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DAVID NEWTON ASHMORE.
BORN: BELLEVILLE, ILL., JULY 21, 1851. MR. ASHMORE has written poems more or less from an early age, many of which have ap
Are the best I've ever found, And we're noted for the female beauties
Of our good old-fashioned town. You may talk about your children
0, those cute and cunning cases, And smooth down their golden hair
And kiss their sweet and dimpled faces; But our town is all a swarming,
And its streets are just teaming, With the finest, loveliest children,
And our features, fairly gleaming. You may talk about your cities
With their rush and daily storm, Its push and greed for business,
And its systematic form; But I'm kind o' on the quiet,
And I'd rather muse around
Of my own old-fashioned town.
Sights, parks, and grand odoos
The old-fashioned country blues;
And us poor would run aground
You may talk about your cities,
In the good old town of Bethany;
And I've sort o' settled down
In our grand old Illinois,
And their hustling, rustling boys.
And our boys are far ahead, Of those dudes and butterflies,
In your grand old city bred. You may talk about your cities,
And the bustle of its people,
And the towering of its steeples;
There's no friendship to be found;
But I'll stick to my old town. You may talk about your ladies,
Yes, your stylish city women, About the draperies of their dress,
With their bonnets and their trimming; But our ladies, though a trifle plain,
POVERTY. O poverty! it seems that fate Has chose thee for my constant mate, Or why abide thou tbus with me, Unbidden guest of poverty? O poverty! thou fiend accurst, Of all my foes thou are the worst. I dread thee, hate thee, yet with delight Thou tauntest me by day and night. When all compassed in want's dark storm, 'Tis then I see thy jeering form That sports about with fiendish glee -Thou starving fiend of poverty. When in my rags I view the form Of others clothed so snug and warm, "Tis then in wrath I turn on thee --Thou freezing fiend of poverty. There's just one hope, that by and by In peaceful rest I soon shall lie Beneath rich earth; I then shall be Hid from thy sight, O poverty!
MAN LIKE THE MOON. Oh the beautiful moon with its borrowed
light! The brilliant moon, the queen of the night! Beaming so proudly, yet softly the ray, Lent her so kindly by the great king of day. The beautiful moon reminds us of men, That are borrowing their light from one that can lend.
[to shine, They are groping in darkness, endeavoring By reflecting the brightness of light that's
divine. Like the moon, so the man, in splendor ar
rayed; His light is another's, his fullness shall fade. And back in the darkness he will pass very soon
[moon. To wait for his change like the beautiful
ALBERT LEWIS ABBOTT.
BORN: FRANKLIN CO., IND., JUNE 2, 1849. MR. ABBOTT commenced writing at an early age, and his poems have appeared from time to time in numerous publications. In person he is a little above the average height, and is a well built man. He generally follows the occupation of a farmer. Mr. Abbott hopes soon to publish a work entitled Lyrics of Liberty, a book of poems founded on fact,
MRS. ROSALINE E. JONES.
BORN: SPARTA, IND., MAY 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 married in 1870, and now resides with her husband in Geneva, N. Y.
POVERTY AND DEBT.
And misery, we know,
Only augment their woe.
Ill luck the way beset;
Tban poverty and debt.
And wealth of gold secure,
Often forget the poor. But God, who knows our weakness,
Remembers with regret, And never will forsake us,
In poverty and debt. Midst scenes of destitution,
Encompassed with despair; In seasons of confusion,
The Lord will answer prayer. In moments of depression,
When grief our eyes do wet,
In poverty and debt.
Homage to him we pay;
Darkness succeeds the day. Our beacon star though shaded,
May shine brilliantly yet: And lighten up the pathway of poverty and debt.
IN THE GLOAMING.
On the mist;
Lisp, O list.”
To the moon.
Bosk and fen,
In the glen.
With a thump;
Round a stump.
Or bring back
On a plaque.
THE WARRIORS' EPITAPH. Here, in their narrow earthen bed, Lay our lamented federal dead. Veneration to them we give; As Christ: they died that we might live. Rarest immortelles of art, Portray real dictates of our heart; Flow'rs, in the balmy month of May, We twine for Decoration day. With reverence and love divine, We hang bright garlands o'er their shrine, Above this hallowed, sacred sod; Where amaranths are the smiles of God.
JACOB HUFF. BORN: CHATHAM Rox, PA., Jan. 31, 1853. JACOB HUFF's writings generally appear under the nom de plume of Faraway Moses. At an early age he was employed in the lumber woods of Pennsylvania, Mr. Huff has written numerous humorous sketches and serial
BALM OF LIFE. The greatest thing in lifeA balm for its sorrows and strife And this one thing 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 birsute 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! thal terrible thought still lingers
God in Heaven! I'm growing old! Oh, this stern fiat of nature
Under which all mortals lie! Suspended over every creature
Hangs this sentence - all must die!
And each gray hair I behold
Oh! my God, I'm growing old!
And upon this bosom lay,
Flesh and bone and heart decay. What comes after? Ah, the mystery,
Half of which has ne'er been told; For the dead send back no bistory
To poor mortals growing old.
IF WE KNEW.
Sobbing in a neighbor's heart;
No one knows the cruel smart.
Of a neighbor's cheerless soul;
In the heart where love grows cold.
He alone knows griefs untold: Ah, He sees the heart's slow fire
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.
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.
JOHN J. MCGIRR. BORN: Youngstown, PA., MARCH 13, 1855. The principal work of Mr. McGirr is the Destruction of the World, a poem wbich was published in 1886. Although comparatively unknown as yet, he is a poet of no mean ability. His conceptions are lofty - his language
THE AUTUMN EVENING.
DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.
The awful secrets of the mighty sea,
Which now are shown so plain and vividly; clear and musical. This work also contains The falling houses and the bursting rocks; various other shorter poems that have been
The trees uprooted, as by tempest shocks,well received. Mr. McGirr is a newspaper ed- | All, all the horrors of this awful night itor by profession, and now resides in Stand out distinct before poor mankind's McKeesport, Pa.
Oh, God of mercy! listen to that cry,-
That cry of anguish unto Thee on high!
That thou would'st end the lives of those beAve Maria! the evening shadows fall;
low, Ave Maria! We pray thee guard us all.
And thus cut short their agonies and woe. Over the land and the sea the night is coming As if in answer to that fearful cry, on;
The lightning streams the faster from the Ave Sanctissima! guard us till the dawn.
The earth in places ope's in fissures deep, Star of life's stormy sea, hear our humble
Where man and beast sink in a writhing heap. prayer,
Then from th' abyss there come despairing And when the tempests rise, save us from de
Then a faint moaning, which in silence dies. Guide our wand'ring footsteps through this world aright;
WOMAN'S TEARS. Safely through the darkness upward to the
More powerful than the sword or pen, light.
More potent than the frowns of men, Ave Sanctissima! hear our earnest cry!
More touching than a lover's sighs, Ave Maria! draw near us when we die.
Are the tears that flow from woman's eyes.
MRS. CONSTANCE RUNCIE. '|
Borx: INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JAN. 15, 1836, CONSTANCE studied in Germany for six years, and upon her return to America, at the age of twenty-five, she was married to the Rev. James Runcie, D. D. Mrs. Runcie has led a life of wonderful mental activity, and at an early age began to compose music. Her great
She held within her graceful hands
Her hat, which, hanging down, Broke, with its strings of ribbon bright,
The dead black of her gown.
Altho' she did not know it,
My dreamer and my poet.
I could have worshiped there,
But that I did not dare.
Would paint her if I could,
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
You must learn
Hath simply set.
MRS. CONSTANCE FAUNT LE ROY RUNCIE. est success in prose literature was Divinely Led, a work which attained a wide popularity, and was repeatedly quoted from by press and pulpit. In 1888 Poems Dramatic and Lyric appeared, wbich met with still more gratifying success. In person Mrs. Constance Faunt LeRoy Runcie is very petite.
Her very form and face,
With new, peculiar grace.
Which veiled but did not hide
They with the lily vied.
Were all the jewels worn,
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.
This would I do:
How to shine.
This would I do:
Be at home.
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!