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107

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MRS. ANNIE MARIA CLARK.

BORN: STILL RIVER, 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 Lancaster, Mass.

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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.

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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 way."
And it almost seemed that an angel
Whispered close to my heart, soft and clear,
Fear not, for I bring you good tidings, my

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JOHN LAWRENCE CLARK. BORN: STILL RIVER, 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 young 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,

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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 shore 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 course 'tis appropriate at

times:

And now I'll have to close,

And go to writing prose,

Which is not as interesting as these

rhymes.

108

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON.

BORN: PLANTSVILLE, O., 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 managing editor of the Evening Herald

JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON.

at the same place. In 1888 he became connected with the Marietta Register of Ohio, with which he is still at work. His first publication of poems was made in 1889, which is a work that has been liberally noticed by the American press, and has received a fair circulation.

BIRTH OF A DAY.

Once, when over the north
A wealth of grass and flowers,
A music in the air

Proclaimed that it was June,
A beautiful day was born,
That with an unheard step,
Led 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 forth.

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.

The 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,

From off the flowery fields,

The still earth answering smiled.

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Supreme as any King

That 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.

With 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-drops 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-drawn across the fields;
The scattered herds rose up
To crop 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
Dotted and blotched their face,
The sound of wakened life
Resumed its echoing sway.

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1

MRS. SARAH A. THOMAS.

BORN: HOULTON, MAINE. REARED in an atmosphere of literature, it has been the ruling passion of her life. Her father 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 several short stories, which were never published. In 1872 Mrs. Thomas contributed to a New York Magazine entitled For Everybody; since then she has contributed to the leading periodicals of America, including the Waverly

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Not even thy touch shall wake one thrill; So still I'll lie some day.

And thou shalt weep, and all fond names Shall cross thy lips I may not hear,

And yet, ah! yet, thoul't be as dear, (For love shall live, tho' lips are still, As now thou art, that day.

And I shall come and fill thy dreams
With all sweet thoughts and fairest gleams
Of light and joy till thou shalt long
To cast aside this early thrall
And come to me some day.
For even in that bright land

I could not feel my joy complete;
Some horde would jar all else so sweet,
Without thy gentle hand

So we shall meet some day.

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IN AN AUTOGRAPH ALBUM. Long as you live may friends be true, Not fickle, though they number few; Much rather would we never know Their love, than have them colder grow; For as we near the other shore,

We always need our friends the more.
There is no heart but hath its woes,
Its summer storms and winter snows;
A thorn oft hidden 'neath a rose,
Its sadness and its glee;

Yet Heaven has in store, I know,
Much sunshine, love, for thee.

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, when 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.

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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.

Only to drink from Lethe's still stream And feel its sweet calm o'er my worn senses creep;

Only to lie with cold folded hands,

Never again to wake or to weep.

Only to know that heaven will be mine
After life's tiresome journey is done-
Only to know though the storm-clouds be
dark
Behind them is hidden the bright shining

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

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 the 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 pleasing 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 may 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.

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NELLIE LINN.

BORN: MINONK, ILL., FEB. 26, 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 begone!
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 nothing but an outcast,
No mother, home or friends;
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 pity
And give to me a home.

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