli beauty sown? 
 Its sweet-voiced birds? its zephyr's balmy 
 kiss? 
 Its whispering woods? its softly psalming 
 rills? 
 Its clouds of pearl? its heaven's immeus- 
 ured blue? 
 The far-off splendor of its lucent hills? 
 
 Its meadows lush with morn's enquicken- 
 
 ing dew? 
 Whither, ah? whither? There is no reply: 
 The streams are tougueless and the wckxIs 
 are dumb. 
 An unsolved riddle is the chill gray sky: 
 And from wan hills uo cheering sign may 
 come. 
 Faith, following far, alone may garner hope 
 From suidess fields unfruitful and forlorn: 
 Alone may cast a certain horoscope. 
 And bathe in sunshine of a day unborn: 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1270 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 May look beyond the dim, uncertain hills 
 vvhere winter's ghostly garmeuts faintly 
 gleam : 
 
 Discerning clearly through impending ills 
 A summer all of beauty brightly beam. 
 
 MISERERE. 
 The cheerless sun hangs low; the harsh 
 
 northwind 
 Blows with a bitter breath from off the sea; 
 Brown are the southern slopes, where lately 
 
 dinned 
 The gauzy locust and the golden bee. 
 
 The idle fishers as they seaward gaze. 
 Dream of the silvery spoil their nets have 
 
 won; 
 And fondly revel in the vanished days. 
 Fairer than when their glowing course was 
 
 run. 
 
 Their mazy nets drift useless on the gale; 
 Their boats along the barren shore are 
 
 strown; 
 And but the billows' never ending wail 
 Beats on the ear in dreary monotone. 
 
 Gone are the ships which bore in summer's 
 
 prime 
 The wealth of prosperous ports; a single sail 
 Flits on the sea's dim verge a little time. 
 Then fades and is forgot like some fair tale. 
 
 And all is a vacancy — save when, maybe 
 A seabird hurrying througli the fallingnight. 
 In from the sterile pastures of the sea 
 Sweeps, silent as a shadow, 'thwart the sight. 
 
 O fruitless earth ! O empty sky and sea ! 
 O wailing waves ! O chill and bitter blast! 
 Where shall the doubting soul for comfort 
 
 flee 
 Till all this dreariness be overpast! 
 
 * 
 
 SELMA SAMUEL. 
 
 Born: Gketna, La., Sept. 10, 1873. 
 The poems of Miss Selma Samuel have ap- 
 peared in the New Orleans Picayune, New 
 Orleans Evening News, Gretna Courier, 
 Gretna Sun, and various other periodicals. 
 She is engaged in newspaper writing in lier 
 native town. 
 
 MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 As we read the daily papers. 
 Telling of the many capers, 
 Which the populace are cutting 
 
 As these modern times advance; 
 Many are inclined to mumble 
 That the world is all a jumble. 
 
 In wliich each is humbly waiting 
 For his happy day of chance. 
 
 For they tell of latest crazes. 
 And of politicians' •> mazes," 
 As they try to gain the public 
 
 Favor in contesting •• broils;" 
 Of the latest new inventions. 
 Also of great men's intentions. 
 As they, like their humbler 
 
 Brothers, are obliged to tread the soil. 
 
 SELMA SAMUEL. 
 
 Then they deal with sporting matters. 
 Actresses and baseball matters. 
 Telling of the ways and doings 
 
 Of the " men about the town: " 
 Designating one a •> winner " 
 While another still a " chinner," 
 Who they say makes folks 
 
 Inscribe him as a reaUstic clown. 
 
 To the thoughtless undiscerning, 
 
 Who forget about the turning 
 
 Of this mundane sphere, and walk 
 
 About the streets with long moues; 
 It is best to say that laughter. 
 Nerves the soul for the hereafter, 
 At the same time helping 
 Sinners through the world's 
 
 Rough paths and ways. 
 
 While the sea of life is flowing. 
 It uncertainties all showing 
 By the many things recorded 
 
 A 8 the papers go to press ; 
 Wise are they who steer out gayly 
 For the world is laughing daily 
 At the ones who of the future 
 
 Sit ;ind think and try to guess. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUirA. 
 
 1271 
 
 * 
 
 CHARLES F. GALE. 
 
 Born: NeauKenosha.Wis., Feb. 15, 1856. 
 In 1881 Mr. Gale attended the Coniniercial 
 School iit Keokuk, Iowa, and tauglit school 
 several years previous to that time. He is 
 now engas:ed as book-keeper for tlie Daily 
 Express of Beatrice, Neb. Mr. Gale was 
 married in 1882 to Miss Adula G. Garrison, 
 and has now two children — one son, Clar- 
 ence Willard. born in 1886, and a daughter. 
 
 CHARLES FREMONT GAL.E. 
 
 Laura Olive, born in 1889. The poems of Mr. 
 Gale have appeared in The Cliristian at 
 Work, Woman's Tribune, Beatrice Express 
 and other prominent publications. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 Toward the future we are gazing — 
 
 Hapless children of the earth — 
 And the present is behind us 
 
 Ere we learn to know its worth: 
 
 But it sheds its brightness round us. 
 
 As the branches, breeze-caressed, 
 Scatter flecks of lisht and shadow 
 
 On the restless river's breast. 
 
 We have dreams that time makes real 
 As its ripples touch the strand 
 
 Of the present, atid receding. 
 Leave their marks upon the sand. 
 
 We liave hopes that piereo the futurv 
 Almost with a proph(;t's eye. 
 
 Ever luring us with suiishiiie 
 Borrowed from an unseen skj'. 
 
 Mem'ty awakens silent voices. 
 
 Faces long since cliaiige<l to clay 
 And to-<lay is made the hriglitor 
 
 Bj' the joys of yesterday. 
 
 Half of all our eherLslietl tre:isures 
 Wake beneath her magic wand. 
 
 Half tlie pU'usures of I ho present 
 Come from hope that lies beyond. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 Compose the form with tenderest care. 
 
 Fold the weary hands on the silent breast 
 Whose latest sigh but breathed a prayer 
 
 For rest, sweet rest. 
 With softest touch and fingers light 
 
 Smooth back tlie hwks of silvery hair; 
 The sunshine loved in days gone by 
 
 To linger there. 
 Gently caress that marble brow 
 
 By time's keen chisel carved so deep; 
 It knows no care nor s»>rrow now. 
 
 But blessed sleep. 
 Those eyes that oft have shed the tear 
 
 At the sad t;ile of others' woes. 
 Or brightly beamed at others' joys. 
 
 Forever close. 
 Take one last look at that dear cheek. 
 
 Where once the dimples used to hide 
 In velvet softness, long ago 
 
 The lover's pride. 
 Print one bust kiss upon those lips 
 
 That taught the narrow way of life; 
 Nor smile nor shadow mori' they'll know 
 Nor joy nor strife. 
 
 Those fects<i often bniise<l and torn 
 
 In treading life's uneven way. 
 Weary and halting, rest at lost 
 
 No more to stray. 
 The life that bound us with its love 
 
 Where'er our f(K)tsteps clianccd to roam. 
 Has found its rest forever blest 
 At home — sweet home I 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Dragon-flies with shining crests 
 Flit in drowsy c.-idence liymning. 
 Troops of sylph-like swallt>ws skimming. 
 
 Stoop to wash tlieir orange vests. 
 
 Pa.st green hills and orchards gay — 
 P;ist sweet fields of scented clover — 
 Isles, where willows, hanging over. 
 
 Dip their br.mches in the spray. 
 
*- 
 
 1272 
 
 LOCAL AJ^D NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. A. SOPHIE W. MARSH. 
 
 Born: Wilson's Mills, Me., Aug. 14,1838. 
 This liidy is the widow of Georg-c H. Msirsli, 
 a prominent gentleman of Newton, Mmss. 
 Mrs. Marsh is now a resident of Boston, 
 Mass. .where she enjoys the society of literary 
 culture and refinement. Her poems liave 
 appeared iu the Portland Transcript, Boston 
 
 MRS. A. SOPHIE •WTLSON MARSH. 
 
 Journal,Newton Journal and m that valuable 
 collection —Poets of Maine. It is to be hoped 
 that her poems will soon tippear iu book 
 form. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 The past — what is't? 
 
 A shadow only. 
 A fleeting- mist. 
 
 No more to be. 
 Along- its track — 
 
 Children — we g:o 
 Weeping-, and back 
 
 Comes only echo. 
 We seek its shrine 
 
 For joy's sweet bloom, 
 Ashes, we find. 
 
 And a crumbling- tomb. 
 And, over it written. 
 
 In oliaracters strang-e. 
 By times creeping- lichens, 
 
 Tlio brief word, Cliange. 
 
 AN AUTUMN LEAF. 
 Only in death, frail autumn leaf 
 We find thee chtinged, yet fairer grown. 
 Embalming thus, the life so brief 
 Shared with thy mates around thee strown. 
 
 Thus memories charm us, while they grieve 
 With lingering- hues of sweet joys fled; 
 We gather them, as autumn leaves. 
 So beautiful, though sere and dead. 
 
 AN EVENING HOUR. 
 Clouds fill the sombre, darkling- sky. 
 And low the chilling- night winds sigh; 
 With following hearts, we bend the knee 
 This evening hour, and pray lor thee. 
 
 Afar, rocked, on the trackless deep. 
 Where love divine alone can keep. 
 In vain we would beside thee be. 
 This evening hour and pray for thee. 
 
 Dear heart, may angry storm.s forget, 
 The deep beneath thy prow, to Iret, 
 And bright stars guide unerringly. 
 At evening hour we pray for thee. 
 
 Mnykindliest winds waft swiftly by. 
 The leagues that now between us lie. 
 And bear in safety o'er the sea. 
 This evening hour we pray for thee. 
 
 WINDS THAT BLOW. 
 Oh, heavy winds that fret the earth. 
 
 And haunt the caves of fear; 
 That bring,with labor, to the birth, 
 
 The offspring ill of years; 
 
 Oh. pining winds, oh, moaning winds. 
 
 Ye find my naked heart, 
 And with your searching- hand unbind 
 
 Its earthly, hidden smart. 
 
 The darkness, on thy rushing wing. 
 
 Takes double forms of ill. 
 That vow before the fierce storm king. 
 
 His anger to fulfil. 
 
 And thy strong murmuring.siuking lov 
 
 Behind the casement bars. 
 Like some weird symphony of woe, 
 
 My inmost being stirs. 
 
 The dead are there; the living dead 
 Look back with eyes of yore. 
 
 And banished cravings, all unfed. 
 Come back to beg once more. 
 
 'Tis there thy voices, manifold, 
 Are language known and read. 
 
 And ever new the tale is told 
 To hearts uucouiforted. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAF. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 127 
 
 MRS. ISADORE G. JEFFERY. 
 
 Born: Waukegan, III. 
 A THOUGHTFUL, blue-ej'ed, quiet woman 
 whose noble taee the years are just begiii- 
 ing to touL'h and softeu; a heart flKed with 
 tlioug-litful, unselfish love for others, wliose 
 chief characteristic is a rare faitlifulness; 
 a manner pleasing- and sincere; a busy, 
 open hand, ever ready at the call of love or 
 
 MRS. ISADORE GILBERT JEFFERY. 
 
 need ; these are some of the g-raclous qualities 
 that help to form the rare character of this 
 gifted woman. The poems of Mrs. Jeffery 
 generally incline toward the religious and 
 philosopliic, but sometimes she writes in 
 playful mood, as witness the Mon Cher to 
 her husband. 
 
 BLIGHT — BLOOM. 
 
 Life hath its barren years: — 
 When blossoms fall untimely down; 
 When ripened fruitage fails to crown 
 The siunmer toil; when nature's frown 
 
 Looks only on our tears. 
 
 Life hath its faithful days. 
 The golden promise of a morn 
 That seemed for light and gladness born 
 Meant only noontide wrecli and scorn. 
 
 Hushed liarp instead of praise. 
 
 Life hath its valleys too. 
 Where we must walk witli vain regret. 
 With mourningclothed, with wild rain wet. 
 Toward sunlit liopes that 8(X)n may set 
 
 All (juenched in pitying dew. 
 
 Life liath its harvest moons. 
 Its tasseledcorn and purple weighted vine; 
 Its gathered slieavcs of grain, the blesse<l 
 
 sign 
 Of plenteous reaping, bread and pure ricli 
 wine; 
 Full hearts for harvest tunes. 
 
 Life hath its hopes fulfilled; 
 Its glad fruilioMs.its blest answered prayer. 
 Sweeter for waitings long, wliose holy air 
 Indrawn to silent souls breathes fortli in 
 rare 
 
 Grand speech, by joy distilled. 
 
 Life hath its Tabor heights; 
 Its lofty mounts of lieavenly recognition. 
 Whose unveiled glories flash to earth 
 
 munition 
 Of love and truth, and clearer intuition. 
 
 Hail mount of all delights! 
 
 MON CHER. 
 Sweetheart, sweetheart, let me feel 
 Who it is to whom I kneel. 
 Love is blind, they say. Ah, no. 
 True love never could be so. 
 
 Love hath far diviner seal 
 Than to make, need, such appeal. 
 Sight and touch are sweet but they 
 Dazzle, mislead every day. 
 
 Cupid may be color-blind. 
 Only rosy hues may find 
 Wherein love's dawn may arise 
 In the heaven of its skies — 
 
 But, how sweet that love should see 
 Only l>est of you or me. 
 Let love think it. Make it true '. 
 By and by what should we do 
 
 If we failed each other, dear? 
 Weary, weary all the year 
 When love loses from its nest 
 Trust the liost, or trust the guest. 
 
 Sweetheart, sweetheart, why should 1 
 Question you, or make reply? 
 Heart to heart is balance set, 
 Love is always heart in debt. 
 
 Love can never love repay 
 Though it try the livelong day. 
 Let it give and give and give. 
 That's the way a heart must live. 
 
 * 
 
^' 
 
 1274 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ON GUARD. 
 
 On every lower earilily street, 
 
 Unlieurd, uuseeti eutirds pitch their tents; 
 
 Unknown, iho' sent in our defense. 
 Their sentinels our wiitclimen greet. 
 As if one — silently — should meet — 
 And pass — blind men upon the street. 
 
 Our weaker, untaught human sense 
 Sees not, alas! their sweet salute; 
 Their watch, divinely set, is mute 
 
 To us — sight, hearing, touch so dense. 
 
 Their beat is far and high and deep; 
 To liidden causes it can run. 
 It follows, molds, effects, nor one 
 
 Who walks thereon needs pause or sleep. 
 
 The heavenly offing's blue expanse 
 Is filled with hast'ning snowy sails; 
 No wrecks hide there, no foe prevails; 
 Each girded warrior holds his lance 
 In waiting for his chief's " Advance! " 
 On missions fearing no mischance. 
 
 Hail! hail! strong, swift celestial fleet! 
 Off shore and sight of human tide 
 Thy stately boats at anchor ride 
 
 Watch, guardianship complete. 
 
 « — » ^ I — ♦ 
 
 JOHN DALY KENNEDY. 
 
 Born: Ireland, Aug. 13, 1844. 
 The subject of tliis sketch came to America 
 with his parents in 1853, and the following 
 year settled in Altoona, Pa., where he is at 
 present justice of the peace. During the 
 war, Mr. Kennedy served in Company B.llOtli 
 Reg., P.V. In 1867 he removed to Northfleld, 
 Minn., but in 1884 returned to Altoona. Tlie 
 poems of Mr. Kennedy have appeared in 
 many of the most prominent publications. 
 
 THE SALOON KEEPER. 
 In a costly mansion rich and rare, 
 Sat Tiiomas Brown in his easy chair, 
 On a marble table near him lay 
 A heap of gold he made that day. 
 
 A great big man is Thomas Brown, 
 'I'lie biggest tnanin Guzzlerlown, 
 He moves aloft in the liighest rank. 
 And is cashier of the Drunkard's Bank. 
 He is up before the peep of day. 
 Like a hawli watching for his prey. 
 At earl J' morn, night or noon 
 You'll find him there in his saloon. 
 With sweetest smile and words of honoj-. 
 He robs Ids victims of tliclr money, 
 And when no longer they can treat, 
 He kicks tlicm out into the street. 
 
 He rides around in n, coacli and four. 
 While his victims beg from door to door. 
 In silk and satin his wife arrayed 
 With money that the drunkard paid. 
 
 Yet strange to say, on the Sabbath day, 
 He'll do his best to sing and pray. 
 And give a dime from his wealthy store 
 To help the preacher and the poor. 
 
 *- 
 
 JOHN DALY KENNEDY. 
 
 With a bible and book under his arm, 
 A smile and a look tlie devil would charm 
 Off he goes to the house of prayer. 
 To worship with the christians there. 
 
 And there amid those chosen few 
 He stands a leader bold and true, 
 He makes a prayer so loud and long 
 The angels know there's something wrong'. 
 
 Thus on he went from year to year. 
 Selling whisky, gin and beer. 
 He built his mansion great and grand. 
 And filled the poor-houses o'er the land. 
 
 But why should I the story tell? 
 You know it all alas! too well— 
 Tlio .sin and sorrow, grief and woe 
 Of all who in his den did go. 
 
 I oftimes said if Brown were detid 
 And laid away in his narrow bed, 
 Andev'ry saloon keeper tlie sniueold way 
 Tlie world would be better off to-day. 
 
 ^ 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKllICA. 
 
 lU7o 
 
 WILFRED S. SKEATS. 
 
 Born: England, Apkil 23, 1864. 
 The subject of this sketch came to Canada 
 iti 1886, and after living for awliile in Victoria 
 and Port Moody, B. C, returned to Toronto 
 wliere he now resides. He is llie author of 
 a volume of verse entitled The Sons' of tlie 
 
 WILFRED S. SKEATS. 
 
 Exile, and has also written a novel. The 
 poems of Mr. Skeats have appeared in tlie 
 Toronto Daily Mail and various other pub- 
 lications. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 To thee, whose cheering- words have urged 
 
 me on 
 When fainting heart advised me to st.iy 
 My halting pen, and leave my task undone: 
 To thee, I humbly dedicate this lay. 
 Strong, womanly heart ! whose long-enduring 
 
 pain 
 Has not sufficed to rend thy faith in twain, 
 .Mut rather teaches thee to sympathize 
 With those whose path through pain and 
 
 darkness lies 
 Thyself forgetting, if but thou canst be 
 Of aid to others in adversity; 
 Tlie lielpful word, the approbative smile 
 From thee have ever greeted me, the while 
 None other cheered. Then lot this tribute be 
 A token of my gratitude to thee. 
 
 TO ETHEL. 
 So you think you will hi; a Scotch lassie; 
 
 The braw Higliland lad in a kilt 
 Has taken your fancj', dear, has he? 
 
 And you, too, would be clad in a •• tilt. " 
 
 Well, not one wiUgaiusayyou norblameyou. 
 For your wishes are ever fulfllt; 
 
 And how proudly your father wilt claim you, 
 When arrayed in a tartan and "tilt I" 
 
 And your mother will certainly further 
 The hopes that her Ethel has built; 
 
 I'ou have only to ask to ensure their 
 Fulfillment concerning the " tilt." 
 
 And T — Oh ! I know T don't count, dear. 
 
 And for speaking acknowledge my guilt. 
 For my wishes to nothing aniount, dear, 
 
 I would rather j'ou hadn't a "tilt." 
 
 For although thou wilt take us by storm, 
 dear. 
 
 Looking sweet, as thou certainly wilt. 
 Vet. you know, it is very bad form, dear. 
 
 And not English to wish for .i "tilt." 
 
 And I thought, but of course was mistaken. 
 For my hopes lie around me all .spilt. 
 
 That my Ethel would never awaken 
 To sigh for a Highlander's " tilt." 
 
 None the less will I try to be glad then. 
 Nor let courtesy play me the jilt; 
 
 Though I know that my heart will be sad 
 when 
 Little Ethel is wearing her " tilt." 
 
 THE HIGHER DUTY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 And, as I looked, deep sorrow filled my heart ; 
 
 "Oh mail! " I cried, "In God's own image 
 
 made. 
 
 Shall sun and moon and trees, all do their 
 
 part. 
 
 And tliou alone fall short and retrograde? 
 
 "Thou— greatest of all God's created things! 
 
 Thou — ruler, by His order, of the eiirlh ! 
 Shake off thy sins, and, on aspiring wings. 
 
 Rise! and be worthy of thy glorious birth." 
 
 I cried; and from the darkness forth there 
 came 
 A voice, which said in harsh and mocking 
 tone: 
 " Dosfthou possess so undeflled a name, 
 Art thou, amongst thy fellows, gixxl alone, 
 
 "That thou shouldst vilify thy fellow-men? 
 
 Thou art not innocent nor free from guile— 
 Thou too art man. Go, nor return again. 
 
 Sinful, thy fellow-si uiurs to revile." 
 
1276 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 BELLE POOLE. 
 
 BoKN : Mobile. Ala., April 6, 1869. 
 After receiving- her education at the Meri- 
 den Female College and at a select school at 
 Mobile, Ala., Miss Belle Poole has been en- 
 gaged in literary work. Hei- jioeins have ap- 
 
 BELLE POOLE. 
 
 peared in many prominent publications of 
 the South, and two novels from her pen are 
 ready for publication. 
 
 SEVERED. 
 Do you remember the summer — 
 
 'Twas many years ag-o. 
 When life was a dream of joy 
 
 For loving so? 
 The dream was sweet indeed. 
 
 But I would not droani it again-, 
 Tlie summer was so brief, 
 
 Would it had never been. 
 
 For the summer went, and you 
 
 Went from my life, and 1 — 
 Well, life was so full of joys and cares 
 
 I had liardly time to sigli. 
 Yet, hopes and fears, regrets and tears, 
 
 Come to us all by and bj'. 
 
 And sometimes T fall ii dreaming,— 
 Ah me, I am dreaming to-daj'. 
 
 If j'onr hair is as bright a l)rown. 
 Or your eyes as dec^p a gray, 
 
 * 
 
 As they were in that sweet and oldi 
 
 time. 
 When your heart and your life wei 
 
 mine! 
 
 Perhaps we shall meet again 
 
 Before we reach the end; 
 Clasp each other's hand. 
 
 And call each other •• friend; " 
 And both with clear, calm eyes can see. 
 
 'Twas better far that it thus should bi 
 
 THE STUDY OF ART. 
 
 'Tis a dainty profession that captures tli | 
 
 heart I 
 
 Of the girl of all nations, the study of art; , 
 
 From fourteen to eighty, 
 
 Sue, Bessie and Katie, 
 With tin pans, plates and dishes, 
 A paint box and brushes; 
 
 And that's how they start 
 
 In the study of art! 
 
 But soon they grew wiser and paint from tbt 
 
 sky, sir. 
 Cute churches, and bridges, lakes, pond.' 
 and ridges. 
 And landscapes so vivid 
 They cause you to start — 
 No matter; admire it, and saj' you desire it, 
 For of such is the study of art. 
 
 LOOKING BACK. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I remember the day I first met you, 
 How little I thought then of love. 
 
 'Twas a dark, chilly day in October, 
 The sky graj% not blue, up above. 
 
 And yes, I remember I thought you, 
 
 Even then, noble looking and true. 
 When you asked me a question, and gave me 
 
 A smile from your eyes of deep blue. 
 We laughed and talked some together, 
 
 On various topics, I know; 
 Just what I do not remember. 
 
 It has been such a long time ago. 
 After that I met you quite often. 
 
 At a picnic, a party or ball; 
 And sometimes you'd come in the evening 
 
 And pay me a nice little call. 
 
 And then. I don't know liow it happened, 
 
 But you came very often, 1 know. 
 And whispered sweet tilings in the moonlight . 
 
 Each night before you would go. 
 And tlien — when you asked me a question' 
 
 Gazing on me witli eyes fond and true, 
 I whispered a •• yes " on your slioulder, 
 
 And all tlie sweet secret you knew. 
 
El — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATION AT, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1277 
 
 CHARLRS W.HUBNER. 
 
 Boun: Baltimore, Md., Jan. 16, 1835. 
 Mr. Hubner was in the confederate army 
 nearly five years. He follows the profession 
 of journalism, and is the author of haU'-a- 
 dozen published volumes that have won him 
 high honors iu the world of literature. The 
 poems of Mr. Hubner have appeared in vari- 
 ous magazines and newspapers of the North 
 
 CHARLES WILLI.\M HUBNER. 
 
 and South, and have been widely copied by 
 the periodical press. 
 
 A VISION OF DEATH. 
 Why should we fear the ghostly mists that 
 
 veil 
 The fathomless abyss. wherein our years, 
 Down plunging', disappear? Above the false 
 And fleeting shows and shadows of this world 
 The eye of faith belioldsa fairer sight 
 Than ever dreaming poet hath beheld. 
 Mid mirage-mirrored regions of romance— 
 Tt is the si ar of immortality ! 
 Shedding its sun-liko splendor on the soul. 
 Lo! as we gaze the wondrous glorj' grows, 
 Till suddenly disparted are the skies. 
 And thro* the splendor-blazing cleft we see 
 Cherub and Seraphim, a countless host. 
 Crowding the azure planes and heights of 
 
 heaven ; 
 And faces of dear friends that shine like 
 
 stars. 
 
 Smile upon us thro' the skyey emhrn-sures, 
 Alluring us to their celestial homos; 
 And then the vision's glorious cllmnx comes. 
 Unspeakable splendor overwhelms thosifrht. 
 Death, shorn of every shape of hide(nisne.s.s. 
 Free from the dreadful vesture, wherewith 
 
 we. 
 For fear of the foul grave, had clotiie<l him. 
 Thus making him the monster that he seems. 
 Comes forth a smiling angel, crowned with 
 
 stars 
 Keady to take our waiting soul to heaven ! 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Wti will not wound his spirit by reciting 
 The grevious errors of his early waj s. 
 The sins whose shadows still his name are 
 blighting — 
 Nor stain with slander's spume his splen- 
 did bays; 
 " No further seek liis merits to disclose. 
 Nor draw his frailties from their dread 
 abfxle. 
 There they, alike, in trembling hope repose. 
 The bosom of his Father and his God." 
 
 Let those who will, the "uncoguid"'nnd pious. 
 Hurl harsh anathennus upon his head, 
 
 Stoddard the Scribe, and Griswold Ananias, 
 Revile, in polished phrase, the laurelled 
 dead ; 
 
 Nay! nobler motives, and a theme more 
 pleasing. 
 With gentler feelings shall our hearts in- 
 spire. 
 While from discordant thouglits our minds 
 releasing, 
 We listen only tti the poet's lyre. 
 From shadowy shores of Pluto's realm infer- 
 nal. 
 The Raven comes and croaks his '.never- 
 more!" 
 And radiant in her loveliness supernal. 
 
 We see her whom the angels name I^enore; 
 Again for us his magic fancy peoples. 
 With phantom-forms and horror-haunted 
 dells. 
 Or bids the spirits dwelling in the steeples 
 Shower floods of golden music fr<»m ihe 
 bells; 
 And so, attended by the mighty Master, 
 
 Our souls enthralled by his ri-sistless will. 
 Thro' pictured scones of glory or disji.-^ter. 
 
 Will we ascend the nuises' sacretl hill. 
 
 Where that whichwas divine in him and never 
 
 Shall be denied him now, nor suited with 
 
 shame — 
 
 His pure and glorious geniu.s— lives forever. 
 
 Among the crowned, celestial sons of Fiinie! 
 
*- 
 
 1278 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MANDA L. CROCKER. 
 
 Born: Noble Co., Ind., Oct. 15, 1850. 
 Mrs. Crocker has attained great success in 
 fiction, and her pleasing- stories are eagerly 
 aceepted by prominent publications of both 
 the east and the west. About two hundred 
 of her poems have appeared from time to 
 time in the Chicago Current, Chicago Ledger, 
 Detroit Free Press, New York Sunday Mer- 
 cury, Yankee Blade, and other prominent 
 
 MRS. MANDA L. CROCKER. 
 
 publications. It is hoped her poems will 
 soon appear in book form. Mrs. Crocker re- 
 sides with her husband and children in Shel- 
 by, Mich., where she is quite popular. 
 
 * 
 
 REGRETS. 
 When I see the lilies blowing 
 In the streamlet's clear, sweet flowing, 
 Thro' the aftermath's green growing. 
 
 Flecked wilh summer's fading leaf: 
 Then I know the season's sleeping; 
 Know that autumn hours arc creeping 
 
 'Cross the latest banded sheaf. 
 
 When I see the maple's burning. 
 
 Crimson, lighting up each turning. 
 
 Then there comes a strange, deep yearning, 
 
 For a vision left behind; 
 And the tender echoes dying. 
 Where the birds go southward, flying, 
 Leave regrets, for me, unkind. 
 
 Something in the bright leaf's falling. 
 Something in the blackbird's calling. 
 
 Seems a doubtive day forestalling; 
 
 Wraps with gloom the lonely grange, 
 As the northwiiid sends a shiver, 
 All adown the summer river. 
 
 Winding thro' this land of change. 
 
 Outward bound, the swallows winging 
 Flights from eaves, where summer vinging, 
 Seemed sweet heaven's joybells ringing 
 
 Down thro' du.sky, scented leaves; 
 'Till the scarlet ivy's climbing. 
 Showed a purple, clustr'd priming, ' 
 
 Long- the blacken'd wind-swept eaves. 
 
 Then, the woodland echoes, dying, 
 Sound like vanquished spirits sighing 
 Through the lonelj' hollows, flying 
 
 'Mid the cold lights glinting there; 
 Then. I vex me with a question, 
 Is this death or but suggestion; 
 
 Is this sobbing sound a prayer? 
 
 I lament for hours departed; 
 For the summer, happj--hearted, 
 When my pulses warmly started, 
 
 To the pressure of a hand; 
 While she kissed me. smiling sweetly. 
 Winning all mj^ soul, completely, 
 
 In the fragrant, sunny land. 
 
 Then I see the red bud, showing. 
 See the lovely, full rose blowing 
 In the warmth of June's bright glowing. 
 
 Clinging to the garden wall; 
 And there conies a shadow o'er me. 
 And a vision flits before me; 
 
 And the tears, unbidden, fall. 
 
 LEAL AND TRUE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I gathered pansies 'mong the leaves, 
 And bound sweet roses in my sheaves. 
 And breathed out blessings and reprieves. 
 So happy went my morns and eves 
 That bound my days in golden sheaves 
 So leal and true, 'mid .summer leaves. 
 I had a friend so leal and true — 
 Leal and true? Ah ! leal and true. 
 But when the asters budded blue. 
 And skies grew gray and gold in hue, 
 There fell a shadow 'tween ns two. 
 So leal and true; yes, leal and true. 
 
 'Neath antumn skies of sober hue. 
 The shadow deep and darker grew 
 Between the leal, the leal and true; 
 And hot and hasty words, though few. 
 And bitter tears, and sheaf of rne. 
 And frowning shadows shut from view 
 Friends once so leal: yes leal and tnio! 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 V2-S) 
 
 ELLKN E. ELDRED. 
 
 Born: Dainbridge, N. Y., Aug. 25, 1850. 
 
 Nearly four liiuidied poems liave appeared 
 from the peu of lliis ludy, which liave ap- 
 peared ill ciurent periodicals and in panipli- 
 let form. For many years she taught scliool, 
 
 ELLEN E. ELDRED. 
 
 but for nearly fifteen years Miss Eldred has 
 been enprag-ed in lecturing on temperance 
 with great success. 
 
 THE WAYWARD SON. 
 
 Around a dinner table one daj- 
 Partaking- of food sat a familj'. 
 Not only themselves, among- the rest 
 Sat in their midst an invited guest. 
 I'll mention the name of the extra one 
 Quite a noted lady; Mrs. Partington, 
 A temperance lecturer is Mrs. P. 
 I'll tell the tale as 'twas told to me. 
 
 Conversation ran to temperance some; 
 The mother spoke of her wayward son. 
 How she wished that something might be 
 
 done 
 To free him from the curse of rum. 
 A little seven year old child 
 Spoke up in accents almost wild 
 
 " Why uui " I .. keep quiet now " the mother 
 
 said 
 ••Keep still my son, " and shook her head. 
 
 " lioys always Imvo so nuieh to s-iy " 
 
 She remarked to her guest in a milder way 
 
 And tlien she went on to relate 
 
 How he had met the drunkanl's fate. 
 
 "A sad, sad thing; yes no mistake 
 
 If he'd only stoj) for his motlier's sake." 
 
 The boy was listening all this wliile, 
 
 "Why ma I " again spoke up the child. 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! don't interrupt me so. 
 Mama is talking now, you know." 
 And then again she went on to say 
 She'd done all that in her power lay. 
 But all that she could do or say 
 Wouldn't keep liini from bad et)uipany. 
 •• Oh, if something could be done." 
 " Why ma! " again spoko up the son. 
 
 Dinner was over and conversation 
 Didn't cease; but the child was a bothera- 
 tion. 
 Her mind was on her drinking son 
 And what niiglit possibly be done 
 To save him from a drunkanl's end 
 While she sat listening to her friend. 
 But the little fellow stuck to his text 
 "Why mal " and clasp her round the neck. 
 
 "Now then," spoke up Mrs Partington, 
 
 "Just once let that little one 
 
 Tell what he has got to say." 
 
 " Oh dear he talks continually. " 
 
 " Never mind " said Mrs. P. 
 
 " Here mj' little boy tell me." 
 
 But he eluiig to his mother all this time 
 
 "Why mal don't you know, that wino?" 
 
 " Oh, a little wine he's talking about. " 
 And then the lady drew her out 
 Some wine in tlie cellar she said she had 
 For medicine wheu she was feeling bad. 
 She said she didn't think you'd find 
 Any harm in a little honu'-tiiade wine. 
 "Bill brother drinks it " said the youth, — 
 Children and fools will tell the truth. 
 
 The little boy's glub she tried tt) stop 
 
 But he was bound not to give It up. 
 
 He begged of his mother to be 8n kind 
 
 As to let him smash the lK)ttles of wiiir. 
 
 The little one couUrnt rest content 
 
 Till down into the cellar he went 
 
 And brought up the l>ottles containing- 
 
 wine 
 Smashed them in a thousand piwes fine. 
 
 Brimming over full of joy 
 
 Into the house ran the little iHiy 
 
* 
 
 1280 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Thinking liis brother would escape 
 The wine at liome, ihoujih lie meet his fate. 
 All done; the older brother came 
 Cursing- his little friend in vain. 
 None but a friend would do this much 
 But they never consider them such. 
 
 This little storj' was told to me 
 As related to a lady by Mrs. P. 
 And now to mothers who fear the bite 
 Of the serpent abroad either day or night 
 Don't keep him concealed at home, ah, no 
 If you do he will prove a deadly foe. 
 No matter how harmlsss at the first 
 Of all enemies, he will prove the worst. 
 
 MRS. T. E. B. SHOEMAKER. 
 
 Born: Laurel Co., Ky., July 19, 1836. 
 Mrs. Shoemaker resides in Morgan Springs, 
 Tenn. Her poems have appeared in the 
 
 MRS. T. E 
 
 Dayton Weekly Leader and the local 
 generally. 
 
 IN MEMORY. 
 
 Doarest sister how we love tliee — 
 Miss thee in our liomo to-night. 
 
 But your suffering now is o'er 
 .^nd your soul hath taken its flight. 
 
 Flown to yonder glorious heaven 
 Wliere all is joy, peace and light, 
 
 Singing with Martha, Margaret and Lucy 
 In your happy home so bright. 
 
 Frances, when you met your mother 
 
 In that happy home above. 
 Did your voice break forth in praises 
 
 Singing of redeeming love? 
 
 Yes, your mother she is with you, 
 And perhaps you'll hear her tell 
 
 Of the blessings she's receiving 
 In the land wliere angels dwell. 
 
 Dear Frances how we loved you, 
 But we do not wish you back, 
 
 In this world of sin and sorrow 
 Where pain our mortal bodies rack. 
 
 Dearest sister, we will meet you,— 
 
 We are coming by and by, 
 Every beating pulse will tell us 
 
 That the time is drawing nigh. 
 
 Yes, we'll meet you in the kingdom 
 
 In that happy land above, 
 There we'll sing and shout together — 
 
 Sing of never-dying love. 
 
 MY LITTLE CARRIE. 
 
 Dear little Carrie — Oh ! how we loved you. 
 But now with suffering thou art done; 
 
 You have gone to a land of pleasure. 
 Where paiu and sorrow ne'er will come. 
 
 Flown to heaven with your white winged 
 angel. 
 
 There to praise our God on high. 
 There to live with brother and sister 
 
 Where the inhabitants never die. 
 
 Gone to live with white robed angels, 
 Gone to that happy home above. 
 
 Where your voice breaks fortli in praises 
 Singing Christ's redeeming love. 
 
 Your cold form lies beneath the surface. 
 While your friends are iiiouniing liere; 
 
 But no wail of human angiiisli. 
 Will ever strike your angelic ear. 
 
 Yes, little darling, we did lo%-e you, 
 And were loth with you to part. 
 
 But death claimed you for his victim, 
 And thus wrung our lonely hearts. 
 
 But one hope we still liave left us — 
 
 That of meeting you above. 
 In that blessed land of promise 
 
 Where all is joy, peace and love. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKIUCA. 
 
 1281 
 
 MRS. LUCINDA H. GALE. 
 
 Bokn: Nineveh. Ind., May 23, 1837. 
 Aaron Farmer, a minister and poet of con- 
 siderable ability, was tlae fatlier of the 
 subject of this sketch. At an early age she 
 was married to Mr. Virgil P. Gale, and has 
 now a large family. The poems of Mrs. Gale 
 
 MRS. litrCINDA H. GALE. 
 
 have appeared from time to time quite ex- 
 tensively in the periodical press. She is now 
 a resident of Lamar, Mo., where she is very 
 popular. 
 
 THE STARRY MEADOW. 
 I look far over the silent meadows 
 
 Of night, where the gold drops lie. 
 The starry meadows of gold and blue, 
 
 Whose blossoms make bright the sky. 
 
 And I think of the weary aching 
 Of hearts, whose battles are won. 
 
 Who are gone through the gates of gospel 
 To rest, for their life is done. 
 
 Far over the shining meadows. 
 Whose streets are paved with gold ; 
 
 And of whose wondrous beauty 
 The half has never been told. 
 
 Their feet were bruised in the stony way 
 Which they wearily have trod. 
 
 But far above the sea of gold. 
 They have gone to rest with God. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL CLOUDS. 
 
 Beautiful clouds, I have watched you long, 
 
 Fickle and bright as a fairy throng; 
 
 Parting in misty silvery streams. 
 
 Now you have gathered in golden beams. 
 
 Now you are tinged with a roseate blush, 
 
 Deepening fast to a crimson flush, 
 
 While like aerial spirits at play. 
 
 You are dancing lightly another way; 
 
 Melting in many a i)early f):ike. 
 
 Like the cygnet's down on the azure lake; 
 
 Now you gather again and run. 
 
 To bask in the beams of the setting sun; 
 
 Like childliood's days you are slipping away 
 
 The very same clouds that yesterday. 
 
 Floated and gathered so soft and low. 
 
 Spanning the sky by a beautiful bow. 
 
 Emblem of life's joys and sorrows past. 
 
 We change from death to life at last. 
 
 THE SILENT CITY. 
 The sunlight slanted in tawny gold. 
 
 Across a city silently sleeping. 
 Where shining marble shafts arose. 
 
 On bases broad, witli mosses creeping. 
 
 Where beds of green and plumy grass. 
 Near groves untouched of yellow mold. 
 
 And wild and weed-grown banks that tell, 
 Of hearts grown careless, free and cold. 
 
 And quaint, bright places, childishly. 
 
 With rosy shells and keepsakes decked, 
 Yet pitifully showing forth. 
 
 Some lives made weary, crushed and 
 wrecked. 
 
 The sunlight slanted o'er the mounds. 
 
 That lie in circles and avenues old. 
 Filled with darlings wlio have gone before. 
 
 To brighten the beautiful "City of Gold." 
 
 Across a bridge where weighted with grief. 
 
 Our dead we bring to n dreamless rest; 
 Never a moment of grief or pain. 
 
 They are safe in heavenly sunlight blest. 
 
 Aftercrossing the bouodsof death and pain. 
 
 They cannot come back — be with us again. 
 But ..only asleep." our fatlier hath said. 
 
 Our beautiful darlings are not dead. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 01» ! walk the straight and narrow way. 
 Which leads to bliss supremely given. 
 Where Jesus is the light of day. 
 And all is safe with Him in heaven. 
 
*fi' 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 1282 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK A51ERICA. 
 
 
 ANDREW J.JENKINS. 
 
 To burst the bonds that sin has sealed 
 
 
 By ignorance and religious thrall. 
 
 Born: Prompton, Pa., Nov. 6, 1839. 
 
 The world is held in bondage all. 
 
 Mr. Jenkins served tlirough the war as 
 
 What need of costly churches more. 
 
 chaDliuu iu tbe .'2nd N.Y. Cavalry. He is now 
 
 
 
 
 
 Let us minister to the poor — 
 The poor in spirit, poor in purse. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Want our blessings, need them first ; 
 
 
 
 
 Discard those hypocritic creeds 
 
 
 
 
 That live in word and not in deed. 
 
 
 
 
 Humbly follow in Christ's way, i 
 
 
 ••'i^fe^ 
 
 
 Like the disciples of His day; 
 
 
 ^|h^ 
 
 
 Casting out the devil, sin. 
 
 
 . JBL 
 
 
 To make this world worth living In. | 
 
 
 Ml W^ mm. ' 
 
 
 Loving God, and man, a brother, ' 
 
 
 pp^ ^pwi- «j^» 
 
 
 Peacefully helping one another. , 
 
 
 jhhB 
 
 
 Aiding on the millennial dawn. 
 
 
 ^^^^P^ 
 
 
 By dispensing truth in every form; 
 And when all evils we assuage. 
 That blot the records of the age. 
 
 
 ^M^P^ 
 
 
 We'll build a temple to the skies, 1 
 
 
 
 
 In which truth and justice shall arise. ! 
 
 AN ODE. i 
 
 
 ■ ^^rt|E^^^^aP^^^^^^^B^^ 
 
 
 He said: " Can man die better 1 
 
 
 
 Than facing a rebel clan, | 
 
 
 ^^H^HI^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^I 
 
 
 For the ashes of his fathers ' 
 
 
 I^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 
 
 
 And the freedom of this land." | 
 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^^^H 
 
 
 It was these bold words and valiant. 
 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^I^^^^^^^^^^^^H 
 
 
 When our nation's life was tried, 
 
 
 ^^^^^I^H^HH^^I^H^IH 
 
 
 Spoke the Northern soldier. 
 
 ANDREW J. JENKINS. 
 
 For bis country was his pride. 
 
 the editor and proprietor of the Otay Press 
 
 It was when bold Jeff's legion 
 
 of Otay, Cal. 
 
 With its ninety thousand strong 
 
 
 
 
 In their gay and solid phalanx 
 
 
 
 LIFE'S MISSION. 
 
 Approached our Washington. 
 
 There is a mission each to know. 
 
 And when the Americans saw 
 
 In this world of trouble here below. 
 
 The Potomac alone opposed their waj 
 
 A mission given all for good. 
 
 There was anguish, strong and bitter, 
 
 For man to follow, if he would; 
 
 In loyal hearts that day. 
 
 Follow daily, throug-h his life. 
 
 It was then they quickly mustered, 
 
 Lessening sorrow, lessening strife. 
 
 And with generals yet untried. 
 
 
 Held back the ninety thousand. 
 
 Better far this world would be, 
 If you and I would but agree 
 
 And the bridge that spanned the tide 
 
 To cast aside our selfish frown. 
 
 Four years this tide of battle rolled 
 
 And help to raise the fallen down. 
 
 With victories lost and won. 
 
 Help to lifting up the poor. 
 
 Until rebellion was dethroned 
 
 Help the vile to sin no more. 
 
 And slavery was undone. 
 
 Scattering blessings on our way; 
 
 Now thanks to God for peace we give 
 
 Deeds of kindness that will pay 
 
 Remembering what the patriots boro 
 
 Better than the strife for gold, 
 
 While we seek to bind the wounds wi 
 
 Drawing interest that's untold, 
 
 give 
 
 Interests that are never slack. 
 
 Repeat this motto as of yore. 
 
 And honor follow in your track. 
 
 For he said, •• Can man die better 
 
 Then do not say, What is life for. 
 
 Tlian facing a rebel clan. 
 
 When so much work is at the door; 
 
 For the asiies of his fathers 
 
 
 Work that calls you in the field. 
 
 
 And the freedom of tliis land." 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 J28,i 
 
 -".f 
 
 MRS. ISABELLA W. COOKE. 
 
 Born: Mekiden, Conn.. March 15, 1834. 
 When a baby the subject of this sketch was 
 left fatherless, and removed with her mother 
 to Vermont. Since then she has resided it\ 
 manystatesof tiie union, butSalem, Oregon, 
 finally became her permanent i)lace of abode. 
 In lb52 she was married to Mr. Joseph Cooke, 
 
 MRS. ISABELLA WALKER COOKE. 
 
 and has had six children. Mrs. Cooke is the 
 author of a volume of poems entitled Tears 
 and Victory, which received high praise from 
 press and public. For ten years Mrs. Cooke 
 has been engag-ed in teaching painting and 
 drawing. 
 
 » 
 
 ANSWERED. 
 Not in my way nor at any time 
 My heart's petitions answer gain; 
 ' I ask, and all my days are full 
 Of longing that I may attain, 
 " This time," 1 cry, •• do not delay; 
 Give me the boon I ask to-duy." 
 
 But opportunity goes by. 
 And while I pray my lips are fed 
 
 With something that I have not asked, 
 Nay: what I wanted not, instead. 
 
 But still the food is sweet T find 
 
 And leaves not taste of gall behind. 
 
 The Master's hand has l)U'ssed the gift. 
 And so it must be good for me; 
 
 And yet my heart goes sighing still 
 For that whicli I had hoped to see. 
 
 No pain nor labor would I spare 
 
 If He would only grant my prayer. 
 
 I see the hands of otliers filled 
 With that which I have been denied; 
 
 And they care not. but scorn perchance 
 Because they are so well supplied. 
 
 I see and pray, whate'er my quest: 
 
 " Lord let me know when I am blest!" 
 
 I wander on, nor e'er forget 
 The treasure that I crave the most. 
 
 And think, •• Perhaps it is too late. 
 All opportunity is lost;" 
 
 When lo! I see the blessing sweet 
 
 Is lying, fair, beneath my feet! 
 
 SPINNING. 
 A spider was swuiging herself in glee 
 
 From a moss-covcrc<I swaying bough, 
 A breeze came rollieking up from the sea. 
 
 And fanned her beautiful brow. 
 She hung, it is true, with her pretty head 
 down. 
 But her brain was cool as you please; 
 And the fashion quite suited the cut of her 
 gown. 
 And she could look up in the trees. 
 
 She saw where a humming-bird lighted down 
 
 At his throat a bright ruby gleamed. * 
 On his liead was a gold and emerald crown 
 
 And he sat on a bough anil dreameti. 
 The spider ran up on her silver thread 
 
 And looked in the little king's face — 
 "If I may but sit at your feet," she said. 
 
 " I'll spin you some beautiful lace. " . 
 
 Thehumming-bird looked in hershiningeyes 
 
 And then at her nimble feet. 
 And said to himself. •• I have found a prize 
 
 She is useful as well as neat. 
 •• You may sit by my side, if it please you 
 well," 
 
 Said he, •• the summer through ; 
 And since you spin on a noiseless wheel. 
 
 I'll do the humming for you." 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Out in the pitiless night — 
 A tender girlish form — 
 
 Not a shawl to pillow her aching head. 
 Or shelter her from the storm : 
 Her robe she takes 
 The while she makes 
 Her new-l)orn infant warm. 
 
 i 
 
*- 
 
 1284 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. EMILY p. MAXSON.: 
 
 Born: Lockport, N. Y., 1839. 
 This lady is the author of several hundreds 
 of poems, short stories, sougs and hj-mns, 
 which have appeared in the New York Fam- 
 ily Story Paper, the Chicago Interior and 
 
 MRS. EMILY P. MAXSON. 
 
 other publications. She was married in 1856 
 to Fabius B. Maxson, but is now a widow, 
 residing in Detroit, Mich. She has one son, 
 Charles B.. and a daughter Emma, now mar- 
 ried to John W. Yates. 
 
 A WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 You ask me why so cold I seem, 
 Indifferent to the enchanting dream. 
 Of love's great power over hearts of men, 
 And why am I indifferent then. 
 
 I will tell you why I cold remain. 
 And keep my life from sinful stain: 
 My heart so pure a love doth keep 
 For him who in the grave doth sleep. 
 
 I cannot love for earthly gain. 
 For in my heart, thoughts remain 
 Of a love so pure, strong and deep, 
 For him who in the grave doth sleep. 
 
 I like, but never can love again — 
 
 Dear friend, your pleading gives me pain. 
 
 My heart a life-long love must keep 
 For him who in his grave now sleeps. 
 
 THE WHISPERING BREEZES. 
 
 Softly sighs the evening breeze 
 
 As it fans the languid flowers. 
 
 Lightly kisses the maiden's cheek, 
 
 As she sits in her garden bower; 
 
 Her pale cheek blushes like the red rose. 
 
 As the breeze softly whispers, I love you. 
 
 And then passes on among the sweet flow- 
 ers. 
 Who gaily nod at his coming. 
 Exhaling their odors,perfuniing his breath 
 While the bees are drowsily humming, 
 Listening to the breeze's soft sigh 
 As it caresses the bright glowing flowers. 
 
 FALTER NOT. 
 
 Falter not, O weary mortals, 
 Tho' rough, thy weary way, 
 
 Struggle bravely through life's trials. 
 Let thy footsteps never stray 
 
 In the paths of sin and wrong 
 That beset thee every day. 
 
 Loved ones are waiting in Heaven, 
 With pitying eyes they see, 
 
 Thy falling tears of anguish 
 And long to comfort thee; 
 
 They pray the loving Savior 
 That strengthened you may be. 
 
 To do life's duties nobly 
 
 Tho' dark tliy life may be. 
 The angels in Heaven's window 
 
 Hangs out a light for thee. 
 To guide thee in the darkness. 
 
 Then true and faithful be. 
 
 TRAVELERS ON LIFE'S HIGHWAY. 
 O travelers on life's highway. 
 Press thou on, make no delay. 
 For soon will end tlie gloomy day 
 And night will soon be here. 
 
 Stay thou not to gather flowi>rs. 
 Sparkling with drops of sunmier showers, 
 And rest not in vine-clad bowers. 
 For night will soon be here. 
 
 Hasten then, traveler,while the day 
 Is lighted by the sun's bright rays, 
 Linger thou not by the way 
 For night is very near. 
 
 List to the birds who are singing. 
 Joyously tlieir voices all ringing, 
 And food to their little ones bringing, 
 Creeping night will soon be here. 
 
 e< 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIUCA. 
 
 1285 
 
 EDITH BLAKE. 
 
 Born: De Soto, Wis., Nov. 29, 1867. 
 This l;id)' lias received a good education, and 
 h£is taught music, Latin, history and rhetoric 
 at Gate's College of Neligh, Neb, Many of 
 her poems have appeared in the Chicago Ad- 
 
 EDITH BLAKE. 
 
 vance, Chicago Inter Ocean, and other promi- 
 nent publications. Miss Edith Blake re- 
 sides in a beautiful home in Viroqua, Wis. 
 
 OCR HEROES. 
 The olden days had heroes brave. 
 
 Whose prowess bards have sung; 
 Their deeds of chivalry and strength 
 
 Have down the ages rung. 
 The world does ever give its praise 
 
 To those whose deeds proclaim 
 That they have valor, courage, power. 
 
 Are men in more than name. 
 
 Proud ancient Greece, the southern queen 
 
 High on imperial throne. 
 Fell from her lofty pinnacle 
 
 With all her honors flown. 
 She fell, yet time cannot efface 
 
 Those names immortal, grand. 
 Which stand out in her history 
 
 The proudest on her land. 
 
 The narrow pass — Thermopylae, 
 Of bravest deeds could tell. 
 
 Where n noble hand of manly men 
 
 For duty gladly fell. 
 So every nation proudly sings 
 
 Tlie praise of those wliose lives 
 Are worthy of the lofty fame 
 
 Which througli all time survives. 
 
 What country tells a greater tnle 
 
 Than this, our own fair land? 
 Wliat men have been more brave than ours, 
 
 More noble or more grand? 
 Look back upon tiiose olden days — 
 
 The days of toil and strife 
 When each stood firm, to sacrifice 
 
 His home, his lands, his life. 
 
 The winter storms, the icy blasts 
 
 Foiled not the noble band 
 Who, through the bloody conflict, still 
 
 Held to their purpose grand. 
 .\ cruel test, a trial h:ird 
 
 We see througli all those days. 
 And those who struggled bravely on 
 
 Deserve our songs, our praise. 
 
 Sec the winter camp of Valley Forge 
 
 When all seemed dark and lost. 
 How bravely then men waited on 
 
 To win at any cost. 
 There lives in every heart to-da3' — 
 
 A well-earned, noble fame, — 
 Sweet freedom's savior, Washington! 
 
 A well-known, honored name. 
 
 His watchword through the bitter time 
 
 Before our land w;is free. 
 While still we struggled in our bonds. 
 
 Was ever liberty. 
 For liberty men sufl'ered then ; 
 
 And in a later day 
 They fell on bloody battlefields 
 
 Mid bitter strife and fray. 
 
 A stain of slavery and sin 
 
 With blood was washed away. 
 And closely joined in brothers love. 
 
 Are the hands of " Blue and Gray." 
 And Lincoln's cruel martyrdom 
 
 Brought liim a martyrs crown. 
 When in the pride of victory won, 
 
 A dastard struck him down. 
 
 A century and more has passed 
 
 Since the day of freedom's birtb; 
 And is there now a grander land 
 
 Upon the wide-spread earth? 
 A brighter spot beneath the sun, 
 
 Than this, our country fair? 
 Or braver men and happier homes, 
 
 Than those found always tliere? 
 
 Look o'er the land, and ruling, see 
 Prosperity and right; 
 
*- 
 
 -* 
 
 1286 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 All darker thing-s shall pass away 
 
 And fade into tbe night. 
 Their store of joy and wealth and fame 
 
 The coming' years will bring- — 
 And proudly, gladly to our land 
 
 Our hearts shall ever cling. 
 
 MRS. CHARLOTTE BAXTER. 
 
 Born : Aurora, Ohio, Aug. 24, 1839. 
 More than two hundred poems of Mrs. Bax- 
 ter have appeared from time to time in the 
 Burlington Hawkeye and the pei'iodical press 
 generally, and in the notable collection en- 
 titled Woman in Sacred Song, ^he was mar- 
 
 MUS. CHARLOTTE A. BAXTER. 
 
 tied in 1857 to Mr. George W. Baxter, but is 
 now a widow with two daughters. Mrs. Bax- 
 ter follows the profession of music teaching, 
 and resides in Spirit Lake, Iowa. 
 
 THE DEAD DUCK. 
 I scarce can pluck this dear dead duck. 
 
 For visions will arise 
 Of sloping hills and babbling rills 
 
 And soft and lambient skies. 
 1 see again the smiling i)lain 
 
 And lakes with pebbly shore, 
 Wliere side by side the ducklings glide 
 
 The crystal waters o'er. 
 
 The zephyrs play at dawn of day, 
 
 Among the weeds and rushes. 
 And wafts along the joyous song 
 
 Of curlew, lark and thrushes. 
 The silv'ry tide now glance and glide 
 
 Amid the grass and sedges 
 And gently lave the flowers that wave 
 
 In beauty on its edges. 
 
 Thy mates I know will miss thee so 
 
 When evening brings all home, 
 And wonder why as night draws nigh 
 
 So long away you roam. 
 They little dream that from the stream 
 
 The cruel liunter bore thee, 
 Or from thy side life's ebbing tide 
 
 Hath sprinkled blood drops o'er thee. 
 When spring again shall deck the plain 
 
 Witli all its flow'ry treasures. 
 When from the brake that edge the lake 
 
 The song birds chant their measures, 
 A joyous thing on lightsome wing 
 
 Thou'lt cleave the skies no more. 
 Or swiftl.v glide thy mates beside. 
 
 The crystal lakelet o'er. 
 
 WHAT SHALL I OFFER THEE? 
 My friend, what shall I offer thee. 
 
 How please thy critic's eye. 
 Or why attempt llie vain, vain task. 
 
 With greater minds to vie; 
 Yet what thy hand would cast aside 
 
 As trash and light as air. 
 Another's eye might catch the gleam 
 
 Of diamonds hidden there. 
 The song that brings the glist'ningtear 
 
 Into one person's ej'e. 
 Is bj' another lightly read, 
 
 Nor even wakes a sigh ; 
 The strain that fills one soul with joy 
 
 In an o'erwhelming tide. 
 May fall unlieeded on the ear 
 
 Of one close by his side. 
 Full well I know 1 may not hope 
 
 Tlie multitude to please. 
 For where one finds a lovely flower 
 
 Anotlier onl3' sees 
 An ugly weed, then why should I 
 
 Attempt to write my name 
 Beside the great and eminent 
 
 Upon the walls of fame. 
 
 I will not hope to gain a place 
 
 High on her walls sublime. 
 But leave my footsteps faint and dim 
 
 Upon the sands of time. 
 That he who comes with downcast eye, 
 
 My name may read with ease. 
 Wliilc high upon fame's towering wall 
 
 Are tliose he never sees. 
 
 ♦*- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMKKIOA. 
 
 12H7 
 
 CHARLES B. MORRELL, M. D. 
 
 Born: Troy, N.Y., June 6. 1859. 
 In 1870 Charles' father died, leaving the bur- 
 den upon tlie shoulders of his mother, who 
 nobly carried it. Mrs. Morrell is a pioneer in 
 the medical field, having- been in active prac- 
 tice for more than thirty-flve years, despite 
 of the opposition to the practice by women. 
 At thirteen believing that it was his duty to 
 ease the cares borne by his mother, Dr. Mor- 
 
 CHARLES BROWN MOKRFLI., M D. 
 
 rell left the public schools and commenced 
 work in a printing office, where he remained 
 some four years, leaving it to take a position 
 in a real estate office. Duringtheentire time 
 he kept up his studies, attending a medical 
 college in the intervals of other work and fin- 
 ally graduated from the Pulte College of Cin- 
 cinnati. He at once commenced the practice 
 of medicine, of which he has ever been a 
 faithful student. In 1885 he graduated from 
 the New York Ophthalmic Hospital College 
 as an eye and ear specialist, also completing 
 the course in the New York Post Graduate in 
 the same lines. Having a strong love for 
 literature he has found time in the intervals 
 of a busy life to contribute notunfrequently 
 to the public press short stories and articles 
 on various subjects. His poetical work has 
 been spontaneous— rather the flashings of 
 
 the muse than the fluished work of u literary 
 athlete. Dr. Morrell has written some two 
 hundred short poems and songs, many of 
 which have floated about utisigned, and has 
 published a work entitled Five Dozen Fan- 
 cies. In 1881 Mr. Morrell was married to Miss 
 Olympia Pflulger, and resides with his wife 
 and little sou, Leslie Paul, in Cincinnati, O. 
 
 THE SPLENDOR OF HIS FACE. 
 
 Some day 
 Will fall away 
 This clogging robe of clay 
 And 1 shall .see tlie splendor of Thy face; 
 Shall glow within the circle of Thy radiant 
 light; 
 Shall be with Theo far from earth's ulgbt. 
 Saved by Thy grace. 
 
 And doubt 
 That crowds about. 
 And hope and love drives out. 
 Will pale before the splendor of Thy face. 
 And holiest peace enshroud me like a suu- 
 touched cloud. 
 Angels will ring the song aloud; 
 Saved by Thy grace. 
 
 BUT WOULD WE. 
 
 We think if we were rich and great. 
 If fortune fair had been our fate. 
 That we would do what they do not. 
 Who share this most desirous lot. 
 The poor should thrive by gift of ours. 
 And dwell with us in Howery bowers. 
 And most unselfish would we be, 
 We think we would — 
 
 But then would we? 
 
 We think that if we office held. 
 All to do riirht would be compelled. 
 That naught could pass our watchful eye. 
 The slightest wrong we would descry. 
 And boodle, bribes and such like sin. 
 While we were head could not slip in. 
 We think we'd run things perfectly. 
 We think we would — 
 
 But then would we 
 
 We think if we professed to love 
 The One who came down from above. 
 That we would live in full accord 
 With all the teachings of our Lord, 
 That we would never trip or fall. 
 Be perfect in great things and small. 
 We tliink that we a saint would be. 
 We think we would — 
 
 But then would we? 
 
*- 
 
 1288 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AlSJERICA. 
 
 A MASTER SOUL. 
 At times there falls from nature's building- 
 hand 
 A soul, majestic and superbly grand. 
 The beating- hammers ring a note as clear, 
 As that which falls from God on prophet's 
 
 ear. 
 In timbre, like some monastery bell. 
 Which for the aeons past has rung its knell, 
 Has doled its rune of human woe, its s-well 
 Of human hope. The angels sing, for well 
 They know the power on earthly life of such 
 A soul. They can foresee the master touch. 
 
 It comes — that master touch — and strays 
 
 o'er keys 
 No other hand dare press, and sympathies 
 Unfold and souls awake. The symphony 
 Vibrates and swells, in measures grand and 
 
 free. 
 Entangles in its rhythmic woof and web. 
 The moving mysteries of thought, that ebb 
 And flow upon the shores of human life. 
 Forgotten is the petty care and strife 
 Of lesser things. The soul look? up and hears 
 The major note of power and lulls its fears. 
 
 The mountain top is home for such a soul. 
 Above the rattling din and ceaseless dole 
 Of binding care. And from this loftj' height. 
 In one bold sweep across the sky, the sight 
 Is flashed. From ether's edge to line afar 
 Where distant shadows break. 
 
 From mountain scar. 
 It sees the tangled thickets hung with torn 
 And wind-blown tatters of dead hopes, all 
 
 shorn, — 
 It notes the whitened ribs of wrecks, whose 
 
 bleached 
 And mocking fingers mark ideals unreached. 
 It sees the struggle in the dark and drear 
 Of error's night; and hears the wail of fear 
 That tells the sinking in the seething sea, 
 Beneath the waves of inhumanity. 
 Of some o'er-laden soul. 
 
 The sight would stir 
 A master soul like this to eagle's whirr. 
 And it, like eagle bold, from eyred height 
 To realms above the sky would wing its 
 
 flight; 
 Straight to the altar of the Living Soul, 
 And from that altar seize a burning coal 
 Of God's own truth. 
 
 Then on that mountain height 
 Would watch the Are of truth divine ignite; 
 Would watch the ti ny flash of brighter spark. 
 Would watch it glow and burn, a fire indeed. 
 To warm the pinched hearts, that cruel creed 
 Had left to freeze in shadows lorn and cold. 
 
 Would watch them cluster 'round the Are, 
 
 grown bold, 
 To warm the shriveled hands of thought at 
 
 fire 
 Divine. 
 
 The light grows brighter, mounting higher, 
 And life invigored moves with freer strides, 
 Till like that matchless mystery that tides 
 Upon the northern sky, it gleams and sliines 
 And limnes with light, eternal boundary 
 
 lines. 
 Then coward crowds of vultures that have 
 
 preyed 
 On human woe, all ghastly and dismayed. 
 Sheer off ia terror to some darksome spot 
 And hide and die. 
 
 And then this soul is not; 
 Amid the human throng it stalked alone. 
 As kings are lonely when they mount the 
 
 throne. 
 But generations past on time's fierce tide 
 Bear record of this truth, a Martyr died. 
 
 FOR SWEET LOVE'S SAKE. 
 I saw him walking slowly down the street, 
 As though a native of another sphere. 
 He had no interest in the people here. 
 His coat was ragged, torn and incomplete, 
 And ghosts of shoes apologized to feet 
 Blue with the cold. And yet as he came near 
 One might observe a shadow smile as dear 
 As that which woos the lipsof maiden sweet. 
 And pinned upon the torn and ragged coat, 
 A bunch of fragrant blue-eyed violets. 
 I wondered if they of their choice would 
 take 
 A resting-place on some fair woman's throat 
 Or if their flower souls held no regrets, 
 And were contented there for sweet love's 
 sake. 
 
 THE VETERAN'S LAST WISH. 
 The golden links slip from the broken cliaiii. 
 
 And noiseless fall upon the sands of time; 
 
 And bounding waves in ceaseless, throb- 
 bing rhyme 
 Have borne my boat alonglife's stormy main 
 Till now I catch a vision of the plain 
 
 Of immortality. The heavenly clime 
 
 Is noar.with all its angel l)osts sublime; 
 With promises of rest from all life's pain. 
 But of the shadows rising from the past. 
 
 That glide like spectres in tlie midnight 
 dream, 
 I see but one to which I would hold fast. 
 
 To be with me as 1 pass o'er the stream ; 
 The faces of the heroes brave and grand. 
 Who fought with me to unify the land 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1289 
 
 MRS. LILLIAN H.SHUEY. 
 
 Born Toulon, III., March 22, 1853. 
 When an iufaut in arms the p:i rents of this 
 lady removed to California, where she was 
 married in 1877 to Mr. M. M. Shuey. She is 
 the autlior of California Sunshine, a beauti- 
 ful volume of sparklins- verse that has been 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. LILLIAN HINMAN SHUEY. 
 
 highly eulogized by the press. The poems 
 of Mrs Shuey constantly appear in the Over- 
 land Monthly, Pacific Kural Press, Golden 
 Era and numerous prominent newspapers 
 and magazines. 
 
 MOURNING DOVE 
 
 Bii-d of sad tone, 
 Smoothing thy purple breast, 
 And cooing- such unrest 
 
 To slumberous June, 
 
 The faintest breath 
 Of violets hasteth by. 
 And on thy tremulous sigh 
 
 Fades unto death. 
 
 A quick-turned head, 
 A breast but swelling so 
 As if its burdened woe 
 
 Could ne'er be said. 
 
 Plain mourning bird, 
 It is not all thine own 
 
 The pain of tills sad tone, 
 So plaintive heard. 
 
 Some human lieart. 
 Stricken beyond it-s due, 
 Bequeailied such fate to you. 
 
 To mourn apart. 
 
 T ask of thee. 
 Sweet mourniiig- dove, a boon. 
 To pale, tiiou>?lit-saddened June, 
 
 Give sigh for me. 
 
 LIKE THE RAIN. 
 Like an arm around me thrown. 
 As I, fainting-, fall alone; 
 Like a joyful message sent 
 When the soul witli Krief is spent; 
 Like tlie grasp of friendly liand 
 In some lonely foreign land; 
 Like to any sweet surprise, 
 Bring-ing gladder destinies. 
 Is the sudden fall of rain 
 On the parched and suffering grain. 
 
 Like the kiss of peace between 
 Them wlio bitterness have seen; 
 Like the swift-returning breath 
 Of a dear one saved f roui death ; 
 Like the glory tliat will come 
 After victory lias been won; 
 Like tlie llftint,' of tlie soul. 
 When tlie burdens from it roll. 
 Is the g-rowing- of tlie grain 
 After God's abundant rain. 
 
 HIGH NOON. 
 
 What if thy life. 
 Now coming toils prime, 
 Sliould gladden in its strengrtb. 
 And prove more rich and sweet 
 Than all youth's jiromisc-time! 
 
 What if liigh noon, 
 Witli light serene and fine. 
 Should glorify life's leng-tli, 
 And show thee made complete: 
 Life's best in its decline. 
 
 DIVINELY' MATED. 
 
 The great gum tret< is full of song-; 
 
 Among long leaves suspending. 
 Swift dainty singers flit about 
 
 Ou spring's dear duties weuding-. 
 
 A little Ted-cap{)ed fellow flies — 
 He sees a floating feather: 
 
 His plainer mate comes durlinK with 
 A bit of last year's heather. 
 
 There is no doubt, or fear, or fraud. 
 No hope or joy belated; 
 
 ■4} 
 
«<- 
 
 1290 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 All's love, sill's peace, all's gladness for 
 Each bird "divinely mated." 
 
 No sulks, no tune all out of tune. 
 No love with bitter leaven — 
 
 Just us they seem, and nothing' else. 
 These matches made in Heaven. 
 
 Each bonny breast all crimson, gold. 
 
 So full of love o'erflowing; 
 Into the breezy, soft May air, 
 
 Such silvery gladness throwing! 
 
 Ah well, ah well, not birds alone 
 Tlie Master's care have waited. 
 
 Or rich, or poor, they sing always — 
 Those hearts " divinely mated." 
 
 CUPID CLIPPED. 
 Poor love, he wasn't quite resig-ned 
 
 To like our humble ways. 
 On cottage faith and cottage fare 
 
 To spend his golden days. 
 He liked not well the daily toil, 
 
 He magnified our needs. 
 And made me wear uneasy care 
 
 Bj' his capricious deeds. 
 
 Poor little, willful, winged boy! 
 
 He longed for ease and art. 
 And shot, unseen, ambitions keen 
 
 To lacerate my heart. 
 He begged for jewels numberless. 
 
 Soft luxuries a host, 
 And put to flight both day and night 
 
 The peace I treasured most. 
 
 He poised before the open door. 
 
 He fluttered at the pane, 
 As if to try the windy sky 
 
 And ne'er come back again. 
 He saw the crimson clouds above, 
 
 He spurned my offerings; 
 Wliat could I do? His flight I'd rue. 
 
 And so I clipped liis wings. 
 
 He must not sigh, dear, foolish boy. 
 
 For bric-a-brac and toys; 
 Nor let a prayer for paintings rare 
 
 Destroy our cottage joys. 
 He must descend to lowly wants 
 
 And common work-day things. 
 For fancies spent and discontent. 
 
 Poor boy! I clipped his wings. 
 
 And now he seemeth quite content 
 
 To brew the foaming yeast; • 
 To knead and bake, and strive to make 
 
 Each homely meal a feast. 
 He sweeps the room with loving will, 
 
 To keep it warm and bright, 
 And cottage chairs and cottage wares 
 
 Are bathed in rosy light. 
 
 'Tls better so; for drear indeed 
 
 The cottage hall would be 
 If love were sped and beauty fled 
 
 From life's simplicity. 
 Low life can be b(}th grand and good, 
 
 And cottagers be kings. 
 Though oft we must to keep our trust, 
 
 Sweet Cupid, clip his wings. 
 
 GOLDEN DAYS. 
 These are golden days. 
 
 And all the yellow distance of the plain 
 Has veiled beneath a low-hung, purple haze 
 
 The glory of its grain. 
 
 Summer's calm delight 
 
 Waves tremulous along the distant hill, 
 Comes gleaming down the stream, and flecks 
 with light 
 
 The shadows wide and still. 
 
 Low is the chant of day; 
 
 Time passes on unmindful of its hours. 
 And spring's exultant song has followed 
 away 
 
 The gay and changeful flowers. 
 
 The rain-hung zephyrs wait 
 
 While the ripe grain is gathered in its gold; 
 The weary vine lays down its wealth of 
 grapes. 
 
 And summer weareth old. 
 
 Eest Is In the air ; 
 Man gathers from the earth his just in- 
 crease. 
 And soon shall hush the sounds of hurrying 
 care 
 Beneath God's ordered peace. 
 
 The harvest moon is bright ; 
 
 And when the briUiant day wears gray and 
 old, 
 The waiting radiance showers all the night 
 
 With silver for the gold. 
 
 ^- 
 
 PRESCIENCE. 
 I woke one morn with hope upon my heart. 
 Borne inward by some influence yet un- 
 known ; 
 Warm strength unloosed sped outward to 
 my hands. 
 And evil doubt seemed moved and over- 
 thrown. 
 
 Dark, brooding pliantoms from my soul bad 
 fled. 
 And far-faint voices softly moved to sing; 
 A love long stilled set pallid cliceks all red. 
 And then I knew, nor looked abroad, 'twas 
 Spring. 
 : tH 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1291 
 
 NELSON G. HUMPHREY. 
 
 Born: Wyoming Co., N.Y., May 17, 1845. 
 The poems of Mr. Huniphrej- have appeared 
 in the leiidiug publications of America, and 
 in a volume entitled Random shots, of which 
 the Cincinnati Enquirer says that auy one 
 cf tlic poems contained therein is euoufrli to 
 stamp him as the most original singer of the 
 
 NELSON GOODKKH III MIH 
 
 day; "he sings for all creation and for all 
 time." Mr. Humplirey was married in 1873 
 to Miss Emma M. Rilce, and has a family of 
 three children. Mr. Humphrey is now en- 
 gaged in business at Le Roy, Illinois. 
 
 *- 
 
 OLDEN TIMES. 
 To-daj' I've been on a ramble, 
 
 In the days of long ago. 
 Where grandmother planted flowers 
 
 Just after tlie winter snow, 
 'Mid joys that will bloom forever, 
 
 Just because she loved me so. 
 
 Full well do I remember 
 When she heard tlie angel-call. 
 
 How she whispered to us kindly, 
 "Some day he will come for all;" 
 
 No difference wluit the weather. 
 For in heaven there is no fall. 
 
 And the lights are always burning. 
 Loved spirits that God has made. 
 
 To th.-it country she was going 
 Wlicre tlicrc is no tear or spade. 
 
 Then sheclosed her dear eyes smiling — 
 In the church-yard she is laid. 
 
 Over the grave in the springtime 
 The paiisies and pinks are seen. 
 
 That perhaps she views from heaven 
 Wlien the earth is dressed in preen. 
 
 Or wlien winter snowflakes falling 
 As pure as an infant's dream. 
 
 It may be others are thinking 
 
 And much the same as I ; 
 For to-day the birds are singing 
 
 'Neath the vaultof the same blue sky. 
 But truest of friends now living 
 
 In time, like mine, must die. 
 Sometimes we expect a meeting, ' 
 
 Somehow in song or prayer; 
 Somewhere an endless greeting. 
 
 And our loved ones will be there; 
 Choirs of angelic music 
 
 Forever filling the air. 
 
 ORIGINALITY. 
 
 A song arose at break of day. 
 
 From the heart of a small wild bird: 
 Sweeter and clearer grew the lay. 
 
 For its life was strangely stirred. 
 
 An aged minstrel heard the strain. 
 With trembling hand he struck his lyre. 
 
 When strangest music filled his brain. 
 An interlude from heaven's choir. 
 
 A painter halted, seized his brush. 
 The inspiration he hud caught — 
 
 The gray-liaired singer and the thrush 
 Were soon upon the canvas wrought. 
 
 A poet's spirit took the theme. 
 
 It glittered like a shooting star. 
 His fancy saw an angel's wing. 
 
 And heard the music from afar. 
 
 A sculptor saw within his mlml 
 A statue in the qu.irry made; 
 
 A prophesy for all mankind 
 For lines of thought in every trade. 
 
 AFTER THOrCHT. 
 
 In yonder peach branch, dark and cold. 
 
 A bud lies hid away from sight. 
 That with the spring's touch will unfold 
 
 Pink tinteil Ijlossoms, mi.xed with white. 
 
 This pair of pumpkin seeds will yield 
 A hundred pounds of pumpkins, grand; 
 
 .\\h\ leave the same amount of field 
 As though they never found the land. 
 
*- 
 
 1292 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 A little pansy seed I've found, 
 
 A hidden beauty to arise, 
 With living colors, from the ground 
 
 An after thought 'neath summer skies. 
 
 Upon my knee a prize I hold, 
 A laughing child with honest eyes, 
 
 Greater to parents than their gold. 
 The after thought it never dies. 
 
 MEMORY PICTURES. 
 
 AN OLD man's story. 
 
 Yonder is hanging the mirror 
 That three generations met; 
 
 To me it is all the dearer — 
 The pictures I cannot forget. 
 
 A group of fond recollections. 
 The memories, joy and pain, 
 
 The mirror has lost its i-eflections 
 Is blooming again in my brain. 
 
 Yonder the river is winding, 
 
 As it did those years ago ; 
 The birds the spring days are finding, 
 
 Just after the winter's snow. 
 
 But I feel that time is failing, 
 When in that mirror I look. 
 
 And soon my bark will be sailing 
 Across eternity's brook. 
 
 Toward the land wo all are nearing. 
 The day without country or hush 
 
 Where glorified forms appearing 
 With eternity's bloom will flush. 
 
 *- 
 
 OBSCURITY'S VALE. 
 The power that counts the drops of rain. 
 
 The suowflakes and the stars in space. 
 The same that reads the joy and pain 
 
 Of all the souls of Adam's race. 
 
 Far from the careless, heartless threng. 
 
 The works of nature to survey: 
 The food for thought to shape in song. 
 
 Where fancy scenes before us lay. 
 
 Harp of the soul, awake thy strain. 
 Like echoes from an angel's lyre. 
 
 Or spirits breathing to the brain 
 The grandest song of heaven's choir. 
 
 The happy vision of delight 
 
 When thought takes wing to shape in verse. 
 Enshrined with beauties of tlie night 
 
 Tliat shines in God's grand universe. 
 
 The fire-fly brings his lamp of night. 
 Where singing whippoorwills are near; 
 
 The myriad stars reflect their light. 
 That mingle in our atmosphere. 
 
 The melody of nature's voice 
 Is tuned to make the sweetest sound. 
 
 And make the beasts of pray rejoice, 
 And wake the birds from dreams around. 
 
 A WALK. 
 
 From busy scenes of life I stray. 
 
 To remote and quiet shade; 
 Beneath the lofty oaks, my way. 
 
 That the little acorns made. 
 
 Unwritten poems here I meet. 
 The growth of many a year; 
 
 Flowers are growing at my feet. 
 That I pluck and shed a tear. 
 
 I pause beside the winding stream, 
 
 A flower is borne away ; 
 And the lily bows, as in a dream. 
 
 As it bids the sun good day. 
 
 Immortal themes, I cannot write. 
 That the soul alone can reach, 
 
 Come crowding on my mental sight. 
 That below is not in speech. 
 
 Yearnings, like those who grief have 
 known 
 
 When shadows have passed <away, 
 Meditations maturer grown 
 
 When the mists have cleared away. 
 
 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 In the watches of the night, when darkness 
 Hovered o'er the scenes of which I write. 
 
 The hours of yesterday shone in brightness. 
 And fancy visions rose till morning light. 
 
 Like ocean waves in the hillside hidden. 
 As germs in the grain, are patterns for 
 full grown. 
 
 Thro' floods of thought that came unbidden, 
 I meditated through the hours alone. 
 
 I " saw the cattle on a thousand liills," 
 Waiting to feed the millions then in sleep; 
 
 Heard the brooklets, with their myriad rills. 
 Grinding the grain journeying toward the 
 deep. 
 
 I saw cotton-balls bursting, white as snow. 
 The lofty pine trees waiting lor the a.\'. 
 
 The golden orchards on the farm below. 
 And men of law to regulate the tax. 
 
 I saw a palace on a, lofty hill, 
 
 A " one-eyed cabin " in the vale below. 
 The longings of hurLanity at will, 
 
 And money was the cry of all, I know. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1293 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. MARY A. LEAVITT. 
 
 Born: Vernon, Ind. 
 This lady is the daug-hter of illustrious par- 
 entage; lier father, Dr. Ezra Fitcii Pabody, 
 beins' a direct desceudaiit of John Aldeii aud 
 Priscilla Mullius, the story of whose court- 
 ship and marriage Long-fellow has immortal- 
 ized in the - Courtship of Miles Standish. 
 Mrs. Leavitt, the fifth daughter of Dr. and 
 Mrs. Pabody, early evinced an ardent love 
 for the beautiful in nature, and began to 
 write verses in childhood. In 1853 she was 
 married to Robert Leavitt, a prominent 
 younj; business man of lier town. Of their 
 fourcliildren, two daughters died in infancy; 
 two sons survive. Of Mrs. Leavitt's poems, 
 those of nature appeal to tlie lieart most 
 
 MRS. MAHV A. LEAVITT. 
 
 deeply. Temperance and missions have 
 especially enlisted her voice and pen. Al- 
 though Mrs. Leavitt has written more than 
 two hundred poems for various newspapers 
 and periodicals, she manifests no desire to 
 publish a volume of her own. 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 Over hil'.s and vales, over mountains high, 
 To an unknown land the swallows fly. 
 Over leagues of sea, through the ether deep, 
 I In their gladdest trust they onward sweep — 
 
 
 Led on by the touch of an unknown liund. 
 Fearless they fly loan unknown land. 
 
 Thro' the deep'ning haze of the misty blue, 
 To an unknown land we are flying, too; 
 O'er the boundless sweep of life's purple sea. 
 To tlie far away, our flight must be — 
 Led on by the touch of an unseen hand. 
 We are going, too, to an unknown land. 
 
 To an unknown land! We know it Is fair! 
 We know wlio has gone our place to prepare. 
 And who.se is the hand that beckons us there. 
 Tho' faith gives us wing, yet fearful are we. 
 While poor, souless birds go trustful and 
 
 free. 
 Do we follow His lead, more burdened with 
 
 care. 
 With less of glad trust than the birds of tlii- 
 
 air? 
 
 THE DIVINE SOVEREIGNTY. 
 
 In doubt's dark maze, one said to me, but 
 yesterday, 
 
 •'We all are vessels formed by heartless des- 
 tiny; 
 
 Even our faults are pressed info our heli)less 
 clay." 
 
 I, deeply moved, replied, -No! no! dear 
 friend, no! no! 
 
 By this blind creed — a vital truth to ques- 
 tion so. 
 
 You rob your heart of all that is most sweet 
 to know. 
 
 .. There's One who bowed His head in death, 
 
 from death to free. 
 Whose love thro' weary years has sought for 
 
 you, for me. 
 While we in blind self-will still strove to 
 
 mold our fate 
 Apart from Him who loved us best. Tho' 
 
 desolate 
 We would not cry to Him, O, mold me at 
 
 Thy will! 
 Aud all Thy full designs of grace In mo ful- 
 fill! 
 Let sovereign wisdom make and ch(X)so each 
 
 change for me. 
 And love's o^vn pierced hand mold out my 
 
 destiny! 
 ..A chosen vessel, each would be by His 
 
 sweet will. 
 Did we but trust, and in His tender hands 
 
 lie still! 
 What If His molding brings the mystery of 
 
 pain? 
 What if our finite souls, the deep, dim wells 
 
 can't drain 
 Of His infinitude? Nor read His sealed 
 
 will? 
 
*- 
 
 1294 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA, 
 
 If He so loved the world," can't we just 
 
 trust him still? 
 Give to the winds the questionings that have 
 
 oppressed? 
 Find the ocean of His love, His rule is best? 
 
 '.Where hope's firm anchor holds 'mid tem- 
 pest, storm and rain; 
 
 Where faith has moored her bark, again and 
 yet again. 
 
 There joy may send her fleet over the bound- 
 less main! 
 
 The deep and boundless main, where love 
 supreme doth reign ! 
 
 "Each wave, each wind is best, since God is 
 
 at the helm; 
 And wisdom, not wild cliance, is ruling 
 
 every realm. 
 The sweetest pillow mortal head e'er rested 
 
 on 
 Is this. Thy will is best; Thy soverciirn will 
 
 be done! " 
 
 A MAY DAT IDSX. OK AN IDLE MAY 
 BAY? 
 
 Showered with softest violet. 
 
 Here's a sunny slope of green, 
 With its fringe of mosses set 
 
 By a river's silver sheen. 
 Here, a dandelion's gold 
 
 Twinkles thro' the emerald grass; 
 And faint odors manifold 
 
 Drop their promise as they pass. 
 All the balmj' winds, to-day. 
 
 Whisper of unfolding bloom — 
 Hinting in their winsome way 
 
 Sweeter secrets of perfume. 
 
 On this violet, velvet slope — 
 Grass-upholstered, with emboss 
 Of the dandelion's floss. 
 
 Near the springtime's heart of hope — 
 
 Folded to the heart of May, 
 On the lap of springing grass. 
 In the arms of winds that pass. 
 
 Who'd not linger? Who'd not stay? 
 
 Dreaming, dreammg of the May. 
 
 Where the ferns have won their way 
 
 Thro' the tangled threads of moss, 
 'Neath the maple's feath'ry spray; 
 
 All these wooded hills across; 
 Where the dogwood's snow is seen 
 'Mid a raveled lace of green ; 
 
 'Mid these heralds just to be — 
 These route heralds of tlie May, 
 For a dreamer's hohday. 
 
 This is joy enough for me! 
 Down the west the sun is dying 
 
 On a couch of amethyst; 
 
 And the low, light winds are sighing 
 Tliro' the amber, mellow mist; 
 
 While the spangled ripples grow. 
 As they murmur 'mid the shades. 
 
 Shadowy and sad and slow; 
 From the hills the glory fades. 
 
 Lo! the stars are in the sky! 
 
 And the paling sun is gone! 
 And the waning waters sigh 
 
 Down the shadows, on and on! 
 Yet in dreamland, who'd not stay 
 On the slope of this sweet day, 
 
 On the lap of velvet grass. 
 
 In the arms of winds that pass. 
 Dreaming, dreaming of the May? 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Softly, gently falls the snow; 
 Down the fleecy blossoms go 
 In a silent, rhythmic flow. 
 
 Intertwining 'mid the sheen 
 Of the dark-hued evergreen 
 Plumed of downy whiteness gleam. 
 
 Noiseless fingers, deft and cold, 
 Twine soft garlands manifold 
 In the cedar's varied mold. 
 
 Wreathing all in feath'ry spray. 
 Who's at work? Or is it play? 
 Fay or fairy? Who can say? 
 
 Spirit wings, in airy flight. 
 Flutter through the misty light 
 Till the very air is white. 
 
 E'en when night has curtained deep 
 All the homes where dreamers sleep. 
 Downward still their pinions sweep. 
 
 Still the phantom workers yet 
 Stud anew earth's coronet; 
 Pearls on pearls and diamond set. 
 
 Wrap the earth, so bare and brown, 
 In a robe of eider down. 
 Lace of pearls and opal crown. 
 I recall the quick, glad thrill. 
 How its mem'r.v Cometh still! 
 That my child heart used to fill; 
 When, in dreams that fancy brought. 
 Through her charmed realm I sought. 
 How this wonder might be wrought. 
 Coming in the solemn night. 
 Spreading carpet deep and wliite — 
 Star gemmed by the morning light! 
 Wrapping earth, all gray and bare. 
 In an ermine rich and rare — 
 Dropping flowers everywhere. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1295 
 
 •*♦ 
 
 Did uf) star the vision see? 
 Did some fairy band in g-lee 
 Shower the earth so bounteously! 
 Or, in awesome whispers low, 
 Did they call her dead, and so 
 Robe her in this shroud of snow? 
 Leave her lifeless, motionless, 
 Wafting with a mute caress 
 These pale lilies o'er her dress? 
 Will she wake up glad and bright 
 When the sun has brol<en quite 
 Through the silver mist of night? 
 
 All His sunshine, all His storms. 
 Winter's snow and summer's charms 
 For our sakes He gilds and warms. 
 Many morns for me have shone; 
 Many snows have come and gone; 
 Many dreams have with them flown. 
 
 REV.OBADIAHC.AURINGER 
 
 Born: Glens Falls, N. Y., June, 4, 1849. 
 
 This minister and poet is the author of a 
 volume entitled Scythe and Sword, and his 
 poems have been a valuable acquisition of 
 current literature. He is pastor of the Pres- 
 byterian Church of Northwood, N. Y., where 
 he is very popular. 
 
 THE UNHEEDED SINGER. 
 A bird with azure breast and beak of gold, 
 A joyous stranger, beautiful and shy. 
 Flown from far groves beneath a summer 
 
 sky. 
 At morn amid our March woods bare and 
 
 cold. 
 Sang like a spirit. Raptures such as hold 
 The arches charmed and hush the zephyr's 
 
 sigh 
 From his enamored throat flowed carelessly 
 In musical low warblings manifold. 
 At length he ceased, with arch head bent 
 
 aside. 
 And listened long; but from the woodlands 
 
 bare 
 No cheering voice of melody replied. 
 Duly a faint call from the fields of air- 
 Lightly he rose, and as the echo died 
 Fled to the open heavens and warbled there. 
 
 THE VALE OF SPIRITS. 
 
 In deep green woods there lies a fairy glade, 
 Shut in by tawny hemlocks wild and tall. 
 Its floor is laid with richest moss and all 
 Its round is steeped in mostdelicious shade. 
 
 It is a spot for listening silence made. 
 
 Few sounds awake It save the wild bird's 
 
 call. 
 And winds that niurinur round its forfst 
 
 wall. 
 Like instruments at airy distance played. 
 
 'Tis there a still and stolen guest I lie. 
 And listen to the weird wood-spirits singing, 
 
 I liear llieir bell-like voices flouting nigh. 
 From arches green and dewy dingles spring- 
 ing; 
 They passinelfln song and laughter by— 
 I hear their clear ha ha! in deep deep dells 
 ringing. 
 
 REV. JEREMIAH W. HOLT. 
 
 Born: Alamance Co., N. C, Dec. T. 1H48. 
 After receiving his education, Mr. Holt 
 tauglit school, continuing liis studies with 
 what he earned. In luTti lie was ordained a 
 
 rev. JEREMIAH WOOD HOLT. 
 
 minister of the gospel by the N. C. and Vn. 
 Christian Conference, of which IxKly ho h:is 
 twice been president. He Isan anient friend 
 of temperance and proliibilion. In 1KT7 Mr. 
 Holt was marrietl to Miss Mary E. Whitsltt. 
 and resides in Burlington, N. C, engaged us 
 a minister and school teacher. 
 
 STAY IN CAROLINA. 
 There's a land of all the lands benoath the 
 
 skies 
 Dearest to our hearts, mi>st charming tu our 
 
 eyes; 
 Never, never leave it, wander not away. 
 
 H» 
 
5<- 
 
 1296 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Here in Carolina is the place we ought to 
 
 stay. 
 Cho.— Stay in Carolina, proudly take your 
 stand ; 
 
 Freedom floats her banner o'er no fairer 
 land; 
 
 Love, defend, and praise her — less 
 would be a crime — 
 
 Carolma first and last and all the time. 
 Homes of plenty every hill and valley crown; 
 Happysons and daughters smiling all around ; 
 Blessings rest upon them, crowning every 
 
 day 
 While tliey work and sing >• In Carolina let 
 
 us stay." 
 Crown her daughters queen of love and beau- 
 ty too; 
 Other lands may boast, but ours we know are 
 
 true; 
 Singing, smiling, sorrow's frown they drive 
 
 away ; 
 Carolina girls are faithful and are always 
 
 gay. 
 Nobler sons than hers no land can ever show ; 
 Braver lads with truer hearts you ne'er will 
 
 know; 
 Honor crowns their purpose, toil they never 
 
 shun 
 Carolina boys, hurrah ! hurrah ! for what 
 
 they've done. 
 
 A MOTHER'S VISIT TO A BAR-ROOM. 
 I have come from my home in the name of 
 the one 
 That was dearer to me than the wealth of 
 the w«rld; 
 But my husband — God pity the makers of 
 rum! — 
 My dear husband! so noble and true to his 
 word! 
 I am sure he would yet be as loving at home. 
 If you only would sell him no more of that 
 curse; 
 'Tis to plead for my children and home I have 
 come; 
 I had hoped you would quit, but it keeps 
 getting worse. 
 I would never have come, but last night in a 
 rage, 
 I was beaten by him who had pledged me 
 his iove; 
 You have ruined my home, you have blighted 
 my age; 
 God in Heaven, do thou help, give me 
 strength from above. 
 Well, I know'tis no place for a woman to come 
 Where the manners of men are most shock 
 ing to see; 
 
 And how much I would rather remain in my 
 home. 
 Were that home any longer a refuge for me. 
 But the man, that you send by your legalized 
 trade. 
 With a curse and a blow for my children ' 
 and me. 
 Has forgotten the pledge that he sacredly • 
 made, ; 
 
 When he promised in love my protector to be. , 
 'Tis surprisingly strange — would to God I , 
 could tell ! i 
 
 How the laws for protecting the homes are | 
 annulled, I 
 
 By the license of rum, bj- the curse which 
 you sell; i 
 
 Does the fee make it right, tho' the con- \ 
 science be lulled? ' 
 
 Ah! the pain and the woe in the drunkard's | 
 abode, i 
 
 Where the mother and child, betwixt starv- j 
 ing and dread, i 
 
 Keep their story of suffering, but for pallor, • 
 untold; | 
 
 Yet the truth we can read, when, too oft, j 
 they are dead. ] 
 
 I have waited so long, I have hoped, I have 
 prayed; 
 That my home might be spared such a 
 blight and a curse; 
 I have wept, but my tears have all strangely 
 been stayed. 
 Since I vowed for defense, tho' defense may 
 be worse. 
 
 God in Heaven, help a mother once more j 
 while she prays j 
 
 For the home that she loves, for the child- j 
 ren so dear. 
 Give her strength ere the battle shall num- 
 ber her days. 
 For, too great is the fight, unless succor be 
 near. 
 
 In Thy promise alone, for her refuge and 
 strength ; 
 In the hope that her labor will not b© In 
 vain. 
 She will toil and endure, till the victory at 
 length 
 Shall be gained, •• Neither shall there be any 
 more pain." 
 
 In my mansion in glory no drunkards abide, 
 And children, up there, shall not ask me 
 for bread. 
 
 As they often have asked, when I only 
 
 I cried; 
 But in heavsn.i'they shall hunger no more," 
 it is said. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAT, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1297 
 
 HOWARD C.TRIPP. 
 
 Boun: Plano, 111., Apkil4, 1863. 
 Mr. Tripp has boon editor and iissociate ed- 
 itor of several newspapers, and is now editor 
 and proprietor of The Times of Kiiigsley, 
 ]owa. Ho is tiie autlior of two books — Le- 
 g-ends of Lemars and Ballad Blossoms. Mr. 
 Tripp has written numerous poems, and sev- 
 
 HOWAUD CARI.ETON TUIPP. 
 
 eral novelettes, and is fast g-aining- a national 
 reputation as an author and journalist. Mr. 
 Tripp was married in 18!K) to Miss Isabella M. 
 Steely. 
 
 THE DEATH OF HOPE. 
 
 My child I held upon my knee. 
 His head was iiillowed on my breast, 
 And he appeared to be at rest 
 
 And dreaming of the years to be. 
 
 And, dreaming of the coming years, 
 I pictured where my Hope would stand: 
 A noble hero in command 
 
 Of noble men and gallant peers. 
 
 I saw him reach the heights of fame 
 And stand a victor far above 
 His manly comrades who in love 
 
 And admiration spoke his name. 
 
 In hopeful dream, T saw in pride 
 My boy as he would be in age: 
 
 My heart's desire and heritage — 
 While he upon my bosom — died! 
 
 Thus dreaming Hope forever flies 
 Beyond our grasp, beyond our sight. 
 As day is shroudetl int(j niglit, 
 Hope sickens in our breiist and dies. 
 
 ONLY A GRAVE BYTHEOAKDEN WALL 
 
 Only a grave by tlie garden wall. 
 
 Covered with pansies and lilies fair; 
 Only the sweetest of tliem all 
 
 Dreaming under the blos^soms there! 
 
 Only a bud in its beauty laid 
 Down to rest in the silent clay; 
 
 Only the form of an angel maid 
 Sleeping the moments all away. 
 
 Only our tears for the daughter there. 
 
 Tears tliat must ever, ever fall; 
 Only a spirit, divine and fair. 
 In the grave by the garden wall! 
 
 Only a grave by the garden wall. 
 Giving the place a look of gloom; 
 
 Only a bride in the silent hall 
 Of a sobre, and dreary tomb! 
 
 Only a life to the living lost. 
 
 Sailing on to a golden shore; 
 Only a spirit shiin liy the frost. 
 
 And life's mad storms forever o'er! 
 
 Only a dreamer, our darling lies 
 Where the shimmering sunbeams fall; 
 
 Only a spot for our tears, and sighs. 
 Is the grave bj- the ganleii wall. 
 
 EMOTIONS. 
 One over-act, one impulse will suffice 
 
 To clothe a life in sorrow's bitter sheaf; 
 One passion left to grow until it dies. 
 Will seed the heart with all the plants of 
 grief! 
 
 One passion left untraine<l; <ine spark of fln' 
 Of lust or liale uncurbed, will blaze ami 
 blaze 
 
 Until the embers never can expire 
 Till they have blighted life's divlnest days! 
 
 One heart emotion, ho it gixxl or vile. 
 Will bloom in beauty, or like the we«l 
 
 Make the heart's garden like a wi'cd-slrewn 
 isle — 
 To seed thoughts that grow again and seed : 
 
 Then should we not as mortals try :ind try 
 To love each other, he we small or great: 
 
 Ixive grows with age, true love can never die. 
 While we should try to kill the thuught« of 
 hate! 
 
*- 
 
 1298 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Love sublime, like a young plant it grows 
 And grows forever, if we give it air. 
 
 And warmth, and light, and shield it from 
 its foes, 
 It grows more beautiful, it grows more fair ! 
 
 Weed from the heart the plant of hate and 
 lust. 
 Weed from the soul all passions that defile ; 
 To truth, to purity and love give trust — 
 These things make angels fair from beings 
 vile! 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE PIONEER. 
 
 He was sitting in his dugout, in his native 
 grace and pride. 
 
 And near by him was the woman whom lie 
 honored as a bride; 
 
 While around them were there children — 
 half a dozen, less or more — 
 
 Looking dirty, looking happy, as tbey wal- 
 lowed on the floor. 
 
 He was speaking of the future, with a sadly 
 
 solemn air, 
 And his wife gave back his question, with a 
 
 weak and vacant stare ; 
 For the hoppers were destroying all the 
 
 farmer's corn and wheat. 
 And the winter was before them, with its 
 
 storms of snow and sleet. 
 
 What to do, and how to do it? were the ques- 
 tions of the hour. 
 
 They were there upon the prairie, in fate's 
 often cruel pow'r; 
 
 They were destitute of clothing, and of coal 
 to keep them warm. 
 
 And, unless they had assistance, they would 
 perish in some storm. 
 
 And he spoke, in deep emotion, "We must 
 leave the homestead fair, 
 
 And sail back across the ocean to our kin- 
 dred over there;" 
 
 " Never, never," said the mother, " while I 
 have a single breath, 
 
 I will stay here, witli my children, and beat 
 back the form of death!" 
 
 " Did wc not come from old England to avoid 
 the iron rule? 
 
 Where a man who makes a living is consid- 
 ered a big fool; 
 
 I shall live within this dugout thro' the com- 
 ing storms of snow, 
 
 If you wish to go there, do so, I will give you 
 leave to go!" 
 
 Never had he seen her bluster in a way so 
 wild and shrill. 
 
 *- 
 
 He had never seen his helpmate show the 
 
 metal of lier will; 
 And he, having weaker courage than his 
 
 wife, who feared no harm. 
 Sailed for home, on borrowed money, leaving 
 
 children, wife, and farm. 
 
 Words are weak, and cannot picture how 
 
 they suffered in despair, 
 How theyburned corn-stalks and slough hay, 
 
 and lived on such scanty fare; 
 How they prayed for spring to open, and for 
 
 summer's blush and bloom. 
 How they laid their little Amy in a snowdrift 
 
 for a tomb ! 
 
 How no neighbors came to visit, and of days 
 that seemed so long. 
 
 How the mother cheered the children, with 
 the sunlight of her song; 
 
 How, one night they had a council, and re- 
 solved, that on the morn. 
 
 They would kill the dog and eat him, for they 
 had grown short of corn. 
 
 How, one day, some roving Indians tried to 
 
 steal her youngest son. 
 But the mother saved her darling by her 
 
 pointing to the gun; 
 How, at last, the warm winds blowing 
 
 brought the springtime's wariLth and 
 
 rain. 
 And the birds back from the Southland, and 
 
 the blossoT2s on the plain. 
 
 And the mother, with her children, labored 
 
 with a willing hand. 
 And they sowed seed wheat and planted corn 
 
 upon the new plowed land; 
 And, when harvest came, they gathered in 
 
 their crops of wheat and corn — 
 Plenty for the needs of winter, plenty for 
 
 their cares unborn. 
 
 Then the uncourageous father came back to 
 
 the homestead fair: 
 And she, like the most of women, gave him 
 
 a true welcome there; 
 And he lived upon their keeping, ever after 
 
 to his shame. 
 Pardoned by the noble mother.who withheld 
 
 all words of blame! 
 
 And her daugliters grew to women, and her 
 
 brave s-oiis into men. 
 And they built a splendid mansion in a sweet, 
 
 secluded glen; 
 And they prospered ever after as the brave 
 
 and faithful can. 
 But the father claims all glory, which isonly 
 
 like a man. 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 1299 
 
 REV. EDW. 0. FLAGG, D.I). 
 
 Born: Georgetown, S. C, Dec. 18, 1824. 
 This gentleman is the grandson of Dr. Flag-g-, 
 a surgeon iu the war of the Revolution ; and 
 son of Henry C. Flagg, a lawyer and formerly 
 mayor of New Haven, Conn. Previous to 
 taking orders he studied law. He studied 
 theology under the direction of Bishop Brow- 
 nell, by whom he was ordained to the dea- 
 conate and priesthood. Dr. Flagg has been 
 the founder of several parishes. He was 
 
 REV. EDWARD OCTAVUS FLAGG, D. D. 
 
 rector of the New York All Saints Church, 
 and was six years assistantof Grace Church. 
 Dr.FlaggwaschaplainofthePrince of Orange 
 Masonic Lodge, N. Y. ; and also chaplain of 
 the 9th regiment N. Y. Militia. Dr. Flagg 
 has been a lecturer at several institutions, 
 and has delivered numerous public addresses 
 and lecturers. This great scholar and divine 
 wrote poetry at a very early age, and has re- 
 cently published a volume of verse that has 
 received high praise. Many of his poems 
 have appeared in the New York Herald, 
 Mail and Express, and other prominent pub- 
 lications; and several have been set to music. 
 Dr. Flagg is now pastor of the Protestant 
 Episcopal Church of New York City. 
 
 A WORD. 
 No word is lost when once 'tis spoken. 
 But echoes on the air; 
 
 Altliough to fragments sometimes broken. 
 
 Its sound can naught impair. 
 It travels to remotest regions, 
 
 A spirit of unrest. 
 Companion of the vocal legions, 
 
 Like birds witiiout a nest. 
 A word may make the culprit tremble. 
 
 And liid his color flee, 
 When judge and jury grave assemtjle 
 
 And "guilty '' the decree. 
 A word may make the saddened cheerful 
 
 When held in durance vile; 
 If pardon is proclaimed, tlie tearful 
 
 No longer weep, but smile. 
 When overcome by anxious feeling 
 
 Long tossed upon the deep, 
 If "Land!" from one aloft be pealing. 
 
 Our fears are put to sleep. 
 When war protracted scourges nations, 
 
 Nor hopes of truce arise, 
 A voice resounds to generations 
 
 When "Peace!" salutes the skies. 
 The yes or no by lover uttered, 
 
 A destiny foretell; 
 Domestic storms to come are muttered. 
 
 Or angel music swells. 
 A word will states or nations sunder. 
 
 Raise higli or dasii to earth. 
 Like lightning scathe, alarm as thunder 
 
 Abundance cause or dearth. 
 'Tis like the dynamite that shatters 
 
 The deep primeval rock, 
 And aged fossils ruthless scatters 
 
 In one appalling shock; 
 Or like the dynamite that blesses 
 
 And not alone destroys, 
 A force by which the world progresses. 
 
 Imparting nameless joys. 
 Perchance a word we now remember. 
 
 Of one long passed away; 
 It comes back in our life's December, 
 
 A blossom of its May. 
 Not volumes witli such gentle power 
 
 The depth of being wake, 
 'Twill linger to the latest hour 
 
 For that loved sleeper's sake. 
 Salvation — other words o.xcelling — 
 
 Throughout the Gospel shines; 
 Its promise, mercy's lips are telling, 
 
 To lift eacli lieart that pines. 
 Beyond the flrmamont, pervasive, 
 
 Out voicing ocean's roar. 
 Beams this celestial term persuasive 
 
 That fills the evermore. 
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 
 Who that looks upon the past 
 Does not ponder? 
 
*- 
 
 1300 
 
 LOCAT^ AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Who that reads its strange neglects, 
 
 Does not wonder 
 If the coming days shall prove 
 
 Any better? 
 Whether haste or sloth shall write 
 
 Such dark letter? — 
 Waste no sighs on what can ne'er 
 
 Be prevented, 
 Acts to wiiich a pliant will 
 
 Hath consented. 
 Careless seedsmen oft become 
 
 Far more chary, 
 If the birds devour the grain 
 
 When unwary. 
 Dost thou for thy planting lost, 
 
 Trouble borrow? 
 Prayerful sow, and thou shalt reap 
 
 Joy, not sorrow. 
 
 REVERIES ON VIRGINIA BEACH. 
 I wander o'er Virginia beach, 
 Whose length is more than eye can reach. 
 Where laboring footsteps patience teach. 
 I watch the ocean's changeful hue. 
 Its tints of brown and green and blue, 
 While moving sails oft meet the view. 
 
 I see a wrecli upon tlie sand; 
 Her hull yet sound, proportions grand. 
 Though rudely hurled by Neptune's hand. 
 How sad to think of, outward bound — 
 Some promised dreamland never found — 
 Of beauteous forms by seaweed bound I 
 
 Again, I see a broken net. 
 Like shattered wishes never met 
 Though gleesome woven seines were set. 
 On pebbles smooth or glistening shell 
 My wandering glance doth often dwell: 
 They seem of greetings kind to tell. 
 
 I see a white bird cast ashore, 
 
 Its shattered wing is stained with gore; 
 
 It ne'er can skim the gtlier more. 
 
 So whiter seems a life when flown 
 
 And envy leaves its pray alone 
 
 By crimson stain 'tis purer known. 
 
 No more the sportive naiads lave; 
 The power of God is in yon wave — 
 'Tis he alone the soul can save. 
 The noblest thought, in noblest speech, 
 Hath not such girt the heart to teach 
 As voices from Virginia beach. 
 
 »i<- 
 
 LIFE AS IT IS. 
 This life is but a thing of fears, 
 A dream of hopes, of smiles of tears — 
 A blossom which at morning blows, 
 A blossom wliich at evening goes — 
 A flower tinged with beauty's blush. 
 
 Which any thoughtless tread may crush; 
 
 A sky of azure, fair and bright. 
 
 That storm-clouds quick obscure from sight; 
 
 A moonbeam's evanescent play, 
 
 Which ere the day-dawn speeds away; 
 
 A bubble floating on a lake 
 
 That soon a passing breeze may break; 
 
 A wave which tosses high and free. 
 
 Then dies upon a tranquil sea. 
 
 Life as it is — a songster proud. 
 
 Which leaves its perch to seek the cloud, 
 
 But soon falls low with flutter'ing wing, 
 
 No more to soar, no more to sing. 
 
 Oh, fearful art thou, human life. 
 
 Thou fitful thing, thou thing of strife! 
 
 Why mock us with the promise bright. 
 
 Then leave behind the gloom of night? 
 
 Not so that life which is to be — 
 
 There no alloy, no mockery. 
 
 No transient smile, no bitter tear, 
 
 No intermingling hope and fear; 
 
 No fading liglit, no short-lived bloom. 
 
 No preparation for the tomb; 
 
 No palsied joy, no fleeting breath. 
 
 No throbbing pulses, hushed in death; 
 
 But as the eagle soars from sight. 
 
 And leaves behind each mountain height, 
 
 Ne'er pausing in his upward way, 
 
 While yet remains one golden raj'. 
 
 So soars man's spirit, once set free 
 
 In that pure life which is to be. 
 
 I LOOK BEi'OND. 
 I look beyond this teasing care. 
 
 Which, like the stinging pest, 
 
 That will not let me rest. 
 
 Drives reason from her lofty throne, 
 'Mid hopeless, grim despair. 
 
 I look beyond colossal wrong. 
 With shameless Gorgon head, 
 A timid nation's dread, 
 Wliich makes an oft-defeated will 
 To cringe before the strong. 
 I look beyond the lessening light, 
 That surely, slowly fades 
 'Mid gathering evening shades. 
 While breathings weird from mystic realms 
 Reveal 'twill soon be night. 
 1 look beyond the thoughts that craze 
 The weakling, finite mind. 
 That sees not God behind,— 
 Whereby this perfect plan doth seem 
 A wildering needless maze. 
 Ye troubled children of to-day. 
 Whose liearts are in a sphere 
 We know must disappear. 
 Pause not to dream and moan and pine, 
 But look beyond, I say. 
 
 -i: 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1301 
 
 -« 
 
 EUGENE SECOR. 
 
 Born: Peekskill, N. Y., 1841. 
 While still a youug m:ui Mr. Sccor held sev- 
 eral positions of trust and in 1867 was deputy 
 clerk of the district court, and in 1868 was 
 elected district and circuit clerk, which of- 
 fice he held to the unbounded satisfaction of 
 the people for three consecutive terms, be- 
 
 EtTGENE SECOK. 
 
 ing elected the last time without opposition. 
 He was elected county auditor in 187.5, and 
 chosen his own successor two years later 
 without opposition. Mr. Secor was chosen the 
 first mayor of Forest City, la., and re-elected 
 three consecutive times. Retiring from the 
 mayorality, he was elected city councilman, 
 which position lie still holds. He is a mem- 
 ber of the banking house of Sccor, Law & 
 Plummer, and the real estate firm of Secor 
 Bros. & Law. In addition to these interests, 
 he conducts a considerable farm, is an en- 
 thusiastic fruit-grower, and has the largest 
 apiary in the county. In 1867 Mr. Secor 
 wedded Miss Millie Spencer, a lady of rare 
 endowments, of Erie county. Oliio. Nine 
 children have been the issue, three only sur- 
 viving— Willard. Alson and Nina. The vari- 
 ous positions of honor that Mr. Secor adorns 
 bespeak the exalted respect in which he is 
 held throughout Iowa. He is president of 
 the Iowa State Horticultural Society ; presi- 
 dent of the Iowa State Bee-Keeper's Society ; 
 
 and also president of North America U«-.- 
 Keepers' Society; and the president of the 
 Winnebago Ct)unty Agricultural Hioclfty. he 
 being one of the organizers of the latter in- 
 stitution. The poems of Mr. Sec-or have a\>- 
 peared in the leading periodicals, and have 
 been a valuable aequisition to current litera- 
 ture- 
 
 WEIGHING THE BABV. 
 
 ••The baby is three months old toKlay: 
 
 We want to see what the cherub will weigh — 
 
 So if papa has leisure, 
 
 I know he'll take ple:isure 
 In bringing the scales containing the tniy." 
 
 'Twas mama, who thus from my book 
 Enticed me, with speech and with lo<jk 
 
 So happy, so winning, 
 
 I had surely been sinning, 
 Had I not left with pleasure my nook. 
 
 The clumsy scales to the room we brought ; 
 The same by which fish and potatoes were 
 bought. 
 
 As if. in one measure. 
 
 And just at one's pleasure, 
 A bushel of turnips could balance a thouglit! 
 
 As if with grocers' scales could be weighed 
 A sunbeam, a joy — or a reckoning made 
 
 Of pounds to a fraction. 
 
 Of the subtle attraction 
 Of a lily, in all its beauty arrayed! 
 
 The treasure w.is wrapped in mama's shawl. 
 The little pink t<H's and fingers and all, 
 'Twould not do to chill her 
 With scales from the cellar — 
 For 'twas cold, cold weather, late in the fall. 
 
 The scale was turned at ten and four. 
 Nor could we make it a fraction more;— 
 
 When she l(X)ked up so smiling. 
 
 So bewitching, beguiling; 
 That in our estimation the weight w four- 
 score. 
 
 Then for those dimples add at least eiglit. 
 For blue eyes that twinkle a sum twice as 
 great. 
 To the crowing and cooing — 
 Like the wmxl pheiusants wiKiIng — 
 Add the charms unseen that to mama have 
 weiglit. 
 
 And what do you guess is the total amount? 
 
 'Tis a sum too large for papa to count. 
 So back with these cumbersome 
 Scales to the lumber-niom — 
 
 To weigh Heaven's gifts they are Just no »<*- 
 count. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1302 
 
 LOG A I. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 TO BABY. 
 
 Say, you precious little tot. 
 Can you tell me where you got 
 
 Tiie color in those eyes so blue? 
 Did you, coming thro' the sljy. 
 Take tlie angels wing, and try 
 
 To imitate that azure hue? 
 
 Can you tell me, baby dear. 
 
 How those dimples came in there, — 
 
 Four little dents in each fat liand? 
 Angels kisses did you say? 
 Wish they'd favor me that way, — 
 
 Whither went the angelic band? 
 
 Why that solemn searching look. 
 As tho' problems from a book 
 
 Were occupying your young mind? 
 Like a judge, you seem to weigh 
 What everybody has to say. 
 
 Without assent of any kind. 
 
 Now you laugh, you saucy sprite. 
 Just as I sit down to write 
 
 That you're the wisest boy I know, — 
 Wisdom, tho', don't always look 
 From out a sober face or book. 
 
 So I'll no chiding now bestow. 
 
 Tell me, toothless little elf. 
 That cannot even feed yourself. 
 
 Did you not come before your time? 
 A pig is smarter, far, than you. 
 He helps himself in a day or two,— 
 
 When you can walk he's in his prime. 
 
 But, any how I like your face — 
 Glad you came — j'ou'll find a place 
 
 In our affections, large and warm. 
 May you, in the years to come. 
 Find as easily a home. 
 
 Sheltered alike from strife and storm. 
 
 A loving thing is the ivy-vine, 
 Clinging by tendrils as with hooks of steel; 
 Constant and true 
 Its whole life through, 
 Reaching its arms to gi'asp and entwine 
 All that its delicate fingers can feel. 
 
 These lessons learn from the ivy-vine: 
 The help which we need is more than we 
 give. 
 And needing much 
 Of helpful touch 
 Should make us humble and benign. 
 And teach us in love and in faith to live. 
 
 LESSONS FROM THE IVY. 
 A humble thing is tlie ivy-vine. 
 For it seeks the sliade of tree or wall; 
 In silence grows. 
 Nor envy shows 
 By vain attempt to out-do or out-shine 
 The rugged support that prevents its fall. 
 
 A trustful thing is the ivy-vine. 
 For it never losses its faith-like hold; 
 'Mid storms it clings. 
 Till sunshine bi-itigs 
 The brighter liope, the joy divine. 
 And turns its dull leavesf rom brown to gold. 
 
 A LOVE LETTER. 
 
 Did you ever get a letter from the girl you 
 
 loved the best 
 That made your lieart go pit-a-pat within 
 
 your buttoned vest? 
 Did you think that Heaven was nearer as you 
 
 read it o'er and o'er. 
 And as you feasted on her words, did you 
 
 love her more and moi-e? 
 
 Well, 1 have such a letter from the idol of my 
 
 heart — 
 I left lier side a week ago, bj' dutj' torn apart. 
 And that I may ere long return to hear her 
 
 accents sweet. 
 Speed, speed ye loit'ring, snail-paced train 
 
 that takes me to her feet. 
 
 She says that when we next shall meet her 
 arms will open wide 
 
 To welcome back her •> lover boy " her "darl- 
 ing" and her " pride " — 
 
 That when I'm g'one she's lonely, tho' friends 
 are all about. 
 
 And when I leave her presence the candle of 
 her joj- goes out. 
 
 But you asked me, "Will she love you as the 
 
 dull years pass away 
 With tlie same devoted ardor that she shows 
 
 for you to-day? 
 And when the cankering cares of life eat in 
 
 your very soul. 
 Will you, as now, when far from lier, think 
 
 home your earthly goal? " 
 
 Oh, why affright my loyal heart with bodings 
 tiius of ill. 
 
 For love is the present tense, no future 
 doubts can cliill. 
 
 Besides, the one who longs for me 'twixt an- 
 xious hopes and fears 
 
 Has been my wife and true love lo, these five 
 and twenty years. 
 
 « 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 ims 
 
 REV. HOMER N. DUNNING. 
 
 Born: Brookfield, Conn., July 17, 1827. 
 This minister and author graduated at Yale 
 CoIleg:e in 1848, and at Union Theological 
 Seminary in 1853. For thirteen years he was 
 pastor of the First Congregational Cliurcli of 
 Gloversville, N.Y.; and from ISfiG to 1883 iias- 
 torof his cliurch at South Norwalli, Conn. 
 The poems of the Rev. Mr. Dunning haveap- 
 
 REV. HOMER N. DUNNING. 
 
 peared in the secular and the religious press 
 and in several standard works such as Ed- 
 ward's Fifth Reader and Foster's Cyclopedia. 
 He has also translated several works from 
 the Hebrew and Greek into English. Mr. 
 Dunning was married in 1852 to Jliss Sarah 
 Candee, and has had one son and two daugh- 
 ters. 
 
 WATCH AND PRAY. 
 I KINGS, XVIII. 42-45. 
 
 The Watcher stood on Carmel's height. 
 
 With eager, wistful eye; 
 Gazing across the sobbing sea. 
 
 Scanning the burning sky. 
 While with bowed head between his knees. 
 
 Scorched by the sun's fierce glow. 
 The Prophet, pressed with anguish sore, 
 
 Prayed in his vale below ; 
 
 Watched for the coming of the cloud. 
 
 Prayed for the blessed rain. 
 To shade the burning of tlie sky. 
 
 To cheer the earth again; 
 The cloud with wind, like breath of God 
 
 Among the thick tree-tops. 
 
 The rain, like rush of angels' wings, 
 
 Murm'rous with pattering drops. 
 "Nothing, nothing: " the Watcher cried, 
 
 " No cloud, no sign of rain I 
 The same fierce sun that burns the eartli 
 
 Burns o'er the waterj' main." 
 Again the Prophet bowed his head 
 
 Between his knees and prayed; 
 Again the Watcher's eye looked for 
 
 The blessing still delayed. 
 "Nothing, nothing! " the Watcher cried, 
 
 " No cloud, no sign of rain!" 
 The Prophet, laboring in pr.-iycr, 
 
 Bowed 'twixt his knees again, 
 And thus twice, thrice, seven times they 
 strive. 
 
 With faith that cannot fail, 
 One watching on the mount above. 
 
 One wrestling in the vale! 
 Oh can it be the God whose breath 
 
 Burns like consuming Are, 
 Scorching the earth and sky and sea 
 
 With blast of jndginent dire;— 
 Oh can it be the Gtxl whose fiame 
 
 Consumes the sacrifice, 
 Tlie wood, stones.water, all ablaze 
 
 In incense to the skies;— 
 Oil can it be tliis God wliose wrath 
 
 Our prostrate souls approve. 
 So Ijurning in his holiness. 
 
 Is not a God of love? 
 Oh Heaven, for thy dear mercy's sake. 
 
 Accept our sacrifice! 
 Dissolve this spell of Viurning wrath. 
 
 Oh melt these brazen skies! 
 Seven times the two souls watched and 
 prayed. 
 
 Seven times with faith and hope, 
 When flngei-like a little cloud 
 
 Points up the azur»> slope. 
 / 'land! a hand! a cloud-formed hand I 
 
 The hand God's choscii find 
 Always revealed to point before 
 
 When God is close behind! 
 And swelling in proportions vast 
 
 Reveals an awful form; 
 God coming in his majesty, 
 
 God in the blessed st<;rm; 
 Blackening the heavens witli clouds and 
 wind. 
 
 Pouring the welcome rain. 
 Filling the thirsty earth with floods 
 
 Of life and joy again! 
 
 Oh, watchers on the mountain lieight! 
 
 Stand with eye steadfast then>I 
 Oh, wrestlers In the vale beneathi 
 
 Cease not your seven-fold prayer! 
 God will not always frown — He will 
 
 «- 
 
*- 
 
 1304 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Accept your sacrifice 
 Of loving- hearts and praying- hands; 
 
 God will in love arise! 
 A finger, hand, an arm, a form 
 
 Of power and g-race divine! 
 The heav'ns siiall swell with blessed show'rs 
 
 The earth with raindrops shine! 
 Ob, dare with willing hearts to bring 
 
 The sacrifice of blood! 
 While Hope stands watching- on the mount, 
 
 And Faith lays hold on God! 
 
 THE STILL SMALL VOICE. 
 
 I KINGS, XIX, 13. 
 
 Away from the city and gay resort, 
 
 Wliere the bustling multitudes throng; 
 From the palace-hall and the temple-court — 
 
 From the revel of dance and song! 
 Away from a people that spurn their Lord — 
 
 From the perilous struggle and strife — 
 From the maddened queen and the menacing 
 sword — 
 Away — in escape of life ! 
 Let me stand on the spot where the old seer 
 stood. 
 In the mountain's wild retreat. 
 By the bush that burned with the fire of God, 
 
 And hearkened wilh naked feet! 
 Perchance where he stood on that holy 
 ground. 
 Whence the Voice proclaimed the Law, 
 I shall find the dread face of the God he found. 
 
 And the voice of the great I AM. 
 Let me hide 'neath the cloud of glory that 
 swept 
 O'er the seer in the cleft of the rock. 
 Where the thunders pealed and the lightnings 
 leapt, 
 And the earthquake heaved Its shock! 
 Perchance I shall come to the burning throne. 
 
 Whence the Voice proclaimed the Law; 
 And the people shrank from its dreadful tone, 
 
 And shuddered with breathless awe. 
 Through the desert wilds the Prophet trod, 
 
 On his journey of many days. 
 Till he saw the hoary Mount of God 
 
 Uplift to his wistful gaze; 
 And there on the sacred ground he bowed. 
 
 And moaned out liis plaintful cry: 
 II Let me see Thy face, oh thou hidden God- 
 Let me hear Thy voice — and die ! " 
 He looked in the burning blue of the sky — 
 
 No God shone there in the light! 
 He looked on the pinnacled summits high - 
 
 No God throned there in Uie height! 
 He looked in the gloom of the hollow cave, 
 
 And listened with awe-struck fear; 
 The brooding darkness no answer gave. 
 Save the whisper: "What doest thou here?" 
 
 The tempest tore through the mountaic 
 chasm — 
 
 No God did rend the rock! 
 The earthquake upheaved the ground with 
 its spasm — 
 
 No God was in the shock! 
 The thunderbolt gleamed its flashes of ire — 
 
 No God was in the flame! 
 Nor whirlwind nor earthquake nor lignt- 
 ning's fire 
 
 Voice the word of the great I AM. 
 Apart at last from tlie roar and the rush — 
 
 Apart from tlie deafening din, 
 In the whirlwind's lull and the cavern's hush, 
 
 He turned his ear within. 
 Where the pulses throb with their measured 
 beat, 
 
 'Neath the bosom's rise and fall. 
 And he caught the murmur so sad, so sweet, 
 
 Of the voice so still and small. 
 So still! As when in the hush of the breeze 
 
 Steals a murmured monotone, 
 And the silence breathes to the listening 
 trees 
 
 Its secret in plaintful moan! 
 So small! As when in the distant throb 
 
 Of surges upon the shore. 
 The ocean sighs in the smothered sob — 
 
 Its might in the muffled roar! 
 So still and small on his ear it stole. 
 
 He knew not from whence it came. 
 But knew 'twas the echo of his soul 
 
 To the voice of the great I AM. 
 And with face enwrapped in his prophet's 
 pall — 
 
 With spirit subdued and awed, 
 He stood to hear in its mystic call 
 
 The will and the word of God! 
 What doest thou hear, oh thou man of God? 
 
 Not here on the mountain's crest — 
 Not here in the roar of the thunders loud, 
 
 But within thj' conscious breast; 
 Not there in the rush of the hustling crowd — 
 
 Not there in the altar-flame. 
 But in souls that never to idols have bowed. 
 
 Hear the voice of the great I AM ! 
 
 Go back to the palace and temple-court, 
 
 And brave the edge of the sword! 
 Go back to the city and thronged resort. 
 
 With the still small voice of the Lord! 
 Go stand in thy place and utter His will, 
 
 In the ears of the court and the crowd, 
 Till tlio hearts of the multitude tremble and 
 thrill 
 
 With the still small voice of God! 
 
 And tlie breath of the spirit's hot desire, 
 And the word that burns in thy bones, 
 Shall uplift thee on wings and wheels of Are, 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMKKICA, 
 
 1305 
 
 In thy flight to my burning: tlirone; 
 And the spirit dropped with tbyprophet's pall 
 
 Shall light through the ages its flame. 
 In the souls that hear, so still and small. 
 
 The voice of the great I AM ! 
 
 "What doest thou here? " "What doest thou 
 there?" 
 Oh Soul! Hear the voice within! 
 
 Rebuking thy doubt and dark despair- 
 Dispelling thy sorrow and sin! 
 
 Whose sound is the roll of the wheels of fire, 
 And the rusli of the steeds of flame. 
 
 That speed thee to duty, still swifter and 
 higher. 
 On thy course to the great I AM ! 
 
 MOLLIE M.SWINK. 
 
 Born: Near Staunton, Va., Nov. 3, 1872. 
 This lady graduated in 1890, and is now a 
 teacher in Minier, 111. She has written nu- 
 merous sketches, essays and short stories ft-r 
 
 MOLLIE M. SWISK. 
 
 local periodicals. Adieu was written for and 
 sung as a class song at commencement. 
 
 MEMORIAL. 
 Gather nature's best and brightest. 
 
 Weave them in a garland fair; 
 Lay them o'er the pulseless bosom,- 
 
 Honor's emblem — flowers rare. 
 
 Choose the violet atid llie daisy. 
 
 And ihe myrtle's leaves of green. 
 And the modest, blushing wlldroso 
 
 Kissed by old S<jrs warmest beam. 
 Twine them all into a garland 
 
 For the brave one loved .so well; 
 Flowers that graced the field of battle. 
 
 Where our hero fought and fell. 
 Not a stone, a line, a letter. 
 
 All alone without a name; 
 Unwept, wnhouored and forgotten. 
 
 But a hero just the same. 
 
 Wrapt in sweet, unbroken silence. 
 
 Waiting for the morning's glow; 
 Who shall judge him or upbr.iid him. 
 
 Whether he bo friend or foe? 
 Then choose nature's best and brightest. 
 
 Strew them with impartial hand; 
 Let to-day and ever after 
 
 Peace and flowers crown our land. 
 
 ADIEU. 
 We have landed our boat on life's uncertaia 
 sea. 
 We are waiting for the ebb of the tide. 
 That will bear us away unfettered and free. 
 
 To a future unknown and untried. 
 Though the promise is bright as the golden 
 suidight, 
 And we long for the triumph's ensign, 
 A moment we'd yet linger here to regret 
 
 The life we must soon leave behind. 
 Cho.— Ob, those best days of youth, days of 
 childish delight. 
 When our hearts were so guileless 
 and true. 
 Who would sever a tie by the sad word 
 good-by. 
 We'll only bid our school-tlays adieu. 
 We falter where the sea and the rivulet meet 
 
 The past and the future between. 
 The one our ambition, the shrine of our 
 hopes. 
 The other but a beautiful dream. 
 Must wego with the tide, ne'er again toHt)idc 
 Where we knew neither sorrow nor strife. 
 Where we scorned the word care, and built 
 castles in air — 
 To enter the great school of life. 
 We have forged the first link of fate's gilded 
 chain. 
 That will make us the world's chief or slave. 
 We have ventured one step iu the path that 
 will lead 
 To glory or an unhonon-d grave: 
 But in gain or in loss we will never bo false 
 
 To the days and compunlons of yore. 
 Andwhen tin-d of life's iies,Po8sibility's pri«e 
 Well meet on Reality's shore. 
 
 *- 
 
•i*- 
 
 1 
 
 306 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 DOUGLAS SLADEN. 
 
 Born : London, Feb. 5, 1859. 
 
 And a soft voice fell on my ear 
 In a tremulous undertone. 
 
 Mr. Sladen's literary career began in 1881, 
 
 The face and the fingers I touch 
 
 and ever since he has been a most industri- 
 
 The voice in its music is here; 
 
 ous and a successful writer, botli in prose 
 
 But romance is a delicate moth 
 
 and verse. His published works comprise 
 
 That lives — just the sweet of a year. 
 
 Frithjof and Ingejorg-, Australian Lyrics, a 
 
 
 
 Poetry of Exiles, Edward the Blacls Prince, 
 
 BROKEN GODS. 
 
 Just another idol 
 Taken from its place. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 On more hollow found behind 
 
 
 ^^■emtm^. 
 
 
 An old family face! 
 
 
 ^^^'''^^Hjhflk 
 
 
 Comrade mine, I thought to twine 
 
 
 m ^1 
 
 
 Our hearts for evermore. 
 And low ! another idol 
 Broken on the floor. 
 
 
 m m fW 
 
 
 Kinsfolk reared from childhood 
 
 
 
 In one mother's ways. 
 
 
 • ''i 
 
 
 School friends more than brothers loved 
 
 
 'i 
 
 
 In heart-open days. 
 
 
 _^^^^i__A 
 
 
 Lovers dear as kinsfolk ne'er 
 
 
 MHjk^flfjHjHl 
 
 
 Are themselves no more: 
 
 
 w^^^^^^^B 
 
 
 What, must all the idols 
 
 
 ^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H 
 
 
 Shatter on the floor? 
 
 
 ^I'^m, ^i^l^^^^^^^H^^ 
 
 
 Lo ! another idol ! 
 
 
 ^^MHbl i^S^I 
 
 
 Set it up on high! 
 Never heed the broken gods, 
 
 
 ^^^^|A; . -^mSKk 
 
 
 Leave them where they lie! 
 
 
 
 On it shower love's every flower 
 
 
 J ' fSt^'^''^ ^9^ ^^^^^^KtfKfBBl^^ 
 
 
 Make it all — your all. 
 Feed it with your heart's blood 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 And— one day it will fall. 
 
 
 
 
 I. Loved you not these false gods 
 
 
 Broken on the floor?" 
 
 DOUGTjAS SLADEN. 
 
 " I would fain have worshiped them 
 
 Summer Christmas, In Cornwall and Across 
 
 All for evermore. 
 
 the Sea, The Spanish Armada, Seized by a 
 
 I loved well —'twas they who fell." 
 
 Shadow, In Cornwall, and is also the editor 
 
 •• Comrade, let them lie. 
 
 of several large collections, and was one 
 
 And when you love another. 
 
 Australian contributor to the Century Dic- 
 
 Shrine it high of highl " 
 
 tionary. Mr. Slader came to America in 1888, 
 
 • 
 
 a 
 w 
 
 id has traveled extensively throughout th 
 orld. 
 
 e 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 AN OLD ROMANCE. 
 A bar of an old-fashioned waltz, 
 A glance at a faded dress — 
 What is it that wakes in my heart 
 These echoes of tenderness. 
 
 How beautiful is sleep. 
 Sleep with half opened lips 
 And half clenched finger tips, 
 
 And still as is the deep 
 
 Upon a summer morn. 
 When the waves hardly reach 
 
 Wlien that was the waltz of the hour, 
 
 To break upon the beach; 
 
 That dress in its pride and glow, 
 
 Or like a field of corn 
 
 Of sliimmeringr azure and pearl. 
 
 When the soft western breeze 
 
 A seven of summers ago. 
 
 Lays all the beards together, 
 
 Sweet eyes used to g-aze in my eyes, 
 
 As feather over feather 
 
 
 Lig-ht fingers would clasp my own, 
 
 
 Lays on birds' plumages. 
 
 *- 
 
* — 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 130- 
 
 ALGERNOX SYDNEY LOGAK. 
 
 Born: Philadelphia, May 17, 1S49. 
 In 1875 appeiired The Mirror of a Mind, a vol- 
 ume of verse from tlie pen of Mr. l>og:an, 
 which was favorably received. Three years 
 later The Image of Air was published; Saul, 
 a dramatic poem, in 1883; A Feather from the 
 World's Wiiijr, in 188.5; a prose work entitled 
 
 ALGERNON SYDfTEY LOGAN. 
 
 Jesus in Modern Life, in 1888; and in 18W, 
 Messalina, a flve-act tragedy. Algernon Syd- 
 ney Logan is a direct descendan t of James 
 Logan who came to America with William 
 Penn as his secretary, in 1686, and afterward 
 became chief justice of the province. Mr. 
 Logan is also adescendantof John Dickinson 
 the author of the celebrated Farmer's Let- 
 ters, and governor of Pennsylvania shortly 
 after the close of the revolutionary war. He 
 was married in 1873 to Miss Mary W. Wister, 
 and has one sou, Robert, born in 187-t. Mr. 
 Logan has visited Europe a number of times 
 and has spent several years in Italy, where 
 many of his poems were written. 
 
 Hh 
 
 AUGUST. 
 I wandered through the chilly night, 
 
 I heard the whippoorwill. 
 The passing brant on high did chant. 
 
 The frogs sang sharp and shrill; 
 
 And many a wild bird In his flight, 
 
 Witli ghostly fail urid swell. 
 To the far north, wheric<' hi- came forth. 
 
 Did hymn his wild farewell. 
 
 The summer's cloak was faded. 
 
 Her matron bloom wa-s gone. 
 Her queenly^mce had lost its grace. 
 
 Her cheek was worn and wun; 
 But the moon as calmly waded 
 
 The deptlis of the cloudless sky 
 As she did on the night when the queen 
 was dight 
 
 In the robes of majesty. 
 
 And I thought how the dews of even. 
 
 As they gather on the brow. 
 May be made to gleam with the tingelcss 
 beam 
 
 Of a light not born below — 
 How the glow from our inner heaven. 
 
 With its sheen of deatliless white. 
 May cast a ray on our senseless clay 
 
 In the soul's eternal night. 
 
 AUTUMN LEAVES. 
 
 The leaves lie cold 
 
 On the cumbered mold. 
 Their corpses lie white all around, - 
 
 Dninterred where they fall. 
 
 Till their whiter pall 
 By winter is spread on the ground. 
 
 But when March with his cloud 
 And his voice so loud. 
 
 As he shouts in the leafless tree. 
 Shall lift witli his hand 
 Their pall from the land, 
 
 The corpses shall vanished be. 
 
 SONG. 
 The moon with her viewless hands. 
 Transparent, light and free. 
 
 Was parting a place 
 
 For her dreamy face 
 To gaze on the troubled sea. 
 
 There were bells in wave-washed hands 
 Which tolled eu.'rnally ; 
 
 Tliere was roar on roar 
 
 Far down the shore. 
 And laughter out to sea. 
 
 There were four on the sands to-night. 
 
 Two shadows and two forms — 
 Behind and before 
 Flew the froth on the sliort'. 
 
 And foam tn the land of storms. 
 
 Need shadows or shapes more light? 
 
 O which has the flrnier home? 
 Which stabler stuff. 
 
*- 
 
 1308 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 The ruoth-liko fluff, 
 Or the bird-like flying foam? 
 
 O heart-uniting- kiss! 
 O bosom beating free! 
 
 O eyelids wet 
 
 With joy! and yet — 
 The wild bells out to sea ! 
 
 Through the languor of the kiss 
 Which wrapped them tenderly. 
 
 Came the steady roar 
 
 Far down the shore. 
 And the laughter out to sea! 
 
 THE IMAGE OF AIR. 
 It was the early autumn and the wind, 
 Like some lone maiden half to sport inclined 
 And half to sadness, who tliro' woodland ways 
 Moves aimless, singing wild and broken lays. 
 Sang restlessly amidst the restful tombs. 
 Now soft it breathed upon the hanging bloom 
 Of salvia, wliich with conquest-loving hue 
 Around the base of many a statue grew. 
 Making their icy pallor more complete; 
 And now with hollow laugh for madness 
 
 meet. 
 Discordant laugh of Destiny, the wind. 
 Like one too lieartless e'en to be unkind. 
 Seized on the leaves by summer's passion 
 
 seared, 
 And bore them from the present. 
 
 As I neared 
 The center of the spot the evening fell — 
 Pale eveuing,with her mind-compelling spell. 
 Whose gentle hand, invisible, is prone 
 To bear the balance of our musings down. 
 Giving due weight to thoughts impalpable. 
 By day too little reckoned. Evening fell. 
 The unstable gilding of the western sky, 
 A moment hence too brilliant for the eye. 
 Began to slowly tarnish and to fade; 
 Around me gleamed from dusky copse and 
 
 glade — 
 Some straight and tall, some leaning to de- 
 cay— 
 The emblems pale of effort past away. 
 The youthful tombs were white as drifted 
 
 snow. 
 The aged dark — they darker ever grow — 
 Forming griu» contrast to man's destiny. 
 Who still grows whiter as the years creep by. 
 My thoughts went wandering 'midst the 
 
 mindful stones. 
 Mindful of names of long-forgotten bones. 
 Culling some mosses from mortality.— 
 Thoughts are there which do cheat the men- 
 tal eye. 
 So complex is their nature: now they seem 
 Near and familiar, now a sudden gleam 
 
 Will lightning-like show cloud-forms fa 
 
 awaj- ; 
 Now do tliey move as reasonings cold an ■ 
 
 gray. 
 Now as warm memories passionate swee, ' 
 
 along; '■ 
 
 Now as one shape, now as a spirit throng ' 
 Such musings meet us till their sense to hole 
 We faiu must press them to one stable mold : 
 We consciously with form our thoughts eu i 
 
 dow 
 That we may treat with them. With motior 
 
 slow 
 From out the vapors of the coming night 
 A shadow rose before me — no grim sprite. 
 The child of suj>erstition — but a sliade 
 Bj' me from thoughts of saddest import made. 
 Aged he seemed, though not yet near bis 
 
 prime — 
 A withered flower bids us think of time, 
 E'en though the wrinkles on its velvet cheek 
 Were furrowed by the hour; — his mien was 
 
 bleak. 
 As if 'midst magic mountains lingering. 
 He deep had drunk of some enchanted spring 
 Within whose every bubble lurked a year; 
 With careless steps unmeasured he drew 
 
 near — 
 Then sudden paused, but even his very pause 
 Was, like his motions restless, and the laws 
 Which ruled his looks and motions were un- 
 known. 
 For these were rhythmless and each alone — 
 As the long tendrils of neglected vines 
 O'er casements hanging in entangled lines, 
 Sway without concert to the wild strain, 
 And tap with aimless fingers on the pane. 
 Oh, he was beautiful beyond compare. 
 His face than man's,nay, more than woman's j 
 
 fair, j 
 
 Yet 'twas a beauty that with pained arotize 
 Filled the beholder, for beneath the gaze 
 It seemed to fade, yet gazing none might 
 
 know 
 If it had faded, or was always so. 
 Through all Ids being, even to his sigh. 
 There breathed a palpable uncertainty. 
 To look upon him was to feel a pang, 
 A dread, though none might say from whence 
 
 it sprang— ' 
 
 A straining of the mind, bewilderment, 
 Hope and suspense in strange confusion 
 
 blent. 
 The wildest voices of the mind awoke 
 Within liis presence, and as forth they broke 
 Into a hurried chant, pale memory 
 Holding lier solemn harp st<wd silent by, ! 
 And struck wild ciiords between the wilder | 
 
 staves — I 
 
 A sound of question, restless as the wavesi | 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOMAr, POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 !305> 
 
 *- 
 
 For at liis sigrht there swept across the soul 
 A consciousness of thouphts beyond control. 
 As from the past we feverishly strive 
 Some joy forgotten vainly to revive, 
 Some dream of beauty deaf to memories call, 
 Which once familiar mocks our efforts all. 
 In all his motions, g-eslures, features, mien, 
 An incomitlete i)erfection there was seen, 
 A loveliness unearthly wild and free. 
 From its fair sequence severed. Near to me 
 The fljru re drew, then quickly passed again. 
 As if the creature of his laboring- brain; 
 His ej'e.which like a wind-tormenting- flame. 
 Now pale and blue, now g-leaming: bright be- 
 came. 
 Fell on a fragil tablet which he bore — 
 His hand flew fast, his thoughts his hand be- 
 fore — 
 He wrote o'er half the tablet, and anon 
 Gazed quickly 'round, as if in quest of one 
 To whom it might be shown — but none ap- 
 peared — 
 Then faded grew his eye,his features bleared. 
 Dim grew his form fantastical and gray. 
 Even as the spirits of the storms when they 
 Around the moon their magic misty ring 
 Form hand in hand.and to her footsteps cling. 
 To stay the sliadow e'er it grew inwrouglit 
 With other forms around, I said, or thought, 
 "Who art thou that in such phantasmal guise 
 Still bearest the weight of human energies?" 
 As memories of dreams to present care. 
 As crescent moonlight is to mid-day's glare. 
 So to all human voices, when he spoke. 
 The sound I felt, which silence never broke: 
 "I am shape of one who lived in vain. 
 If being be to be not, since I gain 
 An entity in speech which is not mine; 
 Yet mayst thou in this evanescent line 
 The wraith in words of that which was behold 
 As I in form." Ere ceased his utterance cold 
 Which seemed remembered and not heard, 
 
 he gained 
 A marble shaft, and from its surface planed 
 Its frigid eulogy, its grief of ice, — 
 Each awkward text, each weary dull device. 
 Dates, emblems, letters, all he did erase — 
 All save a lyre sculptured at the base- 
 Then glowing like the wisp that skips the 
 
 moat, 
 A phantom epitaph the phantom wrote 
 In letters coldly luminous; it seemed 
 As if a glow-worm o'er the marble gleamed. 
 Creeping across it with his lantern green, 
 For each word vanished ere the next was seen, 
 "What is it in the garden of the earth 
 If one bud wither, lovely though it be? 
 If one mind fails the promise of its birth. 
 What loss to man in man's eternity? 
 This stone the type of cold rigidity. 
 
 This snow which noonday melts not, stands 
 
 for one 
 Wiio deemed his mission wu.s to feel and see; 
 For in him nature's chanBing face was shown 
 As seas and flowei-s change iheir iLspect with 
 
 the sun. 
 Look down upon a plain of blooming flower''. 
 A forest, or the ocean and Ix'hold 
 How these are grave or gay hut as the hours 
 Which float above are clad In gray or gold — 
 Like these he changed, yet long ere lie grew 
 
 old 
 His heart became of onedull.changelesshue. 
 The hedge 'twixt him and hor>fs,whleh child- 
 
 hoofl bold 
 A tussock deemed, a giant harrier grew — 
 Each year it seeti.ed to gain in height and 
 
 briers new. 
 His was no sombre self-consoled despair 
 Which thinks the world as stn|>id as unkind. 
 He deemed t hat he was want iiig and'witli cart; 
 He strove his nature's secret Haw to find; 
 He roamed o'er foreign lands and saw man- 
 kind 
 In many aspects and with toil by night 
 He probed the tlioiighls of many a perished 
 
 mind, — 
 By day he watched all breathlessly the flght 
 Which freedom ever makes against inhuman 
 
 might. 
 But as each hour adown time's chasm rolle<l. 
 Toil unrewarded wrought its vengeance dire, 
 His heart grew weary and his hand grew c-old 
 In stirring the unfed, unwilling Are; 
 And as upon some lofty granite spire 
 The seeds, wind wafted, Itxlging one by one. 
 With tiny thews which age.s cannot tire 
 Hurl crumbling down each mighty sculp- 
 tured stone. 
 So fell his noblest thoughts by petty cures 
 
 o'ergrown. 
 Oh, he was like a sprig of severed bay. 
 Whose functions perish ere its beauty cease. 
 Or like the smiles that o'er the features play 
 Of midnight sleeiwrs, powerless to plea.se. 
 And lost in darkness. Deprived of rest and 
 
 e;ise. 
 He could not frame his mind to sink or soar. 
 His was obscurity without its |H>ace; 
 For though life's winds his cloud-built em- 
 pire tore. 
 Still phantom pageants swept his dauUtl 
 
 ej-es before. 
 Now all he was and all he strove to l)c. 
 All that he hoped that others might l>ec«me. 
 Although recorded noue shall ever si>e — 
 Far better had he been forever dumb; 
 
 His hope of fame " 
 
 The spectre's hand w:is raided 
 More syllables to form, when sudden blaze<l 
 
*- 
 
 1310 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Athwart tlie ivy leaves' Inwoven bar 
 The eternal radiance of a rising- star — 
 Some thought of hope which lurked within 
 
 the ray 
 Made the dim shadow's shadow fade away. 
 He faded fast and left me standing there 
 Alone with nature and relieved of care. 
 Thou silent witness that tho' crushed by ill 
 We are a part of something glorious still! 
 Sensation of expansion and expanse 
 Which lifts our thoughts above the fretful 
 
 trance 
 Of our too subtle musings, the dull fear 
 That we but follow in the world's career, 
 The self-tormenting effort to be great. 
 How do these fade before thy tranquil state ! 
 Oh, Nature, Nature, effortless and calm. 
 Thy beauty is the soul's eternal balm. 
 
 TO THE WIND. 
 Eternal minstrel! who through every land 
 Harpest wild melodies from door to door, 
 Thy lays 'neath palace eaves are not more 
 grand 
 Than in the smoky chimneys of the poor. 
 Saddest of harpers! of thy songs, can none 
 
 Back to the lip a vanished smile recall? 
 No, there is not of all thy ditties one 
 
 But wakes a sigh, or bids a tear to fall. 
 Thou sing'st of home to those that houseless 
 rove, [scorn. 
 
 Past friends to those mankind despise and 
 Thy songs tell trembling age it once could 
 love, [mourn ; 
 
 And bid unwilling youth feel it shall 
 Thou singst of our own graves which thou 
 Shalt see, [same. 
 
 Of endless change which leaves thee still the 
 Of all we are not, and yet wished to be 
 In brighter hours ere hearts and hopes 
 grew tame. 
 
 Pilgrim impalpable! thy viewless feet 
 Through ages still must roam from clime 
 to clime. 
 
 But even thee at last a bourn shall greet 
 Thy head shall rest upon the tomb of time. 
 
 MAGGIE MCNINCH. 
 
 Born: Chester, S. C 
 This lady is the author of a little volume of 
 flue poems entitled Wayside flowers. What 
 time can be spared from her duties as a 
 teacher and stenographer, she devotes to 
 literature, and is the author of many cliarm- 
 ing stories. The poems of Miss Maggie Mc- 
 Ninch have appeared in Godey 's Lady's Book, 
 
 Peterson's Magazine, and numerous othe 
 prominent publications. She resides witl 
 lier sister in the little village of Williamston , 
 S. C, during her vacations. 
 
 ONLY VIOLETS. 
 Only violets fragrant and blue. 
 Round with pearls of morning dew, 
 Telling of absent friends so true. 
 Only violets, but gathered for you; 
 And yet. my friend, you can't tell who, 
 Gathered these violets, guess now do. 
 Then let these violets typical be 
 Of the friendship pure I bear for thee. 
 Love and keep them just for me. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 'Twas only a coin of antique make. 
 Given a token for friendship sake, 
 
 Forever keep; 
 To keep in memory of that day. 
 When two friends parted, each their way 
 
 III life to wend. 
 Each had their mission there to fill — 
 To nobly do their Master's will 
 
 In every field ; 
 Whether He bids them toil or bide 
 In noonday heat or eventide. 
 
 As He should will. 
 Our life is made of link on link. 
 Unbroken till we near the brink 
 
 Of the river deep; 
 Even then does friendship take our hand 
 Safe leads us to the border land. 
 
 And for us weep. 
 
 ROSABEL. 
 Like a lily rudely brushed. 
 Like a hare-bell earlj- crushed. 
 Lay in death's deep awful hush 
 
 Darling Rosabel. 
 Through the river dark and deep. 
 Went the dimpled baby feet; 
 But tlie Savior came to meet 
 
 Angel Rosabel. 
 Wintrj' winds did sadly sigh; 
 Hearts were breaking; God drew nigh: 
 For he heard that bitter cry — 
 
 Rosabel! Rosabel! 
 Winter snows fall soft and white 
 O'er a little grave to night 
 Where sleeps tlie beauteous baby bright 
 
 Rosabel! Rosabel! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Many tints of fairy land 
 By life's early halo spanned 
 Time has touched with shad'wy hands. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1311 
 
 ADELAIDE STOUT. 
 
 This child of the muses has been known for 
 the past decade and over, by her f ug-itivc 
 poems, which have appeared I'roni time to 
 time in the papers and magazines of the daj*. 
 There is a depth of meaning-, feeling and 
 deep poetic insight pervading all that she 
 
 ADELAIDE STOUT. 
 
 'vrites. Her poems. Little One, Gathering 
 Mint, Sweet Brier, Consider, Pels, are among 
 her recent productions which have elicited 
 much comment, giving her the reputation of 
 being one of the ablestwritersinthe western 
 part of New York. William Cullen Bryant was 
 one of the first to recognize her genius. Slie 
 has a good income and writes merely for tlie 
 joy and love of it. In the near future, she 
 will give to ttie world a volume of lier poems. 
 The New Christianity at Pliiladelphia, the 
 NewCluirch, Independent, The Interior, anrl 
 other pi-omineut papers published many of 
 her recent offerings — the fragrant blossoms 
 and incense of a pure heart. 
 
 GATHERING MINT. 
 How strange that even the sweet smell 
 
 Of herb or gathered flower 
 Steals o'er the senses, touching them 
 
 With such a subtle power 
 That all life's morning scene is new. 
 Where erst the plant of fiow'ret grew. 
 
 This morn the cool air floated in. 
 Sweet with the scent of mint; 
 
 We close our eyes, and in the loam 
 We see the soft, fresh print 
 
 Of tiny feet; how white tliey gle:ini. 
 Set in llie bluck loam of the slreunil 
 
 Tlio tinkling stream flows on iis clear 
 
 As wlicn, Willi feet half wet. 
 On stones t iiat seemed so far apart. 
 
 Our shrinking feet we set. 
 A ready liand is at our side. 
 And firmer feet, to gently guide. 
 
 The mullein's dust is on fair brows, 
 
 We laugli a sweet refain 
 At merriment of hitn wlio wears 
 
 On sun-browned cheek the stain 
 Of golden dust; he's r()bl)ed the bee 
 Of pollen, and right merrily. 
 
 The light gleams over cheek and brow. 
 
 And flashes in those eyes. 
 And now in tljose clear depths we see 
 
 Only the sliadow lies; 
 We waich them often, and they seem 
 Sullen and dark as winter stream. 
 
 We bring our gathered thyme and mint. 
 Each brightest-colored stone. 
 
 And lay them in the lap of one 
 Who scarcely deigns to own 
 
 The gifts, that in our small hands were 
 
 Precious as if of gold or myrrh. 
 
 The tinj' •• lady " takes our gifts, 
 
 And (jiieens it over all; 
 And still into her hand and lap 
 
 Tlie best hfe holds doth fall. 
 The best to her seems off'ring meet. 
 To lie unnoticed at her feet. 
 
 The hands that won from the streams bed 
 
 Its shining stones of old 
 Are larger, in tlie stream of life 
 
 They gather discs of gold; 
 But hearts tliat beat in childish. play. 
 Have altered little since th;it day. 
 
 The boy who waited at the stream« 
 
 With such a teiuler skill. 
 To guide the little ones across> 
 
 Is just as helpful still; 
 At life's deep ford his feet are set, 
 Helping the children over yet. 
 The eyes that watch for timid souls. 
 
 Are calm Jis any lake. 
 While just beneath, o'er slippery stones. 
 
 Tlie foam-capped water breaks. 
 God counts and none but God alone. 
 The feet helped over each wet stone. 
 And those who gave and those who took 
 
 But typed in childish play 
 The part that each is acting out. 
 
 In busy life to-day; 
 Helpless or selfish, each I deem. 
 Gathered treasure at "The Stream " 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1312 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 CONSIDER. 
 
 "The .iewel in the Lotus I " hidden like a gem 
 
 Within this quaint conceit, 
 Is a pure thought; is the fair lotus flower, 
 
 On anj' stream as sweet 
 As the most lonely, loveless child, whose birth 
 Not even mother welcomed to the earth? 
 
 Lotus, the ooze is black, and lizards hide 
 
 Deep in thy river-bed. 
 From source as impure, lol the lily heart 
 
 Of the child oft is fed. 
 Lotus, thy leaf-stalk springeth from dark 
 
 ooze. 
 Yet, thou hast beauty, Imt a child must lose 
 
 That dewy whiteness that makes beautiful 
 
 The tremulous child heart, 
 O, mystery of life, God's lilies pure 
 
 May crowu the stems that start 
 From darkest loam in life's deep river-bed! 
 Ct)nsider thou the jewel; be it said. 
 
 Humbly above the poorest child we see, 
 
 It surely must surprise 
 Its angel, that the jewel in the flower 
 
 Is dim to human eyes. 
 When every child-face lifted, softly glows 
 With play of light no jewel ever shows. 
 
 The face is half transparent with pure light. 
 
 As lilies always are 
 Sun shone upon; pure chalices of hearts 
 
 This grace with lilies share. 
 And from within, the softened gleams do show 
 Transfiguring the saddest face we know. 
 
 And is not the soul-casket lotus like, 
 
 Tlie jewel shining thro' 
 Just as tlie sunlight thro' the lilies' heart? 
 
 O, blind are we unto 
 The light on tender lips, and in soft eyes; 
 The jewel!— God's own jewel underlies. 
 
 The petals of the lotus! Ours the bitter loss 
 
 If we, indeed, are blind, 
 And will not see the jewel that our God 
 
 Hath to our sight refined. 
 Softening its luster 'neath so thin a veil. 
 Consider thou the jewel lest the luster pale. 
 
 Consider thou the jewel! Only God's dear 
 hand 
 Can touch our ejes, shut lid. 
 And make its white threads tremble tenderly 
 
 To see God's jewels hid 
 1 n caskets that the rudest hands have marred. 
 01 saddest thing in life, God's lilies scarred. 
 
 And touched by mildew, blighted everyway, 
 
 Tainted by breath and touch. 
 Remember thou the jewel, thro' all earthly 
 scatli ! 
 
 Christ's robes gleam bright with such; 
 And it were well beside life's river-brink — 
 Aye it were well for every one to think. 
 
 And at the darkest let us keep our trust 
 
 In jewel set apart 
 From earthly soiling. Yea, consider thou, 
 
 For it were well, O, heart! 
 If jewel, precious in the angels' eyes 
 Thou hast not dimmed and never doth des- 
 pise. 
 
 SWEET-BRIER. 
 The sheep bleat piteously on the wold; 
 
 The brier-roses' wands 
 Are tangled in the soft threads of tlieir fleece, 
 
 Holding it as with hands. 
 And all around, the air is fragrant with 
 
 The sweetness from bruised leaves; 
 The feet of the mild creatures tread them 
 down. 
 
 And the fresh air receives. 
 
 The secret essence — sweet beyond all scents. 
 
 Oh, faint sweet brier-rose. 
 Some secret felt by us and not yet told. 
 
 May thy pink lips disclose! 
 Our pearls we are forbidden to cast down 
 
 Under the trampling hoof. 
 But over all the world, rare hearts give out 
 
 Their secret life in proof. 
 
 Are we so wise to always count our pearls? 
 
 Are we so wise to test 
 The fitness of the souls to whom we give? 
 
 The wild rose gives her best 
 In answer to the treading of rough hoofs; 
 
 And all the pasture-lands. 
 And all the windings of the woodland paths, 
 
 As it some angel hands 
 
 Had swung their censers, are so sweet, so 
 sweet! 
 There nothing is beside 
 As sweet and simple as the brier-rose. 
 
 Save heart that ne'er denied 
 In thought, the drops of sweetness wrung 
 from it. 
 Or crushed out in the press 
 Of careless feet. True hearts make their 
 own pearls. 
 Whenever, in the stress 
 
 Of woe, or fear, they send the pure tears 
 forth. 
 
 How many drops e.xude 
 From every lieart. A re any really lost? 
 
 Few of tiie multitude 
 Notice their gleam, or stay their feet at all, 
 
 Yet angels note our tears; 
 For heaven's Golden Vials are they kept 
 
 Garnered with the Saints' pmyers. 
 
 ^- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OE IS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 1.313 
 
 MORRIS C. PENNOCK. 
 
 Boun: ChestebCo., Pa., May 23, 1829. 
 
 iNhis earlycliildhood his parents emigrating- 
 westward, settled on a farm near Salem, 
 Ohio, where, during youth and early man- 
 hood, his time was mainly devoted to agri- 
 cultural labors, private study, and teaching- 
 
 MORRIS C. PENNOCK. 
 
 in the public schools of the county. From 
 these alone did he receive any assistance in 
 his own education. In 1857 he entered a store 
 in Salem, and in the fall of 1863 removed to 
 what is now the city of Alliance, Ohio, where 
 lie has since been engaged in the hardware 
 and banking business. In 18.56 he was mar- 
 ried to Miss Emma E. Wriglit, who died in 
 1882, and he was again married in 1868 to Mrs. 
 Elizabeth A. Keith nee Colestock, who still 
 gracefully presides in their pleasant home. 
 Mr. Pennock's tastes are decidedly literarj- 
 aiid artistic; and during the earlier years of 
 life his leisure hours were frequently em- 
 ployed in poetic composition, mostly of a 
 rural and domestic character. Many of Ids 
 articles were published in The National Et-a 
 "f Washington City, The Saturday Evening 
 Post of Philadelphia, and in several local 
 journals. 
 
 KrrriK. 
 
 O, darling little Kiitio, 
 
 The cliild of our ilcllght! 
 Her limbs are full of motion. 
 
 Her face is full of light; 
 Her eyes are speaking daisies. 
 
 Her hair a crown of curls. 
 Her checks two dimpled roses, 
 
 Her teeth a string of pearls. 
 
 Out in the blooming clover 
 
 Sweet with the hum of bef s, 
 Down where the early cherries 
 
 Hang blushing on the trees, 
 Acrt)ss the dewy meadow. 
 
 Then back upon the lawn. 
 Her childish ditties humming 
 
 She gambols like a fawn. 
 
 The i>retty birds above her. 
 
 Pause in their merry song 
 To listen to her music 
 
 And watch her trip along; 
 The butterflies that hover 
 
 Above each blooming bed 
 Choose her, the sweetest blossom. 
 
 And rest upon her head. 
 
 O, darling little Kittle— 
 
 So thoughtful yet so gny! 
 i'our heart is warm and trustful 
 
 And gentle as the day; 
 To you the world's an Eden, 
 
 Your life a happy dream. 
 The sky a sea of glory. 
 
 And all things what they seem. 
 
 Bright morning of existence. 
 
 Sweet buds of promise tliere. 
 These are the Third's Evangels 
 
 His kingdom to declare:— 
 Except as little children. 
 
 As teachable and pure 
 We gain no home eternal. 
 
 No lasting bliss secure. 
 
 SPRING. 
 Spring is here! spring is liero 
 
 With her light and song! 
 Witli her skies so deeply clear. 
 With her l)lossoms ever dear. 
 
 And her t iineful throng; 
 O'er the ui>lari(l. down the gladi", 
 Tlu-ough the orchanl's springing shade. 
 And the gardens newly made 
 
 See her trip along! 
 
 Merry springl dancing spring! 
 
 Joy is nil lier own; 
 Hapiiy birds on p.-iinte<l wing 
 Lightly tlit and gaily sing 
 
*- 
 
 1314 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF A5IERICA. 
 
 Round her verdant throne; 
 While the wild bee's drowsy hum, 
 And the plieasant's muffled drum 
 Ou the fragrant zephyrs come 
 
 With a sootliiug tone. 
 
 Melting spring-, gushing spring! 
 
 Tliou art flush with love; 
 With its tones thj' forests ring. 
 Through its breath thy blossoms bring 
 
 Raptures from above; 
 From thy smiles its soul distills. 
 And the youthful spirit fills 
 'Til its bosom heaves and thrills 
 
 Like a wounded Dove. 
 
 Cheering spring,— blessed thingl 
 
 Oh, I love thee well! 
 And to tliy sweet bosom cling 
 With a fervent worshipping 
 
 Far too dear to tell. 
 God's approving smile thou art 
 On the fond, adoring heart 
 Stamping virtue's sacred art 
 
 Witli its magic spell. 
 
 A DOMESTIC ODE. 
 There's a dainty little lady 
 
 With a bright and cheerful air. 
 With a voice of sweetest music 
 
 And with silken, sunny hair. 
 Who has floated down the current 
 
 Where time's rippl'ing waters shine 
 Till her life has reached its summer 
 
 And has drifted into mine. 
 
 Deep in toils and cares domestic 
 
 In her household, day by day. 
 She's a Martha in her serving 
 
 In a swift but quiet way ; 
 With her love for Christ the Savior, 
 
 With her faith of head and heart 
 She's a Mary in devotion 
 
 Seeking well the better part. 
 
 Not a bee that sips its nectar 
 
 From the painted blooms of spring, 
 Better loves the richer glories 
 
 That the days of summer bring; 
 Not a bird tfliat soars in music 
 
 Chanted by its kindred throng. 
 Worships more than she the rapture 
 
 Wafted on the voice of song. 
 
 Other steps may be more graceful 
 Otlier forms may bo more fair; 
 
 Other tongues proclaim more loudly 
 All 1hey suffer, do and dare; 
 
 But a heart more sweet and tender 
 And a soul more free from strife. 
 
 And a foot more swift in mercy 
 Never trod the ways of life. 
 
 Not a duchess clad in purple. 
 
 Boasting of a royal line. 
 She's a princess crown'd by nature. 
 
 She's a queen by right divine; 
 With a happy home her empire 
 
 And a loving heart her throne. 
 Where she sits and reigns triumphant 
 
 With a magic all her own. 
 
 Thrones may fall and kingdoms perish 
 
 In the grinding mill of time. 
 And the proudest works of genius 
 
 Fade and crumble at their prime. 
 But her scepter of affection 
 
 Sliall out-reach the years of life; 
 For her will is my good pleasure — 
 
 She's my own, my darling wife. 
 
 LOOK UP. 
 
 Whilst thou art onward sailing 
 
 Upon the sea of life. 
 With hearts around thee failing 
 
 Amid the roaring strife; 
 Whilst angry waves are heaving 
 
 Thy bark in danger's path. 
 And bolts of passion cleaving 
 
 The stormy sky in wrath; 
 Let not thy soul be sickened 
 
 By sights of danger near. 
 But stayed by hope and quickeu'd. 
 
 Be free from every fear. 
 
 What if the way be clouded 
 
 And fenced around with snares. 
 The everj' pleasure shrouded 
 
 In sorrows and in cares? 
 What if thy heart seems bursting 
 
 Beneath its weight of grief. 
 And all thy spirit thirsting 
 
 In vain, for sweet relief? 
 Is there not one who kindly 
 
 Protects thee uight and day? 
 Whilst thou art toiling blindly. 
 
 Directs thy lonely way? 
 
 Look to that power, ever. 
 
 And when deep sorrow's waves 
 Seem drowning hope forever. 
 
 Trust in the arm that saves. 
 See, not a sparrow falling. 
 
 Escapes liis watchful sight. 
 Think then a true heart calling 
 
 On him, he e'er will slight? 
 Ah no, but still forgiving 
 
 And gracious to tlie last. 
 He'll give it hope while living. 
 
 And peace when life is past. 
 
 *- 
 
■<i» 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 i;^i. 
 
 LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN. 
 
 Born: St. Louis, Mo., 1854. 
 
 Lyman Whitney Allen is both poet and 
 preacher, and those who know liim as a 
 clergyman will surely aver that it has been 
 tlie fire of his poetic nature that has greatly 
 heightened and intensified his discourses. 
 
 LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN. 
 
 He pursued his collegiate studies at Wash- 
 ington [Jnivcrsity, graduating- there in 1878. 
 He afterward took a post-graduate course at 
 Princeton CoUeg-e. and pi'ep.-ired for the min- 
 istry at Princeton Theological Seminary. 
 He now resides in Newark, N. J., as pastor 
 of the South Park Presbyterian Cliurch. 
 While Mr. Allen is chiefly known as a writer 
 of religious verse, he retains for future pub- 
 lication much that has been written purely 
 for art's sake. 
 
 THE COMING OF HIS FEET. 
 
 In the crimson of the morning, in the white- 
 ness of the noon. 
 In the amber glory of the day's retreat, 
 In the midnight, robed in darkness, or the 
 gleaming of the moon — 
 I listen for the coming of his feet. 
 
 I have heard his weary footstcpsou the sands 
 of Galilee, 
 On the temple's marble pavements, on the 
 street, 
 Wt)rn with weight of sorrow, faltering up 
 theslojiesof Calvary — 
 The sorrow of the coming of his feet. 
 
 Down the nunster-aisles of splendor, from 
 betwixt the cherubim. 
 Through the wondering throng, with mo- 
 tion strong and fleet, 
 Sounds his victor thread, approaching with 
 a music far and dim — 
 The music of the con,ing of his feet. 
 
 Comes he sandaled not with silver, girdled 
 not with woven gold, 
 Weighted not with sliiinmering gems and 
 odors sweet, 
 But white-winged and shod with glory in the 
 Tabor light of old — 
 The glory of the coming of his feet. 
 
 He is coming, O ray spirit 1 with his everlast- 
 ing peace. 
 With his blessedness immortal and com- 
 plete. 
 He is ci)niing, O my .■spirit! and his coming 
 brings release — 
 I listen for the coming of his feet. 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 I cannot count the way my soul has tried 
 To slip the leash of God's redeeming grace; 
 Nor measure His long suffering, nor trace 
 
 His ways to draw me nearer to His side: 
 
 By tender calls, by warnings ainplifled. 
 By sharp rebuke in loud and sterner phrase. 
 By ehastenmgs dire, which time cannot 
 efface. 
 
 By scourgings with fierce thongs of fire ap- 
 jilied. 
 
 Thus has the Lord made efl'ort for my life. 
 
 And never for one moment loosed his hold. 
 And now, with broken heart, worn out with 
 strife, 
 I lay myself down at His feet controlled. 
 And through glad tears, that will not cease 
 
 to flow, 
 I thank my father that He loved me so. 
 
 THE BIRDS SING HALF THE YEAR. 
 
 The birds sing half the year; 
 But love is never still: 
 Her tremulous accents thrill 
 
 The light from sphere to sphere. 
 
^- 
 
 1316 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 O, wotidrous messenger! 
 
 My soul with rapture fill. 
 Tbe birds sina- half the year; 
 
 But love is never still. 
 
 O, sweet bewilderer! 
 Sing- on witli siren skill: 
 My brain and heart and will 
 
 Are all attent to hear. 
 
 The birds sing- half the year; 
 But love is never still. 
 
 THE CHILDRBNS KINGDOM. 
 
 I hear of a wonderful Paradise, 
 
 A garden of bloom under luminous skies — 
 
 Where summer lasts all tlie year. 
 I know not where such a fair land may be; 
 But a Paradise kingdom lies close to me 
 
 In the hearts of the children dear. 
 
 It is blessed and blithe and shining-, 
 And never knows aught of sin; 
 
 But.except ye become as the little children. 
 Ye cannot enter in. 
 
 I hear of a country -where angels dwell, 
 Where rapturous melodies cast their spell. 
 
 And gladness and peace endure. 
 I know not where such a fair land may be ; 
 But a kingdom of ancels lies close to me 
 
 In the hearts of the children pure. 
 
 It is blessed and blithe and shining. 
 And never knows aught of sin; 
 
 But, except ye become as the little children. 
 Ye cannot enter in. 
 
 I hear of a Heaven of glory, where 
 No sorrow can enter, or pain or care, 
 
 And life and its love are complete. 
 I know not where such a fair land may be. 
 But a Kingdom of Heaven lies close to me 
 
 In the hearts of the children sweet. 
 
 It is blessed and blithe and shining. 
 And never knows aught of sin; 
 
 But,except ye become as the little children. 
 Ye cannot enter in. 
 
 THE SINGING LEPER. 
 
 A Saxon king with merry throng 
 
 Of nobles hunted in a wood 
 At eventide, when lo! a song 
 
 Most wondrous broke, a tremulous flood 
 Of praise from distant lips unseen. 
 
 The hunters halted, listening keen 
 To catch each nearing echo, till 
 
 Among the trees a form unclean, 
 A leper white, moved np the hill 
 
 Across their path, and sang the while. 
 
 His livid features wore a smile. 
 
 His wrinkled hands were clasped in prayer. 
 While living death, a master vile. 
 
 Made all his flesh a thoroughfare 
 For swift and myriad-footed pain. 
 
 And all the while he sang his strain; 
 
 Then spake tlie king with stirring call. 
 And bade him halt, and with his train 
 
 The king moved on with care withal. 
 And questioned him with pitying gaze. 
 
 " How sing you thus these words of praise 
 When life is death?" A moment's pause. 
 
 Tlien smiling answered he: " I i-aise 
 My voice in songs of joy, because, 
 
 Although a leper vile, I know 
 
 That as my frame decays I grow 
 More near the sure deliverance 
 
 That comes from God, whose graces flow 
 Through all the wastes of circumstance. 
 
 And moves my soul and life to Him." 
 
 The king's and nobles' eyes grew dim; 
 
 And turning to his train the king 
 Spake thus: •> Unto the very brim 
 
 Are this man's sorrows, yet they bring 
 Rejoicings, for hs trusts his Lord. 
 
 This leper's voice shall here record, 
 We have not hunted all in vain. 
 
 Our spoil this day is as a sword 
 Whose shining blade shall conquer pain. 
 And to our homes we turn again 
 
 With larger faith and nobler word." 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 Blue-eyed promises of spring 
 Heralds of earth's 'wakening. 
 
 Blue-winged messengers of love. 
 Tender graces from above. 
 
 Tokens of the summer days 
 Where the love-light shines always. 
 
 Prophesies of life that lies 
 In the heart of Paradise. 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOTS. 
 
 The lilies were fashioned white and rare 
 For a lover to weave for liis lady's hair. 
 
 The roses were made t(5 be pi uckod and placed 
 In a crimson girdle about her waist. 
 
 The daisies and violets, fresh and sweet, 
 Were spread for a carpeting for her feet. 
 
 But the blue for-get-me.nots were meant 
 To lie on her bosom in sweet content 
 And tell her of love from her lover sent. 
 
 *b 
 
 9 
 
LOCAr. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1317 
 
 CHARLES COOPER. 
 
 Bokn: England, April 2,'}, 1823. 
 The poems of Mr. Cooper hiive occasionally 
 appeared in the periodical press and in 
 pamphlet form. Mr. Cooper has quite a lartre 
 family now grown to maturity, aud now re- 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 "W 
 
 •s 
 
 ^■" ^ 
 
 r 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 J 
 
 CHARLES COOPER. 
 
 sides in Salt Lake City, Utah, where he is 
 very popular. He has traveled extensively in 
 this country and Europe, and in 1891 visited 
 California and many of the western states. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 Roll on, roll on, ye months and years; 
 
 I'm pleased to see you go; 
 You'll bring: to me my lovely boy, 
 
 And free me from my woe. 
 
 I had a dream last night, and saw 
 
 Thee laying on thy bed; 
 I knew that thou wast still alive; 
 
 I said, " He is not dead." 
 
 O, what great joy those moments g-avel 
 
 What bliss without alloy. 
 To see thy lovely face once more. 
 
 And talk to thee, my darling boy I 
 
 Not all this world, with all its wealth. 
 Could give me such a gleam: 
 
 But ah, alas! I'm still on earth; 
 I know it was a dream. 
 
 VERSES COMPOSED BY REQUEST. 
 Dear Mrs. at your request, 
 
 I try my liand rhyme. 
 Although a iKjvice at the best. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis waste of time. 
 
 Full well I know that ladies fair, 
 Must always have their way; 
 
 I therefore to my task repair. 
 Say what I've got to say. 
 
 I'm not the first that has been sought. 
 
 In this critical state. 
 With every kind of evil fraught. 
 
 And every kind of fate. 
 
 You know our great progenitor. 
 
 Was once enticed byEve, 
 Tlirough being led by her advice. 
 
 His home he had to leave. 
 
 His lovely home where all was joy. 
 
 Of naught was he afraid; 
 No rent days there could him annoy. 
 
 Nor taxes still unpaid. 
 
 No mortgage had he on his land. 
 
 To him all things were free: 
 Save only one his Fatlier said. 
 
 Touch not that sacred tree. 
 
 So well he knew of sorrow that 
 
 In these words underlie. 
 The day thou catest of tliat tree. 
 
 In that day thou shalt die. 
 
 O Where's the man that lias not proved, 
 
 All true his Father said. 
 By sweat of thy face thou shalt earn 
 
 Aud eat thy daily bread. 
 
 The ground shall be cursed for thee 
 Thorns and thistles shall grow. 
 
 Because thou ate forbidden fruit. 
 Sorrowing thou shalt go. 
 
 No doubt at all his mind was good. 
 
 His Father to obey. 
 And would liave done had there not been 
 
 A woman in the way. 
 
 And so he left Ills pleasant home, 
 
 Father and his mother. 
 And cleave unto his lovely wife. 
 
 How could he do other. 
 
 For after all is said and done, 
 'Tis well known truth that wo 
 
 Rather be in prison with you. 
 Than live alone and free. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
»5<- 
 
 1318 
 
 LOCAT, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 E W. DUTCH ER. 
 
 Born: Oswego, N. Y. 
 Mr. Dutcher has received a liberal educa 
 tion. He is married and has one child living-. 
 Mr. E. W. Dutcher lias written about three 
 hundred poems that have appeared in the 
 Chicago and eastern papers. In 1878 he 
 
 E. W. DUTCHER. 
 
 published a volume of poems entitled Le- 
 gends of a City and Other Poems and Fancies, 
 whicli received the highest praises from the 
 press and public. Mr. Dutcher is tlie local 
 freiglit agent of the Chicago, Milwaukee & 
 St. Paul Railway at Minneapolis. 
 
 A KEEPSAKE. 
 Little maiden, tiaxen-haired, 
 
 Hither come, your cheeks are brown. 
 Daughter Ruth,— why, wlio lias dared 
 
 On your face to etch a frown? 
 O, don't mind, I shall not cliide 
 For the rent you fain would hidel 
 Certainly, T love you,— why 
 
 Do you put so strange a query? 
 Here's a present,— don't bo shy! 
 
 'Tis your birthday, so beclieery! 
 Put the chain about your neck. 
 Thus my captive would 1 deck. 
 Keep tills locket — yet, 'tis gold — 
 
 Eiglit to-duj'! O, precious daughter I 
 
 Dear, wlien you are twice as old 
 
 How the youngsters you will slaughter! 
 I am staid and steady grown. 
 But you've captured me I own! 
 For my sake — yes, dear, retain it,— 
 
 What's the trouble, pray you, now? 
 • ■ Why, my pocket won't contain it! " 
 
 True anotlier rent, I vow! 
 Never mind the rents, my dear,— 
 Birthdays comes but once a year. 
 So a Kiss is all you pay ! 
 
 For my gift you have no money? 
 " Yes, but papa, on this day 
 
 Kisses all are made of honey! 
 For your sake, I'll give the toll! " 
 Then into my arms she stole. 
 
 AT THE DOOR. 
 We were standing- in the door-way,— 
 
 My little wife and I,— 
 The golden sun upon her hair 
 
 Fell down so silently; 
 A small white hand upon my arm, 
 
 Wliat could I ask for more 
 Than the kindly glance of loving eyes, 
 
 As she kissed me at the door? 
 
 I know she loves with all her heart 
 
 The one who stands beside. 
 And the years have been so joyous 
 
 Since first I called her bride! 
 We've had so much of happiness 
 
 Since we met in years before. 
 But the happiest time of all was 
 
 When she kissed me at the door! 
 
 Who cares for wealth of land, or gold. 
 
 Or fame, or matchless power? 
 It does not give the happiness 
 
 Of just one little hour 
 With one who loves me as her life, — 
 
 She says she loves me more; 
 I thought she did this morning. 
 
 For she kissed me at the door. 
 
 At times it seems as if the world 
 
 With all its wealth of gold. 
 Is very small and poor indeed. 
 
 Compared with what I hold; 
 And when the clouds are grim and dark, 
 
 I only think the more 
 Of one who waits a coming step 
 
 To kiss me at the door 1 
 
 If we live till age shall scatter 
 
 The frost upon her head, 
 I know she'll love me just the same 
 
 As the morniug we were wed; 
 But if the angels call her. 
 
 And she goes to Heaven before, 
 1 shall know her when 1 meet her. 
 
 For she'll kiss nie at the door! 
 
 *- 
 
» — ^^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1319 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. B.C. RUDE. 
 
 Born: Sodus, N. Y., March 17, 1838. 
 As THE author of Magnolia Leaves, Mrs. B. 
 C. Rude is entited to a crown of laurel leaves 
 us being- one of the foremost poets of the daj-. 
 Dr. Titus Munson Coan says Magnolia Leaves 
 
 MRS. B. C. RUDE. 
 
 is the daintiest of books and its poems have 
 the fragrance of the blossom. She is tlie 
 wife of Mr. Benton C. Rude of St. Augustine, 
 F'a., where she is very v>opular, devoting her 
 time to home life and literature and as a 
 temperance advocate. 
 
 THE UNAVAILING TEAR. 
 
 I wonder if the unavailing tears we shed 
 O'er vain desires, will one day rise 
 Like dews absorbed by sunny skies. 
 
 To fall in floods of full fruition on our heads. 
 
 I wonder if the unavailing tears we shed 
 Will wear the rock of destiny. 
 Till tlirough its fissures we shall see 
 
 Fruition's gleams by Heaven's own sunshine 
 fed. 
 
 I wonder if the unavailing tears we shed 
 In God's great palm will overflow. 
 And trickling down bring patience so 
 
 That we can wait for Heaven's fruition in 
 earth's stead. 
 
 BY THE LIGHTNINGS FLASH. 
 
 A tiny craft went sailing l)y 
 My cot by the sea to-day, 
 A storm was gathering in tlie sky. 
 
 And dark o'er tlic waters lay. 
 I sit in the darkness ami gaze 
 To see, if 1 may, in tlie liaze 
 By the lightning's flashing light 
 O'er the sea. a sail to-night. 
 No sail! No sign '. But somewhere I know 
 A tiny sail 
 Has met the gale 
 And rides the sea over, or lies the sea under 
 Oh, daring bold rover, wliich is it, I wonder? 
 A flash I A tug's iu sight; and in low, 
 A tiny cr;ift. 
 A sailing aft. 
 
 [ing. 
 
 THE SAND FLOWER. 
 We saw a white flower in tlie sand. 
 
 Growing by the sea, 
 I went to pluck it with my hand, 
 
 He said, •• Let it be! 
 'Tis sweet, wlieru might and power are swell- 
 To see, in peace and safety dwelling, 
 
 A tiling so wee." 
 I reached as if to pluck the dainty flower. 
 He caught my hand, and holds it to this hour. 
 Oft times we view the sand flower creeping, 
 My hand in his in sacred keeping. 
 
 NORMA'S TELEPHONE. 
 T wish that I could reach a string 
 From earth to Heaven, so 1 could slug 
 A song to Sister May, and she 
 Could sing an answering soug to me. 
 
 I should not dare to fio astray, 
 (Jr say liad words when at my play. 
 For fear tlie teleplione would bear 
 Tlie tidings upward through the air. 
 
 And when the nights wei-e bright and clear. 
 How sweet 'twould be for me to hear 
 Her ringing voice from out the sky ; 
 How sweet to her. too, my reply. 
 
 I'd sing the songs she used to love. 
 And she the new ones learniil alM)ve, 
 The ones she learned at Jesus' feel; 
 They must be wondrous cleJir uud sweet. 
 
 When Jesus comes to hear my pniyer. 
 I'll ask Him if He'll Uike it tliere. 
 — This telephone — then wlien I'm sad 
 She'll sing to me and make mo glad. 
 
 And I shall learn before I go 
 Those heavenly songs that charm her so: 
 Come, Jesus, come, and bear away 
 This telephone to Sister May. 
 
* 
 
 132. 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 LINCOLN. 
 
 Lincoln, ordained to meet a country's want 
 Fi'om lowly walks grew lowlier as lie rose 
 Triumphant o'er occasions and o'er foes. 
 With dignity oft spiced witli pleasant taunt 
 Dispensed he justice unimpaired bj' daunt. 
 Where'er is told the tale of slavery's woes, 
 In proud display the name of Lincoln g-oes. 
 But autographed with ne'er a trace of vaunt. 
 
 America's proud heirloom ne'er shall be 
 Mildewed in shelved and worthless historj'. 
 Both victims and the masters of the ciime 
 Alike revere the name that set them free. 
 All write liim proudest hero of his time. 
 Illustrious martyr of a cause sublime. 
 
 TWO BUrrERFLIES. 
 
 A butterfly, with wings all golden tipped, 
 Alighted on a fair bouquet 
 Which on a dear girl's bosom lay. 
 She sweetly smiled, while it the sweetness 
 
 sipped. 
 We had been chatting, she and T, 
 To while the passing moments by; 
 But ne'er a word dared either utter 
 For fear a breath's untimely flutter 
 Might fright the prettj' thing away, 
 And in silence, as it lay. 
 Or tipped, and sweetness fondly sipped, 
 And she a-smiliug, ruby-lipped; 
 I thought, "You sweet coquette 
 You'll break some poor heart pet." 
 But ne'er a word — 
 It might have stirred! 
 
 A MINE OF THOUGHT. 
 He who a mine of thought inherits 
 
 By right divine. 
 Should each day prove its worth and merits, 
 By quarrying gems or golden carats, 
 
 Exceeding fine. 
 
 His claim, oft times, a mine encloses. 
 
 Never dreamed. 
 So silently the ore reposes. 
 Till prospect unto him discloses 
 
 Where 'tis seamed. 
 
 Unearthed, sometimes, the cliolcest treasure 
 
 Lies all unknown. 
 Because from heedless love of leisure 
 Tlie inner wealth we fail to measure 
 
 Of strength and tone. 
 
 Bring earnest toil! Your shaft, deep sinking, 
 
 Rewards your pains. 
 Broad galleries of thought now linking 
 Where you m:iy gather gems of thinking 
 
 Scattered in veins. 
 
 *- 
 
 Bring forth your treasure, not despising 
 
 The weakest glow. 
 A diamond lay in plain disguising, 
 A plaything which a child, scarce prizing, 1 
 
 Tossed to and fro. 
 
 An adept seeing, without warning, 
 
 Possessed the toy. 
 Parisian splendor soon adorning, t 
 
 It brought the farmer's child a morning • 
 
 Of great joy. 
 
 Locate, delve, then polish ever, | 
 
 Offer your best. ! 
 
 Alloy from truth seek well to sever, | 
 
 Then shall some gem adorn forever I 
 
 Your sleeping breast. 
 
 NEATH THE COTTONWOOD TREES. 
 Let one who sips life's tears with strange de- 
 light. 
 And flnds in sobs and sighs life's harmony. 
 Go out beneath the Cottonwood trees at night. 
 And there repent the laughter of the diiy. 
 Then listen to the rustling of the leaves 
 Like steady rain-fall from the homestead 
 eaves. 
 And listening, weep and pray, 
 But on the morrow hie away; 
 It is not well to dwell there all the weary 
 
 while. 
 To-night we weep and pray, to-morrow toil 
 and smile. 
 But the cottonwoods weep and smile 
 All the night and all the dpy. 
 
 LIFE. 
 Life's a panorama, shifting, shifting, 
 (Prelude) Blackusss lapsing into gray, 
 Grayness, fading, fading, dies away. 
 Rosy morn with cloudlets drifting, drifting. 
 Through which sunbeams softly sifting, sift- 
 ing. 
 Glint uniil ths zenith of the day. 
 When, lo! A thunder- bolt! A flash! Ob, 
 stay! ting) 
 
 Too late! A heart is rent! (The curtain's lift- 
 How changed the scene! And e'en while giiE- 
 
 ing, we 
 Scares note the change, 'tis done so dex- 
 terously. 
 Behold! a sweet submissive peaceful haze. 
 So like tlie shortening Indian summer days. 
 And now the end! .And if the life be true. 
 A bank of glory shows the sunset through. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Some people are governed by motives of pelf, 
 
 Or some other mean motive, in all they do. 
 Why not do your good for the sake of itself 
 
 An<l not with a ten percent, proflt in view? 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA 
 
 13121 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. FRANCKS B. DANIELS. 
 
 Born: Maine. 
 The poems of Mrs. D;iuiels have apppjirtnl in 
 the religious and secular press llimugliout 
 
 MRS. FRANCES B. DANIELS. 
 
 America. She is the wife of Uev. H. M. Dan- 
 iels, and now resides in California at De Luz. 
 
 THE LITTLE RUN-AWAY. 
 Dear little golden-haired Fay, 
 Where are you wandering away. 
 From mamma atid home? 
 Tho'Jacky, your dog.walks close by your side 
 Looks into your face with evident pride. 
 The world for Jacky and yju is too wide 
 From mamma to roam. 
 
 Sweet little golden-haired Fay, 
 Wandering away and away. 
 With dignified mien; 
 You are going down to some hidden nook, 
 Where ripples and dances the babbling brook 
 Only just for once with .lacky to look 
 For flowers, I ween. 
 
 Run-away golden-haired Fay. 
 
 Happy and bright on this day, 
 As onward you go; 
 Mamma's soft footfall escapes Jacky's ear, 
 As with curious smile she hovers near. 
 
 And listens with wrapt iitteiillon to hear 
 Your words soft and low. 
 
 Pure little gotden-htiired Ftiy. 
 We wish to hear wliat you say, 
 Down close by the brook; 
 You look all about with wondering eyes. 
 At the dancing rill and the calm bhu- skies. 
 Then comes into your face, so sweetly wise. 
 A mysterious look. 
 
 Mystified, golden-haired Fay. 
 Your little soul thinking to-<lay 
 Of things deep and high ; 
 "Isn't Dod dood, don't you fink, Jacky, dear, 
 Evy flng is so buful, buful, down here/ " 
 And Jacky, responsive, drew lovingly near. 
 With his mute reply. 
 
 Then, with a reverend look. 
 She kneels on the moss by the brook. 
 In the silent wood. 
 " Dear Dod.we's so glad we come here to-day. 
 And we loves you 'cause you show us the way 
 So please hear Jacky and me while we pray. 
 For we flnks you is dood." 
 Pure little golden-haired Fay 
 And Jaeky steals softly away. 
 With never a dower; 
 Mamma not daring to linger so nigh. 
 Lest Jacky or Fay her form should espy. 
 Speeds homeward, and wipes the tear from 
 lier eye. 
 As she thinks of that hour. 
 
 DAYS GONE. 
 Who asks for the days that are gone. 
 
 Gone with their gladness. 
 
 Gone with their sadness. 
 Buried deep, deep where angels keep guard. 
 Wlio says come back Ut youth's bright morn. 
 Oh give us again the rosy dawn. 
 Give us back the days that were born. 
 
 Born with our youth. 
 
 And gone, forsiKjth, 
 
 But give them back, 
 
 Een o'er the tnick. 
 
 Where the trace of sadness 
 
 Has bedimmed the gladness. 
 
 And brought the madness 
 
 That o'er us steal. 
 
 To make us feel 
 
 The I'ang of the lo.s.ses. 
 
 The weight of the crosses — 
 Close the door quick, angel, shut In the light 
 Lest a viewof oursincast asorn>wful blight. 
 O'er the innocent days gone out of our sight. 
 
 'Tis well — let them rest 
 
 'Moiig things that are blest; 
 Those innocent days with marvelous r.iys 
 Of light. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A5IERICA. 
 
 MRS.HATTIEA.A.BERGOFF. 
 
 Born: Centerville, Mich., Sept. 10, 1856. 
 The poems of this ladj' bave appeared quite 
 extensively in the periodical press. She was 
 married in 1874 to Dr. Bergoff, and now has a 
 
 MRS. HATTIE A. A. BERGOFF. 
 
 family of several children. Mrs. Bergoff now 
 resides in Centerville, South Dakota, where 
 she is engaged in music teaching and house- 
 hold duties. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 
 Over the liills, and over the plains, 
 
 The wintry wind is sighing. 
 Its tones are those of a sad refrain 
 
 For the Old Year now is dying. 
 
 Earth has woven a beautiful shroud. 
 
 Immaculate, pure and bright. 
 To cover the hoary head now bowed. 
 
 To bury Old Year to-night. 
 
 We admire its glorious purity. 
 
 Emblematical of the good and true of the 
 past; 
 And we think of the great humanity 
 
 Bidding adieu to the Old Year dying so fast. 
 
 So tread ye softly at the door 
 Clasp hands with the aged seer. 
 
 ^- 
 
 For echo answers that nevermore, 
 Will the golden hours be here. 
 
 We think of its youthful springtime. 
 Of iis trees, and birds and flowers. 
 
 When the heart kept merry time 
 With its welcome, joyous hours. 
 
 We think of its golden summer 
 
 With its fair and ripening- grain 
 Of the sunset's rosy glimmer 
 
 O'er all the grassy plain. 
 
 How it tinged the beautiful hilltops 
 
 With a transient ecstactic glow. 
 While the gentle evening zephyrs. 
 
 Fanned the flowers in the vale below. 
 
 And we list at the busy noontide 
 
 To the merry gleaner's din 
 For over the world both far and wide. 
 
 The golden sheaves are garnered in. 
 
 But soon the sunny days are o'er; 
 
 The year is past its prime. 
 The busy harvest now is done. 
 
 For this is the autumn time. 
 
 Now the year is growing old. 
 
 And the leaves are falling down, 
 The angrj' wind is growing bold. 
 
 In the autumn sere and brown. 
 
 To some it brings a saddened heart. 
 
 For the gleaning time is o'er. 
 They see the mellow light depart 
 
 Ou Time's eternal shore. 
 The spirit grieves; no garnered sheaves 
 
 Awaits the Master's call. 
 The sad wind sighs, and nothing but the 
 leaves, 
 
 On the ruined hopes doth fall. 
 Thus summer, autumn, winter, spring, 
 
 Glide on with noiseless tread, 
 And ere we well know the joys tliey bring, 
 
 They are numbered with the dead. 
 Old Year ! we all bid you farewell ; 
 
 For time has tolled the midnight hour. 
 And slowly rings the midiiiglit bell. 
 
 For with you, is now no more life. 
 With you we'll bury the old. old book 
 
 With its pages soiled and worn. 
 We wish to all the world's hearthstones 
 
 Great happiness and delight. 
 Although we cannot raise the curtain 
 
 That liides the future from our aim. 
 The star of liope gleams not uncertain 
 
 And wo know that blessings good and true 
 Will be strewn along our pathway, 
 
 Till the race of life is run. 
 So we'll welcome the glad New Year, 
 
 The year eighteen ninety-one. 
 * 
 
 |i{iiiii> 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL PORTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 18J3 
 
 ilRS. HARRIET B. AUSTIN. 
 
 I 
 
 j Born : Erie City, Pa. 
 
 I|lier infancy her family removed to Wood- 
 sick, 111., where she was married to Wm. li. 
 distill, and has since resided. Despite her 
 ()\vded life Mrs. Austin has found time to 
 ilulgre quite extensively her love for liiera- 
 
 MFJS. HARRIET BUNKER AUSTIN. 
 
 Lire. Her work has been varied, embracing- 
 5says, sketches, stories and poems. The 
 itter predominating- and most widely copied 
 nd admired. Their puresentiment and deli- 
 ite beauty gaining for her a constantly 
 rowing recognition and a high rank as a 
 oetic writer and several of her poems have 
 een set to music by popular composers. 
 
 HER SONG. 
 nail skill had she the measured note to sing, 
 
 And yet to me 
 er low sweet voice with words of love aring 
 
 Was melody; 
 ich kindlj' act was music's echoing 
 
 In minor key. 
 
 iv gentle soul with tenderness replete, 
 
 Like some soft rune, [sweet, 
 
 eathed out low notes of song so clear and 
 'Twas love's own tune; 
 
 Her life a round of harmony complete 
 
 Like days of June. 
 As wild birds' music soothes the troubled soul 
 
 At morning time. 
 Or restless chords of being calm with roll 
 
 Of organ's chime. 
 So swept across my life's discordant whole 
 
 Her notes sublime. 
 Her voice is hushed, yet fmmherlife's refrain 
 
 Falls on my car Ipaiii; 
 
 A deathless song that soothes my heart's dull 
 
 And though not here, 
 I know she chants a glad exultant strain 
 
 In happier sphere. 
 
 TO MY OLD GOWN. 
 Good-bye old gown, it grieves my lieart 
 To think that you and 1 must part. 
 But cruel time and wear and tear 
 Have changed your tone and textures fair; 
 You're badly worn, scarce fit to mend 
 'Tis plain to see you're near your end. 
 Yet you were rich and fair to see 
 That happy day you came to me, 
 Though new and strange and stiff with stays 
 You yielded gently to my ways. 
 Your unassuming careless grace 
 Has won my heart, you've filled your place. 
 And now though friends condemn you quite 
 Say you're old-fashioned and a fright 
 Yet I am loath to lay you by. 
 So long together you and I 
 Have trod the weary way of life 
 With all its ciimberingcaro and strife. 
 And many things and secrets deep 
 Old gown, have you and 1 to keep; 
 You've felt the heart's tumultuous beat, 
 And pulse that tlirobbed at fever heat 
 At touch of hand and tones that thrill; 
 Dear gown we'll keep our secrets still. 
 And now mine eyes grow dim at thought 
 
 That tlirough all changes time has wrought, 
 Since first you came, through good and ill 
 
 You've closely clung, you're faithful still; 
 
 You've braved the storms of life with me; 
 
 Could any friend more loyal be? 
 
 It was for me you trailed the dust, 
 
 And how ungrateful, how unjust. 
 
 To be, because your growing old 
 
 Laid on the shelf to gather mold; 
 
 Now is the time I should be true 
 
 When friends are criticising you. 
 
 Come back, old gown, we must not part ; 
 
 Your mute appeal lias touched my heart; 
 
 I'm old and badly worn myself. 
 
 Mayhap I'll soon lie on tlie shelf; 
 
 Though friends mayUout.I'U mend you stout. 
 
 Perhaps, dear gown, you'll last me out. 
 
 _ q. 
 
*b- 
 
 1324 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK A:MERICA. 
 
 EMILY G. WETHERBEE. 
 
 Born: Milford, N. H., 1846. 
 For several years Miss Wetherbee taught 
 in Boston. She is on the staflf of the Law- 
 rence American, and is a member of tlie 
 New Eng-land Women's Press Association. 
 Miss Wetherbee is president of the Old Resi- 
 
 EMILY GREEVE WETHERBKE. 
 
 dent's Association of Lawrence, and vice- 
 president of Lawrence High School Alumni 
 Association. Miss Wetherbee is now teacher 
 of Latin and English literature in Lawrence 
 Hig:h School. She has written considerable 
 prose and verse, which lias appeared in the 
 Boston Journal, Globe.New England Journal 
 of Education, Boston Transcript, Lawrence 
 American, Good Housekeeping- and various 
 otlier prominent publications. 
 
 THE OLD GAKDEN GATE. 
 
 Sweet lilacs blossomed near, syring-as bent 
 above it. 
 The snow-ball tree beside it stood in state. 
 While modest little pinks sent up their spicy 
 odors 
 Around the dear, familiar garden gate. 
 
 Outside it, by the road, stood ranks of nod- 
 ding daisies; 
 
 The clover made the distant meadows gaj I 
 And slender buttercups held up tlieir golde 
 clialice. 
 As if to catch the splendor of the day. 
 
 Hid in the drooping elms, which o'er it cas ' 
 
 their shadows, i 
 
 The robins held their jubilee of song; 
 
 And, free as summer winds, from villag | 
 
 school returning', 
 
 A group of merry, noisy children tlirong. ; 
 
 I look back wiih dim eyes across the years 
 dark mazes. 
 And hear it on the noisy hinges swing; 
 A fair-haired, laughing' g-irl comes trippiuj! 
 down the doorsteps. 
 Light-hearted as a bird upon the wing. ! 
 I see them once again, the well-rememberec ; 
 places, ' 
 
 And list to voices, silent long ago, 
 That, like some sweet old rhyme, still float! 
 through mem'ry's chambers, [low. 
 And haunt me with their cadence softanc 
 O fair and sunny spot, the playground of mj 
 childhood, [state, 
 
 The world, with all its wondrous pomp and 
 Has nothing' to bestow, amid its boasted 
 glories. 
 Like those around the dear old garden gate. 
 
 HER PICTURE. 
 
 In pure white garments dressed, 
 With daisies on her breast. 
 She stands here fair and sweet. 
 The grasses at her feet. 
 And fills the lonely room 
 With jouth's own rosy bloom. 
 What fresh and childlike grace 
 Upon the lovely face, 
 VVhile all the sunshine fair 
 Seems tangled in her hair; 
 And from her eyes so blue 
 The spirit clear looks through; 
 As if she now iiad come 
 Down from her heavenly home. 
 And if we called her iimiiio, 
 Would step from out the frame 
 And tell us not to weep. 
 For death is but a sleep. 
 And heaven for her is near 
 Those on the earth so dear. 
 How blest the painter's art 
 That thus can .soothe the heart, 
 Bringing' before us here 
 Our little maid so fair. 
 While eyes with teardrops wet 
 The cold dark grave forget, 
 And upward look to where 
 Our blessed angels are. 
 
 *■ 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAf, POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1325 
 
 LORA VIDAGETCHELL. 
 
 Born : Lowelf., Mass., Oct. 22, 18C9. 
 Miss Getchell wrote tlie class poem at lier 
 graduation in 1888 from the Herwick Acad- 
 emy; aud also wrote the reunion poem omo 
 
 LORA VIDA Of.TCHKLL. 
 
 year later. The poems of tliis lady have ap- 
 peared in the Morning- Star and other papers. 
 
 *- 
 
 TWO SUNSETS. 
 Last night as in the west the sun was setting. 
 
 The beauty of the skj' was unsurpassed ; 
 For just above the distant bright horizon. 
 
 Glowing in the lieavens broad aud vast. 
 Clouds of crimson, with a golden lining. 
 
 Linger round the glorious setting sun. 
 Which, in all its wondrous beauty shhiing. 
 
 Sinks, its daily course is done. 
 
 To-night the rain had not ceased falling. 
 
 When in the western sky did glow 
 The sun, its last beams through the raindrops 
 gleaming. 
 Like golden arrows from a magic bow; 
 Wliile in the east, against a dark and threat- 
 ening V)ack-ground. 
 Resting, in a contrast rich and rare. 
 The wide extending circle of the rainbow 
 Formed from earth to Heaven a shining 
 stair. 
 
 A PEN PICTURE. 
 
 Tlie sea without a ripple luy, gUM)my and 
 
 dark and still; 
 Still, save tlie splash of the breaking waves, 
 
 scarce loud as a murmuring rill; 
 Dark, save the lights of the sentinel, that 
 
 shines through the niglit so drear, 
 <!uiding the fisherman to his post, and bring- 
 ing the sailor cheer. 
 Dark, save where the stars of Heaven lio 
 
 mirrored in ocean's jleplh. 
 Gleaming and trinkling dimly with every 
 
 stirring breath. 
 Hut now from out the ocean's gloom a light 
 
 sliines soft and dim. 
 And on the line where sea meets heaven, 
 
 flashes u lustrous rim; 
 Brighter and brighter still it grows till full 
 
 upon our sight 
 Floats on the deep Atlantic's breasta sphere 
 
 of golden light. 
 And now before its brilliancy darkness and 
 
 shadows flee. 
 While a flood of sparkling radiance spans 
 
 the still, calm sea. 
 Like a bridge of light suspendid from the 
 
 clear moon to the shore. 
 While the tiny nymphs of ocean dance gaily 
 
 its surface o'er. 
 But look! the glory of the moon no longer 
 
 shines unmarred. 
 And from the raptured gazer its brilliant 
 
 beams are barred; 
 For a ship, in its ci>urse o'er the ocean, with 
 
 its white sails all outspread. 
 Has paused at the bridge of moonlight,cauKht 
 
 by its golden thread; 
 Paused, but for hardly a moment, before the 
 
 moon's full light; 
 Darkened its splendor a moment, then sailed 
 
 away out of sight. 
 It is true that its briglitness was clouded, a 
 
 shadow had broken the spell. 
 But the beauty the sail had imparte<l neither 
 
 poet nor paiiit< r can tell. 
 So when in life our liopes rise high and blind 
 
 our raptured sight. 
 Our future seems to us one bright and un- 
 
 dimmed light. 
 We see no crosses, cares or fears, nothing' to 
 
 mar life's joys; 
 And think of life as a pleasant gift, to enjj)y 
 
 without alloy. 
 But shadows will surely cross each life, and 
 
 dim its brilliant hue; 
 Will darken our most cherished hopes, and 
 
 hide our goal from view. 
 But 1 ho' these shadows may eellpse the lustre 
 
 of our life. [every strife. 
 
 They will impart a deeper strengih to win in 
 
*- 
 
 1326 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEllICA. 
 
 CHARLES OSCAR MASON. 
 
 Bokn: Glen Falls, N. Y., Nov. 14, 1848. 
 Mr. Mason has generally been engaged in 
 school teachins" and as a commereial traveler, 
 but expects eventually to follow the ministry 
 of the gospel. Mr. Mason has written ex- 
 tensively both prose and poetry for the peri- 
 
 CHARLES 06CAR MASON. 
 
 odical press, and his articles and poems arc 
 always eagerly accepted by publishers, and 
 welcomed ^y tlie public. Mr. Mason re- 
 mains unmarried and resides in the place of 
 his nativity. 
 
 CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED. 
 
 Weeping, we still bewail us. 
 Fierce foes and strong assail us. 
 Our heart doth well-nigh fail us. 
 
 Beneath our load 
 W^e're groaning, struggling yet, 
 Sin doth so oft beset. 
 Such small success we've met. 
 
 So rough the road 
 Toward mastery of passion. 
 So hard it is to fashion 
 Our lives aright, compassion! 
 
 Help us, O God. 
 Lord, save us, or we perish, 
 
 The good resolves 
 That each new morn we cherish. 
 The noon-tide hot and garish 
 
 Too sure, dissolves. 
 Put thou thy strength within us. 
 All that would from tliee win us 
 
 Bid quick depart. 
 When we would stray, withhold us, 
 Into thine image mold us. 
 O God, our Mother fold us 
 
 Close to thy heart. 
 So shall our steps be surer; 
 So shall our lives be purer; 
 
 And not alone. 
 Ourselves shall be uplifted, 
 
 Ceasing to moan. 
 See sin, the heaven-obscurer, 
 
 Hath, in its hands 
 Of iron, many another. 
 Dear to our elder brother. 
 O God, cur Father, Mother, 
 
 Take now our hands. 
 And lead to love's endeavor. 
 Oh, maj' it slacken never. 
 
 But the rather 
 
 Grow, and gather 
 
 Strength, O Father! 
 
 DEFINITION. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 As iiWhat is poetry?" Thy life. The thrill 
 Of conscious immortality. The still 
 But tuneful voice of spirit mystery. 
 The crystal depth of love's eternity. 
 The quickening breath of the Creator. All 
 The deathless life that waketh at his call, 
 The one eternal poet, perfect, true. 
 Ne'er changing, yet all-various, ever new, 
 Wliose thoughts are rhythm, all whose 
 
 works a chime, — 
 A wondrous poem writ in faultless rhyme. 
 Breathes our creative breath, and lo! a 
 
 thought 
 Is 'corn, a lyre attuned, a marvel wrought! 
 A breath divine! In quaver minim, breve. 
 We hope, we fear, we joy, we sigh,— we live' 
 One poem grand. Thou may'st not read itall 
 To-daj-, in its majestic measure. Small 
 The fragment thou doste'enattempttoscan. 
 With vision short in tliy brief mortal span. 
 Intent thou listest; and with joy or pain 
 Dost catch faint, tuneful sighiugs; minor 
 
 strain 
 Of one unending universal song, 
 lu which no sigh, tone or thought is wrong. 
 Sin planteth oft the thistle for the n)se. 
 Life hath its lines of hard and bitter prose, 
 Tliere come, for music, harsh, discordant 
 
 tones [moans. 
 
 That give, in place of gladness tears and 
 When all things new become, e'en these 
 
 shall be 
 The discord that but brightens harmony. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEltlCA. 
 
 1H-' 
 
 COMMODORE P. TllORXHILL. 
 
 Born: Caldwell Parish, La.. June 13, 1857. 
 As Alawj'cr, Mr. Ttioruliill liiis attained some 
 prominence in his native state, and is en- 
 gfnged in tlie active pi'acticeot' liis profession 
 at Columbia, la. His poems have appeared 
 
 COMMODORE PERRY TllORXHILL. 
 
 from time to time in the periodical press, 
 and liave always received favorable notice. 
 Mr. Tliornhill was married in 1889 to Miss Eva 
 Bridger, and has one son, John Bridger, born 
 July 7. 1890. 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 Oh the bright beguiling spells! 
 
 That yearning boyhood knows; 
 Even now my bosom swells 
 
 As the stream of memory flows. 
 
 I see upon its waves the smile 
 That came to meet my own. 
 
 And the bugbears of each mile 
 When sent to school alone, 
 
 I hear the murmur of a voice 
 
 In its placid water's How, 
 That fired my boyish spu-it 
 
 Long, long years ago. 
 
 'Tis not a father's, 'tis not a mother's. 
 For they are with me still. 
 
 'Tis the slow, solemn voice of dosllny 
 
 That bent me to its will. 
 It came from the mystic shadows, 
 
 It came with the ocean's nmr. 
 Calling me to a field of labor 
 
 I had never dreamed Ijoforc. 
 And while I sit luTC reflectiiifr 
 
 Over the dark as well as tlie bright. 
 If I had the power within me 
 
 I'd not hush that voice to-night; 
 For all that my boyhood has been. 
 
 And all tliat iiialurily may be, 
 I owe to my blind ft)llowiug 
 
 Of that voice of destiny. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 The gaudy, babbling, .scornful day 
 
 Has crept behind the western hill; 
 The sun has sjieiit his last warm ray 
 
 And all around is dark and still. 
 
 The bells that made the forest ring 
 
 While the sun was in the sk> , 
 At night have ceased their beat of time 
 
 For the homeless pilgrim passing by. 
 
 Who strikes his feet upon the stones 
 That lie along his darkened way. 
 
 And sends back an echo, like a moan. 
 To crack the stillness of departed day. 
 
 And the birds — the hapi)y .songful birds 
 Whose notes are sweet whose plumage 
 bright. 
 
 Like the lazy browsing herds. 
 Are lulled to sleep by the approach nf night. 
 
 The raging thoughts that rusli on the brain 
 With forms of danger and atTright, 
 
 Are calmed to the gentleness of falling raiii 
 By the whispering breezes of soothing 
 night. 
 
 Night! God sent night, thy blessings all must 
 own! 
 From the lowest drunken hovel to the 
 highest mortal throne; 
 From the felon in his dungeon to the sailor 
 on the sea. 
 Comes an ever welcome hailing for n-si 
 and for thee. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Though the mornir\g roses blush 
 
 With eastern lints of gold. 
 That over the globe in glory rush, 
 
 rnrestrained and uncontrolled. 
 They fail to rouse within my bn-ast. 
 
 A single spark of feeling tin'. 
 And yet the bud uix)n my desk. 
 
 My fondest passions still Inspire. 
 
 *- 
 
1328 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POEl S OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. C. M. LANDON. 
 
 Bokn: PoNTiAC, Mich., March 30, 1829. 
 In 1849 this lady was married to lier tutor, 
 Mr.David Latidon.a gentleman wlio lias since 
 been judg'eof proljate and common pleas 
 and is now a judge in Highland, Colo., and 
 
 MRS. CATHERINE MARIA LANDON. 
 
 has filled many posts of public trust and 
 honor. Mrs. Laridon has always been identi- 
 flod with educational, temperance and mis- 
 sionary enterprises Nearly two hundred of 
 ' her poems iiave appeared in tlie leading' pub- 
 lications and in several standard collections. 
 
 *- 
 
 DENVER. 
 A song' for griorious Denver — 
 
 Fair sovereign of the West, 
 Wooing the subjects of all the lands 
 
 To do her kind behest — 
 Clasping the faint and homeless 
 
 To her benignant breast. 
 She lifts her queenly eyelids 
 
 And sees the pageant swell; 
 From homesteads on Atlantic slopes. 
 
 From soutliern glade and dell, 
 The bravest and the wisest 
 
 Yield to her iiKi^ic spell. 
 She sits beside her mountains, 
 
 A thing of joy and mig:iit; 
 The secrets of their golden hearts 
 
 Are hers, by royal right; 
 Touched by her wand, their treasures 
 Are roused, to seek the light. 
 
 Each day, her thought brings action — 
 
 Each night some goal is won. 
 Here, bearing life to man and beast 
 
 Her holly-channels run. 
 There, pure artesian fountains 
 
 Leap skyward, in the sun. 
 
 Who would not sing for Denver — 
 
 The marvel of the age — 
 The grand, young Pythoness, that springs, 
 
 Exultant, to the stage — 
 The electric light, whose splendors 
 Illume both saint and sage! 
 
 Here wealth clasps hands with pity, 
 
 To bridge the tide of tears — 
 Here science, led bj' faith, unlocks 
 
 The music of the spheres, 
 Till life's harmonic numbers 
 
 Seem fit for seraph's ears. 
 
 Ah. Denver, thou art lovely, 
 
 Even thy graves are blest; 
 In view of river winding by 
 
 And snow-capped mountain crest; 
 How sweetlj', in thy bosom 
 
 Thy weary ones may rest! 
 Yet, peerless, maiden citj-, 
 
 With sandals dewy-wet, 
 A grander day-dawn breaks for thee. 
 
 Than thou hast dreamed of yet — 
 A sunrise gilds the mountains. 
 
 Where glories ne'er shall set. 
 Hear'st thou the surging murmur 
 
 That shakes the sentiment air — 
 The onward tramp of conquering ones. 
 
 Who nobly do and dare? 
 See'st thou tlie arm potential 
 
 To rend the spoiler's snare? 
 Room for the heroes, Denver! 
 
 Room for thy kingly men; 
 Make room for woman's generous heart — 
 
 For wonnin's f ranciiised pen — 
 Room for the power that beardeth 
 
 The lion, in his den! 
 Denver, beloved city — 
 
 Thou city of our prayers. 
 The Sabbath's, sanctified and pure. 
 
 Shall charm tlie world-day cares, 
 Till peace shall dwell with virtue, 
 
 Tlirough all thy thoroughfares. 
 Young, eagle-eyed contestant, 
 
 Tliy race is but begun; 
 Yet- well we know thy winged feet 
 
 'I'ht; I'adiant course shall run. 
 Till heights, whore earth meets heaven, 
 Tliou liast securely won. 
 
» — ^ 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1329 
 
 MRS. C. M. HANCOCK. 
 
 Boun: South Berwick, Me., Dec. 19, 1845. 
 In her youth this lady taught scliool and in 
 1873 graduated from the Woman's Hospital 
 Medical CoUeg-e. She is very fond of music, 
 and has played the seraphiue many times in 
 
 MRS. CHARLOTTE M. HANCOCK. 
 
 public. Besides her many poems, Mrs. Han- 
 cock has written numerous sketches, tales 
 and essays which have appeared in different 
 publications. She was married in 1881 to Mr. 
 EUery M. Hancock, has two daughters, and 
 now resides in Waukon, Iowa. 
 
 THE MODERN KHEA. 
 I am daughter of a king. 
 
 If thou wert a god 
 All his palace doors would swing 
 
 Open at thy nod. 
 Vestal priestess, too, am I, 
 
 If thou wert divine 
 Bolts and bars would open fly 
 
 To the secret shrine. 
 Neither god nor hero thou — 
 
 Since great Pan is dead. 
 With forbidden flre endowed 
 
 Men have ruled instead. 
 
 And they know not how to woo. 
 Care not love is death. 
 
 Yet the old world rules the new. 
 As the wise man t-:iith. 
 
 THE CHILDKEN3 HAIR. 
 
 Only three rinjrs of hair. 
 And one sweet name for eacli; 
 Dear angels, I beseech 
 You, let them keep each name 
 The very same 
 
 Across the river there! 
 
 Paul, first and foremost yet. 
 This lock, all golden brown. 
 Came from his curly cniwn 
 In the glad long ago; 
 Surely I know 
 
 Love does not soon forget. 
 
 Willie, this tiny ray 
 Of tinted, pale sunshine, 
 Oil, little lamb of mine. 
 Wonder not at the gate 
 If 1 come late, 
 
 You had a safer way I 
 
 Here is a radiant hint 
 Of the bright veil iliat rolled 
 Its waves of living gold 
 From Eva's merry face; 
 All time and space 
 
 Seem lighted with its glint. 
 
 No worn out, silver thread, 
 Maj- creep in there, like frost — 
 For time its jKiwer lias lost 
 To bring my darlings pain. 
 Or earthly stain. 
 
 Or bitter, evil dread. 
 
 Dear children, I may lose 
 All else I have, may know 
 The deepest depth of woe. 
 i'ou can ha^■e only good. 
 Ah mel I could 
 
 No better fortune choose! 
 
 LILIES. 
 Out where the silent willows 
 
 Stand in the sunny glow. 
 Their branches almost tniiliug 
 
 Down to the grass below. 
 Over the fence and over 
 A field of fragrant clover. 
 And then a snioiitli green hollow 
 
 Where tawny lilies grow. 
 Careless field lilies swinging 
 
 Each on its slender f leiii. 
 And He who guides the nations 
 
 Can p;iuse to notice them. 
 Oh doubting soul and fenrful. 
 Of thee too He is careful. 
 Canst thou not trust His pminlse 
 
 And leave thy wajs to Him? 
 
 *■ 
 
*- 
 
 1330 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 JOHN A. CHAPMAN. 
 
 Born: Edgefield Co., S. C. March 9, 1821. 
 Mr. Chapman was admitted to the bar in 
 1855, and practiced law for several years. He 
 then became a bookseller and followed that 
 business for twenty-five years. He served 
 as a volunteer in the war and was wounded. 
 
 JOHN A. CHAPMAN. 
 
 Since retiring from business in 1888 Mr. Chap- 
 man has been very closely engaged in the 
 study and writing of history of his own state. 
 He is the author of a meritorious poem en- 
 titled The Ideal Man. In 1875 he published a 
 volume of verse. The Walls and Other Poems ; 
 and in 1879 appeared Within The Vail, both of 
 which have received great praise. He has 
 also several prose works ready for publica- 
 tion. The poems of Mr. Chapman have 
 appeared in Godey's Lady's Book, Southern 
 Literary Gazette, New York Home Journal 
 and other publications. He was married in 
 1845, and has a family of six children all liv- 
 ing and grown to maturity. 
 
 *- 
 
 ONE SUMMER DAT. 
 1 walked along the crowded street 
 
 One summer day; 
 And through the noise of trampling feet, 
 I heard a voice divinely sweet, 
 
 Whose echoes still about me play, 
 Sweet as, so long ago, they did 
 
 That summer day. 
 O, sweet it was of love to dream 
 
 One summer day! 
 Then smoothly went life's flowing stream. 
 And brightlj' slione life's glowing beam — 
 
 I thought 'twould brightlj' sbiue away. 
 And never would its light be hid. 
 
 That summer daj-. 
 But Youth and Love together went 
 
 One summer day; — 
 They, only for a short while lent, 
 With flowers and golden hopes besprent. 
 
 Pass like a flying bird away;— 
 But memory fondly holds siill dear 
 
 That summer day. 
 O Love I I met you in tlie street 
 
 One summer day ; 
 You tripped along, jour dainty feet 
 Went soundless, and you looked so neat 
 
 Mj' iieart was carried quite away — 
 Our souls drew near. O very near. 
 
 That summer day. 
 
 LIFE. 
 Yes, life is like the waves that beat 
 
 On ocean's ever sounding shore; 
 Wave follows wave in endless change, 
 
 Yet still the the same forevermore. 
 The heart's love of the years gone by 
 
 Is like the heart's love of to-day; 
 And life and love will still be here 
 
 When we have passed awaj'. 
 The flowers that bloom around us now 
 
 Are like the flowers first planted here; 
 The birds whose songs we've heard to-day, 
 
 The same as sung here year by year; 
 Yet not the same, an endless change 
 
 Moves all things to decaj-; 
 But life dies not, the forms alone. 
 
 That fold it, pass away. [dream 
 
 And youth soon passes, youth's sweet 
 
 Flits like an angel visit by; 
 And memory o'er the fading past 
 
 Looks backwards with a longing sigh: 
 A sigh that in despite of fate 
 
 Would bring again those happy hours, 
 When youth sat by his early love 
 
 And crowned her brow with flowers. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Come, Ida, come, and rest thee here. 
 
 And listen to my wild harp strings: 
 Come seat thee on this verdant baidc 
 
 Wliere the tall oak its shadow flings. 
 For when I hear thy thrilling voice. 
 
 Of music full and harmonj'; 
 I can but then attune mj' harj> 
 
 To match it in its melody. 
 
*- 
 
 — !• 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL I'OKTS OK AMKKICA. 
 
 i.jai 
 
 MRS. EVA MUNSON SMITH. 
 
 Born: Monkton, Vt., July 13, 1843. 
 Mrs. Eva Munson Smith is the compiler of 
 Woman in Sacred Soug-, a large standard 
 work of liyinns, relig-ious poems and sucrod 
 music. She is the author of two liundrod 
 poems tliat liavo appeared in the leading 
 
 MRS. EVA MUNSON SMITH. 
 
 publications of America and have been a 
 valu.'ible acquisition to current literature. 
 The Field is the World is a play in verse that 
 is very popular, and has been extensively 
 sold in every state in the Union, as well as in 
 Europe, Asia and Africa. This lady was 
 married in 1869 to George Clinton Smith, a 
 well-known druggist of Springfield, Illiuois. 
 
 THE LAST COMMAND. 
 Soft floating on the Syrian breeze, a voice 
 Serene is heard. As earnest tones oft greet 
 The ear, in cadence low, so faultless rliythm, 
 Measure, words that burn into the very 
 Souls of those who listen. 
 In tliat upper 
 Chamber where the eleven are gathered, 
 
 comes the 
 Sacred message from the risen Master's 
 Loving heart. Love for a sinful world '. Love 
 For a ruined race! Sad are the deep, dark 
 
 Eyes, and pale the visage of the holy. 
 The anointed Son of God; for Israel, 
 His people, race chosen of the Fatlifr, 
 Had the Son rejected. Saddest of all 
 Sad dnys for tiieui, hut Joy supreme for us, 
 O gentile world! 
 
 Listen ! the Master speaks. 
 "Go ye thro' all the world and preach the 
 Gospel to all men! naptize them in 
 Thenameof the Father, Son and Holy Glmst; 
 And lo! with you, forever, I abide." 
 Seraphs and angels viewed the scene, nie- 
 
 thinks 
 Well pleased, and bore aloft to Heaven the 
 Tidings glad, that pardon full and free was 
 Offered to all dwellers hert' below. Then 
 Must again thi' morning stars have sang rich 
 Strains of melody, and shouts of joy [ven. 
 Itesounded erstwhile thro' the dome of Hea- 
 But not without keen thorns and rugged 
 
 ways 
 Were beset the lives of those who cheerfully 
 Obeyed the Savior's mandate. Still on they 
 Toiled, sowing tlie precinus seed in love. 
 Leaving results witli Him who watt-rs and 
 Gives increase. They bore in patience and 
 Submission nieek.contempland taunting je>t 
 Imprisonment and cruel stocks, for sake 
 Of Christ. Well knew they Him on whom 
 
 their trust 
 Was stayed. Ne'er could the chosen few forget 
 The sight, as He ascended to the waitiin.' 
 Father. Many wlio heard the preached 
 Word, believed, and gave themselves with 
 
 all they 
 Had. to aid the Masters cause. Others with 
 Seoflings and derisions rude, weiv si umbliiig- 
 Blocks of dire olfense to those who might 
 
 have 
 Come unto the waters, and drank freely 
 Of unbounded h)ve and mercy. Stands thus 
 The holy cause tonlay. 
 Some offer self and all they have to 
 Spread abroad the news of joy and peace. 
 
 Some 
 Will not see, but blindly gmpe. and he«d not 
 Christ's injunction to His followers :ill. 
 Sit down in ease and apathy, content 
 To let the work progress, so no dlsi urbiiig 
 Element, or call for aid, distracts the 
 Quiet tenure of their lives. 
 
 ••At case in 
 Zion! What are souls to them? Rosttheyon 
 Roses while the w».rld is dying?" Xaiions 
 In profoundest darkness lie. pleading 
 For help across the dark expans*- of 
 Sea. At ease in Zion! How can souls re- 
 
 deea e<l 
 Thus sit on idle couch of luxury. 
 While perish millions for the hr.-:id of Hfel 
 
 « 
 
*- 
 
 1332 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A51ERICA. 
 
 At ease in Ziou ! No love for Him who Lup 
 
 Braved life's sorrows and man's hate, to lift 
 
 To tlie g'ates of bliss, all who accept 
 
 Salvation's offers full and free. No care 
 
 To heed the last command, — 
 
 No love for all the 
 
 Earth, but selfishly regarding just this 
 
 Little sphere in wliich we daily dwell. 
 
 No zeal to spread His word and truth to 
 
 heathen [and 
 
 Tell. "Enough to do at home! " Up! Up! 
 Do it, then! Why linger ye in all the [that 
 Plain? Haste! be about tlie Master's work. 
 Ocean depths will have to be o'ercrossed, ere 
 One be found who is not Christ's, redeemed 
 
 and 
 Saved by precious blood alone. 
 
 •' But how 
 Believe?" say some. How comes the faith 
 
 that leaves 
 All else behind and worlss for God and souls? 
 How reason ye the matter? As a 
 Faculty, reason far below faith falls. 
 Tho' we cannot view the stars In daylight 
 Fair, iho stars we linow are In yon heaven's 
 Expanse, just as at night, and "we can call 
 Tliem thus and thus, by light of science." So 
 By faith, the light of those who walk in 
 Christian fellowship and love, we know God 
 Sent His only Son, beloved above all 
 Else, to suffer ignominious agony 
 Upon the cross that we might be 
 Redeemed. By faith we know He rose, and 
 Reigneth with the Father infinite. 
 Compassionate, and full of tender love 
 To fallen man. In faith we take the bread 
 And wine, blest emblems of His broken body 
 And shed blood, nor doubt the duty bounden 
 On us, nor the wondrous good derived from 
 Tluis partaking. Yet of these same ones, 
 Devout and full of love, some seem to doubt 
 Our duty and high privilege to obey the last 
 
 command 
 Of Christ, which, once obeyed by followers 
 Of Him, brought unto us the story of 
 The cross; the story of redemption, which 
 Purchased e'en for us salvation. At ease 
 In Zion ! Pardon, dear Lord ! tlie ease in 
 Wliicli wedwell. Arouse, by Thine almighty 
 Pow'r, the slumb'ring ones. Make us to 
 
 know and 
 Heed Thy last command. Use us [and 
 
 To haste the time when all shall know Thee 
 Thy risen Son who reigneth with Theo in 
 The courts of radiant glory. Helj) us to 
 Comprehend the joyous fact that if souls 
 Be led, tliro' us, from sin's dark doom into 
 The light of that abode " whose bright foun- 
 dations 
 
 Are the heights of Heaven," 'twill be of more 
 
 avail 
 To us when done with earth, than to have 
 
 gained the 
 Plaudits of the world, won fairest fame, or 
 Called our own, the bounteous wealth of 
 
 land and sea. 
 
 JENNIE A. BAKER. 
 
 Born. Cherry Run, Pa., Aug. 4, 1856. 
 Miss Baker occasionly writes verse. She 
 is a lover of music and reading, and has read 
 
 JENNIE A. BAKER. 
 
 the C. L. S. C. Course in which she graduated 
 with the class of 1889. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Dearest Maggie, gone to rest. 
 From the toils and cares of life. 
 From the ills, and pains and strife. 
 
 Thou art now forever blest. 
 
 In that heavenly home above. 
 She is clothed in robes of white. 
 Ever singing day and night. 
 
 Tender songs of Jesus' love. 
 
 Oft we dream and think of thee; 
 liong to hear thai' sweet voice ring 
 Sweetly, as you used to sing 
 
 • • Hock of Ages cleft for me." 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 1333 
 
 SAMUEL M.WITIIAM. 
 
 Born: Old York, Me.. Jan. 14, 1R4.1. 
 The i)oems of Mr.Witham have appeared in 
 the leading' publicationsof Haverhill, Gcorg-e- 
 town, Newburyport and the periodical press 
 peiierall.v. Several of his poems have been 
 
 
 
 
 , 
 
 vaI^III^ 
 
 
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 ;^HHH 
 
 P^ 
 
 
 v^gH^H^H^^^^HP^ 
 
 SB 
 
 b 
 
 
 l^^l 
 
 1 
 
 
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 1 
 
 SAMUEL MOSHKK WITHAM. 
 
 set to nnisie, and are destined to become pop- 
 ular, ^[r. Witham Is a thorough business 
 man, being- a contractor and builder, and 
 dealer in real estate. He was married in 1865 
 to Miss Ciiarlotte A.Wentworth,hnst\vosoiis 
 and resides in Haverliill, Mass., wliere he is 
 well known for his sterling qualities. 
 
 WILL IT PAY? 
 A stain upon our garment, 
 
 A rent upon our clothes. 
 Have lost their wortli and beauty 
 
 Alike to friends and foes. 
 So a stain upon our honor 
 
 Will last, you may depend. 
 And a rent upon our conscience, 
 
 We never seem to mend. 
 Then 'tis well to stop and question 
 
 Our right for doing wrong. 
 For we sure will pay the penalty. 
 
 While in life we go along. 
 And our wrongs we never right them 
 
 Like as though they ne'er were done. 
 
 Though they may not be in eiirm-st. 
 At tlie lime we thought them fun. 
 
 Hnt with mold they seem topither. 
 
 And with worthlessness they stand. 
 All around they hiiglit our pn)siK'Cts, 
 
 Barren rocks on fertile land. 
 
 So wlien starting in life's buttle. 
 
 Take a principle of right 
 As our guiding star of promLse; 
 
 It will never bring a bligrht. 
 
 And our happiness in future 
 Will on faith and works depend. 
 
 And for all who heed its mandates. 
 There will be no bitter end. 
 
 THE SHADY SIDE OF LIFE. 
 
 How oft we think of the dear old home. 
 
 No matter where we be. 
 When roaming o'er the broad old earth. 
 
 Or on the dark blue sea. 
 It may be in the stilly night. 
 
 When eyelids close in vain. 
 That memory weaves in fancy bright. 
 
 And brings us home agiiin. 
 
 When age proclaims with silver lock. 
 
 That life is on the wane. 
 And friends go silent from their cot. 
 
 We look for them in vam. 
 When wearied with life's busy cares. 
 
 We sit and think alone. 
 By memory fair we sec them there. 
 
 Those friends and that old home. 
 And many a form our childhood knew. 
 
 With voice we loved to hear. 
 Have gone, from hence will not return 
 
 To us that linger here. 
 But while we struggle on in life. 
 
 We'll think it not in vain 
 That when we leave this mortal sphere 
 
 We'll meet these friends a^in. 
 Good-bye, old home, rest in the past. 
 
 But sleep may come in vain. 
 For in our dreams familiar scenes 
 
 Come back to life again. 
 And though ones wealth and treasures rare 
 
 Bring trouble while we roam, 
 X.) gold can purchase thoughts so fair 
 
 As cluster 'round that home. 
 
 EXTUAfT. 
 No song is like the old ones 
 
 We sung in youthful days. 
 There's none that seem to charm us 
 
 And suit our differt>ut ways. 
 "Tis strange we chance to leave ihem. 
 
 And try a different song. 
 And thus forgotten they may lie 
 
 While time in years have gone. 
 
«•- 
 
 133-1 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. SOPHIA p. SNOW. 
 
 Born: Shelburne Falls, Mass., 1836. 
 Teaching has been tbe lifework of this lady. 
 In 1861 she was married to Cliarles Snow, with 
 whom she still resides at South Meriden, 
 Conn. She has one son, Charles Brig litwood ; 
 
 MRS. SOPHIA PHILENA SNOW. 
 
 and one daughter. Belle Louise, now grown 
 to maturity. Mrs. Snow is the author of 
 Annie and Willie's Prayer, which appeared 
 in 1868, was widely copied, and made for her 
 a national reputation as a poet. About 
 three hundred of her poems have appeared 
 in current literature and have received the 
 highest praise. For tlie past seventeen years 
 Mrs. Snow has been employed in the public 
 schools of Meriden, Conn., where she is very 
 popular. 
 
 MEMOEIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN. 
 Far back in my musings my thoughts have 
 
 been cast. 
 To the cot where the hours of my cliildhood 
 
 were passed; 
 I loved all its rooms, to the pantry and hall. 
 But that blessed old kitchen was better than 
 
 all; 
 Its chairs and its table, none brighter could 
 
 be. 
 
 For all its surroundings were saci-ed tome. 
 To the nail in the ceiling, tlie latch on the 
 
 door. 
 And I loved every crack of that old kitchen 
 
 floor. 
 
 I remember tlie fire-place with moutli high 
 and wide. 
 
 The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side, 
 
 Out of wliich, each Thanksgiving, came pud- 
 dings and pies, 
 
 That fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes; 
 
 And then, too. Saint Nicholas, slyly and still. 
 
 Came down every Christmas, our stockings 
 to fill; 
 
 But the dearest of memories I've laid up in 
 store. 
 
 Is the mother tliattrod that old kitchen floor. 
 
 Day in and day out, from morning till night. 
 
 Her footsteps were busy, her heart always 
 light. 
 
 For it seemed to me then tliat she knew not 
 a care. 
 
 The smile was so gentle her face used to wear. 
 
 I remember with pleasure wliat joy filled our 
 eyes. 
 
 When she told us the stories that cliildren so 
 prize; 
 
 They were new every night, ihougli we'd 
 beard them before 
 
 From her lips, at the wheel, on the old kitch- 
 en floor. 
 
 I remember the window, where mornings I'd 
 
 run. 
 As soon as the daybreak to watch for the sun, 
 And I thoughl, when my head scarcely 
 
 reached to the sill 
 That It slept through the night in the trees 
 
 on the hill. 
 And the small tract of ground, that my eyes 
 
 there could view. 
 Was all of the world that my infancy knew; 
 Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 
 For a world in Itself was that old kitchen 
 
 floor. 
 
 To-night those old visions come back at their 
 
 will, 
 But the wheel and its music forever are still. 
 The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away. 
 And the fingers that tuned it lie mold'ring in 
 
 clay. 
 The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 'twas 
 
 then. 
 And the voices of children ring out there 
 
 again. 
 The sun through the window looks in sis of 
 
 yore. 
 But it sees stranger feet on the old kitchen 
 
 floor. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POE IS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 laSd 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. ADALINE II. BEERY. 
 
 Roun: Hanover, Pa., Dec. W, 18.59. 
 After receiving a fair ediK-ntioii, Adiiline 
 tauf?lit scliool. Ill 1879 she took a three years' 
 chissieal course in the academic department 
 in tlie Mount Morris CoUei-e. After gradu- 
 ating she became a compositor in the print- 
 
 MRS. ADALINE HOHF BEERY. 
 
 ing establishment of the Brethren's Pub- 
 lishing Co., of Mount Morris, 111. lu 1885 
 she went to Huntington, Pa., as editor of tlie 
 Golden Dawn. In 1888 she was married to 
 Williiuii Beery, a teacher of vocal music, 
 now engaged at the Normal CoUegeof Hunt- 
 ini;toii. Pa. Mrs. Beerj- is now editor of the 
 Young Disciple. H(>r poems have appeared 
 in the Chicago Song Friend, Boston Ahirniiig 
 Star, Union Signal. PhihidelphiaCiiU. Boston 
 Transcript, Sunday School Times and various 
 other publications. 
 
 ETUDE. 
 My love sings like the waves 
 
 All ill tune; 
 Her voice thrills like the gamut 
 
 Of all June. 
 Iler eyes are star-time sapphires 
 
 Set in dew; 
 I think the brook's low laughter 
 
 Brims them too. 
 
 Hi-r ears like oei-un shell pinks 
 
 Brightly blush; 
 She he.irs the clioirs of cloudlaiiU 
 
 Aleve's husli. 
 Her tresses fling defiance 
 
 To the sun; 
 She's blossom, l)ird. and fairy 
 
 Blent in one. 
 Her lips, like twin carnations 
 
 But half-l>lown, 
 I've pressed, in love's emotion, 
 
 To my own. 
 Her hand is like a leaf-touch. 
 
 But a thrill 
 Enchains me when I feel it 
 
 Speak her will. 
 Her soul is like the .-Vlpine 
 
 Edelweiss; 
 Her steel-true heart is to me 
 
 Shield from vii-e. 
 My love's the contemplation 
 
 Of my life; 
 1 lay all gifts before her,— 
 
 She's my wifel 
 
 IN THE MILL. 
 Lord, make me pure: ihesirougplea throne- 
 ward Hies; 
 Thereat God sets in motion nil tlic wlieols. 
 And we are crushed ami broken, as He deiiis 
 The stroke bereaving, and our rain-wet eyes 
 Strain upward tlirough the mist; the Haiul 
 replies 
 With grief's full baptism to our appeals 
 For cleansing, till our sifle<i spirit kneels 
 Among the sinless hosts of Paradise. 
 Lord make me pure! Ah, know wo what 
 we ask? Isuow, 
 
 Like wheat which fain would be a louf of 
 We must bide tlireshing, tribulations sore. 
 Parting of dross and heat; the crucial task 
 Leaves but a mite of us ; yet Gixl, we know. 
 Aye lends His strength as tries His fining 
 more. 
 
 EXTltACI'. 
 A still white earth, with random foot-paths 
 crossed, 
 With drifted meadows brushed with soft 
 gray mist, [kiss*-*!. 
 
 And trees which some nlglit elfln must have 
 Whose breath congealed to brlslUng pikes 
 of frost ; [nuKiseil 
 
 A ttiuch, and hair and robe and fet-t are 
 Like some pale miller iwwdered with his 
 grist; [tryst. 
 
 This keen white lK)wer Is sure a lover's 
 Whose thoughts the scene with purity eni- 
 iKJssed . 
 
1336 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AJIEKICA. 
 
 CALEB SWAYXE COPE. 
 
 Born: East Bradford, Pa., Nov. 27, 1818. 
 After receiving- his education, Mr. Cope 
 tools up the study of chemistry ahd geology, 
 and later studied Latin. Some of his writings 
 coming- under the notice of the Philosophical 
 society of West Chester, he was elected a 
 
 CALEB SWAYNE COPE. 
 
 member of that body in 1880. Since 185.5 the 
 writings of Mr. Cope have been quite num- 
 erous, and have appeared in vjirious periodi- 
 cals. Mr. Cope was married in 1838, and has 
 a family grown to maturity- 
 
 A MORNING WALK IN JUNE. 
 It was a pleasant summer's morn, 
 
 The clover blooming sweetly; 
 From scorching heat the dews at night 
 
 Had cooled the air completelj'. 
 A lively gale amongst the trees 
 
 The western winds were blowing. 
 And o'er the rolling grassy leas 
 
 The dappled waves were flowing. 
 The golden crops of ripening grain 
 
 A checker'd scene before me; 
 The tlirushes and the robin strain 
 
 Love's wavelets rii>pling o'er me. 
 The nimble squirrels •• liide and seek" 
 
 Were playing in tlie hedge-row; 
 
 The darting swallows " catch and take " 
 
 Across the dewy meadow. 
 A cautious rabbit crossed the brook. 
 
 And stopped a while to vie-w me. 
 And gave a sly, inquiring look, 
 
 As though he thought he knew me. 
 The next I met a thieving crow. 
 
 His neighbor's seed-corn digging; 
 Wlio scarce could stay to say good-day,— 
 
 Out poaching for a living. 
 But last of all a thoughtless toad. 
 
 Parental care evading; 
 Who on the dusty public road. 
 
 Was out promenading. 
 Accept, I cried most noble youth. 
 
 This caution of a stranger; 
 For 1 assure you, of a truth. 
 
 You're in no common danger. 
 The crow on ample wings may sail. 
 
 The rabbit find the bushes; 
 But such as you, the passing- wheel. 
 
 Or heavy hoof crushes. 
 With haughty step he struck the ground. 
 
 Or proud salutatory jerking. 
 Nor ever stopped to look around, 
 
 For,hidden dangers lurking. 
 When, as I shortly journeyed back. 
 
 The bold Monsieur was lying 
 Along the rut-indented track. 
 
 All crippled, bruised and dying; 
 And in his sufferings seemed to say, 
 
 •• I now am realizing 
 The fate of those whose selfish way 
 
 Good council are despisuig." 
 
 THE MOTHEU'S SONG. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Tlio Arctic mother's lullaby 
 
 Perhaps is sweet as thine. 
 Or hers who sings with burning lips 
 
 Beneath the torrid line. 
 
 Far nature's voice from pole to pole 
 The same refrain can bring — 
 
 Such only as a mother's soul 
 Through mother's lips can sing. 
 
 Let conquering beautj- crown the scene 
 With her mysterious powers. 
 
 And wit and wisdom lend their aid 
 To spur the speeding hours. 
 
 No power have they to act the part 
 
 Of one materinil sigh 
 That swells the crimson tide of life 
 
 And pours the brimfull eye. 
 
 I'd rather sit beside the stream 
 
 That weeping willows lave. 
 Atid liold communion with the one 
 
 Beyond the other wave. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1837 
 
 « 
 
 CHARLOTTE A. DExMOREST. 
 
 Born: Near Adhian, Mich., Oct. 2, 1809. 
 Miss Demohest lias written both verse aiid 
 prose. After yraduatiiig' she took up scliool 
 
 CHARLOTTE ANNE DEMOKEST. 
 
 teaching-, in which she is now engaged at 
 Towauda, Pa. 
 
 IMPATIENCE. 
 
 The sun sliines, 
 
 The dew falls. 
 
 The clouds drop 
 
 Their waterfalls; 
 Life bears the years along'. 
 Time speeds and life is gone. 
 
 The wind sighs. 
 
 The stream flows, 
 
 Life conies. 
 
 Life goes; 
 O, teach me patience. Lord ! 
 My will with thine accord. 
 
 The flowers grow, 
 
 Tlie flowers bloom, 
 
 Autumn brings 
 
 The flowers' tomb. 
 Sing, lieart, for life is done 
 Sing, heart, for rest is won. 
 
 ASI.EF.P. 
 Kest thou till morning bi-caks, 
 
 Uest tiirongli the dews of night, 
 Kest till the world awakes, 
 
 And it is light. 
 
 Here in thy trundle bed. 
 
 Watched by a uioihei's care. 
 Pillowed on down thy liead. 
 
 Dreams light as air. 
 
 Soon will the morning l)reak 
 From the embrace of iii^ilit. 
 
 Then from thy dreams awake. 
 For it is llglil. 
 
 All thy days swiftly glide; 
 
 Death will for thee prepare 
 Rest at the eventide. 
 
 Cradled from care. 
 
 Watched by thy Father's love. 
 There may thou rest in peace. 
 
 Where sorrows never move. 
 Where troubles cease. 
 
 Soon will the night bo gone. 
 Then will the morning star 
 
 Herald th' eternal dawn. 
 Shining afar. 
 
 Bright may His beams arise 
 On tlune enshrouding' tomb, 
 
 From thine awakened eyes 
 Scatfring the gloom. 
 
 Rest there till morning breaks. 
 Rest tliou tlirough death's long ni 
 
 Rest till thy soul awakes. 
 Crowned with light. 
 
 DAV AND NIGHT. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 On the peaceful breast of the tranquil west 
 
 The sun lays his glowing licad. 
 Till the peaceful hue of lier radiant blue 
 
 Flashes pur|)le and gold and red. 
 
 He gilds the day with his lingerieig my. 
 
 And his smile falls lovingly 
 On the rippling sea on the wood imd lea, 
 
 Like a golden fantasy. 
 
 Now the hush of night with its soothing might 
 
 Like a benediction falls. 
 And the golden lamps of heaven's expanso 
 
 Light all her sober halls. 
 
 Day flees in fear as night draws near. 
 For night does not love tlio sun. 
 
 She hides her face and her shadowy grace 
 'Neath a veil of moonbeams spun. 
 
« 
 
 1338 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 • MRS. ANNIE H.SMITH. 
 
 Born : Columbia, S. C. 
 
 This lady is the widow of Mr. Whiteford S. 
 Smith, and has only one child. Mrs. Smith 
 resides in Atlanta, Ga., where she is princil 
 pal of the Fair Street School. Her poems 
 have appeared in the Atlanta Constitution, 
 
 MRS. ANNIE H. SMITH. 
 
 Journal, Sunny South, Greenville Advocate 
 and the periodical press generally. Mrs- 
 Smith has also written and published a num- 
 ber of prose articles that have attracted uni- 
 versal attention. 
 
 LEAVES. 
 
 Bright autumn leaves arc strewn around ■ 
 
 Like deeds of ours, 
 Many decaying- on the ground — 
 
 Life's wasted hours; 
 A few go whirling with the breeze. 
 
 Like cherished toys, 
 And others cling- to naked trees, 
 
 As we to joys. 
 
 Yet one bright golden sheaf is caught 
 
 Hy cliildish hands, and gently taught 
 
 To grace a tomb — or wake a thouglit 
 
 As sweet as flowers. 
 
 MY GUEST. 
 
 Come blessed hour, when guests are throng- ■, 
 ing 1 
 
 Gay spacious hall and salon wide; 
 With noiseless footsteps swiftly treading, i 
 Tlie mystic pathway eartliward leading, 
 My guest comes speeding to my side. 
 Something I feel, but cannot see, 
 Keeps whispering of the days to be. 
 When frost-nipped flowers will bloom again, : 
 And my lost bud that never opened. 
 Will blossom into loveliest rose, 
 When all the myriad hopes I cherished 
 Shall not lie buried —unfulfilled! 
 
 DESERTED. 
 Ask me no more to open wide the door 
 Of that deserted home, the human lieart. 
 And let you stalk at random through its halls 
 Which once re-echoed to the sounds of joy. 
 But now are wrapped in silence dread as 
 
 death. 
 1 could not, if I would an entrance mnke 
 Thro' windows safely barred and doors fast 
 
 locked, 
 What though thosilvcr key, discolored grown 
 For lack of turning, stands within its place? 
 Does not a cunning spider weave liis web 
 About its rusty hinge and molderiug arch,— 
 Weaves ever on, nor fears intrusive hand 
 Upon the riglits vouchsafed him liytlie dead? 
 For on the door, a fair and trembling hand 
 Has traced in letters delicate and flue— 
 '• Sacred." 
 
 This chamber leadeth to a garden wild. 
 Where fragrant violets once did bloom, 
 And purple orchids and ])rimroses grew. 
 Here the red rose, wearing her crown of devs, 
 Reigned queen of flowers; her star-eyed 
 
 Hope did dream 
 On beds of blossomy thyme, and count the 
 
 hours 
 By the tiue magic dial of flowers that bloom 
 And close as fairy fingers touch their cups. 
 She vied in beauty with the treasures round, 
 And happy then was fairest of them all. 
 Now still her footprints echo on the gi-ound— 
 But liollow, slow, and languid; lier faint 
 
 breath 
 Fails now to kiss the flowers back to life- 
 Pale, withered flowers, tliat nod upon their 
 
 stalks — 
 Ghosts of the blooms she loved. Tliey slowly 
 
 nod 
 Across the garden walks, as though t liey said, 
 IMoniory doth mock us with a l)rightcr past, 
 Aud melancholy winds wail sadly forth — 
 .. Faded." 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA, 
 
 VW.} 
 
 THOMAS MACKELLAR. 
 
 Bokn: New Youk City, Aug. 12, 1812. 
 Thomas Mac Kellak. of Gcrniantown. Pliil- 
 adelpliia, is tlie presiileiit of M;ic Kelhir, 
 Smith & Jordan Co.. tlie largest lypt-fouiici- 
 ers in America, with offices in the principal 
 cities of the union. Mr. MacKellar is the 
 
 THOMAS mac kellak. 
 
 author of Rhymes Atween Times, Droppings 
 from the Heart, Psalms and Hymns, works 
 of such excellence as to place liim in the 
 front rank of poets of this century. He is 
 also the author of American Printer, and 
 I has contributed leading- articles from time 
 to time to leading- publications, wliich have 
 been a valuable acquisition to current liter- 
 ature. Mr. MacKellar is a man of integrity 
 and sterling business qualities, and withal a 
 gentleman and scholar. 
 
 *- 
 
 THE POET'S VENTURE. 
 I sat me down to build a boat 
 And launch it on the sea atioat: 
 1 wrought it with a loving- will. 
 Putting to task my utmost skill: 
 I gave its form the highest grace 
 My hand and eye knew how to trace, 
 And beautified its every part 
 According to my native art. 
 
 I si'l the lUiist, and spread the suil 
 To catcli the softliesi-brcathliig tp''*'. 
 And tlien I .sent ii forth to g" 
 Whichever way the wind might blow. 
 Who knows? It may bo lost at sea. 
 Or come with treasure back to me. 
 
 A SEASIDE NOTION. 
 
 Pequot I Pi'quotl 
 
 The Paradise spot 
 Where ocean emliraees the river; 
 
 Right royal is she 
 
 With her foot on the sea. 
 
 As she sits like a queen 
 
 Of exquisite mien: 
 What prettier name shall we give her? 
 
 VThile poets have sung 
 In the old EiiglUli iiingui' 
 
 In verse pelluciil as wati'r. 
 
 No word could be found. 
 In all the world round 
 To its furthermost bound, 
 Sweet enough in its sound 
 
 To give to its loveliest daughter. 
 
 THE LOVER TO HIS WIFE. 
 The sunniest room in all my lieart 
 
 I keep, my love, for thee. 
 And set thee there from all apart, 
 
 A shrine for none but me. 
 
 A being thou of mortal mold. 
 And yet of heavenly birth. 
 
 A world all made of gems and gold 
 Could not outweigh thy worth. 
 
 The song of birds, the hum of bees. 
 
 A richer fullness takes. 
 As in Sfxmtaneous symphonie:- 
 
 Thy voice of music wakes. 
 
 When morning puts the veil away 
 That hid its beaming face. 
 Thine eyes unto the light of day 
 Gives e'en a brighter grace. 
 
 My day of toil is light to bear. 
 
 With all its dizzying din. 
 Hec-ause I feel that thou wilt share 
 
 The boon that I may win. 
 When night in ebon caves ensnares 
 
 The suu with cunning wiles. 
 My brow a sweet contentment we.ii> 
 
 Ueiieath thy cheery smile.s. 
 
 If clouds should dim thy h:ippy day 
 And sorrow touch ihy heart. 
 
 Be mine the hand to wipe :iway 
 The teardrops as they start. 
 
^- 
 
 1340 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Along the way of life we'll go 
 
 Together heart and hand; 
 And when our locks grow white as snow, 
 
 Pass to the peaceful land. 
 
 TO SOMEBOBY. 
 
 I sought a diamond on the shore, 
 
 The rarest of the rare : 
 A gem mine own, forevermore 
 
 Next to my heart to wear. 
 
 I sought it far, I souglit it near, 
 Until my hope grew weak. 
 
 And well-nigh turu'd to utter fear 
 Lest I should vainlj' seek. 
 
 I stood upon the farther land 
 
 Tliat juts out in tlie sea; 
 A fairy wave stole up the strand 
 As if to speak to me. 
 
 I bent mine ear to catch the word 
 So big with fate of mine; 
 
 My soul with ecstasy was stirr'd 
 To hear the name — 'twas thine? 
 
 A BALLAD BY THE SEA. 
 At mid of night be.side the sea, 
 
 The moon far in tlie west, 
 I sigli'd for one long gone from me 
 Who day by day still seems to be 
 
 A dweller in my breast. 
 
 And suddenly a stranger came 
 
 As if from out the tide, 
 A man of bow'd yet stalwart frame. 
 Whose face I knew not, nor his name, 
 
 And sat him by my side. 
 
 He laid his brawny arm on mine. 
 
 That old man by the sea: 
 His locks were hoar with age and brine; 
 His eyes with tender gleams did shine; 
 
 A winsome man was he. 
 
 •• Comrade!" so spake the ancient man, 
 
 •• A good God loves us all. 
 This world is order'd by a plan 
 Too broad for thee or me to scan. 
 
 That covers great and small. 
 
 •• Why hug a sorrow to thy heart 
 
 And nurse it till it bite? 
 Why chafe the wound until it smart? 
 Why turn against thyself tlie dart. 
 
 And thine own bosom smite? 
 
 .. In other years — how long ago, 
 
 Comrade, I cannot tell. 
 In sun and shine, in rain and snow. 
 When all was calm, when storms did blow, 
 
 I served a skipper well. 
 
 " I saved his life and risk'd mine own; 
 
 A daughter fair had he; 
 Before another year had run 
 The skipper own'd me as a son, 
 
 ' My husband !' whisper'd she. 
 
 "I built a cottage near the shore: 
 Next-door to heaven it seem'd; 
 For love came in the open door. 
 And from the rafters to the floor, 
 Its blessed presence beam'd. 
 
 " The God in whom we trusted sent 
 
 A babe of beauty there. 
 And as the seasons came and went. 
 They added to our glad content. 
 
 Two more as sweet and fair. 
 
 <i I went a voyage o'er the sea. 
 
 My heart still staying home; 
 O'er many a sea and far country 
 For wife-sake and our children three 
 
 I was content to roam. 
 
 •> My wandering journej' o'er, I sought 
 
 My cot beside the sea. 
 For love and treasure I had brought, 
 Beyond my boyhood's wildest thought 
 
 For wife and children three. 
 
 " My home of love I stood before; 
 
 The windows gave no light: 
 Trembling, 1 knock'd upon the door, 
 A neiglibor only said, > No more!' 
 
 My heart fell dead that night. 
 
 "The years pass on, no longer told; 
 
 I leave it in God's hand 
 To share among His poor the gold 
 I strove so long to gain and hold ; 
 
 And now I walk the strand. 
 
 " And when the wrecking winds do sweep 
 
 A vessel on the shore. 
 In my good life-boat forth I leap 
 To aid the strugglers in the deep, 
 
 As Christ hath done before. 
 
 "Now, comrade, ere with thee I part 
 
 Tliis only will I say: 
 Go heal the sorrows of thy heart, 
 No matter whosoe'er thou art. 
 
 By doing good alway." 
 
 A far-off look was in his eyes, 
 
 As if he saw away 
 Beyond tlie sea the blessed skies. 
 Where no one weeps and no one sighs, 
 
 Where God's beloved stay. 
 
 The ancient man arose and sped 
 
 His waj- along the sea ; 
 I ponder'd on the words he said. 
 And pray'd, before I sought my bed. 
 
 To be as wise as he. 
 
 *- 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEUICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 1H41 
 
 MRS. ANNA BARTON. 
 
 Bof{n: Westekn New Youk, Oct., 20, 1842. 
 ASTHEdtiii^liter of Ri'v. H. K. Swiuk, a IJiip- 
 list niinistor. this lady ha.s always been a de- 
 vout christian. After eiig-aj^iiig- in active 
 church service for many yeans, she assumed, 
 in 18S6, tlie position of pastor of the Free 
 
 .MK.S. ANNA BAUTOX. 
 
 Baptist church in Paw Paw, Michigan, which 
 I>ulpit she still fills. In 1882 her iioems were 
 published in book-form under the title of 
 For Friendship's Sake. 
 
 I MEANT TO BE A CHRISTIAN. 
 
 I meant to be a christian ! 
 
 But wlien the Master came 
 And offored crown immortal 
 
 Engraved with my name, 
 I bade Him wait till noonday. 
 
 For it was morning' now — 
 Andllowersin blossom waited 
 
 To crown mj' waiting brow. 
 I meant to be a christian ! 
 
 But when He came at noon, 
 My heart was vexed and weary 
 
 With hopes that would not bloom; 
 I had no smile of welcome. 
 
 But coldly turned away. 
 And thought both crown and Giver 
 
 Might come at close of day. 
 
 The birds tiieir nests are seeking. 
 
 The shadows cover all '. 
 Standing alone in d.Trkncss. 
 
 What fears my soni appall 
 I meant to be a christian: 
 
 And yet I bade him wait 
 Wjio only, at life's evening. 
 
 Could open Heaven's gate! 
 The tender flowers of feeling 
 
 Have fadeti from my heart. 
 The teardrops ol re|)eniunce 
 
 No more, unbidden, start. 
 And yet — my face turns backward. 
 
 And by that morning sun, 
 I view the crown I slighted. 
 
 The heaven I might have won. 
 
 O, j'e whom Christ is calling — 
 
 So tenderly to-day 1 
 Grieve not His patient spirit. 
 
 Nor bid Him go His way! 
 To-day— if you will hearken 
 
 Vou shall not be too late 
 To share the joy eternal 
 
 Which — for the pardoned, wait. 
 
 ONLY A BABY. 
 
 Only a baby I know. 
 
 And the coffin a tiny, wee thing 
 That covered the dimpled limbs from view. 
 And shut from sight the sweet eyes of blue. 
 
 And pinioned the fluttering wing. 
 
 Only a baby '. — but oh ; 
 
 Down deep in the mother's heart, 
 .V thousand tendrils lie loosened and torn, 
 A thousand hopes in their rum mourn 
 
 With bitter and burning smart. 
 
 Only a baby ! — but stay. 
 
 In the long, long years agonc. 
 The hand of a sacred, sinless Christ 
 The heads of the mothers' darlings pressed. 
 
 And said, -Let the children come,— 
 
 •• Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven : " 
 The babes never tainted by sin; 
 
 And leaning from heaven, the glory alK)Ve. 
 
 The same hand that blessed tliem, the same 
 heart of love. 
 Will gather these little ones In. 
 
 Sad mother, thy moaning cease. 
 
 The birdling that cooe«i al thy brea>t 
 Has dipped its wings in the snowy foam 
 And catches the notes of the angel song 
 
 On the sea of eternal nst. 
 
 There's a light in the window for thee. 
 
 A tie on the otiier side [caro. 
 
 That shall ween thy heart from a world of 
 Till the angel Deatli. thee, too, shall bear 
 
 To the little one over the tide. 
 
 « 
 
!;£•- 
 
 1342 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF A31ERICA. 
 
 * 
 
 DR. THEO. P. LOCKWOOD. 
 
 Born: Near Crystal Springs, Miss., 1839. 
 Being wounded in the battle of Sliiloh, Mr. 
 Lockwood served during- the balance of tiie 
 war as druggist and assistant surgeon in 
 Kentucky. Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama 
 and Georgia. Since 1866 he has continued in 
 
 DR. THEODORE PRENTISS LOCKWOOD. 
 
 the practice of physician and surgeon at 
 Crystal Springs, Miss. He has held promi- 
 nent positions of trust, and for several years 
 was editor of Copiahan and associate-editor 
 of the Atlantic Medical Journal. Dr. Lock- 
 wood was vice-president of the Mississippi 
 Medical Association for one term; for maiij' 
 years has been medical examiner for New 
 York Life Insurance Co., and New York 
 Mutual Life Assurance Co., and numerous 
 other societies, Dr. Lockwood was married 
 in 1869 to Miss Olivia Emma Patton, and has 
 three children. The eldest son, Benson 
 Mott, recently graduated at Beaumont Med- 
 ical College of St. Louis, Mo. 
 
 « 
 
 YOUTHFUL DREAMS. 
 
 The years have fled — the dream is o'er. 
 And I shall know their joys no more, 
 Like faded flowers in the blast. 
 Is the memory of the past. 
 
 The play-ground near the Crystal Springs 
 Is now an old, neglected thing: 
 The forms that gave it life are gone; 
 The old school house looks drear and lone. 
 
 The flowers bloom as sweetly there — 
 Their perfume flU the fragrant air 
 As of old — but no maiden fair 
 To pluck and weave them in her hair. 
 
 The sunny smile, the merry voice. 
 That made my heart so oft rejoice, 
 Alas, I miss beneath this sliade. 
 And on the hill and in the glade. 
 
 The stream glides roguishly along, 
 And sings that old familiar song ; 
 But by its border fresh and green, 
 I'll meet my maid, no more I ween. 
 
 "A hundred months" .ago, I stood 
 Beneath this vine in happy mood. 
 Nor dreamed I, mid that joyous scene. 
 That time would be what it has been. 
 
 Ah me! what changes time can bring! 
 'Tis strange, 'tis hard, 'lis witliering. 
 That youthful dreams so passing bright. 
 Should vanish in a single night. 
 
 The church is crumbling to its walls; 
 The bell, to books, no longer calls; 
 The curtain drops, and hides from view. 
 The hopes and loved ones that I knew. 
 
 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 I thinking now of the halcyon days 
 When hope flung out her bow. 
 
 And led our feet in sunnj' wajs — 
 Just twenty j'ears ago. 
 
 We roamed upon the sutilit hills. 
 
 And down the flowery dell; 
 And sat beside the murmuring rills — 
 
 Our tale of love to tell. 
 
 And you were young, and oh ! so fair. 
 
 Your cheeks wore the rose's glow. 
 The sun was on your soft brown hair. 
 
 Just twenty years ago. 
 Twenty years ago, to-night. 
 
 With youthful joy and pride, 
 We stood before the altar bright. 
 
 And you became my bride. 
 Gone are those we loved and knew. 
 
 Whom wo shall see no more or know. 
 Save only through the mist and dew. 
 
 Of twenty years ago. 
 What e'er I've lost in twenty years. 
 
 Of friends or worldly store. 
 Your love I've kept mid joys and tears, 
 
 True as in days of j'ore. 
 
 -* 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 — * 
 
 i:i43 
 
 i ALEXANDER C STEWART. 
 
 I Bohn: Ireland, Aug. 16, 1867. 
 
 I Mb. Stewart is tlie author of a volume of 
 poems entitled Poetical Works, whicli lias 
 !liad quite an extensive circulation and been 
 i eulofiized by the press. He has also written 
 I various articles that have appeared in cut- 
 
 Alexander CHARLES .STEWART, 
 rent newspapers and in pamplilet form. He 
 was married in 1889 to Miss Jean Wallace 
 McCnlloch, and now lias one son — Clarence 
 Byron. 
 
 AN ELEGY. 
 Dai'li frown'd the heavens at the hwniVilo 
 birth. 
 Chill wailed the northern bhist. Around 
 thy cot 
 Infantile there arose no chastened mirth. 
 
 Nothing- that breathed of a belov'd lot 
 A mother only in a wondering woe 
 Look'd on thy helpless form of spirit snow. 
 Ushered to earth in darkness worse than 
 pain. 
 Thrown on the billows of eternity, 
 Where still to strug-gle for the shore is vain; 
 
 Such the ungrateful fate accorded thee 
 No wonder then that thou hast pass'd away — 
 Beyond the liquid arcli unknown andg:ray. 
 
 Full of a soul that never brook 'd conirinuid 
 
 Too proud for the .-submis.sive palli in rule. 
 Too human for the earthly "s iron hand. 
 
 Too wise to beof their vain-uloriiius.school. 
 Thou mark'dst the farces of official strife 
 And recognized the lifelessness of life. 
 Wlio could be charmed with clay when music 
 fades, [die; 
 
 Or, who would live when love and boaiily 
 Who mark the foliage shivered from the 
 gladi's, 
 
 And concord still with such reality. 
 Were it not better then like thee to yield 
 To calm oblivion where no sculptors build? 
 The siiiritual part of man to thee 
 
 Was not the i>;ith to riches and e.YCcss. 
 Thou sawest the clu^at of loud liypocri.-y. 
 
 And knew 'twas vain to try to make il less; 
 That man had sold his .soul to fancied truth. 
 Was old to thee tho' thou wert still a youtli. 
 And yet I say 'twere better far that tiiou 
 
 Should'st know, the pain it costs to coii- 
 deniii. 
 Than that thou should'stolheir vile methods 
 bow, [them. 
 
 And join the role of cheated cheats with 
 
 Better to die alone devoid of fame, [name. 
 
 Than that such liars should prolong thy 
 
 Thrice happier thy sad fate, thou soulful 
 
 one, [moil. 
 
 Than his who flatters for a name such 
 For such as tliee shall be when tliese arc done. 
 
 And earth shall blush to name tlieir deed 
 iigai u ; 
 For yet the day will come wlien life shall bo 
 The conscience of itself and man be free. 
 The jibe of worldliness, the foolish freak 
 
 Of idiotic iiowcr, the whim of kings. 
 The i)Ui'bliiid wisdom of the christian meek. 
 
 Who, vain, would harmonize unequal 
 things, [traytKl, 
 
 These thou has past for thou wert not bo- 
 By the dull sophists ignorance hath made. 
 
 Thou had'st no wish to dwell wliere mankind 
 
 are [hands 
 
 Divided from themselves, tlie mouths and 
 
 And hearts of different creeds, and each u 
 
 star [hands. 
 
 Shot from its orb and loosened fiian its 
 
 The hoarding christian siirieks the wortl of 
 
 God, 
 And turns lean hunger, hungry to the wad. 
 
 He gives the Lord the glory of his hreatli. 
 Fit tribute from a microscopic soul. 
 
 Oh, what deciiy is woven with the wie.ith. 
 What dull lethargic demon keeps control. 
 
 The mind of man is shrunk till custom keeps 
 
 The key of truth wliose great Creator weeps. 
 
1*- 
 
 1344 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AilERICA. 
 
 The buruiasr maid, with peach-bloom on her 
 cheeks, 
 Lascivious smiles in fancied chastity. 
 Nor feels the cooing warning- which she 
 speaks. 
 The note tliat gives to sacredness the lie 
 Fell on her lips and lust upon her hand. 
 Death on her breast and sin her subtle wand. 
 The married virtue swell'd with breeding 
 death, [love. 
 
 Her eyes bespeaking midnight dreams of 
 Pours on some youth her false and honej-ed 
 breath. 
 And breaks the bonds once ratified above. 
 Holding the creed that luxury alone. 
 Becomes a crime when envy makes it known. 
 Better, far better that thy spark expired 
 
 In loneliness of soul, than ever find 
 A thing to be beloved or admired, 
 
 Amid the filth of frivolous mankind 
 Sleep thou or live, thy time I wisli were mine 
 To know the freedom of a soul divine. 
 • — I ^ I — » 
 
 EDWARD C.TILLSON. 
 
 Born: Thomaston, Me., March 15, 1807. 
 The poems t)f Mr.Tillsou have appeared from 
 time to time in the local press, and have al- 
 
 EDWARD C. TIIiliSON. 
 
 ways received high praise. He has for years 
 been a lumber dealer and is a man of great 
 
 integritj' and steiling qualities, and lias a 
 liost of warm friends. Mr.Tillsou was mar- 
 ried in 18.33 to Miss Mary P. Sawyer, and now 
 resides in Deer Park, Maryland. 
 
 THE CORNER STONE. 
 When earth's foundation first was laid 
 
 By the great Architect Divine, 
 And all the works t)f nature made 
 
 In beauty and in grace to shine, 
 When light from chaos first broke forth 
 
 To illume a dark benighted land 
 Then wast thou fixed firm in the earth 
 
 Thou ponderous rock, thou Corner Stone. 
 
 And was it chance that placed thee there, 
 
 Regardless of the use thou'd be 
 In after j'ears when virtue fair 
 
 Should raise lier temple high on thee? 
 No; it was by His power and skill 
 
 That thou on this fail spot was thrown 
 And it was His determined will 
 
 That thou shouldst be a Corner Stone. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN A YOUNG I.AUY'S ALBUM ON HER 
 CONTEMPLATED VISIT FROM BOSTON TO 
 ST. LOUIS. 
 
 They tell us. Miss Almira, 
 
 That you're about to roam 
 Far from your native city 
 
 And early childhood home. 
 And leave behind for new-made friends 
 
 Wliat now you largely share — 
 A mother's rich, undying love, 
 
 A father's tender care. 
 They tell us, too, Almira, 
 
 You go with a light heai't, 
 We neither do in sorrow 
 
 Nor yet in anger part; 
 We hope your hours will pleasant pass. 
 
 And sorrow keep aloof. 
 And in good time return again 
 
 To the parental roof. 
 We would not, no, Almira, 
 
 We -would not keep you here, 
 Wlien in your heart's convictions 
 
 Your dutj- seems so clear. 
 One single boon is all we ask. 
 
 And that I need not sought, 
 'Tis that you will, from time to time. 
 
 Bestow on us a thought. 
 And now to God, Almira, 
 
 Your welfare we commend. 
 Your kind and Heavenly Father, 
 
 Your best and truest friend; 
 And add to this one sentiment. 
 
 The choicest in tlie world. 
 My mother tongue's best benison — 
 
 God bless thee, gentle girl. 
 
 *- 
 
 — * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1345 
 
 PALMER COX. 
 
 As THE autlior of The Brownies, Their Book, 
 and Another Brownie Book, Mr. Cox has 
 become famous the world over. His articles 
 and poems have appeared constantly in St, 
 Nicholas, Wide Awake, Harper's Young- 
 
 PALMER COX. 
 
 People, Little Folks and various other well- 
 known publications. A volume entitled 
 Queer People, contains a collection of many 
 of his contributions to juvenile literature. 
 Mr. Cox illustrates his own poems, and his 
 studio and sanctum is at 65 Broadway, New 
 York City. 
 
 THE BROWNIE'S SNOW MAN. 
 When snowdrifts blocked the country roads. 
 And trees were bending: with their loads, 
 Tlie wind grew mild which had been raw. 
 And winter yielded to a thaw; 
 That night the Brownies stood to stare 
 In wonder on the villag^e square. 
 Said one, "This plot where drifts now roll 
 Seems like an acre from the Pole. 
 I have a scheme which nothing- lacks: 
 Now wliile the snow so closely packs. 
 And may be molded in the hand. 
 We'll build a st;itue tall and grand 
 
 Which here shall stand at niurnintf |»rinie. 
 To be the wonder of the time." 
 Another cried, -That suits us all. 
 To work let every moniber fall. 
 When once the task we undertake 
 Be sure no dwarfish man we'll make; 
 But one that proudly may look down 
 On half the buildings in llie town. 
 I know the place where builders keep 
 Tlieir benches while the snow is deep; 
 The poles, and ladders too, are tliere. 
 To use when working higli in air. 
 While some for these witli me will flj-, 
 Let some their hands to snow apply. 
 And not a feature of the man 
 Shall be neglected in our plan. 
 
 " You know the night, some time ago. 
 We tramped so far through drifted snow 
 To ornament with quaint design 
 Tlie windows of a mansion flni-; 
 And how, on lengthy ladders tin re 
 And scall'old swinging in the air. 
 We worked our brushes witli a will 
 From icy cap to window-sill. 
 And made the people, gre'it and small. 
 Believe Jack Frost had done it all?— 
 To-night we'll work as well, and show 
 A grand result before we go." 
 
 The snow that night was at its best. 
 
 And held its shajie however pressed; 
 
 Like dough beneath the liaker's hand 
 
 It seemed to answer each demand. 
 
 The rolls, when tumbled to and fn>. 
 
 Increased with every turning, so 
 
 First like a cushion on they sped. 
 
 Then like a pillow, next, a bed. 
 
 Until the snow, adhering there. 
 
 Would leave the grass or pebbles bare. 
 
 As higher blocks of snow were laid 
 
 Still higher scaffolding was made. 
 
 And ladders brought to use instead 
 
 Of those too short to reach the head. 
 
 Thus grew the form from hour t«i hour; 
 
 For Brownies' hands have wondrous powt i-. 
 
 And let them turn to what they will 
 
 Surprising work will follow still. 
 
 Some shaped the legs or sm.wthed the wal>;. 
 
 Some saw plump arms were rightly placctl: 
 
 The head was fixed with i>roi'ir iH)se, 
 
 Well fashioned were both ears and nose. 
 
 So dose thronged Brownies high and low. 
 
 A looker-on would hardly know 
 
 What plan or shape the busy band 
 
 Of cunningBrownies had in liaud, 
 
 But plan they had, and deftness too. 
 
 As well was seen wh.n they were through. 
 
 The rounded form and manly jnirt 
 
 fhowed modeling of rarest sort. 
 
 — i" 
 
*- 
 
 1346 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AilERICA. 
 
 While charcoal eyes, so well desig-ncd 
 They seemed to read the very mine', 
 Long- icicles for beard and hair, 
 Were last affixed with taste and care. 
 And wlien tlie poles around the base 
 Had been returned each to its place, 
 And ev^ery ladder, bench and board 
 They had in use, again was stored, 
 The Brownies stood around awhile 
 To gaze upon tlieir work and smile. 
 Each points at head, or hand, or t0(>. 
 His special handiwork to show. 
 In truth, they had good reason there 
 With joy and pride to stand and stare. 
 And contemplate the object white 
 Which loomed above to such a height. 
 And not unlike some hero old. 
 For courage famed, or action bold. 
 With finger pointed out, as though. 
 To indicate the coming foe. 
 But morning light soon came to chase 
 The Brownies to their hiding-place. 
 And children on their way to school 
 Forgot their lessons and the rule 
 While gazing on the statute tall 
 That seemed to guard the County Hall. 
 And after drifts had left the square. 
 When roads and shingle-roofs were bare. 
 The Brownies' statue, like a tower. 
 Still bravely faced both wind and shower 
 Thougli sinking slowly all the while. 
 And losing corpulence and style, 
 Till gardners, on the first of May, 
 With shovels pitched the man away. 
 
 THE BROWNIES IN THE ACADEMY. 
 
 The Brownies once with capers spry 
 
 To an Academy drew nigh. 
 
 Which, founded by a generous hand. 
 
 Spread light and learning through the land. 
 
 The students, by ambition fired, 
 
 And men of science had retired; 
 
 So Brownies, tlirough their mystic power. 
 
 Now took advantage of tlie hour. 
 
 A battery was soon displayed. 
 
 And strange experiments were made; 
 
 Electric currents were applied 
 
 To meadow-frogs they found inside. 
 
 Which sage professors, nights and days. 
 
 Had gathered up, in various ways. 
 
 So making pills some turned the mind. 
 
 While some to dentistry inclined. 
 
 And aching teeth, both small and large. 
 
 Were there extracted free of charge. 
 
 More gazed where i)hrenologic charts 
 Showed heads partitioned oft in parts. 
 Said one: " Let others knowledge gain 
 
 Through which to conquer ache and pain, 
 But by these charts I'll do my best 
 To learn where fancy makes her nest." 
 Another cried, as he surveyed 
 The bumps that were so well arraj-ed; 
 "These heads exhibit, full and clear. 
 Which one to love and whom to fear; 
 Who is with noble thoughts inspired. 
 And who with hate or envy fired ; 
 The man as timid as the hare. 
 The man destructive as the bear. 
 While choosing partners, one may find 
 It well to keep thesecharts in mind," 
 
 A microscope at length they found; 
 
 And next the Brownies gathered round 
 
 A stereopticon machine 
 
 That cast its rays upon a screen. 
 
 A thousand times it magnified. 
 
 Till, stretching out on every side, 
 
 An object large and larger spread. 
 
 And filled tlie grazing group with dread. 
 
 The locust, beetle and the bee 
 
 Soon gained proportions strange to see, 
 
 .\nd seemed like monsters close at hand 
 
 To put an end to all the band. 
 
 Ere long a door was open swung. 
 
 To show some skeletons that hung 
 
 From hook and peg, which caused a shout 
 
 Of fear to rise from those about. 
 
 Said one: " Thus science works its way 
 
 Through old remains from daj' to day; 
 
 And those who during life could find 
 
 No time, perhaps, to aid mankind. 
 
 May, after all, in some such phice 
 
 For years assist the luiinan race 
 
 By giving students, as you see, 
 
 Some knowledge of anatomy." 
 
 At other times, all breathless grouped 
 
 O'er crucibles, the Brownies stooped 
 
 To separate, with greater skill. 
 
 The grains which cure from those th.it kill: 
 
 While burning acids, blazes blue. 
 
 And odors strong confused the crew. 
 
 Cried one: ••Through trials hard to bear. 
 
 The student must himself prepare. 
 
 Though mixing paint, or mixing pill — 
 
 Or mixing phrases, if you will — 
 
 No careless study satisfies 
 
 If one would to distinction rise; 
 
 The minds that shed from pole to pole 
 
 The liglit of years, as round wo roll. 
 
 Are first enriched through patient toil, 
 
 And kindled by tlie midnight oil." 
 
 Thus, spicing logic with a joke. 
 They chatted on till morning broke; 
 And then with wild and rapid race 
 The Brownie band forsook tlie place. 
 
 * 
 
 « 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL. AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMEKICA. 
 
 1347« 
 
 IMRS. HARRIET W. RE QUA. 
 
 Born: Aucade, N.Y. 
 
 When a mere child, verses of remarkable 
 ability seemed to flow from the pen of this 
 lady almost without effort, and she also ex- 
 hibited {-Teat talent for painting and draw- 
 ing, lu 1874 she was married to Kev. W. T. Re 
 
 MRS. HARRIET WARNER RE QUA. 
 
 Qua, a missionary of the Indian Territory, to 
 whom she has been a faithful co-worker in 
 mission work. Mrs. ReQua, is the author of 
 two volumes of poems: Stones for the Temple 
 and Ziona.which contain beautiful and pious 
 thoughts. Mrs. ReQua has already gained a 
 high place in the world of poesy and song. 
 
 SORROWS MISSION. 
 There is no path, though kissed by cool, pale 
 lilies. 
 And bowered with beauty heaped againsi 
 the sky ; 
 But hath some graves hid in some marshy 
 tangle. 
 
 Whore dead hopes buried lie. 
 
 There is no heart that, like the lake-fed foun- 
 tain 
 Sings on and on, glad in its stillness flow ; 
 
 But hath some secret closet locked, cnuccal- 
 ing 
 
 Tlie skeleton of woe. 
 
 And wlierefore? God hath given jrrief a 
 mission. 
 And only when the eye with tears is ditn. 
 O'er wrong, disjister, tumuliand confusion. 
 Does man look up to Ilini. 
 
 Presumptiousman would walk tlirough time 
 unaided. 
 And onlj- when his towering flabel fulls, 
 By which he thought to gain the lunU su|)er- 
 nal. 
 
 And scale the geio-laid walls. 
 
 Onlj- among the ruins of Iiis lal)or. 
 Where hangs tlie midnight of his self-des- 
 pair; [tion 
 Prostrate in helpless, hopeless heart-contri- 
 He breathes accepted prayer. 
 
 And wherefore? Heard ye of a wondrous 
 visioii,' 
 Grander tl'ian lips can tell or pencil pjiiiit. 
 When swung the gates that hide the realms 
 Elysian, 
 
 Before an exiled saint? 
 
 Heard ye of throngs thai iiressed the crystal 
 waters. 
 And walked enchanted on the silversands? 
 Of blood-washed robes, and star-girt crowns 
 imperial. 
 
 And palms tlint decked those hands? 
 
 Heard ye how came they there? By each 
 storm lashing 
 The black waves to white terror, were they 
 driven. 
 O'er the tumultuous ocean ever neai-er. 
 The harbor men c:ill Heaven. 
 
 So, have ye faith? — Griefs then are angel- 
 pinions. 
 Wafting ye sunward: and the holy land 
 Lies that way. Look ui> with thanksgiving: 
 The world hangs on Gods hand. 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN'. 
 Lord, it is utterly nothing, nothing I bring to 
 
 Thee. 
 Thou hast let the light of Thy Heaven down 
 
 sol can plainly see: 
 I thought I had wealth and worth to bring. 
 
 and a portion of love and bliss: 
 Nor dreamed the whole of my fanciful store 
 
 could shrivel and fade to this. 
 
 Lord, it is utterly nothing, I bring with shame 
 and tears 
 
•i^- 
 
 1348 
 
 ->h 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA 
 
 The gathered griefs and sorrows of fruitless 
 
 and faithless years; 
 The fires that burned to ashes, the hopes that 
 
 are dead and lost, 
 Flowers nourished and cherished fondly, 
 
 grown sere with the earl3' frost. 
 
 Lord, it is worse than nothing-, yet all that I 
 
 have to bring 
 Is here in the hapless burden laid down at 
 
 the feet of the King. 
 I would I could make it worthj', could lighten 
 
 with stars the night. 
 Could wring out the sin and sorrow, and wash 
 
 the offering white. 
 
 It is finished, my bootless labor, my quest 
 for a living tree 
 
 Whose branch might sweeten and brighten 
 the Marah of misery. 
 
 It is finished, my useless striving, mj' wait- 
 ing for worth ^f my own; 
 
 I can only fall down with my burden, and 
 trust in Thy grace alone. 
 
 And oh! where I fall Thou hast found me 
 
 and oh ! Thou art lifting me up ! 
 And Into the sea of Thy mercy the sin and 
 
 the suffering drop. 
 The arms of Thy love are beneath me, the 
 
 seal of Thy troth on mj- hand. 
 Oh, love that is infinite, holy ! O, Presence, 
 
 supernal and grand! 
 
 I give Thee my striving and straying and take 
 
 back a heaven of peace; 
 I giveTheemy efl'orts unskilful, and fruitless 
 
 — thrice blessed release; 
 I lake back Omnipotence holy, and tender 
 
 and loving and true. 
 Oh, barter the wonder of wonders I Oh, 
 
 grandeur that glimmers In view! 
 
 O, law that is flawless and dreaded! O, Vic- 
 tim of Calvary slain ! 
 
 In Thee are fulfilled its requirements; on 
 Thee are the wrath and tlie pain. 
 
 O, Lamb that didst bear in their fullness the 
 curse and the woe that were mine! 
 
 The sabre uplifted to slay me is sheathed in 
 the Victim divine. 
 
 HB- 
 
 NOT TO FAIL. 
 'Tis not to fail at hist, 
 That He hath brought thee, Christian, on 
 thy way ; 
 Through storms that gathered 'round thee 
 
 thick and fast ; 
 And clouds that all thy earthly heaven o'er- 
 cast, 
 From night to dawning of supernal day. 
 
 'Tis not to fail. Oh, child 
 
 Of tlie eternal Father! that His iiaiid 
 Reached out among the billows breaking wild 
 To grasp thine own, death-damped and sin- 
 defiled. 
 Lifting thee toward tiie sinless summer- 
 laud. 
 
 'Tis not to fail. Oh, heart 
 
 By sin and sorrow blighted; that He laid 
 His own scarred hand upon thee, till the 
 
 smart 
 Of the soul-agony was drawn apart; 
 
 Then whispered •• It is I, be not afraid." 
 
 'Tis not to fail on earth. 
 That He hath broken and hath healed thee 
 so; 
 Thy fears, unworthy of celestial birth ; 
 Thy painful strife, and joys unceasing dearth 
 Cast in the Fount that washes white as 
 snow. 
 
 Arise, go forth and shine; 
 For He hath lit thy lump that thou mightst 
 hold 
 It high with radiance dimless and divine. 
 Where deepening shades with deejiest night 
 entwine; 
 Where souls grope blindly, comfortless and 
 cold. 
 
 'Tis not to fail at last. 
 That He hath called and sealed thee for His 
 own ; 
 And shielded thee through dangers that are 
 
 passed. 
 Hope on. Oh, Christian, not to fail at last. 
 He leads thee upward ever to His throne! 
 
 OUR ANGEL. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 There was room in our home, so much room, 
 
 Yet she went away, 
 Out in the unrifted gloom; 
 Down through the mold of the tomb; 
 
 And the prayers that we tried to say 
 
 Died off from our lips that day. 
 
 There was room in our licjirls, so much room 
 
 Ah ! the space she left 
 Is vacant and broad and the gloom 
 Is as the night of the tomb; 
 
 Ah, sad is the heart bereft! 
 
 Ah, lone is the place she left ! 
 
 There was room for our own, our own, 
 
 Many angels are tliere; 
 And we had but one, only one — 
 O God ! have they put out the sun. 
 
 That I feel the night near? 
 
 Night evermore here. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIOXAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1349 
 
 MRS. SARAH B. COOPER. 
 
 Born: Cazenovia, N. Y., Dec. 12, 1836. 
 From lier jouth this lady has been oiigafe'-od 
 in literary work. After graduation she went 
 to Augusta, Georgia, as governess in the 
 family of Governor Schley of Georgia. On 
 Gov. Cooper's plantation were five hundred 
 
 MRS. SARAH B. COOPER. 
 
 slaves, whom she taught the Scriptures 
 every Sunday. In 185.5 she was married to 
 Halsey Fenimore Cooper, and now has sev- 
 eral children. During- part of the war she 
 was president of the society for the Aid of 
 Kefugees, and at the same time had a bible 
 class of three hundred soldiers all the time. 
 Mrs. Cooper has the largest bible class in 
 San Francisco, and was the founder of that 
 city's kindergartens for the poor, and is now 
 president of the Golden Gate Kindergarten 
 Association. The pen of this g-reat philan- 
 thropist and author has been principally 
 engaged in prose writing, althong-h she is 
 the author of some excellent verse whicli 
 has appeared in the Overland Monthly and 
 other prominent publications. 
 
 HEREDITi'. 
 
 A stream comes bounding from the hills. 
 Like a fettered fawn set free;— 
 
 Imprisoned life the valley thrills, 
 Radiant with prophecy. 
 
 Freshness to fading soon gives place. 
 
 A strange, untimely tiling — 
 We follow back tiie rill, and trace 
 
 Death at the fountain spring. 
 
 A blossom of exquisite mold 
 Hangs from the parent stem; 
 
 Its petals open to unfold 
 The hidden diadem. 
 
 When lo! it withers at the bough, 
 
 A blossom without fruit — 
 Wherefore the blight?— the secret new- 
 
 A worm is at the root. 
 
 Vain hope to make the streamlet pure. 
 With taint at fountain rock — 
 
 Or look for fruitage rich and sure. 
 With larvtv in the stock. 
 
 So, man unhelmed, must find repair 
 
 In love's divinest plight; 
 Enfeoffed of heaven, through faith 
 prayer. 
 
 Before he sees the light. 
 
 Then temperance, truth and purity. 
 Bequeathed through parentage, 
 
 Shall crown the race with joy, and be 
 Man's lasting heritage. 
 
 ind 
 
 TRANSITION. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 What is death but transition to those who 
 
 can say, 
 '•The Lord is our Leader, He ciiooseth our 
 
 way'!*" 
 What if hope prove a night-dream, inspiring 
 
 our fears. 
 And, like children in darkness, we waken to 
 
 tears';? 
 
 Far off through the lattice the niglii s-tars 
 
 are seen. 
 Enkindling the heavens with shimmer and 
 
 shee!i; 
 O'er earth's rugged moorlands they slutl 
 
 their soft iigiit. 
 Bringing gleam out of darkness and dawn 
 
 out of night. 
 
 With coming of morning the night stars 
 
 retire, 
 Utidimnied in their lustre, unpalcd iu their 
 
 Are — 
 They move on their mission of brightness 
 
 afar. 
 They follow the wake of the sun's golden car. 
 
*- 
 
 « 
 
 1350 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POE 1 S OF A3IERICA. 
 
 COL. G. D. BREWERTOX. 
 
 Born: Newport, R. I., June 3. 1828. 
 This artist and poet is the author of numer- 
 ous poems and a volume published by the 
 Riverside Press. The writings of Col. Brew- 
 erton have appeared in Harper's, Putnam's 
 and many prominent publications of the 
 
 ^fflSS^^l^^T" 
 
 33£?!7»^Kv7) 
 
 COL. G. DOUGLAS BREWERTON. 
 
 east and west. Col. Brewerton has led an 
 eventful career as a soldier and Indian fight- 
 er. He was married in 1886 ao Mrs, Sarah E, 
 Brown, widow of Major Brown, a distin- 
 guished engineer. 
 
 PORTER. 
 
 Pride of a line of ocean lords, 
 
 Of men who won historic swords. 
 
 Renowned for foresight, pluck and tact. 
 
 Turning each hopeless feat to fact. 
 
 Ever to present duty true. 
 
 Rest 'neath the flag that honors you. 
 
 WILL YOU MISS ME? 
 Will you miss me when the wood-box 
 
 Your tender hands must fill, 
 Wlien tliat ever needy grocer 
 
 Presents his little bill? 
 
 When the fires, still unkindled 
 
 Must be lit at earlj- morn, 
 Tliough each frozen finger perish. 
 
 And you're feeling so forlorn; 
 'Tis then I know you'll misb me 
 
 As you never missed before. 
 Though you dream a husband present 
 
 An everlasting bore. 
 
 You will miss me when the doctor 
 
 Says that child is surely ill. 
 And, little AUie's ailing. 
 
 But declines to take a pill; 
 Or it maybe when the twilight 
 
 Around you closes dim. 
 And tiie children's voices tremble. 
 
 As they sing their evening hymn — 
 For they miss tlie absent father. 
 
 Ever ready to their call. 
 And would even meet with gladness 
 
 His shadow on tlie wall. 
 
 You will miss me when the stovepipe 
 
 Rattles'down upon your liead. 
 And you strive to mend the mischief 
 
 Till you wish that you were dead; 
 When in the midnight watches 
 
 You sadly lie alone. 
 And hear the winds as sleepless 
 
 Through the pine trees make their 
 moan; 
 When the baby's sick and restless. 
 
 And all things go awry. 
 Till every star seems clouded 
 
 And blotted from your sky. 
 
 You'll miss me when your patent pump 
 
 Is frozen to the spout. 
 And wish your handy hubby near. 
 
 Just then, to thaw it out. 
 Such services make wedded life, 
 
 A union tliat outlives 
 Tliose turmoils in affection's tide — 
 
 The advent of the kids; 
 They suggest those tender letters. 
 
 That describes a woman's woes. 
 And request, bj' way of answer. 
 
 Some money that she owes. 
 
 I should think you strangely altered 
 
 Without worries to be borne. 
 And needing no assistance 
 
 To extract a houscliold thorn. 
 When that Biddy's been so saucy. 
 
 Your spring bonnet still delayed. 
 And the dross that creature ruined 
 
 To be ripped up and remade; 
 Then I know you'll twine about me 
 
 As the oak sustains the vine. 
 And I'll love you in the twilight 
 
 As you asked in tliat old time. 
 
 PP 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMKKICA. 
 
 i:i.5i 
 
 JOHN IMRIE. 
 
 IiMKiE's Poems, a beiiutiful volume of 350 
 pages, interspersed with music and illustra- 
 tions, has assured to this author a lasting- 
 reputation as an author and true poet. Mr 
 Inirie is the senior member of a larjit' inib- 
 
 JOHN IMFUE. 
 
 lishing house doing business in Toronto, 
 Canada, where he is very popular in business, 
 social and literary circles. 
 
 SCOTTY. 
 Yes I ca' me Scotty if ye will. 
 For sic* a name can mean nae ill, 
 O' a' nickname just tak' yer fill — 
 I'm quite content with Scotty I 
 
 To be a Scot is nae disgrace, 
 Maist folk can trust a guid Scotch face. 
 He's never lang oot o' a place,— 
 The honest, faithful Scotty ! 
 
 A Scotchman has the knack to plod. 
 Through thick an' thin he'll bear his load. 
 His trust is aye in richt an' God,— 
 
 The perseverin' Scotty! 
 He's 'tentive baith to kirk an' mart. 
 To friends he's true an' hard to part. 
 In life's great race he needs nae start,— 
 
 "I'll win or dee," sas's Scotty! 
 
 An' if he meets wi" ane fir twa 
 O' Scollau's sons when far awa". 
 They'll 'gree like brilliers and and a', — 
 A clannis^h man is Scotty! 
 
 Though aft he travels far f rae hame. 
 He's aye a Scotchman a' the same. 
 An' proud to crack o' Scotlan's fame, — 
 A loyal son is Scatty I 
 
 Should Scotlan' ever need his help. 
 He'll gio her enemies a skelp. 
 An' make them howl like ony wlielp. 
 And gie respect to Scotty ! 
 
 Then ca' me Scotty if ye will. 
 Nickname like that can mean nae ill. 
 I'll shake yer liand' wi' richt guid will, 
 Whane'er ye ca' me Scotty ! 
 
 WHERE DOTH BEAUTY DWKLL? 
 Look for the first faint streaks of morn. 
 
 That gild the eastern sky, 
 Another day in beauty born. 
 
 As mounts the sun on liigh; 
 Tinting the tops of highest towers 
 
 With crimson and with gold. 
 Melting the dewdrops from the Bowers 
 
 Tliat peepingly unfold: 
 There doth the beautiful abide 
 
 In calm security; 
 The rosy morn — deck'd like a bride — 
 
 Of virgin purity! 
 
 Look for the eyes that beam wltli love. 
 
 And sparkle with delight. 
 To meet til y gaze — like stars above — 
 
 Brightest in thy dark night; 
 DispeUing every thought of sin 
 
 From out thy lu art's great deei>, 
 Chasing the darkness from within. 
 
 Or soothe thy fears to sleep: 
 There doth the beautiful abide 
 
 In full maturity; 
 And there may thy fond heart reside 
 
 Through all futurity! 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Each grain of sand by sounding sea. 
 Each trembling leaf on quivering tree. 
 Each blade of grass on dewy lea. 
 
 Speaks volumes of God's love for me ! 
 The jiearls that deep in ocean lie. 
 Tlic twinkling stars tliat gem the sky. 
 The sunbeam, caught f rt)m noontide's eye. 
 
 Direct my thoughts, oh. God. to Thee! 
 The flowers that deck the fragrant dell. 
 And o'er me c:ist their lieauty-spell. 
 I love them — for they seem to tell 
 
 The story of God's love to me I 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 « 
 
 1352 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL POETS OF AIMEKICA. 
 
 CHARLES H. A. ESLING. 
 
 Born: Philadelphia, Jan. 21, 1845. 
 
 Charles Henry Augustine Esling re- 
 ceived the honorary degree of A. M., Cente- 
 nary Diploma, from Georgetown University, 
 Districtof Columbia, and the degree of LL. 
 B.,la course from the university of Penn- 
 sylvania. He read law in the office of Hon. 
 William Morris Meredith, and has practiced 
 his profession for over twenty years in his 
 native city. He has on one or two occasions 
 been honored with diplomatic missions 
 abroad. He has been a frequent contributor 
 to the press in prose and poetry, and is one 
 of the founders of the Pegasus or Poet's 
 Club, of Philadelphia. He is a member of 
 several learned societies and clubs and takes 
 a great interest in athletics. He was mar- 
 ried in 1890 to Elizabeth Balder, of Fulwood. 
 Pennsylvania, and is at present residing in 
 Europe. He has written about two hundred 
 poems, both original and translations from 
 foreign languages. A list of his translated 
 hymns of the church is given in Dr. Robert 
 Ellis Thompson's Revision of Dr. Samuel 
 Duffleld's Latin Church Hymns and their 
 writer. 
 
 SHELL SONG. 
 
 O'er Lethean spell 
 Of Schuylkill's swell, 
 Avachne glides, my buoyar.t shell. 
 And spins through maze. 
 Of water ways, 
 A web of blooms on woofs of haze. 
 
 Lo, shore and stream. 
 Alike a-gleam. 
 
 Glow with Padolus' golden fire. 
 In leaps and lulls. 
 My tuneful swells 
 Woke tones of Hebrus' sunken lyre. 
 
 No dolphin's back, 
 
 A lumbering track. 
 
 Here cleaves, nor Ariel's bat 1 lack; 
 
 'Mid floating lawns, 
 
 Of dusks and dawns, 
 
 I cope with Venus' car of swans. 
 
 Puck's filmy wins. 
 
 Could it nimbler spring. 
 
 Than tides of stream and air I breast? 
 
 Love lends to rae 
 
 Immensity, 
 
 I float as in a Halcyon's nest. 
 
 I glide and gloat, 
 
 A water-moat. 
 
 Upon my spinning insect boat, 
 
 A winged bliss. 
 
 That springs, I wis. 
 
 From suntide's sheathing chrysalis. 
 
 Inlucent strands. 
 
 With magic hands. 
 
 She taketh hold of misty things. 
 
 From golden beams. 
 
 She builds like dreams 
 
 Air-palaces of fairy kings. 
 
 She bids me share 
 
 Her prowess rare, 
 
 Olympian potency to dare; 
 
 My spirit-plods. 
 
 No earthly sods, 
 
 I skim the highways of the gods. 
 
 Each nymph that roves. 
 
 By founts and groves. 
 
 Comes forth to cheer the spinner's skill. 
 
 In this lithe bole. 
 
 Her maiden soul 
 
 And artist power liveth still. 
 
 No butterfly 
 
 Of gayest dye. 
 
 Adrift in blue of summer skj-. 
 
 Can sip from flower. 
 
 Of earthly bower. 
 
 The sweetness I, from this sweet hour. 
 
 No wisdom's lore. 
 
 My soul doth bore, 
 
 A-swing amid my fancy's meshes. 
 
 As I afloat. 
 
 My spider boat. 
 
 Rest 'mid the willow shaded pleslies. 
 
 AT FATHER PROUTS GRAVE. 
 while listening to the bells of shan- 
 
 DON. 
 
 Peace to thy slumbers! 
 
 In musical numbei-s 
 
 Thy requiem swells from Shandon steei)le. 
 
 Its ivy leaves running. 
 
 And Lee's silvery crooning. 
 
 All echoed for aye in the hearts of tliy peoi)le. 
 
 .Toy to thy ashes! 
 
 Thy wit's classic flashes, ling 
 
 And all the rich brogue of thy vagabond sing- 
 Within the tomb waken. 
 And through an- love-shaken. 
 Vibrate 'round the world at Shandon's sweet 
 ringing. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND KATIONAI. POETS OF AMKUICA. 
 
 i3o;s 
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL. 
 
 Rorn: Chautauqua Co., N. Y. 
 After stmlying- theolog-j' hi Now York City 
 diid at Amlovcr, Mass., Professor Haskell 
 was called to tlie pastorate of a Presbyteriai; 
 church in Washington, D. C, after many 
 years active interest in the abolition move- 
 
 THOMAS NELSON HASKELL. 
 
 ment and in the cause of the war. Mr. Has- 
 kell, after returning- from atrip to Europe 
 for his health, retired from the pulpit, and 
 accepted the chair of logic, literature and 
 political economy in the University of Wis- 
 consin. Heistlieauthorof TheBoysin Blue. 
 Konkaput, the King of the Qtes ,a fas- 
 cinating poem of remarkable merit. Pro- 
 fessor Haskell is the state librarian of 
 Colorado, and fills the position of Chaplain 
 of the Senate. 
 
 HYMN ON DEATH OF LINCOLN. 
 
 With^we profound this day, 
 The Nation bows to pray 
 
 In bitter grief; 
 And through the stricken land 
 The broken-hearted stand 
 And mourn on every hand 
 
 Their martyred chief. 
 
 Tlie Almighty Uuler hears — 
 His sorrowing people's te.-ir.s 
 
 Fall at His feet — 
 Makes our just cause His care. 
 Indites and lieurs our prayer. 
 And for us still makes bare 
 
 His mere J' seat. 
 O, Thou who hast removed 
 Him whom tlie peojile loved — 
 
 Thy servant rare 
 
 Wlio gavest iiim strength and light 
 Tosee andguard the right. 
 Still grant Thy holy might 
 
 To men of pi'ayer. 
 Bless still oui' Nat ion's' head — 
 Successor of the dead — 
 
 And keep his life; 
 While armies cease their tread 
 And those who fought and bled. 
 Rest in their peaceful bed. 
 
 Heal all our strife. 
 Comfort eacli stricken one, 
 O, God, the Father, Sou 
 
 And Holy Ghost; 
 While in our hearts we own 
 That here Thy love is known 
 And Thine the oidy tlirone 
 
 Of which we boast. 
 
 A HYMN FOR DEDICATION OF Y. M. C. A. 
 HALL. 
 Almighty Builder of the skies. 
 
 Bend down thy lofty dome 
 And view our costly sacrifice. 
 An offering Thou wilt not despise 
 We give thee this, our liome! 
 
 We thank Th.ee for thy helping hand 
 
 And providential care. 
 By which this building now doth stand 
 The fit abode of sucli a V)and 
 
 Of brotherhood and prayer. 
 
 Come, dwell within its sacred wjills; 
 
 Here make thy goodness known ; 
 Live in its volumes, in its halls; 
 Send thence thy loves most winning culls. 
 
 And keep the place thine own : 
 
 O gather in this peaceful fold 
 
 Those wandering far abroad. 
 Till blessings more thiin it can liold. 
 And richer far than pearls or gold. 
 It shall give back to God! 
 
 Stud every nation with such stars 
 
 Of piety and peace; 
 Till, by their light, unholy wars 
 And vice, which every beauty mars. 
 
 Shall 'mong all peoples cease! 
 
 *- 
 
 -* 
 
•*- 
 
 1354 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 WILLIAM HIBBERT WARE. 
 
 Born: England, Dec. 24, 1863. 
 Mr. Ware's grandfuther was the late Dr. 
 Samuel Hibbert, M. D., P. R. S., who was the 
 oldest representative in a straig-lit line of Sir 
 James Ware, the Irish historian, and as- 
 sumed the name of Ware by Royal License 
 
 * 
 
 WILLIAM HIBBERT WARE. 
 
 of Ulster King at arms, and is the author of 
 Hibbert Ware Annalsin the British Museum. 
 The subject of this skelcli was left an orphan 
 when an infant, and he was placed under 
 the charge of his uncle, Sir Roliert Stuart, 
 late Chief Justice of N. W. India. Mr. Ware 
 has only receutly come to this country, but 
 Is thoroughly imbued with the freedom and 
 fairness which characterize its institutions. 
 To America, to a great extent, must be en- 
 scribed the cause of the inspiration which 
 the muse has imparted to him. Mr. William 
 Hibbert Ware resides in Trenton, N. J., where 
 he is engaged as an accountant. His poems 
 have appeared extensively in the eastern 
 press. 
 
 SOME BETTER PART OF NATURE. 
 
 Those dormant sensibilities that lie 
 
 Deep down.witliiutlie heart's pathetic well. 
 Watered with tears and pruned by little 
 pangs. 
 
 Some day will blossom and with goodness 
 swell. 
 
 'Neath blackest heart, choked by depravity. 
 There lies tlie tenderest chord, susceptible. 
 
 Which, if but reached and gently exercised. 
 Will ope the floodgates of the heart's deep 
 well. 
 
 I care not if the heart be e'er so hard; 
 
 Tiie soul be e'er so far depraved or bad, 
 Tliereliessomequantily of sense ti Kit's good; 
 
 Some tender spot that's full of pathos sad. 
 
 Of every tear that flows adown the cheek; 
 
 Of every pang tliat rends the human heart. 
 There comes an after, melting influence 
 
 That ushers into life some better part. 
 
 SPRINGS CHEERING LESSON. 
 
 The earth is young and fair — and old winter. 
 Silvery with hoary locks has departed, 
 Yielding up his tenemeni to blushing youth. 
 Taking, in his flght his mantle. 
 Wherewith he warmly clad the mountains 
 
 high 
 And valleys sweet— protecting them from 
 
 chill 
 Of nipping frost. 
 
 Tiie glorious sun gives strength 
 To all the bursting buds of Nature's field. 
 The canopy is one blue arch o'erliead. 
 And mankind treads upon a carpet soft. 
 In verdant richness grown, and jewelled o'er 
 With daises sweet and golden buttercups. 
 The hum and murmur of the insects gaj", 
 With variegated colors richly decked; 
 The })erfume of the mignonetti' and rose. 
 Of violet and sweet-smelling briar wild. 
 In all tliese we read the advent of spring! 
 And in the early morn of this briglit time, 
 Tlie lark, that oft doth build her lowly nest 
 Upon the ground, soars grandly high on 
 
 wing. 
 And chants her grateful carol in the sky. 
 It is a time when timid roe and hart 
 Flee nimbly across tlie greensward common. 
 Drinking iu Nature's airy i>erfume sweet. 
 This is a season much beloved by young — 
 Fair Cupid's hour — when lovers woo, and 
 
 l)light 
 Their troth, in some sequestered, floral nook. 
 This is the time of year the wisest men, 
 Of every age and clime, have ever loved. 
 A season when old and young, rich and poor- 
 All mankind— should learn the wiiolesome 
 
 lesson 
 Spring teaches, by its wonted harmony; 
 A mighty truth that's grandly sweet, there 
 
 is no death. 
 « 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL TOKT.S OF AMKKICA. 
 
 IHoo 
 
 DR. THOMAS J. B. RHOADS. 
 
 Born: Berks Co., Pa., Sept. 26. 1837. 
 After receiving-a common school education, 
 Mr. Rlioads taught for some years, and at the 
 same time prosecuted studies to enter tlie 
 Jefferson Medical College at Philadelphia, 
 from which school he graduated in 1861. Mr. 
 
 DK. THOMAS .J. B. lUIOADS. 
 
 Rhoads at once began the practice of medi- 
 cine. In December 1863 he was commissioned 
 assistant surgeon of the 169th Regt. Pa. Vols. 
 Totretiier with his brother, Reuben, he had 
 charge of the forces at Fort Keys and tlie 
 lipspital on the Point. In the spring of 1863 
 Mr. Rhoads moved with his regiment and re- 
 mained with it as acting: assistant surgeon 
 until it was mustered out of service. After 
 tlie war Mr. Rhoads settled down to the prac- 
 tice of his profession at Boyertown, Pa. In 
 1883 he organized the Farmer's National 
 Bank of Boyertown and became its president, 
 which position lie still holds. 
 
 THE TOILS OF THE FARM. 
 
 'Tis the hour of morning. 
 Faint streaks of light illume the eastern sky; 
 Fast fading- stars the rising- sun proclaim; 
 Tlie thrifty farmer scans his vast domain. 
 With sturdy team he hies to yonder plain, 
 
 Behind the plow his place to take iiRaiii 
 The yielding sod in symmetry to turn. 
 
 'Tis the hour of noontide, 
 Higli overhead the sun now sheds his rays; 
 Tlie dinner-bell higli perched on yonder pole. 
 Swung- by the dame, its welcome echoes roll. 
 Tlie tired steeds witli necks and ears extend, 
 Tlie iileasing sound tliey clearly comprehend ; 
 With quickened steps their way iKjmewanl 
 wend. 
 
 'Tis the hour of evening-, 
 And at the well known sound of Sukie's call 
 Thekine, forth issuing from the pasture field. 
 Unto the maid theii- li(jui(l treasures yield. 
 The shades of eventide are gathering round 
 To cast their sable mantle on the ground, 
 And nature's works sink into quiet rest. 
 
 'Tis the hour of midnight, 
 
 On downy pillow now he rests his liead; 
 
 The heavy chest and measured breath por- 
 tend 
 
 A day of labor and its toil well spent. 
 
 His aching- limbs and his weary form at rest, 
 
 With toubled dreams his active mind op- 
 pressed, 
 
 Unconscious of the near approach of day. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF YOUTH. 
 Oh: days of childhood and of jouth. 
 
 How happy we were then! 
 With naught to fret and worry us, 
 
 And naught to give us pain. 
 
 No cares nor burdens on our minds; 
 
 No trials to endure. 
 While all around was innocence. 
 
 And all our thoughts were pure. 
 
 How we enjoyed the pleasant sport 
 
 Of bathing in the pond; 
 Of chasing squirrels to their lair. 
 
 Or larger ganie to hunt. 
 In playing games of hide and seek 
 
 To father's barn wed hie. 
 Where, hid among- the hay and straw. 
 
 The seeker we could spy. 
 When once beyond our liidinR place. 
 
 How deftly we would roll. 
 And make a dash to reach the pluco 
 
 Selected for the goal. 
 Long lanes we diijr lienenth the straw 
 
 To some secluded jilace. 
 Where we could lie securely hid 
 
 While others lost the race. 
 When nutting season was at hand 
 
 To distant woods we'd hie 
 With lofty pole and dwarfish sacks. 
 
 And clubs a g-ootl supply. 
 
 — * 
 
* 
 
 -* 
 
 1356 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.. 
 
 While one with pole was beating- boughs 
 
 The rest would scatter round 
 To seek the nuts among- the leaves, 
 
 Or pick them from the ground. 
 
 Some flinging- clubs high in the air 
 "Gainst some projecting- branch. 
 
 Would send the shellbarks rattling- as 
 They fell from branch to branch. 
 
 In plaj'ing- g-ames of shindy on 
 
 Tiie mill-pond close at hand 
 Or chasing rabbits o'er the fields 
 
 In a tumultuous band. 
 
 The fleetest foot, by some mishap 
 Went tumbling- on the g-round, 
 
 While others coming close behind 
 Would clear him at a bound. 
 
 And by the time his feet he gained 
 
 And rubbed his aching side, 
 Tiie game, pursued by yelling- crowd 
 
 Had vanished out of sight. 
 
 In coasting- then our turn we'd take 
 
 From top of yonder hill. 
 And swiftly glided down its side 
 
 To meadow by the mill. 
 
 On fancy sleds we boys of yore 
 
 Were never used to ride. 
 With shapelj' forms and painter's art 
 
 Displayed on every side; 
 
 Some roughed boards, with ends upturned. 
 
 Well seasoned by the sun, 
 On end of this a block of wood 
 
 For seat to rest upon. 
 
 How 'round the hearth in winter time 
 
 The family would meet 
 To take our fill of apples, or 
 
 A glass of cider sweet! 
 
 How, clustered round our mother's knee, 
 
 We oftentimes would wait 
 To teach us say our evening prayers. 
 
 Or stories to relate! 
 
 How eager to retain each word 
 
 That from lier lips would fall! 
 How well tho' our lessons she had taught ! - 
 
 I still remember all! 
 
 Three months of schooling in each year 
 
 Was all we could obtain. 
 For father, by return of spring, 
 
 Would need us home again. 
 
 The grain to thrash with horses' tread 
 As they went 'round and 'round; 
 
 Or make the fences which the storms 
 Had leveled to the ground. 
 
 The fields to plow, with oats to sow. 
 
 The sod with corn to plant: 
 The trees to prune; the stock to herd. 
 
 Would next our time demand. 
 
 The month of June, with lengthened days 
 
 Showed grass now fit to mow, 
 So armed with scythes and forks and rakes. 
 
 To meadow lands we'd go. 
 
 The men with scythes, with swinging stroke. 
 
 Swaths down the meadow led; 
 We boys, with rakes and forks, at once 
 
 The fragrant herbage spread. 
 
 The seasoned hay we boys and girls 
 
 Would all join in next day 
 To rake, form into windrows, pile, 
 
 And quickly cart away. 
 
 The spacious fields of amber grain 
 
 Would next our gaze attract, 
 Wlere scores of women and of men 
 
 The ripened grain attacked. 
 
 With sickles plied by skillful hands 
 
 The waving grain to reap. 
 While I would gather up the sheaves — 
 
 A dozen to a heap. 
 
 Or carry water from the spring 
 
 And pass the bottle round. 
 While they were resting in the shade, 
 
 All seated on the ground. 
 
 In summer time to fields we'd go 
 
 With father in the lead. 
 With shouldered rake and lighted pipe 
 
 To bind the golden wheat. 
 
 In fall of year, with apples picked 
 
 To cider mill would go, 
 Where pomace, pressed by massive beam. 
 
 The cider fast would flow. 
 
 The corn to husk, and wood to cut — 
 
 It always was the rule 
 To haul and pile for winter's use 
 
 Before we went to school. 
 
 Oh ! these were happy days of youth,— 
 
 Days to return no more 
 Until we meet in l)etter lands 
 
 On Canaan's happy shore! 
 
 Where sin and sorrow, pain and woe 
 
 Can never, never come! 
 Where our Redeemer we shall meet 
 
 In that Eternal Home ! 
 
 When we shall join the angelic throng 
 
 In singing songs of praise 
 To God tiie Father! Spirit! Son! 
 
 Unto the end of days ! 
 
 )I1 
 
 BOB 
 
 I THIS t ^ 
 
 poeiiis. ^ I 
 
 las haJ a 
 can cla 
 
 such. 
 Jaces 
 York 
 
 SODS- 
 
 mi 
 Bera' 
 is at 
 little 
 andl 
 
 »i<- 
 
 * 
 
 ^1^ 
 
LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 ]oo7 
 
 MRS. S. M. I. HENRY. 
 
 Born: Albion, Pa., Nov. 4, lt^39. 
 This lady is the author of two volumes of 
 poems, "Victoria and Marble Cross, both of 
 wliifh have been highly eulogized. Victoiia 
 has had a second edition, is called an Ameri- 
 can classic, and is used in many colleges as 
 
 MKS. S. M. I. HENRY. 
 
 such. Mrs. Henry was married in 1861 to 
 James W. Henry of Cortland County, New 
 Yorls State, and has a daughter and two 
 sons — the Rev. Alfred H. Henry of Chicago, 
 and Arthur Henry of the Chicago Daily 
 Herald. The permanent home of Mrs. Heniy 
 is at Evanstoii, 111., but she spends quite a 
 little of her time in traveling for recreation 
 and health. 
 
 THE BROODING BIRD'S SONG. 
 Nature hath told me a secret. 
 The sweetest that ever could be; 
 The stars do not dream of it. 
 The sun hatli no gleam of it. 
 The river no glint of it. 
 The forest no hint of it. 
 My mate doth not Isnow it. 
 And until I show it 
 It is a secret 'twixt nature and me. 
 
 Under my bodice of feathers 
 Is hidden a life, and a song: 
 All graces must give for it, 
 All being must live for it. 
 All harmonies sing for it, 
 All fleetness be wing for it; 
 O the strange liistory! 
 O the sweet mystery ! 
 
 [long. 
 
 I'll cherish and guard it the happy day 
 
 Guarding my nest with its treasure; 
 Taking tlie winds as they blow ; 
 What will I not dare for it. 
 And patiently bear for it. 
 Be loved or be blamed for it, 
 Be sung or be shamed for it. 
 Only to live for it. 
 Myself to give for it; 
 
 That my own mate's birdlings, at last, I 
 may know. 
 
 THE BIRD'S INVITATION. 
 Up in the top of a maple tree, 
 A little bird sits and sings to me 
 A sacred song, this Sabl)ath day. 
 Worshipping God in his own sweet way. 
 
 And he looks at me with two pure eyes, 
 Like one who is sent to evangelize. 
 And seems to say : •> Come, sing with me '. 
 Just listen, and try to catch the key." 
 
 And I have been trying to learn his words. 
 And follow the play of his wondrous chords. 
 And to tune my voice to llio joyons note 
 Tliat swells and ruffles his guUl-bi'own tln-oat. 
 But he is beyond me! no more can I sing 
 That song, than fly witli his dainty wing; 
 And so I sit still, and let him do 
 Alone, the singing service for two. 
 But it seems not right; I feel in me. 
 That I ought to sing as sweetly as lie; 
 That the woman's soul and the mother's heart 
 Should give me in even his song a part. 
 But if I am silent to-day, while he 
 Is splitting his throat in ecstasy, 
 I know that, to me, some day shall bring 
 A gift of song and a song to sing. 
 Which the little heart in Ids vest of gold. 
 Is altogether tt)o small to hold; 
 A song unwritten for evermore; 
 No seraph, even, hath seen its score. 
 Sometimes I liave felt the delicious thrill 
 Of the songful tide tliat then shall flU 
 My soul; but at best it has only been. 
 As yet, a dream of what shall be then. 
 So, beautiful bird in the maple tree. 
 You may swing and sing and laugh at me 
 As I try to mimic your song, but I 
 Can afford to wait for m3- by-and-by. 
 
looS 
 
 LOCAL, AMD NATIONAL POETS t>F AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MARY T. LATHROP. 
 
 Born: Concord, Mich. 
 Priok to her iu!irriage,lliis lady taught school 
 several jears in Detroit, at the same time 
 contributing- numerous poems to tlie press. 
 In 1873 Mrs. Lathrop went into Evangelistic 
 work, and for twelve years gave all her time 
 
 MKS. MARY TORRANS LATHROP. 
 
 to that and the Woman's Foreign Missionary 
 Society of the M. E. Cliurch. For the past 
 ten years Mrs. Lathrop has been president 
 of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union 
 of Michigan. She is at present etigraged as 
 lecturer on the temperance platform, in 
 which she has become very poi)ular. Her 
 poems have appeared in various prominent 
 publications, and have received high praise. 
 This lady was married in 1863 to Dr. Carnett 
 B. Lathrop, a prominent physician and sur- 
 geon of Jackson, Mich., where she still resides. 
 
 JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 Like missing the delicate odors that out from 
 
 the roses distill. 
 Like silence that falls on the si)irit wlion 
 
 quickly the music i.s still. 
 Like shadow that follows the sunset when 
 
 golden is turning to gray. 
 We stand in the midst of our losing, in tlie 
 
 midst of our grieving to-day. 
 
 So rare was the fragrance that followed the 
 track of a wonderful life. 
 
 So thrilling the passionate numbers of vic- 
 tory, mingled with strife. 
 
 So golden the skies of the evening, when day 
 in its glory went down, 
 
 That, weeping for friend and for brother, we 
 shout for a hero that's crowned. 
 
 Oh, soul that hast struggled and conquered, 
 
 how looks the sharp pathwaj' you trod? 
 How seemeth the field where you battled, 
 
 looking down from the hilltops of God'/ 
 Oh, surely it pays to have borne it, with all 
 
 of the measureless pain. 
 To find that the soul thato'ercometh is heir 
 
 of an infinite gain. 
 
 Gough dead ! Say the same of the sunshine, 
 
 when evening conies over the hill; 
 Say music is dead when in slumber the hand 
 
 of the player is still. 
 Behold, the dimmed splendor has broken in 
 
 morning, eternal and calm; 
 And, listen, the player is sweeping the chords 
 
 of an infinite Psalm. 
 
 « 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Do you know you have asked for the costliest 
 thing 
 
 Ever made by the Hand above? 
 A woman's heart and a woman's life. 
 
 And a woman's wonderful love. 
 
 You have written my lesson of duty out; 
 
 Manlike, j'ou have questioned me. 
 Now, stand at the bar of mj' woman's soul 
 
 Until I shall question thee! 
 
 You require your muttonshallalways be hot, 
 Your socks and your shirts shall be whole. 
 
 I require your heart shall be true as God's 
 stars. 
 As pure as His Heaven your soul. 
 
 You require a cook for your mutton and beef; 
 
 I require a far better thing. 
 A seamstress you're wanting for stockings 
 and shirts. 
 
 I look for a man and a king. 
 
 A king for a beautiful realm called home, 
 And a man that the Maker, God, 
 
 Shall look upon as he did the first 
 And say, •• It is very good." 
 
 I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 
 From my soft young clieek some day; 
 
 Will you love me then 'mid the falling leaves 
 As you did 'mid the bloom of May'? 
 
 If you cannotdo this, a laundress or cook 
 You can hire with little to pay — 
 
 But a woman's heart and a woman's life 
 Ai'c not to be thrown away! 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 *. 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POE IS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1359 
 
 MRS. A. A. FISCHER. 
 
 Bokn: Savanna, III., Aug. 11, 1841. 
 OvEK five hundred poems of this lady have 
 appeared from time to time in tlie leading- 
 papers and periodicals of America. In 188.3 
 she published s small volutLe under the title 
 of A Venture, which contains many gems of 
 
 MRS, ANGELINA A. FISCHER. 
 
 intrinsic worth. She is also represented in 
 Woman in Sacred Song and various other 
 standard collections. She was married in 
 1887 and is now a resident of Omaha, Neb., 
 wliere she is very popular. Mrs. Fischer lost 
 her hearing in her youth, and has Ijeen botli 
 pupil and matron of some of the leading 
 deaf-mute institutes of the country. 
 
 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 
 
 Nothing but leaves, no bursting buds. 
 
 No perfect flowers; 
 Nothing but leaves to jirove the i)ower 
 
 Of warmth and showers. 
 
 Nothing but leaves, no luscious globes. 
 
 Of ripened fruit; 
 Nothing but leaves to tell of care 
 
 Or nourished root. 
 
 Nothing but leaves, no garnered sheaves. 
 
 Of golden grain; 
 Nothing but leaves, all nature's aid 
 
 Given in vain. 
 
 Nothing but leaves, no noble liioughts 
 
 Wrouglit into deeds; 
 Nothing but leaves wliere we should i^liow 
 
 Flowers, fruit and seeds. 
 
 Nothing but seeds for months and years, 
 
 And noble powers. 
 Nothing but leaves to thow wc lived. 
 
 The precious houis. 
 
 Nothing but leaves, and dare we rest 
 
 Wit-li leaves content? 
 Wlule seeking fruit tlie Master's eyes, 
 
 Are on us bent. 
 
 ONLY A UI'MMY. 
 
 EXTIi.VCT. 
 
 Only a dummy did you say ! 
 
 Tell me what is a dununy, pray. 
 
 Is it something from wliich the weak should 
 
 run 
 Or the peaceable, law-abiding shun? 
 Is it a ttonster, a nondescript. 
 Or one whose soul has been so dipped 
 lu lirave men's gore and woman's tears. 
 That none of its primal hue appears? 
 
 Only a dummy. Does dummy mean 
 That mind is lacking, or held between 
 Tlie bar of flesh so abjectly. 
 No power can ever set it free — 
 To gatlier strengtli, expand and grow, 
 Surmount all obstacles, and show 
 By many a word and deed and plan, 
 The capabilities of man. 
 
 Only a dummy! Hold friend, once he — 
 Was a sailor boy, and he loves the sea. 
 As you love the himi; and often he sighs 
 Or dashes tears from his longing eyes — 
 Ashe thinks of the past, when he used to hear 
 The sea's grand music, nor knew a fear 
 As he paced the deck while others slept 
 And vigilant niglitwalch bravely kept. 
 
 Oh! ye favored people who proudly claim. 
 
 The right to be called by the Master's name. 
 
 And ye who seek no higher fame 
 
 Thau that which bears the name, humane, 
 
 Pass not God's suffering children by 
 
 Just for a brief instructive space. 
 
 To put yourself in each suflferer's place. 
 
 And by the need you then discern — 
 
 For fortitude and grace, oh, learn, 
 
 Vour duty socially, and ne'er. 
 
 By stigma, .scornful look, nor jeer. 
 
 Wound those, who ask but cliance to prove 
 
 Worthy of trust, resi)ect and love. 
 
 Wortliy of all the rights, the claims 
 
 The law secures, the Gospel names. 
 
 * 
 
1S60 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. VIRGINIA P.STONE. 
 
 Bokn: Montgomery Co.,Texn.,Aug.16, 1S56. 
 As A writer of prose and poetry Mrs. Stone 
 is rccog-nized as one of the best poets of the 
 sunny south. About three hundred of her 
 poems liave appeared from time to time in 
 the ])eriodical press. She was married in 
 1879 to Joliu K. Stone, and now has a family 
 of sev^eral children. 
 
 COLUMBIA. 
 
 Sweet land oC liberty and peace 
 The land of wealth and fame 
 
 My joy in her will never cease 
 Columbia is her name. 
 
 Cho.— Columbia, fairest land on earth. 
 From it I ne'er will roam 
 Oh, 'tis the laud that gave me birth, 
 Columbia is my home. 
 
 'Twas here the Pdgrim fathers died 
 
 And here the exiles, home. 
 And here the free man's only prido 
 
 ••Vnd here his princely dome. 
 
 Here is the grave of Washington, 
 And here shines freedom's sun. 
 
 And here the starry banner waves 
 All honors to her braves. 
 
 Who does not love this g-oodly land 
 Oh, who would from her roam? 
 
 Columbia is a country grand, 
 Columbia sweet, my home. 
 
 MRS. SADIE A.F. MCGRIFF. 
 
 Born: Wabash, Ind., Feb. 18, 18-19. 
 Mrs. McGriff has written about three hun- 
 dred poems which have constantly appeared 
 in the periodical press. She resides with her 
 husband and family in Monroe, Iowa, 
 
 •i<- 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 Baskets of flowers aud wreaths of everg:reen. 
 
 Bring we to-day to deck our heroes'graves, 
 'Tis all that we can do 
 
 For those who died our country to save. 
 
 Aud ab ! it seems so little when we think 
 Of what theygave for u8,tliose men so brave. 
 
 Died that we might live in freedom grand. 
 Died, our liberty to save. 
 
 And ah I it is so hard that with their bones. 
 
 We are called to make a bridge 
 To span the bloody chasm. Oh ! can we 
 
 Forget Bull-Run or Mission Ridge, 
 Or i)rision pens. No, no, my God forbid. 
 
 Nor can we hear the pitiful cry. 
 
 • • My wife, my child I so much long to see 
 
 Before Idle." 
 But when our mind doth turn, 
 
 From our own grief and loss. 
 We can't but feel and know, although a foe. 
 
 The other side bore a heavy cross. 
 Then let us decorate their graves, 
 
 Let it be friend or foe. 
 No one shall know how our hearts doth aclie, 
 
 But decorate as we go. 
 
 ROSABEL SHAMMO. 
 
 Born : Halifax, Pa., Nov. 19, 1867. 
 The poems of this lady have occasionally ap- 
 peared in the periodical press. She still re- 
 sides in the place her nativity, where she is 
 very popular. 
 
 A PASTIME. 
 I should like to speak in rliyme 
 Most of the time or half of the lime; 
 Should like to jingle words or chime. 
 
 Many a time ! 
 It would give me a real pleasure 
 Thought to express in rhythmic measure. 
 But, perhaps, friends would not think 
 
 That so sublime. 
 
 Folks would think it rather funny, 
 I suppose. Don't you suppose? 
 If fed, e'er, on posej''s honey 
 
 In lieu of prose. 
 Should we do this, they'd thiuk we had lost 
 
 our senses. 
 Or had most strange moods aud tenses 
 So audaciously, to pose! 
 
 But some thiuk ev^rytliing audacious. 
 But what they do! Just what they do! 
 With them agree, they'll be quite gracious 
 
 And smile upon you. 
 Aught else is stupid in the extreme. 
 Or is but silliness, supreme. 
 
 Is this not true? 
 So if meters keep a-ringiug 
 Through our heads, and in jur heads. 
 Wouldn't we better be a singing 
 
 There, instead 
 Of letting them in the brain to spin. 
 Making such a whirl aud diu 
 That peace we can only have 
 
 When thej''re said. 
 So if we wish, why not sing to the crowds — 
 To tiie gaping throng! Tlie thankless throng! 
 And sing blithely, and sing loud. 
 
 Our little song. 
 What if they sliould smile or laugh. 
 Or, even ridicule or chaff. 
 
 We would do no wrong. 
 
 m 
 
* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1361 
 
 REV. ROBERT WHITAKER. 
 
 Bokn: England, Sept. 9, 1863. 
 Whilk a boy Mr.Whitaker lived on the furm 
 in tlie viciuity of Clurksville, Iowa,and after- 
 wards removed to Waltham.Mass. He worlied 
 four years in tiie Waltbam Watcli Factory, 
 Btudyiiig' meauwliile at nights and under a 
 private tutor. Here it was he earned the 
 money to carry on liis education. In 1887 lie 
 flnislied a full course at Newton Theolog-ical 
 Institution, and in the same year married 
 Miss EUie J. Longly of Sau Francisco. Mr. 
 Wliitaker then spent a year as missionary in 
 Mexico, but on account of failing health was 
 compelled to leave. He was pastor for a year 
 in Seattle, and is now settled in Salem, Ore. 
 
 LIVE FOR SOMETHING. 
 
 Live for something-, have a purpose. 
 
 And tliat purpose keep in view; 
 Drifting- like a lielmless vessel, 
 
 Thou canst ne'er to life be true. 
 Half tlie wiecks that strew life's ocean, 
 
 If some star had been their guide. 
 Might have now been riding safely. 
 
 But they drifted with the tide. 
 Live for something, yes, and something 
 
 That is worthy of thy life; 
 Something that will well repay thee 
 
 When 'tis won, for all the strife. 
 Be not dazzled by the ghtter 
 
 Of the tinsel of the world; 
 But above the true and lasting 
 
 Let thy banner be unfurled. 
 Live for something, live in earnest. 
 
 Though tliy work may liumble be. 
 By tlie careless -world unnoticed, 
 
 Only known to God and thee. 
 Every act has priceless value 
 
 To the arcliitect of fate. 
 And the spirit of thy doing 
 
 Makes the action small or great. 
 Live for sometliing, every mortal 
 
 Wields the sceptre of a king: 
 Every soul may waken echoes 
 
 That shall never cease to ring. 
 We are living for the ages 
 
 To the fartliest end of time. 
 And the weakest life is mighty. 
 
 And the humblest is sublime. 
 Live for something, God and angels 
 
 Silently survey the strife. 
 And for liioi who overcometh 
 
 Waits the crown of endless life: 
 What though now the smoke of battle 
 
 Wraps thee with its gloom around. 
 If when dawns the fadeless morning 
 
 As the victor thou art crowned. 
 
 MARY AUGUSTA MASON. 
 
 Born: Windsor, N.Y., Aug. 6, 186L 
 
 This journalist and poet is the author of 
 about two hundred poems, wliieh have ap- 
 peared in the New York Independent. Har- 
 per's publications, Tiie Youth's Companion, 
 St. Nicholas, Boston Transcript, Leslie's.Out- 
 ing, America and other prominent publica- 
 tions. 
 
 THE RAIN-DOVE. 
 
 When the clouds have settled deep 
 
 O'er the languid summer sky. 
 And the breeze lias gone to sleep, 
 
 To be wakened by and by ; 
 From the wood I hear the call 
 
 Of the rain-dove, as from some 
 Spirit that has lost its all 
 
 And with grief is overcome. 
 
 And the wierd, unbirdlike notes. 
 
 Heard at lonely times and long. 
 Seem to still the other throats 
 
 That have throblied with lKii)py song; 
 Never call to brooding mate. 
 
 Silent all the wood as though 
 Bluebird, thrush :ind ro'oin's fate 
 
 Hung upon the rain-dove's woe. 
 
 But tlie kindly clouds at last 
 
 Break the tension of the hush. 
 Through the drops now falling fast 
 
 Comes the music of the thrush; 
 Aftd the bluebird's heard iigain 
 
 Singing at his sweetheart's door. 
 And tlie robin's joyful strain. 
 
 For the rain-dove mourns no more. 
 
 MY LITTLE LADY. 
 
 1 know a little lady. 
 
 So young and sweet and shy. 
 She blushes like the roses 
 
 When a sunbeam dances by. 
 
 She trembles at a rude wind, 
 
 Is full of fancied fears; 
 It seems as if I'd happened 
 
 On a violet in tears. 
 
 But a smile her tears will banish. 
 And her skies be blue again. 
 
 For she knows no more of sorrow 
 Than a violet of pain. 
 
 She is so pure and gentle. 
 
 Could I reach the spring on high, 
 I would drink to her in starshine 
 
 From the dipper in the sky. 
 
 * 
 
1362 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 *■ 
 
 EMILY BUCK. 
 
 Born: Clayton Co., Iowa. 
 For many years this lady has taught school 
 in Sioux and Lyou counties. Her poems 
 have appeared from time to time in the 
 periodical press. 
 
 IDEAL AND REAL. 
 In child fancy, life doth seem 
 
 To be a sweet, alluring- dream 
 Of fairj'land and sylvan bowers. 
 
 Of brightest birds and fairest flowers. 
 
 Where 'neath the sparkling dews of morn. 
 We pluck the rose witliout lis thorn; 
 
 Or list enchanted to the song 
 Of the babbling brook which flows along. 
 
 No shade of gloom, no thought of care. 
 We roam the hill as free as air; 
 
 Or chase the moth witli gilded wing. 
 And make the woodlands gaily ring. 
 
 The real is mingled joy and grief. 
 Whose brighter days seem far too brief, 
 
 For 'mid tlieir joys we're called to sup 
 The bitter dregs of sorrow's cup. 
 
 Footsore we climb life's rugged steep. 
 And cross its chasms dark and deep. 
 
 When at our feet, ah, glad surprise! 
 Some new found treasure greets our eyes. 
 
 Thus, ever changing, time flits by. 
 Till unrelenting death draws nigh; 
 
 And as the ages roll away. 
 Full four-score years seems but a day. 
 
 How happy they who walk beside 
 Our ever true and faithful guide. 
 
 And leave not wisdom's narrow way. 
 In flowery paths of sin to stray. 
 
 But nobly battle with the wrong. 
 And in the strife grow brave and strong; 
 
 To the true conqueror the real 
 Is grander, happier than the ideal. 
 
 MRS. LOLA LUELLA SEELYE. 
 
 Born : Southinoton, Ohio. 
 In 1879 tliis lady was married to Frank L. 
 Seelye, and now resides in Geneva, Oliio. 
 Her poems have occasionally appeared in the 
 local press. 
 
 CONVICT JIM. 
 'Twas only the kiss of a child. 
 But It touched a stony heart, 
 'Twas only a sweet little voice. 
 But it struck home like a dart. 
 The soft blue eyes so pleading. 
 
 Saw not the angry frown. 
 
 Or heard the oatlis he uttered. 
 
 As she threw her arms around. 
 
 And whispered, " does you love me?" 
 
 And on his hardened cheek 
 
 She kissed him, saying softly, 
 
 •' I love you "—he did not speak — 
 
 And tlie man that dared curse Heaven, 
 
 Lived this life so bold in sin, 
 
 Vowed, as lie sat submissive, so^ cened. 
 
 He'd a better life begin. 
 
 The light in his eyes grew softer. 
 
 As he struggled, all undone 
 
 But his name tlie angels recorded. 
 
 And God's little angel won. 
 
 WILLIAM CHAPLINE ROSS. 
 
 Born : West Liberty, W. Va., Feb. 10, 1863. 
 The poems of Mr. Ross have appeared from 
 time to time in the periodical press. He now 
 resides in Omaha, Neb., wliere he has been 
 engaged since 1885in the First National Bank 
 as bank teller. 
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 
 If I were a painter, I'd paint for you 
 A picture of sombre, yet radiant liue — 
 A summer landscape, with lowering sky 
 Where threatening clouds drift sullenly by. 
 A stream with willow border broad. 
 That fringed with long grasses and golden 
 rod, [bright, 
 
 A meadow thick dotted with wild flowers 
 Golden and crimson and purple and white. 
 The upland flelds with grain in shock. 
 The yellow sheaves seeming as if to mock 
 The poor old stubble so bare and brown. 
 As gold in base pebbles might e'en look down. 
 
 And then for a border of darkest green 
 Look where your liazel copse is seen. 
 Ragged and rough, neither busli nor tree. 
 Yet the prettiest thing in the landscape to 
 me. 
 
 But see, through the clouds dart a ray of 
 
 light; 
 Another — another more radiant and bright, 
 Old Sol. at last, after all the day. 
 Is going to drive tliose clouds away. 
 
 He fills with his glory the western skj'. 
 Bewildering the sense and dazzling the eye, 
 And the clouds from sh;ime before his might 
 Blush crimson and scurry fast out of sight. 
 
 Were I a painter, a painter true, 
 This is the picture I'd paint for you — 
 Sombre and sober, yet radiant. I pray 
 You, 'lis only a summer's day. 
 
•i« 
 
 LOCAf, AND NAl'IONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 18(53 
 
 LAURA M. LATIMER. 
 
 Born: Castile, N. Y. 
 After her graduiition Miss Latimer was a 
 teacher for several j-ears; was vice principal 
 of Livingston Parli Seminary, Rochester, 
 New Yorli; teaclier of higlier niatliematicsiu 
 Pittsburg' Female College; preceptress of 
 Lasall Seminary, Boston, Mass. She also 
 taught in Hagarstown Seminary, Maryland. 
 In 1881 she was sent bj' the Woman's Board 
 of Foreign Missions niicl has been extensively 
 engaged in that worli. 
 
 THE COST. 
 
 The wondrous beautj' that to-day 
 
 On Nature's face appears. 
 Has cost the glorious dewy morn 
 
 A thousand tears. 
 
 The chastened beauty of the saints 
 Whom all the world reveres. 
 
 Has cost each sad and struggling soul, 
 A thousand tears. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 I want my face, dear Lord, to show 
 That I have walked with Christ below. 
 
 take away its look of pride. 
 And all its sinfulness beside! 
 
 Over these lines of anxious care. 
 Oh place thy look of sweetness there! 
 
 Above this frown upon the brow. 
 Oh set thy seal of meekness now. 
 
 And fill the eyes with heavenly love, 
 A shining- radiance from above; 
 
 So every glance will speak of Thee 
 A King of Kings who died for me! 
 
 DANA BRADBURY HARLOW. 
 
 Born: Buckfield, Maine, May 1, 1864. 
 About two luindrcd poems of the Rev. Dana 
 B. Harlow have appeared from time to time 
 in the periodical press. 
 
 THE SONG MY MOTHER SANG. 
 Far back in years, long vanished now. 
 When I was but a child, 
 I often live them o'er again 
 With each pastime gay or mild. 
 But tlie greatest pleasure that I knew 
 Came when the day wasdone; 
 As by the fire I listened to 
 The songs my mother sung. 
 
 What magic power witiiin them lay. 
 
 As holy as some prayer. 
 
 They seemed unto our childish ears. 
 
 And always free from care. 
 
 For, though her heart was sad and lone, 
 
 Joy from each note unstrung. 
 
 And we children ne'er would guess it from 
 
 The songs my mother sung-. 
 
 I often think I licar them now, 
 
 Each old familiar strain 
 
 Comes floating down the tide of years 
 
 Unto my ears again. 
 
 Where'er I roam tliey dwell with me. 
 
 Again my heart grows young 
 
 Whene'er I liear from other lips 
 
 The songs my mother sung. 
 
 My mother now is growing old. 
 Her voice has lost the tone 
 So cheerful, wonderful to us 
 Once, in our childhood home. 
 Dear children, oft 1 liear her say- 
 In strangely falterng tongue, 
 " They're to you but a memory. 
 The songs your mother sung." 
 
 She seldom tries to sing- them no-w. 
 
 The scale she can't ascend. 
 
 For when slie strikes the upper notes 
 
 Her voice breaks ere the end; 
 
 And then slie'U say, as teardrops fall 
 
 '•My harp is all unstrung," 
 
 But oh, I never shall forget, 
 
 The songs my mother sung. 
 
 MRS. L E. P. MERRILL. 
 
 Born: Parsonsfield, Me., Sept. 24, 18.')3. 
 Nearly a hundred poems have appeared 
 from the pen of t his lady, wliicli have receiv- 
 ed publication in the Portland Transcript 
 and various other publications. She was 
 married in 1873 to Mr. David M. Merrill, with 
 whom she resides in Somerville, Mass. 
 
 THE OLD HOME. 
 
 The farm-house old is standing still. 
 Just where 'twas built below the hill. 
 
 In childliood long ago; 
 And near the porch the evening breeze 
 Is iieard among tlie poplar trees. 
 
 In leafy whisp'rmgs low. 
 
 I see the orchard wliere we played. 
 
 The mountain where our footstep strayed, 
 
 Tlie log-bridge by the way; 
 The granite rocks with moss-grown seat. 
 The clover fields so fresh and sweet, 
 
 With swaths of new-mown hay. 
 
 «- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 1364 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Q'hrousli piistures green we used to roam 
 To call the lowing- cattle home, 
 
 la summer twilights longr; 
 How many times entranced I've stood, 
 While tliroug-li the dusky, silent wood 
 
 Rang- clear the cow-birds' soug! 
 
 JAMES W. MOORE. 
 
 Born: Shelby Co., Te-nn., March 16, 1866. 
 Mr. Moore will take up the profession of 
 law as soon as he graduates, being in 1891 a 
 student in tlie Vanderbilt University of 
 Nasliville, Tennessee. His poems have occa- 
 sionally appeared m the local press. 
 
 DEAD LOVE. 
 Thou art gone from me for aj'e. 
 
 To live with dreams and dead desires; 
 Thou art no more nor less to-day 
 
 Tlian ashes of extinguished fires. 
 
 Slowly drifting out of sight, 
 I watched thee, sad as tearful maid 
 
 Watched from Plymouth's sacred height 
 The Mayflower pass into night's shade. 
 
 She oft called her love to sail 
 Back home again across the sea; 
 
 But for me all yearnings fail, 
 I call thee not from memorj'. 
 
 MRS. ADA STANLEY. 
 
 BoiiN: Brandok, Vt., March 23, 1831. 
 About two hundred poems of Mrs. Stanlej- 
 have appeared from time to time in Chicago 
 Religio-Philosophical Journal, Illinois Pal- 
 ladium and the local press generally. She 
 was married in 1860 to Mr. Ned A. Stanley, 
 and still resides in her native state at Lei- 
 cester, 
 
 HOW SWEET. 
 
 Sweet Rose, with that soft flush upon thy 
 
 cheek. 
 What wouldst thou say tome if thou eouldst 
 
 speak ! 
 Rocked by the sporting winds so light and 
 
 free, 
 I stoop to kiss, and fain would gather thee. 
 
 If I should pluck and hold thee in my liand, 
 Tlien thou— no longer by the zephyrs fanned. 
 No longer kissed by sun, and dew and show- 
 er- 
 Would wither, fade and die, within an hour. 
 And, dying, would forgive with thy last 
 breath. 
 
 And show to me thj' triumph over death; 
 For when thy fragrant leaves should round 
 
 thee fall. 
 And softly lie, like drooping funeral pall, 
 
 Thy perfumed soul would linger round me 
 
 still, 
 And like a heavenly balm my being fill. 
 And lift my spirit to those heights above. 
 Where all is joy and peace and holy love. 
 
 Tills, then, O, lovely Rose, I hear thee say: 
 " Learn well the lessons of each golden day; 
 Scatter good deeds, as thou would'st strew 
 
 my leaves ; 
 Drop kindly words into the heart thatgrieves. 
 
 " Give to the needy ones — God gives to thee; 
 Even his blessings flow, kindly and free. 
 Pity the lowly one — God loveth all. 
 Kept by his willing hand not one shall fall," 
 
 So I have listened. Rose, st;inding by thee. 
 Heard e'en the silence si)eak, 'round you and 
 
 me. 
 Drank in thy fragrant breath, like nectar 
 
 sweet. 
 Queen of the beautiful ! Love's own retreat ! 
 
 Soon will thy loveliness fade and be gone. 
 Soon will thj' scented leaves fall, one l)y one, 
 But will thy counterpart gladden my eyes, 
 Up in some garden, beyond the blue skies? 
 
 G.A. BICKERSTAPH. 
 
 Born: Pennsylvania, April 20, 1864. 
 Mr. Bickerstaph is a student of Wooster 
 University, preparing for work as a foreign 
 missionarj'. His poems occasionally appear 
 in the local press. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO O. W. HOLMES. 
 Gay white-haired boy.son of the tuneful lyre. 
 Long may thy liand caress the conscious 
 string. 
 Old age's frost hath ne'er subdued th3' Are 
 Nor checked the vernal freshness of thy 
 
 spring-. 
 Still doth the fountain of thy youth pui-- 
 sue its joyous murmuring:. 
 
 Still doth thy song- gush like a maiden's tears 
 
 When swells the beating heart with joy 
 or woe. 
 Responsive yet, alike to hopes and fears, 
 
 Joj's of tiie present lot and scenes of long 
 ago ; 
 Sweet, fragrant flowers that blushed beneath 
 
 The morning's ardent glow. 
 Nor Hash less sweetly back the smile 
 
 Of sunset glimmering low. 
 
 i^- 
 
 « 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POKTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1865 
 
 ■* 
 
 WILLIAM V. ALLDREDGE. 
 
 Born: Walker Co., Ala., June 4, 1839. 
 Mr. Alldredge served four years ia the 
 confederate army and has been principally 
 engagred in teaching- and in agricultural pur- 
 suits, and resides in Trinity Station, Alabama. 
 
 WILLIAM VALIENT ALLDREDGK. 
 
 He has a wife, and family grown to maturity. 
 The poems of Mr. Alldredge occasionally ap- 
 pear in the local press of his state. 
 
 TO ANTINETTE. 
 
 I've trod the lands by ocean washed, 
 
 I've climbed the hill where prowled the wolf, 
 I've scoured the plain by wild men chased, 
 
 I've plowed the wave of stormy gulf, 
 I've met the foe on bloody field, 
 
 I've clashed my sabre with the brave, 
 I've known not what it was to yield, 
 
 I've helped my comrades to the grave, 
 But not a trial liave I met 
 
 Like leaving thee. Dear Antinette. 
 
 TO MOHAWK. 
 Alas! that such a mind should be 
 
 So much impaired as thine; 
 That such deep thought on land or sea 
 
 Should be like yours and mine. 
 
 The mind tliat penetrates tlie depths 
 
 Of all the deepest tliought 
 Wliich sweeps o'er ocean's mighty depths 
 
 By nature's power wrought. 
 Tlie mind to take in all the shore 
 
 Aud plow tht!Oceans wave. 
 And take in all creation o'er 
 
 Aud reaches to the grave. 
 
 PEOPLE'S PARTY. 
 Sound the loud timbrel, o'er the nation's dark 
 
 sea, 
 A party is coming, the people to free ; 
 Plutocracy, trembling, is hiding his head. 
 And soon will it stalk 'mid the ghosts of the 
 
 dead. 
 Like the Israelites' calf, we read of, of old. 
 The god of our nation, has turned into gold; 
 Into banks has he gone, both body and soul. 
 And money, not brains, the people control. 
 From the east, from the west, the south and 
 
 the north. 
 From every quarter, the law has gone forth. 
 And trusts and combines in death agony fall ; 
 The last of the pirates,and worst of them aUI 
 See the golden monarchs quiver, rushing to 
 
 their fall. 
 Banners waving proudly, equal justice unto 
 
 all. 
 Hear the tread of countless millions; ah : the 
 
 vict'ry's won 
 For Iher banner flasheth; "Special favor un- 
 to none! " 
 As in creation's morn, when the stars together 
 
 sang. 
 Shouts of joy re-echoed, through the vaults 
 
 of heaven rang. 
 So the mighty host of serfdom; wreathed 
 
 witli vict'ry on thy brow. 
 Sing the song of their redemption ; to the 
 
 God of Jacob bow. 
 
 TO A FKIEND. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Oh, remember the friends whose thoughts 
 
 will often trace 
 In the mirror of fancy your form and your 
 
 face. 
 And rudely between us the Ohio swells; 
 Still think of the friends who have bid you 
 
 farewell. 
 When your hand shall be pressed by the 
 
 friends j'our adore. 
 When your mem" ry revisits our bright sunny 
 
 si lore 
 Where kindred and friends and memories 
 
 dwell 
 Then think of the friends who have bid you 
 
 farewell. 
 
 -* 
 
1366 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS Ob' ASIEIIICA. 
 
 MRS. SARAH SMITH GRAY. 
 
 Born: Peoria Co., III,., March 7, 1842. 
 This lady was married in 1870, but is now a 
 widow with several children. Her poems 
 
 MRS. SARAH SMITH GRAY. 
 
 have been greatly admired, and occasionally 
 appear in the local press. 
 
 JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 
 I was sitting in my parlor 
 
 On a cold November nig-ht. 
 But I heeded not the chill-wind. 
 
 For the iire was burning bright; 
 It was just one month to Christmas 
 
 And our work we had begun. 
 For our tree must be a jewel; 
 
 And its boughs with diamonds hung. 
 
 T had planned full many a present. 
 
 Costly, rich, they all must be. 
 So that none, in wealth or splendor, 
 
 Could out-do our Christmas tree. 
 I was waiting husband's coming. 
 
 And the hour was getting late, 
 Still I could not hear his footsteps, 
 
 Nor the turning of the gate. 
 
 Then my thoughts began to wander — 
 
 And at last I fell asleep; 
 And I tread the walks of dreamland, 
 
 But, alas! with weary feet. 
 I, a little child, was begging — 
 
 I had passed from door to door. 
 Asking in my craving hunger. 
 
 But a crust from out their store. 
 
 But each proud and haughty lady. 
 
 Only turned with scorn away; 
 "It was only just a beggar I " 
 
 (I had said the same that day) — 
 Then I thought a storm was raging. 
 
 And my clothes were thin and worn. 
 And my feet were bare and bleeding — 
 
 On the icy pavements torn. 
 
 Then I weeping sought my hovel 
 
 Just as others seek their liome. 
 It was empty, cold and cheerless. 
 
 But I there could weep alone. 
 Then I saw an Angel enter — 
 
 Saw, but not a sound I heard; 
 But her presence soothed my anguish 
 
 Though slie did not speak a word. 
 
 But a blazing fire she kiudled. 
 
 On the board a loaf she laid; 
 Clothed me well in soft bright garments - 
 
 Then to other hovels strayed. 
 In mj' joy I woke from dreaming. 
 
 Husband stood beside tlie grate; 
 He had soothed me in my anguish 
 
 When I seemed the cbild of fate! 
 
 Oh ! I told him of my vision. 
 
 Ever thoughtful, kind is he; 
 You, my wife, can lighten burdens — 
 
 "You that angel one can be." 
 He had set the ball in motion, 
 
 I will keep it rolling on; 
 Many a life shall be more happy. 
 
 Many a sorrow shall be gone. 
 
 THE MODEL LADY. 
 Somewhere in fancy, or in dream, 
 A model lady, I have seen; 
 She cannot boast the fairest face. 
 Nor dues she pose, with lofty grace. 
 Though dressed with taste and neatness rare, 
 She does not friz or bang her hair; 
 No riches she, no lands or gold; 
 And yet is blessed with wealth untold 
 
 The poor and needy find a friend; 
 
 The wronged, she ever will defend; 
 
 The aged, titid her gentle, kind; 
 
 The sick in her a helper find; 
 
 The sad, she fills with liope and cheer. 
 
 And children ne'er lier presence fear. 
 
 But wrong and guilt will hide in shame 
 
 At mention of my lady's name. 
 
 Now is it real or in a dream 
 
 This model lady I have seen? 
 
 1^ 
 
 -* 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 1367 
 
 JUDSON LEWIS MOORE. 
 
 BoiiN: Walton Co., Ga., 1857. 
 Mr. Moore is si composer.aiithor and teacher 
 of vocul imisic, and liis pooms and composi- 
 lions have appeared in his own publiealioiis, 
 ill Notes of Praise, The Music Leader, and 
 
 JUDSON LEWIS MOOIiE. 
 
 other books and periodicals. He was mar- 
 ried in 1883 to Miss Emma Florence Smith, 
 lias two children and resides in Bethlehem, Ga 
 
 *- 
 
 CAN I BE SATISFIED. 
 Not where the stormy winds do blow. 
 Not where the murky clouds abide. 
 Not where the thoughtless mind would 
 
 cleave. 
 Can 1 be satisfied. 
 
 Not where the turbid water flow. 
 Not where death's streams our souls di- 
 vide. 
 
 Not where the hand of man enslaves. 
 Can 1 be satisfied. 
 
 Not where the weary sigh for rest. 
 Not where the soul is unsupplied. 
 
 Not where the aid of earth relieves, 
 Can I be satisfied. 
 
 Not where the fondest hopes are wrecked, 
 Not where the faithless friends deride. 
 
 Not where the dreams of life deceive, 
 Can I be satisfied. 
 
 THE HARVEST IS READY. 
 The harvest now is ready. 
 
 Go, work from morn till night; 
 Be g-ath'ring- for the Master, 
 
 So all the fields are wliite. 
 The precious seed is wasting-, 
 
 Yes, wasting: day by day; 
 There is no time for ling'ring 
 
 Or loit'ring- by tiie way. 
 Thrust in the sharpened sickle. 
 
 Reap down tlie g-olden grrain; 
 Pressf.forward in the harvest. 
 
 Thro' sunshine, siiade or rain. 
 When e'er thy work is over. 
 
 When sheaves are gathered lionie; 
 The miglity King of glory 
 
 Will say, "Well done, well done." 
 
 MRS. C. JENNIE SWAINE. 
 
 Born: Pittsfield, N. H., 1836. 
 For many years this lady followed the pro- 
 fession of teaching, and in 1804 was married 
 to Charles G. Swaine. About three liiindred 
 poems have appeared from the pen of Mrs. 
 Swaine, which have been published in the 
 leading publications of America. 
 
 SUNSET AMONG THE LILIES. 
 O lily sweet, the whole day through 
 
 The riv'er bore thee on its breast; 
 Now, kissed by evening's pearly dew. 
 
 Its waves shall sing thee to thy rest. 
 
 When softly o'er the Orient sea 
 
 The first gray beams of morning break. 
 The singing river calleth thee. 
 
 Before the sliore-sidc daisies wake. 
 The noontide gives its fervid glow 
 
 To fill thy swaying cup with gold; 
 Till, white as drifts of stainless snow. 
 
 The lake a milky way doth hold. 
 Breezes of balm, wliose dream was told 
 
 Where orange bowers white garlands 
 weave, 
 Athirst to kiss thy heart of gold. 
 
 For thee the wooing blossoms leave. 
 
 For thee the fragrant night wind sings 
 
 Its tender love song o'er and o'er; 
 For thee the blneliird folils his wings. 
 
 To carol on the willowy shore. 
 The waves above thy graceful head 
 
 Draw tlieir bhie curtain, dark wltli uigiit. 
 And tlie moon drapes tiiy l)lll()wy bed 
 
 Witli ilianionds woven of her light. 
 
 -^ 
 
1368 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Singing, from mirrored clouds I take 
 These lily censers, while my eyes 
 
 See heaven's own gate within the lake, 
 And these are flowers of Paradise. 
 
 Each lily, Father, is thy gift. 
 Made redolent with heavenly love; 
 
 Wlierefore these crystal cups uplift, 
 To draw my wayward heart above. 
 
 And wheresoe'er ray path may be, 
 Let these white bells a lesson yield, 
 
 Of Him who careth more for me 
 Than all the lilies of the field. 
 
 A. P. LONGLEY. 
 
 Born: Tennessee, July 4, 1836. 
 After graduating at the Knoxville East 
 Tennessee University and scientific depart- 
 ment, Mr. Longley taught scliool for two 
 years. He then went to Texas, iti 1847, and 
 taught there for three years. He then joined 
 
 A. P. LONGLEY. 
 
 the army and was engaged in twenty-nine 
 Indian fights. In 18,')3 he went to California, 
 Gince whicli time he has been principally eti- 
 gaged in mining. He has written and de- 
 livered poems at the opening of fairs and 
 otlier pul)lic occasions, and his poems have 
 constatitly appeared in tlie periodical press. 
 
 JUVENILE LOVE. 
 O, she was a rare little charmer. 
 
 To use a poetical phrase. 
 When I fixed my affections upon her 
 
 Far back in my juvenile dajs. 
 My age was ten years, perhaps over, 
 
 While Lizzie stood only at nine. 
 But I felt every charm that a lover 
 
 Would hail as a rapture divine. 
 
 We went to the same school together, 
 
 And scrolled ugly pictures for fun. 
 Our hearts were as light as a feather. 
 
 Our friendship as warm as the sun,— 
 Her feet — O, the dear little models. 
 
 Went bare in the bright summer days 
 When she waded knee-deep in the puddles. 
 
 Or joined in the butterfly chase. 
 
 But time that awaits for no human. 
 
 Since the eartli in its orbit began, 
 Made Lizzie a goodly-sized woman. 
 
 And gave me the stature of man. 
 I wandered away from my Lizzie, 
 
 And sought in the wilds of the west 
 A liome and a love and a fortune. 
 
 But yet I have never been blest. 
 
 THE GOD OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM. 
 All the world over. 
 
 Wherever the mortal has trod. 
 There are tokens and signs in profusion 
 
 Of a great and glorious God. 
 His throne is high up in the heavens, 
 
 His smile is the light of our day. 
 And all the vast worlds that wheel round him 
 
 In silence his mandates oijey. 
 
 He gives them their light and their beauty. 
 
 He lends them the smile of his face. 
 And they're singing his praises forever 
 
 As onward they journey through space. 
 He builds up the cloud cleaving mountains. 
 
 He spreads out the valley and plain, 
 And dips up the mists of the ocean. 
 
 To sprinkle the earth with its rain. 
 
 He breathes on the germs that are sleeping 
 
 In silence Ijeneath tlie cold sod, 
 And they i)urst forth wit-li fragrance and 
 beanty 
 
 To hail him Creator and God. 
 Ho i)ends tiie liright rainbow above us, 
 
 A sign of His mercy and grace, 
 A token of seed-time and harvest. 
 
 And life to our sin-stricken race. 
 
 His presence is life, light, and glory. 
 His absence is darkneis and deiith. 
 
 And I'll hail him as God and Creator, 
 As long as He giveth me breath. 
 
 >if- 
 
 * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEIUCA. 
 
 1369 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. R.ANGELINA HALL. 
 
 Born: West Union, \V. Va„ Aug. 30, lcS43, 
 Since the deiilli of her husband iu 1876, 
 Mrs. Hall lias had a gi'etit strujruie to edu- 
 cate her uliildreii aud tit them fot- the duties 
 of life. Her poems have appeared from time 
 to time iu the periodical press, and have al- 
 
 JmS. R. ANGELINA HAL,L. 
 
 ways received hig-h commendation. Mrs. Hall 
 still resides in her native state at Auburn 
 Ritchie, with her son, Elton, and two dau^^li- 
 ters. Louise and Ethel, all of \vhom are now 
 grown to maturity. 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 
 
 O precious scenes of my childhood, 
 
 In memory I oft wander to thee, 
 Wliere with loved ones I roamed in the wild 
 wood. 
 
 And erathered brig-ht flowers on the lea. 
 i'es, well I remember the cottag-e 
 
 \A'ith its roof covered over with moss. 
 The island we played on in summer, 
 
 Aud the brook we used to cross. 
 
 There with rod and hook we angled 
 In the limpid depths of the stream. 
 
 And broug-ht to the surface the shining- flsh, 
 While we lived in youth's happy dream 
 
 In the village near by we went to school 
 
 And learned to read and spell. 
 And master tlie rules in ariilimetic, 
 
 And our country's history tell. 
 
 But youth soon passed, and we left that home 
 
 To fight the fierce battles of life — 
 Yet I never forgot the dear ones I loved, 
 
 Amid the world's turmoil aud strife. 
 The dear cottage has long since gone to decay. 
 
 And its inmates are most of them gone 
 To that bourne whence no traveler ever re- 
 turns. 
 
 And I'm left in this cold world alone. 
 
 There's no one to care though I'm weary and 
 sad. 
 
 And my heart almost sinks in despair- 
 No heart to respond witii affection and love. 
 
 When my life is o'er burdened with care. 
 Yet, why should T pine for the love of those 
 
 Wlio are resting beneath the sod. 
 Whose spirits have flown to the realms above 
 
 Aud dwell in the presence of God. 
 
 'Tis only a few more years at most. 
 
 Till I will be free from pain — 
 Aud then with the loved ones and all the 
 glad host, 
 I'll join in the happy refrain. 
 Where no tears are shed and no sorrow 
 known, 
 But all in peace and love. 
 Then I'll no more grieve for the dear old 
 home. 
 When I meet with the loved ones above. 
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 We miss you darling daughter. 
 
 When we see your vacant chair. 
 We miss you in the parlor — 
 
 Yes, we miss you everywhere. 
 
 We grow so sad and weary. 
 
 As we wait for your return. 
 And the days seem long and dreary. 
 
 As our hearts with anguish burn. 
 
 And when the lights are brightly burning. 
 
 And the stars are in the sky. 
 Then we miss your voice among us, 
 
 Aud cau but breathe a sigh. 
 
 When our hearts are raised to heaven 
 
 In suppliance and prayer. 
 To the God who reigns above us 
 
 And keeps us by His care. 
 
 We pray Him in His mercy, 
 
 To keep you every hour 
 From sorrow and temptation, 
 
 By His infinite power. 
 
1370 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA. 
 
 MRS. RHODA S. LINDSAY. 
 
 Bokn: Aspen Gkove, N. C. Feb. 22, 1861. 
 Mrs. Lindsay was married in 1879 to Mr. T. 
 
 B. Lindsay, who now resides in Douglas, N. 
 
 C, with their two children. The poems of 
 
 MRS. RHODA SCOTT LINDSAY. 
 
 Mrs. Lindsay have occasionally appeared in 
 the periodical press, and have received high 
 praise. 
 
 A TKUTH. 
 
 Some one has said it, and it must be true. 
 For they wouldn't have said it unless they 
 
 knew. 
 That life, this strang-e life of ours, 
 Is just what we make it, thorns or flowers. 
 
 When a little child, I heard this said. 
 And I tliought by whatever path I'm led, 
 I'll shun the thorn and pluck the flower, 
 And make of life a rosy bower. 
 
 And so along life's checkered path, 
 With cheery song and merry hiugh, 
 1 took my journey, trying hard 
 'I'o do the right and love my God. 
 
 Relieving with this tliat none could find, 
 In a wicked moment at any time, 
 
 The soul to be cold or insincere 
 
 To a heart they knew held them so dear. 
 
 But alas! I realized too soon — 
 
 Without a thorn few flowers bloom — 
 
 And when reaching to grasp the flowers of 
 
 trust 
 The thorn of deceit is deeply thrust. 
 And the lovely bower I thought to build 
 Is made up instead and almost filled 
 With garlands whose blooms are dead and 
 
 gone. 
 But alas! there remaineth still a thorn. 
 
 But some one has said it, and biirelj- they 
 
 knew. 
 Or they would not have said it, to me and to 
 
 you. 
 That life — this strange life of ours — 
 Is just what we make it, thorns or flowers. 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 All rosj' and glowing in the western sky. 
 While the crescent moon hangs bright and 
 
 high ; 
 But lovelier still to me by far 
 Is the glimpse 1 get of the evening star. 
 
 Beautiful star ! Bright shining gem ! 
 No wonder that earth's ambitious men 
 Are happy and think they have letdown the 
 
 bar 
 To the portals of fame, when called a star. 
 
 No wonder the beauty with eyes so briglit. 
 Will blush, and be happy and g;iy to-niglit. 
 When the adoring crowd bend at her shrine 
 And declare that her eyes at twin stars shine. 
 
 O star! Fortunate indeed thou art, 
 To have been made a star and not a heart. 
 For hearts throb and pain and break each day 
 And are hid in the dark cold earth away. 
 
 And o'er the new graves in vale and hill, 
 On ocean's brink and by shady rill. 
 Thou wilt rise and shine, atid tliy vigils kcei) 
 While men lie down to restless sleep. 
 
 But thou, molten gem of silver hue. 
 Of ambition free, to thy author true, 
 In silent splendor, serene, afar, 
 Forev(;r the same, thou wilt glow a star. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 Dear old river! In the years yet to be 
 I may drift far away f n)m homo and thee 
 Out into the world with its noise and strife, 
 1 may lead a busier, gayer life; 
 lUii in memory's casket then shall ever bo 
 A jewel kept briglit- in love for thee. 
 For a li:ippy wife in a hiipiw land 
 Give me niv huini! on the beautiful Dan. 
 
 ♦it 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONTAr. POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 :37i 
 
 DANIEL M. NOLAK. 
 
 Bokn: Ireland, June IT, 1842. 
 Is married and h:is tliree children, two sons 
 and a daughter, now living-. His poems 
 liavebeon extensively published throughout 
 New England, appearing: frequently in tlie 
 leading metropoliiau papers, and his con- 
 
 DANIEL, M. NOLAN. 
 
 tributions to the Haverhill papers have been 
 liighly appreciated by his townsmen. He is 
 also well known to the readers of the New 
 England Grocer as the Grocer poet, being so 
 styled by that journal. Mr. Nolan is engag- 
 ed in the provision business, occupying- the 
 greater part of his time, but his spare mom- 
 ents are devoted to literature. He may 
 safely be termed a natural born poet, com- 
 ing from a family of good poetical talent. 
 An uncle and two brothers, Denis and Mau- 
 rice, have also written poems of excellence, 
 lie has liliewise gained great public notoriety 
 in taliing care of Captain Nicholas Costello, 
 recently deceased, but who lived to be 108 
 years old, 'being before his death the oldest 
 man in the country, and voted for Cleveland 
 when at the age of 106. Mr. Nolan will soon 
 publish a book of his poems which will con- 
 tain many selections of choice wit and humor. 
 
 TILTON'S TOWER. 
 The Haverhill poet of high renown, 
 How oft has praised his native towi 
 
 If lie was here on last .Inly, 
 
 On Tiltoii's Tower, that stands so high, 
 
 'Twould fill tiie old man's heart with joy 
 
 To see rockets burst and Ijullets lly. 
 
 That lit the air, illumed the sky. 
 
 In freedom's cause, which never die. 
 
 To him 'twould be a joyful news. 
 
 See Haverhill prosjier, making slices, 
 
 Making shoes that can t be beat. 
 
 On Washington, Wingate or Granite streets. 
 
 In Rowley's Held and Costello Hill, 
 
 Along the streams of Stevens' Mill; 
 
 Mill and shoe shops, both help and power. 
 
 Can all be seen from Tilton's Tower. 
 
 The president would stay one hour. 
 If asked to visit Tilton's Tower — 
 He'd be more thankful going awaj- 
 Than with a costly, big bou(iuet, 
 To let him view this rural seat. 
 So rare, so rich, so nice, so neat. 
 Blooming, bright, the darkest night, 
 Diflfusing radiant rays of light. 
 
 Stand on this Tower a summer day. 
 When lambs around it gently play, 
 See ships on the ocean, the foiiniing sea. 
 The hills and valleys, most every tree — 
 Put on your glasses, and tlien stand still, 
 Look up to Lowell, and see Fort Hill, 
 'Tis admired by the merchants and help in 
 
 the mill. 
 But this land round the Tower is more ex- 
 quisite still. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Two hundred years have gone and passed, 
 yes, and fifty more 
 
 Since pilgrims left their native homes and 
 landed on this shore. 
 
 They were but few in numbers when first 
 they settled down. 
 
 And raised the cry of freedom in old Pen- 
 tucket town; 
 
 They kept coming — they kept coming from 
 every foreign shoio. 
 
 Like the call of father Abraham for a hun- 
 dred tlKUisand more. 
 
 Wlien marching by the City Park their shouts 
 
 will reach the sky. 
 Hip, hurrah! for Hannah Dustin, whose 
 
 name will never die; 
 She being taken by the Indians, her husband 
 
 had to liee. 
 Babe taken from her arms and d;vshed against 
 
 a tree. 
 Where is the woman living, such heroic deeds 
 
 could do'/ 
 Killed those great, big Indians, paddled her 
 
 own canoe. 
 
 * 
 
1372 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AilEHICA. 
 
 MARY C. RYAN. 
 
 Born: Louisiana, About 1863. 
 
 After graduating from the Wlieeling Fe- 
 male College of West Virginia, Miss Ryan 
 taught school for several years, at the same 
 time studying art. For several years she 
 traveled with her father who was in search 
 
 MISS MARV CATHARINA RYAN. 
 
 ofliealth. Since his death Miss Rynn has 
 again taken up the profession of teaching in 
 Florida. Her poems have appeared in the 
 periodical press and in book form. 
 
 *- 
 
 LABOR AND WATT. 
 
 Labor and wait, 
 
 Thj' fears abate; 
 Oh! shrink not from the morrow's fate; 
 
 Upon us all, 
 
 God's flats fall; 
 Days once passed are beyond recall. 
 
 Sunshine and shade. 
 Through time have played 
 
 Together since the world was made; 
 So if thy life 
 With griefs be rife. 
 
 Still be not vanciuislied in the strife. 
 
 Labor to-day. 
 
 Time glides away, 
 Ungarnered grain will soon decay. 
 
 So do not sleep 
 
 Nor sigh and weep, 
 'Neath time's swift waters pearls lie deep. 
 
 Earth's joys will come 
 
 And gild thy home; 
 If thou, with sorrow dost not roam ; 
 
 So toil and wait. 
 
 For soon or late 
 The sun will shine and storms abate. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 From the cold world, my griefs I hide, 
 
 Unfurl each tattered sail; 
 Yet still my bark drifts with the tide 
 
 Shivering in the gale. 
 
 To peaceful ports far, far away, 
 
 I pull with all my might, 
 Yet still I'm drifting day by day 
 
 Into the shades of night. 
 
 In mj' despair I hear a voice, 
 
 That bids me still be brave; 
 And in the Savior's strength rejoice. 
 
 My weary soul to save. 
 
 Then 'neath the glitt'ring wefts of pride, 
 
 The tempter's snares I see. 
 As through life's struggling tides I glide 
 
 Into an open sea. 
 
 Christ as my guide, the rocks I pass, 
 
 Drossy the golden pelf. 
 No more, I view, through stained glass. 
 
 My weak and sinful self. 
 
 But through the storms, by faith I see 
 
 The glory of my king; 
 And peace and hope encompass me. 
 
 While to the cross I cling. 
 
 GROWING AGED. 
 W^e are growing aged, darling. 
 
 Drifting with life's ebbing tide; 
 And the years have changed us, darling. 
 
 Since I won Ihec for my bride. 
 For now thy waving silver hair 
 Is of a golden hue no more; 
 The world no longer calls thee fair. 
 As in happy days of yore. 
 
 What tho' time has robbed thee, darling. 
 
 Of the beauty of thy youth; 
 And thy form, of litheiiess, darling. 
 
 E'en thine eyes the gleam of mirth 
 We have toiled and wept together 
 
 As tlie wint'ry diiys passed by. 
 And we ve loved, rejoiced together. 
 
 Beneath the sunnner's azure sky. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIOXAL TOKTS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 1373 
 
 WARREN HOLDEN. 
 
 Born: Newark, N. J., Feb., 1, 1817. 
 
 This gentleman is tlie author of seven vol- 
 umes: Fourteen Sonnets ; Song-of Sea; Auto- 
 biograplij' of Love; Spiritual America. All 
 these works contain gems of song- that place 
 
 WARREN HOLDEN. 
 
 Mr. Holden in the foremost rank of Ameri- 
 can poets. Mr. Holden is still actively en- 
 gaged in life-duties, being a teacher in the 
 Gerard Ctollege of Philadelphia. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 How often hath the simple tale been told 
 Of sudden, rapt, unutterable joy 
 When love first thrills the heart of guile- 
 less boy. 
 And colors everything with rose and gold. 
 Ouce kindled, love's flame can ne'er grow 
 cold ; 
 The clouds of care may hide, but not des- 
 troy ; 
 Nor will its honeyed sweetness ever cloy, 
 Though taste he delicate and culture old. 
 And even in the blissful realms above 
 If aught could chill pure love's perennial 
 
 glow, 
 Let void Nirvana quench the concious me. 
 
 Not Heaven shall make man false to hoy- 
 hood's love. 
 Embarked upon its tide shall being flow. 
 On in eternal continuity. 
 
 ONE SPIRIT, MANY MANIFESTATIONS. 
 
 A cynosure in boyhood's roseate sky. 
 Her fairy figure floated arily 
 To lure him onward towards his destiny,— 
 
 The heaven reflected in her laughing eye. 
 
 The altar where she prayed oft heard his sigh. 
 For there betimes he bent the pious knee 
 To worship God— in virgin purity. 
 
 'Twas bliss to be, if only she were nigh. 
 
 But each horizon brings bright stars to view ; 
 And many marvels love's career hefall. 
 Ere it may choose for better or for worse. 
 
 One substance many forms may well endue. 
 Who shares the gift of God is heir to all 
 The love whose beauty fills the universe. 
 
 YOUNG LOVE'S FIRST LAY. 
 Oh, mj- life, may our love, as with angels 
 above. 
 Never ebb, but flow onw:ird for aye! 
 For better or worse, 'mid success or reverse. 
 Be we tender and constant as they. 
 
 And still I will love thee wherever I rove. 
 O'er the mountain or billowy main; 
 
 In sickness or health, or in want or in wealth. 
 As I love thee, oh, love me again I 
 
 In the heat and the strife of an ever-vexed 
 life 
 With ambition let other hearts burn. 
 Full contented with this, we'll not ask other 
 bliss 
 Than to love and be loved in return. 
 
 Oh, tell of it not how in yonder lone spot. 
 Where the evergreens fondly entwine. 
 
 Hand in hand did we plight, heart with heart 
 to unite, — 
 Yours the blessing, the blessed was mine. 
 
 Then we pledged with love's seal that for woe 
 or for weal 
 The exchange should endure to the last. 
 And as oft as we sealed, each impres.sion re- 
 vealed 
 Our engagement more full and more fast. 
 
 Like the flowers that blow where the lone 
 waters flow, 
 Unplucked by the thoughtless and gay. 
 We will hide our young love only witnessed 
 above 
 By the stars in their silent array; 
 
 We will seek a lone dell where in peace we 
 may dwell. 
 
 -* 
 
*■ 
 
 1374 
 
 LOCAL AND NfATIONAL POETS OK AMERICA. 
 
 From tlie heartless and worldly removed. 
 Unpretending: in worth, but with innocent 
 mirth. 
 Simply loving and being- beloved. 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 A cheerful cock foretells the coming day; 
 The stars burn dim as one by one they die, 
 While gradual dawn creeps up the eastern 
 
 sky, 
 And rosy blushes tinge the sober gray. 
 
 At once the golden splendor bursts its way, 
 Unfurls its flaming banner flashing high, 
 Atid rallies friend and foe that sleeping lie. 
 To join again in life's returning fray. 
 
 O sun of Love Divine, in glory rise: [night. 
 Dispel the dreams that haunt our weary 
 With healing touch restore our blinded eyes. 
 
 That we may seetlie light within thy light; 
 And by Thy wisdom rendered truly wise, 
 Transcending faith, may walk henceforth 
 by sight. 
 
 SUNSET. 
 Whilewendinghome in sunset's golden blaze. 
 The western splendor lures each wistful 
 
 eye 
 To paj- due homage to the gorgeous sky. 
 What rapture bursts in sudden words of 
 
 praise. 
 Or burns more eloquent in silent gaze! 
 For one brief moment heaven draweth 
 
 nigh; 
 It fades away; and with a parting sigh. 
 We go, in musing mood, our several ways. 
 Entrancing vision, whence thy fleeting sheen. 
 Returning oft at twilight's witching hour? 
 Art thou the bright mirage of fairy-land? 
 In dreams transported to that magic scene, 
 Of rosy walk and paradisal bower. 
 Enchanted lovers wander hand in hand. 
 
 LOVE'S AWAKENING. 
 O sweet surprise! Thou image of my dream. 
 Fair maiden, seen by only passing glance. 
 Yet slirined in memory, like saintlj' trance. 
 Revealing heaven through but a single 
 gleam ! 
 No fleeting phantom cast that dazzling beam: 
 A living i>resence thou didst timely chance 
 'Twi.xt I'eal and ideal world's romance, 
 And hope's unbounded promises redeem. 
 Rare angel guest hath blest me unawares. 
 And chosen friends have cheered life's 
 lengthening way; 
 Btisides my otlier self, love's counterpart. 
 Bi.D thou didst kindle love's delightful cares. 
 Though threescore years conspire to hide 
 that day, [heart. 
 
 Thou'rt still the key that first unlocked my 
 
 THE VIOLIN. 
 
 The heart's own voice.sweet viol, be thy name. 
 Whose throbbing chords are tuned to every 
 
 tone 
 Of passion's scale to human bosom known. 
 Dost thou discourse of love? the lover's fame 
 Responsive trembles and reveals tlie flame. 
 Is grief thy theme? What sympathy is 
 shown 
 f On every face ! Mayhap there bursts a moau, 
 Thy gentle chiding wakes conscious blame. 
 Spontaneous pleasure leads the nimble dance 
 Where'erthy wizard wand a challenge flings, 
 'Neath stately roof or greenwood tree per- 
 chance. 
 And wlien repentance wavers o'er the strings 
 Their pleading praj-ers the contrite heart 
 
 entrance. 
 And waft it heavenward as on angel wings. 
 
 LUMAX CARL. 
 
 Born; Coxsackie, N. Y., March 11, 1860. 
 Since 1880 Luman Carl lias been engaged in 
 school teaching, and now resides in Summit, 
 N. Y. His poems appear occasionally in the 
 local press. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 All through the bright October days, 
 I love amid the purple haze. 
 
 To muse or idly stroll 
 The gorgeous lines of shrubs and trees. 
 The balmy air, the fragrant breeze. 
 The sunset clouds, the mists— all there 
 
 Breathe incense to my soul. 
 I love to walk where leaves are brown, 
 And russet nuts are falling down. 
 
 From many a forest tree; 
 And watch the squirrel frisking b}-. 
 Who with his cunning is so shj'. 
 That while he works lie keeps one eye 
 
 Intently fixed on me. 
 Oh! pleasant autumn holiday ! 
 I would ibat thou couldst with us stay 
 
 Through all our earthly years; 
 And that my life might be as thine. 
 Surrounded with bright hues, divine. 
 That I may hail its last decline 
 
 With smile? and not with tears. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 Oh, friendship! would that many more 
 
 Thy precious worth might know! 
 There'd be a greater store of love 
 
 And less of pain and woe. 
 Fly swiftly on, old Father Time, 
 
 Atid haste the glorious day 
 When trutli and love .shall rule the land. 
 
 And discord melt away. 
 
 * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1375 
 
 « 
 
 MRS. ROSE J. DEWOODIE. 
 
 Born: Hortleton, Pa., July 28, 1845. 
 Prior to lier marriage this lady engaged iti 
 tlie profession of teaching-, wliicli she resum- 
 ed after the death of her liusbaiid. She lias 
 written some very tine poems, and has been 
 
 MRS. ROSE J. DE WOODIE. 
 
 editor and prose writer for several publica- 
 tions. Mrs. DeWoodie still resides in her na- 
 tive state at Hontzdale. 
 
 *- 
 
 BECKTE'S BURIAL. 
 
 Brightly shone the stars of morning, 
 
 In the cold, blue sky — 
 Ere the first faint dawn of daytime 
 
 Met the wearied eye; 
 As we watched with tearful faces, 
 
 Grouped about the bed. 
 Where our darling- Beckie rested 
 
 In a slumber dread. 
 
 Not the prayers of our mother, 
 
 Nor our anxious care 
 Can unseal the heavy eyelids 
 
 From the orbs so fair; 
 Closed, fore'er, to all thing-s earthly. 
 
 Now, perchance, they gaze 
 On the glittering- host,whose harpstrings 
 
 Echo Jesus' praise. 
 
 Fainter falls the heaving bosom — 
 
 Slower comes tlie breath — 
 Beckie passes in that slumber. 
 
 Through the gates of death. 
 When the daylight o"er the iiilltops 
 
 Gleams with radiance red. 
 Through the shutter, dim, ii lallelh 
 
 On the still, white dead. 
 
 With the small hands, meekly folded, 
 
 And the ebon hair. 
 Lying on the marble forehead. 
 
 With a life-like air. 
 Thro' the day and cold, dark night-lime. 
 
 In the silent room. 
 Lies the slender,white-robed figure, 
 
 Dark the sky with gloom. 
 
 Though our kisses soft and reverent. 
 
 Touch her chilly brow. 
 She, afar from all our grieving, 
 
 Dwells in sunshine now. 
 Close the coffin-lid above her, 
 
 Bear her out the door. 
 From the home she made so sunny — 
 
 'Tis her home no more. 
 Slowly onward to the graveyard, 
 
 City of the dead,— 
 Bear the coffin till it resteth 
 
 In its narrow bed. 
 Where our darling sister slumbers 
 
 There we pause and pray; 
 Asking God we all may greet her 
 
 In the land of day. 
 
 CHARITY TO THE FALLEN. 
 
 O! fair but unforgiving, thou 
 
 Whose red lip curls in pride, 
 If but an erring sister brush 
 
 Thy silken garb aside; 
 Shrink not from that profaning touch. 
 
 Frown not with haughty brow. 
 For in God's sight tliat scorned one 
 
 May be as pure as thou. 
 Thou dost not know, thou canst not tell. 
 
 Tlie struggle and the strife. 
 The fierce temptation that beset 
 
 Her fair, unspotted life. 
 And gave to that heart's purity 
 
 Its first, dark taint of sin ; 
 Nor how lier angel turned to weep, 
 
 As came her tempter in. 
 Judge not! that soul condemned by thee 
 
 May shine in heaven afar. 
 Reclaimed from its strayed orbit here, 
 
 A fixed and radiant star; 
 A sinless mother's prayers, perchance. 
 
 Breathed o'er her long ago. 
 May have won above, from a Gtxl of love 
 
 The mercy thou canst not show. 
 
*- 
 
 1376 
 
 LOCAL AMD NATIONAL POETS OF AirEKICA. 
 
 ALFRED GRAHAM, M.D.,D.D. 
 
 Born: Canada, March IT, 1849. 
 When a boy Mr. Graham lived in Detroit 
 where he later clerked in a store. For sev- 
 eral years he traveled in the southern states 
 as a business man, and for two years had 
 charge of an important business in Atlanta, 
 
 * 
 
 ALFRED GRAHAM, A.M., M.D. 
 
 Ga., whence he went to Little Rock, Ark., in 
 the same line of business.where he remained 
 five years. Mr. Graham tlien entered tlie 
 Hahnemann Medical College of Phihidelphia 
 in which city lie located after graduation. 
 In 1891 Mr.Graham removed to Detroit, where 
 he is engaged in the practice of medicine. 
 He has been prominent in religious and tem- 
 perance work, and has lectured and preached 
 in the southern states; he has also been ed- 
 itor on several religious and tempei'aiiee 
 publications. Over two hundred of Ids poems 
 liave appeared in tlie St. Louis Globe-Demo- 
 crat, Waverly Magazine and other prominiMit 
 I>ublications. Mr. Graham was married in 
 1871 to Miss D. Ahce Brazie of Lapeer, Mich. 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 Why should we boast of present strength? 
 
 Wliy yield to worldly swiiy? 
 Why joyous feel o'er what is ours? 
 
 O'er wluit we own to-day? 
 
 Tomorrow's sun may find us 'neath 
 
 The damp and mold'ring clay. 
 Though health marks well our features fair 
 
 And beauties o'er us bloom. 
 Disease may soon upon us cast 
 
 Its ever-deepeinng gloom. 
 To-day 'mid pleasures we may dwell. 
 
 To-morrow, in the tomb. 
 Should earthly kingdoms own our sway. 
 
 And bow at our command. 
 Should millions kneel witli trembling fear 
 
 At our uplifted hand. 
 Or should we, with benignant power. 
 
 Be greatest of our land; 
 Should we be those of great renown. 
 
 Full high inscribe our name 
 Upon the great, yet transient, scroll 
 
 Of earth's soon-dying fame, 
 Tliough honored by our eartldy friends. 
 
 Our end must be the same. 
 Wealth, power and trifling afliueuce 
 
 May mark well our career. 
 But what will these avail us when 
 
 Tlie enemy draws near 
 To bear us to tiie silent land, 
 
 From all on earth that's dear? 
 Honors can lengthen not our days, 
 
 Nor cleanse sin's fearful stam; 
 All these will be as naught to us 
 
 When Jesus comes again 
 To judge the world, and gather home 
 
 His saints witli Him to reign. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF SORROW. 
 I walk through a dark, shaded valley, 
 
 And tread the dim pathway alone; 
 I see not the form of anotiier, 
 
 No voice do I hear but my own. 
 And yet I can seetlirough the darkne 
 
 Far back in the cycle of years, 
 And fancy I hear in tlie stillness, 
 
 Sweet accents which move me to tears. 
 I once had a home over yonder, 
 
 And traveled that sun-brightened way: 
 Ah, me I how the thick clouds liavelower'd 
 
 And darkened each beautiful ray! 
 None know how Fve lived in the valley. 
 
 With lieartaclies and sadness and tears: 
 And how I liave longed for tlie sunlight, 
 
 Tlirt)ugh toilsome and wearisome years. 
 And here in the valley of sorrow. 
 
 Lie buried my hopes of the past; 
 Entombed is the love tliat once thrilled nic, 
 
 'Twas pure, but too fickle to last. 
 And often I've wished wiien so weary 
 
 And anxious fi-oin pain to be free, 
 That: some friendly mound in the valley 
 
 Might et>ver my sorrows anil nie. 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAT. AND NATIONAL, POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1377 
 
 MRS. ANNIE WALL. 
 
 Born: Crawford Co., Wis., Sept. 19, 1859. 
 Since her childhood this ladj- has constantly 
 contributed poems to such papers as the 
 Springfield Farm and Fireside, Pueblo Daily 
 Press and the Milwaukee Sentinel. The 
 poems of Mrs. AniiiP Wall are mostly (if a 
 
 MRS. ANNIE WALL. 
 
 religious tone, and it is hoped they will ap- 
 pear in b'X)is form at an early date. She was 
 married in 1878 to Burton T. Wall, a mer- 
 chant of Pueblo, Colorado, where she now 
 resides. Mrs. Wall is not physically strong, 
 and has traveled extensively in pursuit of 
 health. 
 
 LOVE THEM TO-DAY. 
 The harsh, unloving words we speak to-day 
 
 May pass beyond recall. 
 The tender heart they pierce to-morrow may 
 
 Be cold beneath a pall. 
 The loving lips that for our kisses wait, 
 To-morrow we may learn to prize — too late. 
 
 The eyes that look to-day so longingly 
 
 Into our own in vain. 
 For answering look of love or sympathy 
 
 And humid grow with pain. 
 To-morrow may be closed in icy sleep. 
 To wake no more, though bitterly we weep. 
 
 The hands tliat rcacli to clasp our own to-day 
 
 With loving life athrill. 
 Chilled by our unresponsive touch may lie 
 
 To-morrow cold and still. 
 In rigid calm, above a lifeless breast. 
 Where love nor hate can ne'er disturb their 
 rest. 
 
 The love we slight to-day, the hearts we 
 grieve. 
 
 The lips we do not kiss. 
 The clinging hands, the tender, longing eyes. 
 
 Tomorrow we may miss. 
 Then let us hold them precious while we may, 
 Returning all their love in full to-day. 
 
 THE MIRACLE OF SPRING. 
 There's a joyous voice of promise in the air; 
 There's a happy sense of hoping every- 
 where. 
 In the stirring of the breeze. 
 In the newly budding trees. 
 In the freshlj- springing grass 
 And the dashing show'rs that pass. 
 We catch the inspiration and we share 
 In the general joy and gladness everywhere. 
 There's a wakeningof the voices of tlie hills. 
 There's a deeper sound of laughter in the rills 
 And the woods begin to ring 
 With the songs of birds that sing; 
 And the plains begin to sliow 
 Brighter tints where wind flow'rs blow; 
 For every pulse of nature faster thrills 
 With the wakening of the voices of the hills. 
 "Tis the miracle of spring being wrought. 
 The resurrection lesson, newly taught. 
 Who can doubt the pow'r of God 
 When we see from every clod 
 Flow'rs unspringing to the sun, 
 New life from their dark graves won. 
 Fit emblems of the Christian's life to be 
 When from the grave springs immortality! 
 
 OUR SUNNY CITY. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Pueblo on the sunny plain 
 
 In peaceful beauty stands; 
 The mountains yield their bounteous store 
 Of granite rocks and precious ore. 
 
 To fill her outstretched hands. 
 She shelters well her peaceful homes 
 
 And guards them all with care; 
 Her churches heavenward lift their spires 
 And love hath lit their altar fires. 
 
 And kept, them bright with prayer. 
 The Arkansas, that river wild. 
 
 With murmurs soft and sweet. 
 Unto Pueblo ever sings. 
 And gracious gifts it freely brings. 
 
 And lays them at her feet. 
 
*- 
 
 1378 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. MATTIE A. HOYT. 
 
 Rorn: Lancaster, Ohio. 
 Mrs. Hoyt is the widow of tlie late Dr. P. 
 B. Hoyt, of Norwalk, Ohio. She is now a 
 student of medicine in the city of Chicago. 
 
 MRS. MATTIE A. HOYT. 
 
 Mrs. Hoyt is very fond of poetry, and her 
 poems have always received high praise. 
 
 GO FORGET ME. 
 
 Go forg-et me, it is better, 
 Best our path in life should part. 
 
 Go forg-et each little fetter. 
 Ere it wounds or breaks the heart. 
 
 Tims I give thee back unto her, 
 
 Whom thou lovest ere we met. 
 All thy love and honor due her. 
 
 Go I pray thee, go forget. 
 Go forget and let me treasure 
 
 Only purest tiioughts of thee, 
 Go forget each passing pleasure 
 
 That my presence brought to thee. 
 Go forget that ere we met, 
 
 Go forget eacli little touch. 
 Let thy heart learn to forgot. 
 
 Go forget I loved thee much. 
 Only this, should aught befall. 
 And thy spirit feel oppressed. 
 
 Only this, I ask thee call, 
 I will fly to thee, thou blest. 
 
 TO ONE 1 LOVE. 
 How we met and loved and parted. 
 
 None on earth shall ever know. 
 But my true and faithful heart 
 
 Has loved thee still wheree'er I go. 
 Love thee dear, 1 cannot help it, 
 
 Tliough I strive with all my might. 
 Would to God, I could forget thee, 
 
 For I know it is not right. 
 All my thoughts are ever of thee, 
 
 And the time in which we met. 
 In my dreams I'm near and love thee- 
 
 Oh ! then how can I forget? 
 Hopeless love abides the longer, 
 
 And each fiber of my heart. 
 Tells me love is growing stronger, 
 
 Tells me too, that we must part. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 And thou art gone. Oh, can it be 
 
 There is no one to conviort me; 
 No one to call me their own. 
 
 Though many are near, yet I'm alone. 
 In crowds, it is my chance to meet. 
 
 Our friend, and there each other greet; 
 My thoughts turn back to hours flown. 
 
 And I sigh for thee for I'm alone, 
 I'm lonely. Oh ! so lonely here. 
 
 Though many try my heart to cheer — 
 'Tis thee, I miss, for thou art gone, 
 
 I'm left in sadness and alone. 
 Though God has called thee, dearest one, 
 
 I cannot say, " Thy will be done;" 
 Why should I give up all 1 own, 
 
 And battle through this world alone? 
 Thy prayers shall be my strength and shield 
 
 While laboring in this lonely field; 
 I'll strive to meet thee at the throne. 
 
 Where sighs and parting are unknown. 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 The shadows of the past droop low. 
 
 And memories deep arise. 
 As on a distant field tliey show, 
 
 Wherein the future lies. 
 Tiie present and the past both bring 
 
 Our sorrow, care and love, 
 And to present we all cling. 
 
 While through this world we rove 
 Our kindness to each other here 
 
 Make friends we love so well; 
 As we each other's burdens bear, 
 
 Each other's places fill. 
 
 *- 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1379 
 
 MRS. M. V. DAHLGREN. 
 
 Born: Gallipolis, Ohio. 
 
 Mrs. Dahlgren's first literary effort. Ideali- 
 ties was published bj' Lippincott's in 18.59, 
 contained several poems. Her fug'itive poems 
 have appeared from time to time in various 
 publications. As a prose writer she has 
 
 MRS. MADELEINE VINTON DAHLGREN. 
 
 published some twelve books, and has con- 
 tributed very extensively essays, syndicate 
 articles and short stories, to various news- 
 papers and mag'azines. Mrs. Dahlgren is the 
 widow of Admiral John A. Dahlgren, of the 
 United States Navy, who died in 1870. Mrs. 
 Dahlg-ren accompanied her husband on his 
 cruise in the South Pacific Ocean, where he 
 was stationed dnring' the war between Chill 
 and Peru, as commander of the United 
 States squadron in those waters; and she 
 has published a verj' interesting- book on her 
 stay in Peru and Chili, during that time and 
 on the customs and manners of the people 
 of those countries. 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 Thy multitudinous voices speak to me, 
 O solemn breathing, deep resounding sea! 
 
 Forever surging, in strange, continuous 
 
 rhyme. 
 Noted and measured by the wand of time. 
 
 O sea ! I bend and list to thee most rev'rently. 
 
 Groping in vain, but would fain seize the key 
 
 That deftly guards thy dread mysteries en- 
 chained. 
 
 And firmly holds tliy awful power restrained. 
 
 From out thy vast concave, thy forces throng- 
 ing rebound. 
 
 With multipotent voices that commingling 
 resound 
 
 Where thy manifold marvels lie closely con- 
 cealed. 
 
 And grim rest thy secrets, to no man re- 
 vealed. 
 
 But now, seething and hissing, foaming en- 
 raged, 
 
 A caldron candescent, a demon engaged, — 
 
 Thy mountainous breakers dash o'er the 
 strand. 
 
 Their fury held back by Omnipotent Hand. 
 
 Then waning, low wailing, thy fitful gusts 
 plead. 
 
 As subsiding, abating, thy pulses recede. 
 
 Contending while yielding, with sorrowing 
 sobs, 
 
 Till relaxing, retreating, slow ebb thy heart- 
 throbs. 
 
 All serene sinks thy bosom, O treacherous 
 
 sea; 
 Seem siren or spliinx, thou deceivest not me; 
 For thy secrets are sj-mbols, which full well 
 
 I scan. 
 As forming a part of God's glorious plan. 
 
 Thou wert slave, and not monarch, when in- 
 to snace hurled. 
 
 He formed thee but finite, as fair dawned the 
 world ; 
 
 While I, an immortal, soar boundless and 
 free 
 
 Far above thy wild passions, O terrible sea! 
 
 THE RAGGED BOY. 
 A little child, whom God had blessed. 
 And fortune's kindly smile caressed, 
 Clasp'dln his arms a valued toy. 
 When there approached a ragged boy; 
 
 The beauteous child, whom God had blessed 
 Stood in the doorway, gayly dressed : 
 With piteous tone, the other said: 
 " Please, little sir, please, give me bread 1 " 
 
 The winsome child, whom God had blessed. 
 With tender grace greets child oppressed. 
 
 -* 
 
*- 
 
 1380 
 
 * 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Gives him the toy he loves so well, 
 And asks him all his grief to tell. 
 
 To liim, the child whom God had blessed, 
 Said kindlj': •• Enter thou, and rest! " 
 The rag'ged boy, who asked bread, 
 Gently into the house is led. 
 
 Wan, wasted, weary, frozen feet, 
 Had wandered up and down the street: 
 Nor had the waif a shelter found, 
 Or other lodging- than the ground. 
 
 The lovely child, whom God had blessed. 
 Laid — hapless one — on bed to rest. 
 And kissing him, said: " All night sleep. 
 While holy angels their watch keep." 
 
 The needful help came all to late. 
 For, worn with woe, this child of fate 
 Did close his eyes on earth that night, 
 To open them on heaven's light. 
 
 Nor many months did pass away 
 When fortune's child, one morn in May, 
 Was sent for — summon'd from on high 
 To share the common lot — to diel 
 
 Let mystery of love, behold. 
 What next befell — faith does unfold 
 That ragged boy — a cherub bright. 
 Enwraps him in his wings of night. 
 
 For fortune's child, his turn doth take 
 Since deathless eyes may ne'er mistake. 
 He sees before him in amaze. 
 The ragged boy in light ablaze. 
 
 All bathed in beatific joy. 
 Resplendent shone the ragged boy — 
 Whose little weary feet had trod 
 A pilgrimage to throne of God! 
 
 Now, swiftly on, with seraph love. 
 Conducts his charge to heaven above. 
 Where other door-way stands ajar. 
 Lustrous as glorious morning star. 
 
 This portal arch of rainbow hues 
 Illumines space, and rays diffuse. 
 Where faintest shadows, flitting here. 
 Tell us on earth that God is near. 
 
 Then cherub said to fortune's child — 
 And as he spoke angelic smiled. 
 With beaming looks he clasps his hand. 
 Bids him make one of blessed baud — 
 
 »i Dids't take me in, a ragged boy. 
 Now enter thou to endless joy; 
 
 Dids't gently lay me on thy bed. 
 Now Jesus crowns thy little head." 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Angel hymns, the glad air rending. 
 
 O'er a convent by the sea! 
 Where Christ's loving spouses bending. 
 
 Do adore God's majesty! 
 
 Blessed waxen tapers burning, 
 Light this chapel by the sea! 
 
 With consuming flames, hot yearning. 
 They adore God's majesty. 
 
 Sweetest flowers, fondly sighing. 
 
 Deck this altar by the sea! 
 Fast exhale their lives in vying. 
 
 To adore God's majesty ! 
 
 Clouds of fragrant incense blending, 
 Round this altar by the sea! 
 
 With fervent prayers ascending, 
 That adore God's majesty! 
 
 Swift, the bright, high waves aspiring, 
 Greets this altar by the sea! 
 
 And spend all their force. Expiring, 
 To adore God's majesty ! 
 
 Now the vested priest, stands pleading. 
 
 At this altar by the sea ! 
 Where the Sacred Heart lies bleeding, 
 
 He adores God's majesty! 
 
 His annointed hands extending. 
 
 On this altar by the sea! 
 When the dear Lord, swift descending. 
 
 All adore God's majesty ! 
 
 At the hour of midnight telling. 
 
 In this chapel by the sea ! 
 The fair Babe Divine is dwelling, 
 
 There adore God's majestj'. 
 
 And proclaim, the news amazing. 
 Wide spread over land and sea! 
 
 For on Christmas night, loud praising. 
 All adore God's majesty. 
 
 PHELPS. 
 
 The bridge of life for you stands fair. 
 With arches flrm-free from decay; 
 
 The stream of life flows gently there. 
 Nor sunken rocks divert its way. 
 
 Vestured in snow, yet beauteous still. 
 You rest, the marvel of the day; 
 
 Spanned with the radiance of good will. 
 Crowned with the golden sunset ray. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1381 
 
 * 
 
 HORACE MELLARD DUBOSE. 
 
 Born: Near Mobile, Ala., Nov. 7, 1858. 
 After receiving- a tlioroug-li education, Mr. 
 DuBose taug-lit in [jrivate schools. After a 
 few years he took up the study of theolog-y, 
 and in 1879 entered holy orders. Mr. DuBose 
 has served as a pastor in several parts of the 
 
 HORACE MELLARD DU BOSE. 
 
 south and California. He resided for some 
 time in New Yorli, where he oiHeiated in 
 several of the leading- churches of his faith. 
 About a year ago Mr. DuBose was elected to 
 the chief editorship of the Pacific Methodist 
 Advocate, the leading religious newspaper 
 on the Pacific coast. This gentleman has 
 made somewhat of a specialty of the study 
 of German and Sanskirt poetry, as well as 
 as that of the classic nations of antiquity. 
 He is the author of a number of poems. 
 Rupert Wise, a poetic romance in eight can- 
 '■, tos, has been widely read and favorably 
 received in America and, to some extent, in 
 Europe. A new volume. Psyche, a Symbolic 
 Poem, will shortly be issued from the press. 
 
 *- 
 
 ROLL ON. 
 Roll on, ye fateful years, but >eave 
 
 Not me at any fate behind ; 
 I fain thro' storm and wave would cleave 
 
 To that fair coast of truth and find 
 Wherein all dreams of truth begin 
 
 And this loud propliecy witliin 
 That wakes its echo thro' the n.ind. 
 Roll on and bring me to the snore. 
 
 And bring nie U^ a dreamful rest. 
 Or bruig me strengtli, when are no more 
 
 These yearnings of a tortured brciist. 
 To see life good tlio' incomplete, 
 
 A broken urn witli wasted sweet — 
 Roll on and bring mc what is best! 
 
 ORACLES. 
 Deep were her lucid orbs of sight. 
 And wild witli some unspoken wish; 
 They seemed to quencli the fires of day. 
 And yet to drink the tides of night; 
 One glance was like tlie falling sun 
 And one was like an angel's flight. 
 O mystery of the spirit's miglit 
 And of tiie s))irit's life undone! 
 O deep where passions' seas unite. 
 And fate and faith grow into one! 
 
 MY HEART IS TENDER NOW. 
 My heart is strangely tender now; 
 Long time I walked tlie shadow land, 
 The misty, wintry sliadow land. 
 Thro' which the tide of tears rolls on. 
 But God is tiiere, strange tale to earth! 
 The gentle Clirist walked with me there. 
 And held me tiiat I fainted not 
 In that dim, tearful shadow land. 
 Therefore my heart is tender now. 
 
 MY SONG. 
 Come as dawneth tlie perfect day. 
 
 Sweet with notes of woodland birds; 
 Odorous winds from far Cathay 
 Bring in the wake of winged words. 
 My song! my song! 
 Move as raovetli the bride-groom sun. 
 
 Walking tlie belted round of heaven; 
 Come or ever the da.v be done 
 And out of the day the sun be driven, 
 My song! my song! 
 Drop as droppeth the tender eve. 
 
 Thro' mellow depths of faultless skies. 
 Or a spirit wiiose goings leave 
 Abiding toketis of Paradise, 
 My song! my song! 
 Or soft as the hushes of night 
 
 Steal over my fancy in dream 
 And clotlie the world witli every light 
 And the charm of a tlioiiplit supreme. 
 My song! my song! 
 As out of darkness comes the stars 
 
 And the promise of waking day. 
 
 So from the night-scrolls' dusky bars 
 
 Smite the notes of a deathless lay. 
 
 My song! my song! 
 
«- 
 
 1382 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. LIBBIE C. BAER. 
 
 Born: Near Bethel, Ohio, Nov. 18, 1849. 
 The ancestors on the paternal side of this 
 lady were the two familes, Riley and Swing-. 
 From the original family of the former de- 
 scended the distinguished poet and humor- 
 ist, James Whitcomb Riley ; from the latter 
 
 "1 
 
 MRS. LIBBIE C. BAER. 
 
 the eminent philosopher and divine, Prof. 
 David Swing of Chicago. In 1867 the subject 
 of this sketch was married to Chaplain Jolin 
 M. Baer of Appleton, Wis., where she now 
 resides. Mrs. Baer has held various respon- 
 sible positions with the Woman's Relief 
 Corps of the G. A. R., and took an important 
 part in the benevolent work of this order. 
 During the past ten years Mrs. Libbie C. 
 Baer has contributed to the leading publica- 
 tions of America, and her poems have in- 
 deed been a valuable acquisition to current 
 literature; and it is to be hoped that they 
 will soon appear in book form. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 With sable robes and calm, white face. 
 The gentle night draws on apace; 
 With sombrous curtains drapes the skies. 
 To veil the light from aching eyes; 
 And sends her zephyrs ministering. 
 With noiseless step and cooling wing; 
 
 Distills the dew that slowly drips, 
 To cool tlie lilies, thirsty lips; 
 Then on her gentle loving breast. 
 She folds vLe weary world to rest. 
 
 ALONE. 
 I passed where many were meeting. 
 
 And listlessly found there a place; 
 I heard friends' voices in greeting 
 
 And kisses fell cold on my face, 
 I smiled when I saw others smile, 
 
 I laughed attlie jest given free; 
 Acknowledged new faces the while 
 
 Wlio friends in the future must be. 
 But the music fell dull on my ear. 
 
 Or rose in a discordant tone; 
 And yet, while so many were near, 
 
 I felt that I walked there alone. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 A lifeless life, a warmthless flre; 
 A voiceless song, a stringless lyre; 
 A hopeless hope, a liollow joy; 
 A gleam of gold tliat's but alloy; 
 Blind eyes wliich gaze on cloudless days; 
 Bound feet that stand in thornless ways. 
 The brimming fountains e'er to see. 
 Yet die of thirst continually; 
 Tasting the fruit that nectar drips. 
 To turn to ashes on the lips. 
 In vain! in vain! the ill-timed fate 
 Vouchsafed the precious boon — too late. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 The spring has come : 
 Whilst winter's snow is floating down 
 On Autumn's leaves so sere and brown. 
 Life is renewed with rosy glow. 
 Nor feels the cold, nor heeds the snow,— 
 
 The spring has come. 
 
 And roses rare! 
 Born out of time on bushes blown 
 From which I thought all life had flown. 
 This strange sight doth my vision meet,- 
 On bushes dead, with fragrance sweet. 
 
 Are roses rare. 
 
 I hear a bird 
 A gladsome, sweet and thrilling note; 
 Tho' long ago each feathered throat 
 From leaf divested tree had flod. 
 Yet plainly now, I hear o'erhead 
 
 The song of bird. 
 
 And this is love. 
 To wreathe with roses, winters' brow; 
 To wave a wand, where sad hearts bow. 
 To bring delight, when joy had fled; 
 To life renew; to quicken dead;— 
 
 Ah ! this is love. 
 
 *- 
 
 * 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1383 
 
 * 
 
 MRS. M. J. SMITH. 
 
 Born: Gardiner, Me., Oct. 28, 1834. 
 This lady has written over a thousand poems, 
 many of which have appeared in some of the 
 leading- periodicals of America. She was 
 
 MRS. M. J. SMITH. 
 
 married in 1852 to Mr. A. A. Smith, and now 
 resides in Lougwood, a suburb of Chicago. 
 
 THE HEART SHOULD NEVER GROW 
 OLD. 
 
 The heart should never grow old, my dear. 
 
 The heart should never grow old, 
 'Tis a sacred shrine, and should be kept, 
 
 Most beautiful things to hold; 
 For there have gathered our hopes and fears, 
 
 And there is hidden our care. 
 And some of its doors we ne'er unlock 
 
 Such treasures are hidden there. 
 
 There are pictured faces upon its walls. 
 
 And eyes that are laughing still; 
 There are lips that seem to be bubbling o'er 
 
 With music our lives to fill. 
 There are sweet old hymns that we used to 
 sing. 
 
 And all of an evening prayer; 
 There are trembling hands that left our brows 
 
 With a blessing resting there. 
 
 There is love's sweet dream and the story told 
 
 And the fragrance of blosst)ms sweet; 
 There's a lover's kiss and a marriage vow, 
 
 Tliat rounded the whole complete; 
 And a wedded bliss and a cliild's caress; 
 
 Oh, motliers count the cost. 
 There are little fingers, like waxen buds, 
 
 On a pulseless bosom crossed. 
 
 And now as we gather the friends of yore. 
 
 With those of the present day; 
 Those who have crossed Ui their home before. 
 
 And tliose wlio are on the way; 
 We feel tliat our heart, tlio' in casket worn. 
 
 Most beautiful things can hold; 
 And tho' we fall on our pilgrim staff. 
 
 Our own will never grow old. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 Who hath not felt the lack of sympathy, 
 Or known the need of one kind heart 
 
 To lean upon? 
 Who hath not waited for some spoken word 
 Appreciative of tlieir liumble worth. 
 
 And waited on — 
 Till sick at heart, almost despairing. 
 They longed the duty, truly theirs, 
 
 To leave undone'? 
 
 THE RAINDROPS' DANCE. 
 Over the roof with its sloping top. 
 The mist forms gathered and drop, drop, 
 
 drop. 
 They fell to the bordered walk below, 
 Down where the pinks and violets grow; 
 
 And hurried away 
 Neath the swaying leaves and violets' hood. 
 
 Like children who play 
 A hide and seek game in some sheltering 
 wood. 
 
 Drop, drop, drop, and the blossoms smiled. 
 And merrily \,'elcomed each raindrop cliild; 
 Now and then rockim."- them to and fro. 
 Till one by one from tlieir arms they go. 
 
 To join in a dance, 
 With a thousand more, in the path below. 
 
 What a lucky chance. 
 For their mimic was that bordered row. 
 
 Drop, drop, drop, tho" the clouds are gone. 
 The play all over, the dance all done. 
 The sun peeps out and the raindrops go. 
 Each to an unseen task and lo. 
 
 The violet row. 
 Each sheltering leaf, and the blossoms sweet. 
 
 Much handsomer grow. 
 For the rain-drops dance at tlieir tiny feet. 
 
 * 
 
* 
 
 1384 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. L. M. HEWLINGS. 
 
 Born: Massachusetts. 
 Mrs. Hewlings lias always been an ardent 
 worker in the cause of religion and temper- 
 ance. Her late husband, Kev. Georg-e Rob- 
 ert Hewlings, D. D., being an eminent minis- 
 
 *- 
 
 MRS. L. M. KEWLINGS. 
 
 ter of the gospel. Her poems bave always 
 received the highest praise, and have been 
 copied far and wide in the secular and re- 
 ligious press throughout America. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS. 
 Dear, old friends, the long remember'd, 
 
 Come and smile on me once more. 
 Calm bright eyes that long have slumber'd, 
 
 Wake to life ! as erst of yore ! 
 Mem'ries on my soul are thronging. 
 
 Of the dear old days long past. 
 Precious seasons now recalling. 
 
 Dear friends shall we meet at last? 
 Like the flush that herald's dawning, 
 
 Like the golden rays of morn. 
 Thoughts come of old friends departed, 
 
 Cherished in the days now gone. 
 
 DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 O, for the loved familiar faces. 
 
 For the dear companions gone from sight. 
 Vanished forms from life's busy places. 
 
 That cheered, gladdened and gave delight. 
 
 O, for the home of j'outh and childhood. 
 
 For rambles over the dear old farm. 
 Over the meadows, fields and wildwood, 
 
 Frolicing plays in the spacious barn. 
 Watching- the birds and wild bees humming, 
 
 Climbing the trees for fruit most rare, 
 Gathering berries, going nutting. 
 
 With merry companions free as air. 
 O, for a swim in the clear lakelet. 
 
 For leisure to fish with liook and line. 
 As erst of yore in days of childhood, 
 
 Without a care of the coming time. 
 O, for daily showers of sweetness. 
 
 As they were once in the dear old home. 
 Then life was gay in its completeness. 
 
 And yet scarcely heeded until flown. 
 O, for the dear old kitchen garden. 
 
 With its fragrance of flowers and herds, 
 Delicious with sweet spicy odors. 
 
 That enchanied the bees and the birds. 
 I yearn for those old fashioned posies, 
 
 To breathe fragrance from mint and balm. 
 Gather in garlands eiiwreatlied with roses, 
 
 And roam again o'er tlie dear old farm. 
 
 IN HOPE. 
 The last faint notes of my youth's glad song. 
 
 Echo no more on earth, 
 And I fain would join that sinless throng, 
 
 Land of the spirit's birth; 
 Where the crj- of sinfulness and strife. 
 
 Of human wrongs and woes. 
 Can never mar that glorious life. 
 
 Where all in peace repose. 
 Where soirowiiig night is lost in day. 
 
 All dt)ubt and darkness gone. 
 Time and change are broken in their sway. 
 
 And right has conquered wrong. 
 O, glorious thought! to think at last. 
 
 In conference above. 
 Death overcame, all dangers past. 
 
 We'll sing redeeming love. 
 
 THE WITHERED BUD. 
 'Tis but a little withered bud. 
 
 Yet it holds the magic power. 
 To take me back thro' years of change, 
 
 Into youth's briglit sunny hour. 
 'Twas given in a playful way. 
 
 By my lover, a blue-eyed boy. 
 Laid with a lock of his liair away. 
 
 With a feeling of blissful joy. 
 Priceless to nie this witiiered bud: 
 
 More than riches this world could bring, 
 I would not exchange tiicse tokens. 
 
 For wealth of the mightiest king. 
 My lover is buried from sight. 
 
 My glossy browti liair turned to gray, 
 But the withered bud holds a charm. 
 
 That will live forever and aye. 
 
 * 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL I'OBTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 138.5 
 
 * 
 
 WM. R. CHAMBERLAIN. 
 
 Born; St. Elmo, III., Aug. 31, 1851. 
 The poems of Mr. Cbumberlain occasionally 
 appear in the periodical press. He graduat- 
 ed from the Northwestern University in 1881 
 when he took up the practice of law, in which 
 he is now eng-aged in the city of Chicago. 
 
 CHRISTMAS GREETING. 
 
 Through all the world loud anthems rise, 
 Alike from young and old, 
 
 To Him whose natal daj' brings joys, 
 By prophets long foretold. 
 
 With merry hearts and happj' songs 
 We'll celebrate this morn. 
 Just as the angels did of old 
 When Christ the Lord was born. 
 
 They sang of love, best gift of God, 
 
 To all of Adam's race. 
 Of peace on earth, good will to men, 
 
 Through trusting in His grace; 
 And round those serapli songsters shone 
 
 A radiance far more bright 
 Than ere illumined starry space 
 
 Since said •> Let there be light." 
 
 O'er Bethlehem that light then shone, 
 
 And to her shepherd seers. 
 Glad Christmas carols first were sung 
 
 When time ran not to years; 
 But now through all the world resound 
 
 Glad echoes of those songs. 
 And that bright star of Bethlehem 
 
 Its wondrous liglit prolongs. 
 May you, dear girls, in life's fair morn, 
 
 While evil days come not. 
 Incline your hearts to wisdom's way 
 
 And from it ne'er depart; 
 May you in all your Christmas joys 
 
 Remember that to give 
 To other needy boys and girls, 
 
 Is better than receive. 
 May you in conduct gentle be. 
 
 In virtue true and bold; 
 May constant blessings fall on you, 
 
 As manna fell of old ; 
 May length of days be as your deeds 
 
 Of charity and love. 
 May it be said when you are gone 
 
 "That class will meet above." 
 This Church to me has been a home 
 
 Since April eighty-two. 
 And of these years the happiest 
 
 Have been those spent with you. 
 An unseen Hand our lives directs 
 
 Through paths we can't foretell, 
 A summons calls to other fields, 
 
 I go, dear girls, farewell. 
 
 GEORGE W. HOOPER. 
 
 Bokn: Cincinnati, O., Jan. 19, 1840. 
 
 Mr. Hooper removed to Covington, Ky. 
 when nine years of age and was there edu- 
 cated in the public schools. He adopted the 
 stage as a profession in 1859 and i)layed in tlie 
 principal cities of the union, retiring from 
 the stage in 1880. He has written many ver- 
 ses, including songs which became popular, 
 and also sketches and a few plays. Mr.Hoop- 
 er was married in 18V4 to Miss Lenore Lamb, 
 and has one daughter. 
 
 WAITING FOR A LETTER. 
 
 Write a letter to me, darling; 
 
 Write if only but a line. 
 Just a word to cheer me, darling. 
 
 Tell me that you still are mine. 
 Pray, don't keep me waiting, darling, 
 
 I can ne'er endure the [)ain ; 
 God alone knows how 1 love you— 
 
 Darling,write to me again. 
 
 Day by day I'm waiting, darling. 
 Eagerly I watch the door; 
 
 List'ning for the j)ostnian's footstep- 
 Waiting, watching, evermore; 
 
 As he uears my heart grows lighter. 
 Longing, lovingly I pruy. 
 
 But his simple nod assures me 
 I must wait another day. 
 
 Oh, how sad my poor heart, darling ; 
 
 How I weep and think of you. 
 Lonely waiting for a letter. 
 
 Telling me you still are true. 
 You'll not leave me. will you, darling? 
 
 You will soon come back again; 
 Then I'll kiss you, oh I how often, 
 
 And my heart will know no pain. 
 
 You shall sit beside me, darling. 
 
 With your arm around my waist. 
 While I drink love from those bright eyes. 
 
 As I look up in your face; 
 And I'll kiss away the teardrops. 
 
 That i)erehance thine eyes should dim. 
 And will pray that God will bless us 
 
 For each other and for Him. 
 
 But I'm weary-why this blindness- 
 
 I can scarcely get my breath- 
 Am I fainting: am I dreaming! 
 Surely this can not be death. 
 Quickly bear me to the window, 
 
 'Tisthe postman rang the bell — 
 I am dying for a letter- 
 God forgive me— love, farewell I 
 
 -« 
 
*- 
 
 1386 
 
 LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 — * 
 
 FLORA O.HATHEWAY. 
 
 Born: Iowa, 1863. 
 Miss Hatheway is a school teacher and re- 
 sides at Conway in her native state. Her 
 poems have occasionally appeared in the lo- 
 cal press. 
 
 THE OLD TEAR AND THE NEW. 
 
 The old year has almost run his race, 
 The new will soon show his smiling face. 
 
 may it bring me joys that will last 
 
 And I perform better deeds than in the past. 
 
 The old year is breathing- Its last— 
 
 1 grieve for the past, for the past. 
 Good-bye, good-bye to eighty-four. 
 For the old year is no more. 
 
 The old year leaves us mourning. 
 
 The new one comes without warning; 
 
 Could we but read thee and know 
 
 How much would be joy and how much woe. 
 
 In the old there's been joy and sorrow 
 Come with each returning morrow; 
 We know not what the new one will bring 
 But still his requiem we'll sing. 
 
 Good-bye. good-bye to eighty-four, 
 For the old year is no more ; 
 We part with thee reluctantly, 
 We greet the new exultantly. 
 
 PROF. JAMES M. HOPPIN. 
 
 Born: Providence, R. I., Jan. 17, 1820. 
 For over thirty years Mr. Hoppin has been 
 connected with Yale University as professor 
 of the history of art. He has traveled exten- 
 sively in Europe, Greece and Palestine. For 
 nine years he was pastor of a church in Sa- 
 lem, Mass. Prof. Hoppin has written numer- 
 ous prose works, and his poems have occa- 
 sionally appeared in current literature and 
 standard collections. 
 
 « 
 
 NILE. 
 Asp-like the curveless river silent lay 
 
 Flashing in light, and though old as Time 
 The new-oped lily rocked upon its way 
 
 Past pyramids sublime. 
 
 Like sights in dreams the white sails came 
 and went, 
 While not a breath is stirring in the sky. 
 They shone and then were gone, as if they 
 meant 
 To tell us how we die. 
 
 A deep and awful vale with forms so few 
 Yet so mysteriously framed and strange, 
 
 The fiame-touched cloud and heaven's etern- 
 al blue. 
 The yellow desert's range ! 
 
 We ask the Memphis sphinx O what are we? 
 
 It seems to look in answer on the stream 
 Upon whose waters float we silently 
 
 And Death's rock-chambers gleam. 
 
 EMILY J.C.HENRY. 
 
 Born: Randolph, Vt., Aug. 34, 1830. 
 The poems of this lady have appeared in the 
 Chicago Times, Inter-Ocean, Cleveland Lead- 
 er and various otlier prominent publications 
 Mrs. Henry isalso askillful artist in painting 
 and crayon work. Mrs. Henry resides in 
 Sterling, 111., and is now a widow. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 Oh, pale, white flowers, your breath recalls 
 
 the day 
 When on a coffined form, in fragrant bloom 
 
 ye lay; 
 I cannot bear the faint perfume ye shed. 
 Since soft it floated o'er my precious dead. 
 
 Oh, manly form that bore an angel's grace. 
 And crowned its glory with an angel's face, 
 I see thee lying there with bated breath. 
 Thy grand life yielded to the couquerer— 
 death ! 
 
 I call aloud to thee in wild despair; 
 
 I plead with God in agony of prayer; 
 
 I hold thee close, my heart and lips to thine. 
 
 But still I catch no word or look or sign. 
 
 Oh, rare pale Ups that mine so oft have 
 
 pressed; 
 Oh, tender hands in mine so oft carressed; 
 Oh. loving eyes o'er which the white lids close 
 And God has set the seal of death's repose! 
 No more shall loving hand or lip or eye. 
 Meet mine in tender glance or sweet reply; 
 No more that form or face shall greet my 
 
 view 
 And thrill my soul with rapture ever new. 
 How can I call thee dead, my own, my own? 
 Though the dear lips are mute, the spirit 
 
 flown — 
 Although I see upon thy forehead fair 
 That God's own hand has placed death's 
 
 signet there. 
 Peace, murmuring heart, thj' Father kuow- 
 
 etli best! 
 His hand alone can lead to perfect rest. 
 Beyond the valley dark and shadow deep 
 He giveth my beloved peaceful sleep. 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEUICA. 
 
 1387 
 
 MRS. M. B. M. TOLAND. 
 
 The beautiful home of this lady and her 
 husband, H. H. Toland, M. D., was in San 
 Francisco, California, where the happiest 
 period of her married life was spent, amid 
 friends and all that heart could wish for. 
 But death bereaved her of her talented hus- 
 
 MRS. M. B. M. TOLAND. 
 
 band, and most of her time has since been 
 spent in traveling-. Mrs. Toland has written 
 and published nine beautiful poetical books, 
 from the press of Lippincott & Co. .which are 
 magnificently illustrated, and are veritable 
 works of art.and are the finest ever published 
 in America: Stella, or How I Tamed A Wild 
 Indian ; Sir Rae ; Iris, the Romance of an Opal 
 Ring, appeared in 1881; Onti Ora, a metrical 
 Romance, published in 1881; The Inca Prin- 
 cess, an Historical Romance, 1886;.iEgIe and 
 the Elf, 1887; Eudora, a Tale of Love, 1888; 
 Legend L*ymore, 1890; Tisayac of the Yosem- 
 ite, a most delightful legend in verse and 
 beaulif ully illustrated, published 1891. 
 
 «- 
 
 ^GLE AND THE ELF. 
 The moonbeams were lighting the watery 
 way, 
 
 That rimpled 
 And dimpled,— 
 The Nymphs were at play; 
 
 'Neath willows whose branches were kissing 
 the stream 
 
 So liglitly 
 And sprightly. 
 It almost would seem 
 The lovely young Naiads were swaying the 
 tree, 
 
 To lash it 
 And dash it. 
 In frolicking glee. 
 I rested my oars on my frail little boat. 
 Still gliding. 
 Dividing 
 The cresses afloat. 
 When lo! a fair vision arose on the tide; 
 A maiden 
 All laden 
 With lilies to hide 
 Her love-dimpled blushes from glances too 
 bold; 
 
 A daughter 
 Of water. 
 Like Venus of old. 
 She stood for one moment admiring hcr.self; 
 Uprising, 
 Surprising 
 A young woodland Elf, 
 Who left his own forest in mirth-loving glee, 
 To ramble 
 And gambol 
 In wild ecstasy. 
 On a tree-top he sat, with a quizzical face, 
 Ne'er tiring 
 Admiring 
 The beauty and grace 
 OtMgle, who saw, mirrored close by her side. 
 The young Elf 
 By herself 
 Impressed on the tide. 
 She instantly sank amid ripples of light, 
 That, laving. 
 Seemed waving 
 Her form from his sight. 
 Three lovely young Naiads iirose on the tide. 
 While swimming 
 "^N'ere trimming 
 And drawing aside 
 A budding branch, cedar, that shaded so 
 well. 
 
 Reposing, 
 And closing 
 The Nymph's caverned cell. 
 So charming she looked In her fairy-queen 
 pride, 
 
 And kindly. 
 He blindly 
 Plunged into the tide. 
 . * 
 
*- 
 
 1388 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 The water was instantly lashed into spray; 
 Half drowning-, 
 And frowning-, 
 The Elf got awaj'. 
 The Naiads had vanished like flashes of light: 
 No daughter 
 Of water 
 Condoled his sad plig-ht. 
 But ripples of laugrhter were heard every- 
 where. 
 
 With singing 
 And ringing 
 Of fairj'-bells there. 
 The echoes thrilled back from the grottos 
 down deep, 
 
 "Young- Ellin, 
 Thyself in 
 Thy element keep ! " 
 Then home to his wild-wood returned the 
 young Elf 
 
 Most gladly, 
 Though madly. 
 While drying himself. 
 He plumed his gay cap on his queer little head 
 Alldripping 
 And skipping 
 He o'er the bank sped. 
 
 I suddenly woke from my nap by the stream. 
 Astounded ! 
 Confounded! 
 Behold! 'Twas a dream. 
 
 *- 
 
 TISAYAC OF THE TOSEMITE. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Once the Sierra range, rock riven. 
 
 Craggy with jagged boulders gray, 
 Looked like wall borders touching heaven, 
 
 That led along their lofty way. 
 The grand old glaciers extended, 
 
 Majestic peaks of frigid will. 
 Against midsummer sun defended 
 
 Their right to wear ice armor still. 
 O'er the steep slopes were wild woods, dotted 
 
 On fluted ridges of the pass, 
 Wliere climbed the zigzag trails allotted 
 
 Ascent from vales of brambied grass. 
 In these mountains ruled supremely 
 
 To-to-ko-nu-la, valiant, brave — 
 Witli wisdom strove he, as was seemlj'. 
 
 To guard the right, from wrong to save. 
 One morn lie stood, adventure daring. 
 
 Upon the highest peak, with pride 
 Invoking unseen fate, ne'er sparing 
 
 Dangers that threatened to betide; 
 Beneath the o'erarched heavens, speaking 
 
 As if a king upon his throne. 
 He, from his love of venture, seeking 
 Some strange phenomenon unknown. 
 
 " Great Spirit!" grant me majestic power 
 
 To change all things I now beliold 1 
 With might give wisdom, wondrous dower. 
 
 New glories in my deeds to fold! 
 Give lofty life this habitation! 
 
 Magnificent argentine sweep; 
 Give mighty mountains to this nation! 
 
 Give treasures richest for our keep! " 
 Lo ! while he spake soft shimmers lightly 
 
 Illumed the cliffs of boulders high. 
 With warmer Iridescence, brightly. 
 
 Like promise bows that span the sky; 
 Forth from irradiance advancmg, 
 
 In answer to his uttered prayer, 
 A vision, glorious, entrancing, 
 
 As if his destiny to share. 
 Appeared beside him on the mountain, 
 
 Most beautiful, transcendent, fair,— 
 In robe of sheen, like foam of fountain 
 
 That peiirls the dewj' morning air; 
 Her silken tresses falling lightly 
 
 Waving with raj'S of golden hue. 
 Like sunshine shone, but far more brightly, 
 
 Threading her folded pinions through. 
 O'er her pure brow seraphic, twining 
 
 Were bands of bright encircling flame — 
 Halos of saintly nimbus — shining 
 
 Tlie while she spake her wondrous name. 
 "lamTisayac! For thy glory 
 
 The Light of light awardeth thee 
 To fill the measure of thy story. 
 
 Its meed of mystic destiny." [ing 
 
 While speaking, saintly smiles were wreath- 
 
 Tlieir tender lights of truth divine 
 From azure eyes, her bosom breathing 
 
 The holy love that hearts enshrine. 
 The Indain chieftain, charmed, delighted. 
 
 Awoke with warmest love aglow; 
 Wild words his adoration plighted 
 
 With pride exultant bliss to show; 
 Excitedly his arms extended 
 
 The angel presence to em'orace ; 
 With wooing thouglits his praises blended 
 
 Fleeter than words could fill their place. 
 Tisayac's smile at once o'erclouded 
 
 His earthly passion to disprove; 
 Her glorious presence, saintly shrouded 
 
 In mantle of divinest love. 
 She shrank from mortal touch, arising 
 
 On outspread wings, she soared away. 
 The bold young brave with slu)ck suri)rising, 
 
 Who stood bewildered in dismay. 
 Never before had he been slighted 
 
 Or balHed in liis wild desire; 
 His soul subdued by wishes blighted, 
 
 Bedazed with disappointment dire. 
 His searching gaze o'er earth and heaven 
 
 Met only chaos everywhere, 
 Till speech his palsied tongue was given 
 
 To utter a pathetic praj'er. 
 -* 
 
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 -* 
 
 1889 
 
 MRS. LAURA E. STUNTZ. 
 
 Born : Elk Creek, Pa., May 2, 1839. 
 This lady lias written fifty melodies and 
 musical compositions, many of which have 
 been published and received high praise. 
 Her poems have received extensive publi- 
 
 MRS. LAURA E. STUNTZ. 
 
 cation in the periodical press. She was 
 married in 1858 to Rev. John H. Stuntz, and 
 has lived in several of the states, although 
 California has been her home the past fifteen 
 years. 
 
 *- 
 
 SANTAS GOOD-WILL VISIT. 
 When the stars are overhead. 
 And the little ones in bed, 
 Santa comes with careful tread, 
 
 Each dear sock to fill. 
 Oh I how cautiously he goes. 
 Fills them in down to the toes, 
 Till each stocking- overflows, 
 
 All with a good will. 
 
 Should he in the corner find 
 Tree, just suited to his mind. 
 There you'd think he was combined 
 
 With some curious mill. 
 Which could turn out lots of toys 
 Just to suit the girls and boys; 
 
 Oh, they bring so many joys, 
 Gifts of a Good Will. 
 
 But, perchance, the gifts may be 
 All too huge for sock, or tree: 
 Then, I'm sure, if you could see, 
 
 How your heart would thrill: 
 For he piles some on the floor; 
 Still he comes! with more and morel 
 Till there is a wondrous store, 
 
 AH for a Good Will. 
 
 Would you know why Santa comes 
 Once a year to bless our homes"/ 
 Brings so many sugar plums? 
 
 'Tis because a babe once came; 
 Grew a man, tiiendied with shame; 
 I am sure you know His name: 
 
 Christ is our Good Will. 
 
 MRS. JENNIE LEWIS. 
 
 Born: England, April 11, 1843. 
 Mrs. Lewis is the author of about one hun- 
 dred poems on various subjects. She was 
 married in 1866 to Mr. James H. Lewis, and 
 resides with her husband and children at 
 West Side, Iowa. 
 
 WILLIAM PAYNE. 
 A member of our Portage school. 
 
 To every schoolmate dear. 
 Beloved by teachers,sciioolmates,f riends, 
 
 A noble volunteer. 
 
 He left us in his youthful piime. 
 
 His aspirations high ; 
 But very distant was the thought 
 
 That he so soon would die. 
 
 He bade adieu to home and friends, 
 
 To aid the cause of truth. 
 And gave with deathless fortitude. 
 
 Another noble youth. 
 
 Yes! by his death-defying words. 
 
 He fell an early prey; 
 He could not to a rebel vile, 
 
 " I will surrender," say. 
 
 We, as a school, lament his loss. 
 
 And feel with those who weep; 
 Who mourn him as a brother, son. 
 
 In Death's cold arms asleep. 
 Weep not, fond parents, your loved son 
 
 Fell in a noble cause; 
 Loved sisters, dry your flowing tears. 
 
 He died for righteous laws. 
 'Tis very hard, we know, kind friends. 
 
 To part with those so dear; 
 But fathers, brothers, husband, friend. 
 
 Are laid on death's cold bier. 
 
>^- 
 
 1390 
 
 LOCAL. AKD NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 Forever buried out of sight. 
 
 Interred so far from home, 
 Without a mother's, sister's hand, 
 
 To clothe him for the tomb. 
 
 Without a father's gentle words 
 
 To soothe the bed of death; 
 But shot by Southern traitors base, 
 
 He died a hero's death. 
 
 Brave boy, forever gone from earth. 
 
 His memory still is dear; 
 And Portage High School pupils would 
 
 Strew laurels on his bier. 
 
 But William slumbers far away; 
 
 He fills an honored grave; 
 But o'er the soldier's resting place. 
 
 The stars and stripes still wave. 
 
 We want no stately monument 
 
 To tell his actions true. 
 For bravery like William Payne's 
 
 Is paralleled by few. 
 
 Another grave is lowly made. 
 
 Another soldier dead; 
 Auotiier name for liistory's page 
 
 A rises from his bed. 
 
 Another sacrifice is made. 
 
 One patriot more enrolled; 
 The principles for which he died. 
 
 Cannot be bought with gold. 
 
 ALFRED H. MORRISON. 
 
 Born in England, March 3, 1843. 
 Alfred received a good education, having 
 studied oriental languages, and also took the 
 first prize at a military college. He has 
 visited Australia, Cape, Celon, India, and in 
 fact voyaged around the world. Mr. Morri- 
 son came to Canada in 1876, was there mar- 
 ried ten years later, and is now professor of 
 English in the Brantford institute. Prof. 
 Morrison has published a book entitled The 
 Art Gallery of the English Language. 
 
 CHIMES. 
 Time chimes upon the bells of years. 
 
 The fairy bells of infant hours. 
 The iris-tide of smiles and tears, 
 
 The drowsy-hood of dreams and flowers; 
 The glamour of the cradled bliss. 
 The nectar of the mother's kiss! 
 Time flies —the infant grows apace, 
 A cherub still in form and face. 
 Time chimes upon the bells of years. 
 
 The silver bells of joyous youth. 
 Persuasive peal that boyhood hears, 
 
 Sweet changes ring on trust and truth. 
 
 The whitest light in mem'ry's ray. 
 The sunniest hour of friendship's day! 
 Time flies — the peal is hushed for aye. 
 Trust, truth, and boyhood pass away. 
 
 ALFRED H. MORRISON. 
 
 Time chimes upon the bells of years. 
 
 The golden bells of manhood's prime, 
 A peal of mingled hopes and fears, 
 
 The crowned king, the painted mime; 
 The friends, ihe foemen in the strife, 
 The good attained, the baffled life! 
 Time flies— the peal subsides amain. 
 Above the victor and the slain. 
 
 Time chimes upon the bells of years, 
 
 The iron bells of life's decline, 
 The peal comes mufiled to the ears. 
 
 Across the shade, across the shine; 
 The regal sun toward the west. 
 Flame mantled, seeks his crimson rest! 
 Time flies— the hour of night is tolled. 
 The world is worn and life is old. 
 
 Time chimes upon the bells of years, 
 
 The spirit bells of life renewed. 
 Beyond the mists the morning clears, 
 To show the Future raitibow-hued. 
 The change is rung by deathless hands. 
 Beyond the flnite shifting sands! 
 Time flies— but time and age are dead 
 And youth returns to reign instead. 
 
 *- 
 
*- 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 1391 
 
 * 
 
 EDMUND MARCH VITTUM. 
 
 BoHN : Sandwich, N. H., Oct. 24, 1855. 
 
 After graduating- at Dartmouth Colleg'e and 
 Yale Universitj-, Mr. Vittum was ordained 
 as a Congreg-atioiial minister in 1884. He is 
 the author of a volume entitled Faith on the 
 Frontier, which has received extensive cir- 
 culation. Mr. Vittum was married in 1889 to 
 Miss Annie Griswold. He has held import- 
 a.it pastorates in several states. 
 
 * 
 
 RUINED. 
 
 Oh ! many a starless nig-ht has flown. 
 
 And many a sunless day. 
 Since I left my home to wander alone, 
 With a heart of lead in a breast of stone — 
 
 With lips to icy to pray. 
 
 By Anatolia's Heavenly Spring, 
 
 In hopeless grief, I roam; 
 But mj- lieart flies west on fancy's wing-, 
 And memory tender thoug-lits will bring- 
 
 Of that dear New Eng-land home. 
 
 For bright with hope was my morning- song. 
 
 Not a cloud dimmed youth's fair sky ; 
 My heart was brave, my arm was strong-, 
 I loved the right, and I fought the wrong-; 
 For my hope was fixed on high. 
 
 Then a new-born light made my soul rejoice, 
 
 For 1 felt the touch of love; 
 Her song was sweet as an angel's voice; 
 No other was fair as the maid of my choice. 
 
 On earth or in heaven above. 
 
 Oh! the deep-drawn breath of that virgin 
 kiss. 
 
 When love's new life begun! 
 Eartli has no other joy like this. 
 When young liearts cling in voiceless bliss. 
 
 Till they fondly beat as one. 
 
 Where the brook runs down 'neath the hill- 
 side pine 
 To the maple grove below. 
 She joined her hands and her hopes with 
 
 mine; 
 .• For life or death," slie said, " I am thine. 
 Be it joy or eternal woe!" 
 
 When the tinted leaves had covered the sand 
 
 And chocked the brooklet's flow, 
 I said, as I clasped the dear one's hand, 
 •• I must leave my love at duty's command " 
 Ere falls the winter snow. 
 
 •' This brook will be locked with an ley bar. 
 Each pine will shiver and moan ; 
 
 But Cuck(K> will echo your song from afar; 
 And when Whippo'will trills to the evening 
 star, 
 I will come to claim my own." 
 
 Oh I the brook turned stone, and the wind 
 blew chill 
 Through the naked maple bough! 
 But the sun of May brought a colder tlirill; 
 My eyes were glazed and my heart stood 
 still; 
 For my love had broken her vow! 
 
 'Tis true a tear dimmed her darling eye, 
 
 As she stabbed my bleeding heart. 
 " To save you pain," she said, •• I would die. 
 But I love another — I know not why,— 
 So you and I must part." 
 
 The words I spoke were bitter but few: 
 >• You are flckle and foolis'.i " — I said, 
 
 "A deceiver — yet neither unfaithful nor 
 true. 
 
 For love like mine your soul never knew. 
 Oh! would we both were dead." 
 
 Then my mother's arms from my neck 1 
 flung. 
 
 And fled to a distant land. 
 My heart, without hope, is a harp unstrung: 
 'Tis years since I spoke in my native tongue. 
 
 Or pressed a Saxou hand. 
 
 The breath of sin like a blighting frost. 
 
 Has marked my brow and hair; 
 My hope is crushed; my soul is lost; 
 Eternal ruin, my love has cost; 
 
 And my bride is grim despair. 
 
 O mother! no prayer could the lost one re- 
 claim. 
 Though your tears were an ocean flood; 
 For tlie maples are pointing their fingers in 
 
 shame, 
 The whispenng pines are cursing my name. 
 And the little brook runs blood. 
 
 By Anatolia's Heavenly Spring, 
 
 In sin and shame. I roam. 
 My fancy flies on a raven's wing. 
 For no hope of peace can fancy bring 
 
 From my long-neglected home. 
 
 My heart grows hard a every beat. 
 Yet my eyes are filled with tours; 
 While the sliip-laden Bosphorous sobs at my 
 
 feet. 
 And the gray old towers their horrors re- 
 peat. 
 Like the ghosts of departed years. 
 
*- 
 
 1392 
 
 -* 
 
 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 
 
 MRS. LOUISA P. HOPKINS. 
 
 Born : Newbukyport, Mass., April 19, 1834. 
 Three years prior to her marriag-e this lady 
 taught school; also for eig-ht years In her 
 own home in New Bedford; and three years 
 as educational lecturer in the Swain school. 
 Mrs. Hopkins is the author of Handbook of 
 the Earth, Handbook of Educational Psych- 
 olog-y, and How Shall my Child be Taught. 
 Her volumes of poems are entitled Mother- 
 hood, Breath of Field and Shore and White 
 Mountains Poems, all of which received high 
 praise. Since 1877 Mrs. Hopkins has been a 
 member of the Board of Supervisiors of the 
 public schools of Boston. She was married 
 in 1859 to Mr. John Hopkins, and is the moth- 
 er of three sous and two daughter now living. 
 
 HYMN OF MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 beautiful new life within my bosom, 
 New life of love more beautiful than day, 
 
 1 tremble in thy sacred presence, 'knowing 
 What holy miracle attends my way; 
 
 My heart is hushed,! hear between its beating 
 
 The angel of annunciaiion say: 
 " Hail ! blessed among women," while I pray. 
 O all-creative love I thy finger touches 
 
 My leaping pulses to diviner heat. 
 What am I that thy thought of life should 
 blossom 
 
 In me,— in me thy tide of life should beat? 
 Beat strong within me, God-tide, in high pas- 
 sion; [greet; 
 
 With quickening spirit earth-born essence 
 Fountain of life, flow through me pure and 
 
 sweet ! 
 O all-sustaining love ! come close beside me, — 
 
 Me, so unworthj' of thy wondrous gift; 
 Purge me, refine me, try me as by fire, 
 
 Whiten me white as snow in glacier-rift; 
 That neither spot nor stain nor blemish 
 darken 
 
 These elements that now to being drift! 
 O all sufiicient love! I am as nothing; 
 
 Take me, Ihj' waj', most facile lo thy need; 
 Enraptured, let me feel thy spirit molding 
 
 This germ that thou hast made a living 
 seed. 
 And while the pulses of my life are speeding 
 
 This life immortal in its growth lo feed. 
 To one dear purpose all my forces lead! 
 
 *■ 
 
 THE LULLABY. 
 
 In her pretty willow cradle softly swaying. 
 Lulled to slumber by my tender rhythmic 
 praying, [ing: 
 
 Lies my baby while my mother-heart is say- 
 God keep her there! 
 
 Keep, O keep her sunny head upon its pillow. 
 Shining out between the twining withes of 
 
 willow. 
 Rocking lightly as a bark on fairy billow; 
 God keep her there 1 
 
 Breathing sweetly with a baby's soft pulsa- 
 tion. 
 To the measure of the cradle's light vibration. 
 In the cadence of my panting aspiration: 
 God keep her there ! 
 » I ^» I — • 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH WATERS. 
 
 Born: Chester Co., Pa., Dec. 24, 1824. 
 The poems of Mrs. Waters would fill a large 
 volume, and have constantly appeared in the 
 periodical press. She was married in 1847 to 
 Simon B. Waters, and has a large family 
 now grown to manhood and womanhood. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 L^pys a boon more dearly prized by men 
 Than aught on earth beside; 
 
 It Is a boon to mortals given, 
 To prepare while here below 
 
 For a purer home in heaven. 
 
 Life is a gift from the Father of all, 
 A gift that was given in love. 
 
 Both the evil and good are plainly in view, 
 Man chooses the evil, and then tries to prove 
 
 That the bible is false, and teachings un- 
 true. 
 
 Life is a blessing if we use it aright. 
 We can lift up the fallen and cheer the faint 
 heart. 
 
 We can strengthen the tempted and tried. 
 We can speak loving words to the sorrowing 
 soul. 
 
 And point them away to the Crucified. 
 
 Life has its promise, if we but let our light 
 shine. 
 We may gather some wanderer in. 
 
 We may place their feet in that better way. 
 That leads from the broad road of sin 
 
 To the realms of endless day. 
 
 Life has its sorrows, this earth is full of 
 woe. 
 Death comes, and fondest ties are riven. 
 
 It comes on eartli alike to all. 
 But no death knells are heard in heaven, 
 
 Nor ever seen the funeral pall. 
 
 A life in heaven, oh ! promise sweet, where 
 Jesus is. 
 Where all is peace, no achicg limbs or sleep- 
 less nigiits. 
 No fear of what to-morrow brings, 
 No parting tliere, no nights of sorrow, all is 
 bright. 
 And heaven with angel voices ring. 
 
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