« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
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 about five years. He was then
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
Leaks into flame, and then expires, Or bursts from other vents anew,
Relit by flames from other fires.
Is life and all that it contains;
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 sacret trust
Till we, with them, lie down to sleep.
SONG OF SUMMER TIME.
That waves in the subtile breeze;
To his mate from the apple-trees.
And the hum of the reaper's tune,
Beneath the skies of June.
Where the sun and the shadows play,
And blends his tuneful lay,
Behind the hills of the west,
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;
Or but reveal the tints in part.
Is all the world to him to-day; To-morrow brings another toy,
For which he flings the old away.
AMOR FATUM VINCIT.
Two pathways from opposite coves,
And wend through celestial groves. As one single pathway they wandered,
Like rivers that flow to the main, But while in my vision I pondered,
I saw them diverging again. And widely asunder they tended,
As fashioned by destiny's might, But in the dark valley they blended
And entered the realms of light. Oh, loving hearts here disunited,
Look up through your anguish and tears, For love here so cruelly blighted, Will bloom through eternity's years.
But not alone to infant mind
But to the gray-haired children too, A toy appears of fair design, Until replaced by something new.
And friends to whom we said, adieu,
And wept to clasp the parting hand Fade from the memory, like the hue Of words engraven on the sand.
NELLIE CORINNE BERGEN.
BORN: DELANCO, N. J., OCT. 14, 1868. Whex a child Nellie lived in Washington 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 for one year
Imposes. Better far,
To live, unknown by name, Than be sought after, times
When you for rest 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,
While if the magazines
What lively times and scenes!
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 1. 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.
NELLIE CORINNE BERGEN. at St. Clair, Michigan. Miss Bergen has made elocution one of her principal studies, and bas appeared at several private concerts as Parthenia in Ingomar. Her poems have appeared in several prominent papers, and have received farora ble 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
THE YELLOW ROSE.
The rose I sent my love!
The rose I sent my love!
Oh love I bore to her,
Oh love I bore to her.
She sent it back to me;
STELLA, MY STAR.
Say where are you shining to-night? If I, by my heart, could tell,
To you would I wing my flight.
And the twilight shadows come,
And the winds sweep o'er the main; Sings the wild harp of the billows,
- Love will never live again."
The cold snow covers the ground,
The trees are lonely and bare,
And pining for you, my fair!
Oh love, how the night winds moan! But I am sadder than they,
To think that my darling's alone. That Stella, the star of my life,
Should be weeping and sighing alone; For this do I rival the wind,
In making a heavier moan. But why do I try with a pen,
To picture the depth of my grief?
Our parting will only be brief.
'Twill be the sweeter by far,
THE LAND OF SOMEWHERE. Afar in the land of Somewhere.
The roses must be blooming; Away in this land of Somewhere,
There surely I am going. Afar in the land of Somewhere,
The sun is ever shining: And ob for this land of Somewhere,
'Tis ever that I am pining. Afar in the land of Somewhere,
The people do no deceiving; And oh for this land of Somewhere,
"Tis ever that I am grieving. And deep in the land of Somewhere,
Fond Love to me is crying: Alas? for this land of Somewhere,
I ever, forever, am sighing.
TO MY SWEETHEART'S GRAY EYES.
Would I choose,
Eyes of blue;
Would I take
Eyes of brown:
Would I want
Eyes of black,
MRS. FANNY M. LEONARD.
BORN: CHESTERFIELD, N. H., JULY 14, 1821. MRS. LEONARD has written poems for the press for a number of years under the nom de plume of Sylvia. Many of these poems were written for anniversary gatherings, weddings, sabbath schools, and dialogues for ex., hibitions. She has now in her possession nearly one hundred dialogues in manuscript, some of which have been published.
DEAD LOVE. Oh the grave is cold and still, Where dead love lies; where dead love
lies. Oh the grave is damp and cold, Where dead love lies; where dead love
lies. And the rose-leaves idly flutter,
And the soft winds sigh in vain; Love lies buried, deeply buried;
Love will never live again. Oh my heart is cold and empty,
Now love is dead: now love is dead: Oh my heart is cold and dreary,
Now love is dead, now love is dead.
THE LITTLE BOUQUET. You table, so broad and so long.
With linen that's daintily white, Is groaning with edibles strong
And sweet, all our tastes to delight. You ask for a gem that shall grace
Your board; but I offer this lay -
I call it my little bouquet.
To strangers so far, far away;
A nutmeg geranium gay.
An iris with red half-blown rose: I would wreathe them with woodbine, so
nice With little white pinks, in repose. A bed of green holly should be
Its home. And to make all complete, American Poets, I'd see, Without one unoccupied seat.
GUY E. ETHERTON. BORN: JACKSON Co., ILL., APRIL 4, 1872. ALTHOUGH yet a young man, Guy has written quite a few poems that have received
'Twas not his wish, before, to know
God's holy will divine;
And heavenward incline.
The great Creator's hand,
Man holds within the land.
worla E’er reached his hungry soul; Yet oft unto his mind unfurled
Thoughts of the nearing goal. So, musing on the warning day,
The thought of death steals through His cheated soul's neglected way
Its darkened avenue. From this, his dreaded thought, he
Now to eternity.
Death stares into his eye;
Man was not made to die!
Within the cloudless west
From sight; it seems to rest.
Than seventy-five: but two
Where life is often due.
And clearly can be seen
Upon his rigid mien.
With aged, wand'ring mind,
To him, the undivined.
Of wickedness and sin;
Of what it should have been.
We plod our weary way,
There comes a time
In every clime, When life is dull and gray. A dreary gloom steals o'er the soul -
A dark and cheerless night, We feel the mournful loneliness Drive out the pleasant light;
We strive to cease
The gloom's increase,
We feel no more like one
But sad and lone,
And wretched grown,
And 'gainst the window-pane
While sore within
We then begin
THE SOLDIER AT HOME. Wrapped in the flag he so nobly defended,
Laid to his rest by bis comrades in blue; His a devotion known only to heroes,
His the reward of the brave and the true.
MRS. CATHERINE RINDER.
BORN: MILESBURG, PA., MAY 30, 1851. MARRIED in 1872 to Hon. Theodore P. Rynder, this lady commenced writing for the press six years later, and has edited several newspapers. She is a constant contributor to the local papers on political, social, religious and humorous topics, and has also written a number of short stories. In person she is a blonde and petite, and is now residing in her native town with her husband and two sons.
Ah! the shrines that we deck, how they multi
ply ever, From the army which once shook the earth
with its tread. As the feet that trod out our fair Nation's
pollution Now march but to follow the comrade that's
MUSTERED OLT. A soldier of the union
Lay dying - not of years: There was sound of children sobbing,
There were floods of falling tears: And a slight form knelt beside him,
Round the camp fire of Hearen they meet in
reunion The « unknown" are there with the miss
ing" who're come To join in the peace jubilee everlasting The war indeed over--the soldier at home.