162 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. With a soothing murmur, the River of Slumber Flows o'er a bed of silver sand; And angels are keeping watch o'er the sleeping And there in the Valley of Babyland, For whom the heart of a mother yearns. As they go from the Valley of Babyland Forth into the world of great unrest, Sometimes weeping he wakes from sleeping Before he reaches his mother's breast. Ah! how she blessed him, how she carressed him, Bonniest bird in the bright home band, That o'er land and water the kind storks brought her From far off Babyland. THE MASTER HAND. It is something too strange to understand, Why, famed musicians had turned in despair And then you came. You swept the scale From the low bass tones to the shrill ones above, Joined into the glorious harmony-Love. And now, though I live for a thousand years, On no new chords can a new hand fall. The chords of raptures, of hopes, of fears. BLASE. The world has outlived all its passion; Then yields with decorum to Fate; Our Romeo's flippant emotion Grows pale as the summer grows old, By clasping-a cup filled with gold. With the march of bold civilization Great loves and great faiths are down trod; They belonged to an era and nation All fresh with the imprint of God. High culture emasculates feeling; The overtaught brain robs the heart; And the shrines now were mortals are kneel ing Is a commonplace mart. By the lady-like minds of our mothers Keep carefully out of life's storm; Are calmly devout — with their brains; And we laugh at the man who discovers Warm blood in his veins. But you, O twin souls, passion-mated, Your lives to be cast in this mould? Like a lurid volcanic upheaval In pastures prosaic and gray You seem, with your fervors primeval, You dropped from some planet of splendor, And your constancy swerveless and tender You learned from the course of that star. Fly back to its bosom, I warn you, As back to the ark flew the dove: LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR. BORN IN ENGLAND, MAY 5, 1850. WHEN 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 Dickens. He was subsequently employed by several prominent London and provincial papers, and wrote several able pamphlets, socn gaining a reputation as a forcible, witty, elegant and entertaining writer. Mr. RyderTaylor has edited various other publications HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR. of note: has filled several public offices; was for a time professor of English literature and elocution, and gave lectures on important subjects. In 1881 he came to the United States, settling in San Antonio, Texas, where he soon became an American citizen. He is now editor of the Sunday Mirror, and contributes to several prominent journals. Mr. Ryder-Taylor 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, And troubles oft oppress us sore, But when the heart is lone and sad, And shows a happy prospect In the better by and by. The 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 the better by and by. The lovers often quarrel, And think each other hard, When bound by dearer tie, By cruel fate, or worse yet still, 163 Perhaps by cankerous strife; The hope of blessed reunion, The widow, in her sore distress, And in it finds relief; By want and care she is oppressed, Yet waits in patience and in hope, The rich man's often envied, And often bad his health. His heart has still its cry, To the better by and by. His wages small, his comforts few, And very rough his way; To make the most of humble means, Of the better by and by. The prisoner in his lonely cell, He thinks of wife and loving friends, And longs for Freedom's happy hour,-- The sick man tossing on his bed, For him there seems but little hope But when folks come to see him, You'll be better by and by." 164 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. But when we mourn our loved, our dead, How bitter is the heart! 'Tis then we feel the force of love How hard it is to part! But hope stands by to cheer us, While we with fate comply, Since all of us, both rich and poor, To each let's give a helping hand, In the better by and by. THE SONG OF THE WEARY. I am weary, oh! my darling, 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, The gilded herd, with iron rule, 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 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, Effeminate, not strong; And, sickened, then I sadly cry, How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling, In the old home, nestled 'mong forest-crowned hills, I list to the music of swift dancing rills, 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 burdens and years have furrowed my brow, And my loved ones dwell not in the old home now. EXTRACT. Many a time comes sorrow and care, May come but once in a lifetime. THOMAS O'HAGAN. BORN IN CANADA IN 1855. THIS gentleman has received a thorough education, having become proficient in Latin, French, German, and other languages, and is one of 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 con The wounds and scars of olden days And manly hearts stood by her side, I saw the Shannon pour along Its tide of music sweet and strong- O land of woe and sorrow, 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, And yet I know my life hath strength, I see in them the hope of spring, That erst did plan the autumn day; I see in them each gift of man Not all is lost the fruit remains The glory of the summer sky 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! And the town, which lay peaceful, at break of day, Was, in a few moments, all swept away. morning, To the valley below, he'd carry the warning. A nameless Paul Revere" he dies- Of hero's who, with laurels fell, No name shall shine with a brighter hue, |