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MRS. JANE E. ROUSE.
BORN: BRANCH PORT, N.Y., 1829. From an early age the poems of Mrs. Rouse have appeared from time to time in the local
But all nature smiled, and villages grew,-
dred thousand more." 'Twas not in vain. Their father fired with zeal, With others answered quick their country's
weal. With smiling lips, but aching hearts, We watched them as away they sped, Only wishing we were men to follow where they led.
(make a scare, The Minnesota Chipawa's thought they would And down they came with war paint on and
feathers in their hair. For many days and many nights I gathered
my young brood, (was good, Expecting, fearing I knew not what, but God Peace was restored. My own came back, a
soldier brave and true (army blue.
THE PIONEER. They tell me I am growing old, my locks are
turning gray. It may be so. I cannot tell. I feel as young
to-day, My hands as strong, my eye as true, as when I came to Michigan, full thirty years ago. The scenes have changed since I came here, So long ago, a youthful pioneer. No house we found, but under a tree We pitched our tent,- husband and me. We raised a log house, covered it o'er With shakes for roof, puncheon floor, And gathered moss from off the trees To keep out the cold and shutter fleas; For, ladies, though you think it queer, The flea was really the pioneer. The people were scattered – few neighbors
had we; Shelby was nowhere, and Hart, where was she? A peach orchard then where the county seat
stands, A log house here on the Randall lands.
TO THEE, WISCONSIN. To Thee, Wisconsin, noble state, a tribute ]
would pay, Though not my birth-place, thou hast been
My home for many a day. I love thy woodlands and thy hills, Thy prairie's broad and wide; I love the little
running rills, That deck thy low hillside. And there our loving gray-haired sire, and
there our mother, too, Sit waiting in their “old arm chair" with
calm and placid brow,
WILLIAM O. SLIGHT, BORN: MIDDLEBURY, IND., JULY 29, 1851. THE poems of Mr. Slight have appeared extensively in the local press. In person he is of good stature, with brown hair and eyes. Mr. Slight is now engaged in fruit culture in Berrien Springs, Michigan.
Waiting the summons come up higher,
your work on earth is done; Lay down the cross, accept the crown, the vic
tory is won. On Lake Geneva's balmy shore, where tourists
now reside, We built our cottage, trim and neat, when
first I was a bride; And in North Geneva churchyard we laid
away to rest, All that remains of Birdie," -- her soul is with
the blest. Three weary weeks we watched beside her
lowly bed of pain, And then his spirit took its flight, our loss was
his sure gain, For the soul escaped forever, from its tene
ment of clay, Beams irradiant with the splendor of a bright
Live, labor and love."
GEORGE MELVIN HOOD.
BORN: BATH, Ky., JULY 1, 1845. For the past quarter of a century the poems of Mr. Hood have appeared from time to time in the local press. He was a soldier in the late war. Mr. Hood is now a resident of Sterling, in the state of Kansas.
THE LAUGH OF MY WIFE.
That makes me to rejoice,
Than that sweet rippling voice.
Silence in sorrow's lonely spell
And drives dull care away,
When kneeling down to pray.
Its joyous cotes I hear,---
To me were half so dear.
The muttering thunders roll,
And comfort to my soul.
With joy supreme I rise,
Peal forth beyond the skies.
Shall be my aim through life, I'll ask no sweeter music than
The laugh of my loved wife.
To chase away our sorrow;
Are sadder on the morrow.
One ripple on the sea,
The mind in misery.
E'er in these brighter hours,
To ripen into flowers. And then when darksome days appear,
The flowers still would bloom; Our hearts to ever kindly cheer
With beauty and perfume.
LOVE. Man loves but once, but woman oft; Ne'er again if once his heart Is lured into deception, Can o'ercome the stinging smart And play again a second part With the same conception,
THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK.
BORX: CAMBRIDGE, O., APRIL 16, 1852. AFTER receiving his education in Zanesville, Mr. Peacock was for about ten years associate editor of the Topeka Kansas Democrat. He bas published several volumes of poems: The Vendetta and Other Poems appeared in 1876; The Rhyme of the Border War in 1880, and Poems of the Plains and Songs of the Solitudes in 1888. The last volume reached a third edi
The shore is won, and once again
THE KANSAS INDIAN'S LAMENT.
The pale-face drives us back --
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, For soon the warrior's star will set. These broad prairies once were ours;
We fished the many rivers;
With arrows in our quivers,
Across the grassy plains -
The spirit-herbs for pains:
Some dark fate drags us down;
The golden stars are brown -
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 seattered like the leaves
And wasted to a few –
Which vanished from our view!
THOMAS BROWER PEACOCK, tion in the first year, and has been translated into the German. Mr. Peacock has been a resident of Topeka, Kansas, for fifteen years, 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.
We go! the white race takes our place;
Great Spirit, what am I!
And the Great Spirit's wrath,
Will come back to earth's path,
Great Manitou's! speaks He!
O what would'st Thou with me? ..Be brave! God's Happy Hunting Grounds Are great and good, and have no bounds!"
He led them 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 handThey 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.
The monarch of his own desire;
That marked his mad career of fire.
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 everywhere, He braved each, all-man, Heaven, and Hel
THE BANDIT CHIEF.
That courser madly speeds away-
Sheds on the earth her brightest ray.
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,
Flies on its way from Heaven down-hurled! Perchance some demon of the night,
Escaped from Hell, rides o'er the world!
As dread as fiend or demon he,
And leads through crimes to victory.
'T is gleaming like an evil star; He seems th' embodied form of fate
Swift rushing to the field of war.
A tempest in his heart of ire;
In his wild, stormy soul of fire.
They'd felt the thunder of his might-
Was like the awful storm of night. To him all foes in combat quailed,
Before his arm and eagle eye --
He swept in power puissant by.
And lo! a star breaks through the night!
Grasps from the gloom immortal light! So when great hosts had them at bay,
And his wild clan deemed all were lost,
And placed his hand upon his brow. .. I feel within, my soul is dead!"
His mind is wandering now... Fiend! open the door - unbar! unbar!
Why am I chained by arm to floorBut see, there's one bright, shining star, Which kindly guards my prison door! It stands a silent sentinel, there;
With pity looks from its bright eye,
Ah! there's a serpent on the sky!
It coils; now buries in a cloud;
It warns me of the burial shroud! .. Hark! hark! I hear, I see in the air,
Fiends, demons, dragons, and devils! Why tarry with me in my despair?
Why not off to their wild revels? .. But still they stay - behold! I see!
But this is madness, my keepers tell O! from out this prison, free me! Why make my living death a bell?**
BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Beautiful woman, thou art,
True th' womanhood, sweet! God places in thy heart
A wealth of love that's meet. And why, I cannot tell!
But oh, thy voice to me Sounds like some far-off bell
That wakes sweet memory!
MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE.
BORN: NEW YORK CITY, MAY 27, 1819. This intellectual woman has written numerous poems, dramas, and lectures. She is a very strong advocate of woman's suffrage, and has lectured extensively in aid of reforms. Her poetical works are Passion Flowers, and Words of the Hour; two of her best works of
Some merry-measured roundel Of the happy days and young; But, pierced with sudden sorrow, The words came faint and slow, Till one, in childish panic, Cried; Mother, sing not so!" 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 sympathetic silence Was worse than her distress. Then 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. 'Twere well to pour the soul out In one convulsive fit, And rend the heart with weeping, If Love were loosened from 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, abyssmal chords, Broken by wailing music Too passionate for words, Find gentle reconcilement In some serener breast, And touch with deeper pathos Its symphonies of rest.
THE NURSERY. Come, sing for us, dear Mother, A song 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 hall-forgetful tongue,