52 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. SARAH E. PULVER MCLEAN. SIDNEY MCLEAN. BORN: WATERLOO, N. Y., JUNE 26, 1854. SIDNEY MCLEAN commenced writing at the age of eighteen, and has contributed largely to the local press and leading periodicals of SARAH E. PULVER MC LEAN. the country. Aside from her literary efforts she also follows the profession of music teacher in Rochester, N. Y., where she now resides. MY LOVER. 1 What if my lover be dark, or fair- THE MASQUE. Oh! the faces, faces, faces Faces young and faces fair; I stood upon a busy street They passed me to and fro Masques are they, thought I, and cover The life that lies below. Once in awhile, but rare, there passed, A face so marred by sin, That all the baseness stood revealed No need to look within. And standing there, this queer thought came Suppose that now and here The masque of flesh should fall, and souls Stand forth distinct and clear." E'en as I thought, lo! it was done, I started with affright; All suddenly they stood, and were As air is, thin and light. But what a change! that woman's face, So beautiful before, Had lost its charm, for mark of Cain She on the forehead bore. And each sad feature of her soul, Was hurt, and bore a scar; The blood of innocents was there, Its perfectness to mar. And over there had been a form His soul a very pigmy was, And what a sin-scarred face. But one, was he of that long line, And seek no other guide? But there were some who walked beside, And thus they were, the bad and good, But this I saw - the best of masques I looked and looked till heart and brain. That in an agony I cried, ..Oh, masque them all again!" I drew a deep sigh of relief, * X LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. CHARLES RIEF. BORN IN GERMANY, NOV. 13, 1842. Mr. RIEF's career has been an eventful one, having been around the world twice, and is CHARLES RIEF. now visiting Palestine. He has been county representative and also county clerk at Grand Island, Neb., where he now resides. THE SNOW STORM. Hazy in the northern skies, Doth a dark-grey storm-cloud rise; With a hollow moaning sound, Comes the storm-the snow crowned king. Till at last They are cast, Down before the winter's blast: 339 53 ISLAND OF Hark! storm-tossed land, isle of the sea, The runes, within thy ice-bound shore, Heims kringle" as by Sturleson told, And set thy sons and daughters free! Thy eddas ever will inspire. 64 44 64 The Midgard" serpent is asleep, Behold the Logberg of Thingwolls Where clear and dark-green water flows; 54 64 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. The Althing" met in days of yore; ATOMIC GRAVITY, THE CAUSE OF A force, designed by mystic hand cause; Found in the smallest grain of sand, And rules and guides the universe. When chaos was upon the scene; By casting from a blazing throne, In moons and asteroids through space. Bound ever for a central home. CHARLES ELIPHALET REED. BORN: MOUNT JOY, PA., FEB. 28, 1867. CHARLES ELiphalet REED became principal assistant Postmaster at Mount Joy in 1880, which position he held for nearly eight years. He has contributed poems to Texas Siftings, Boston Home Journal, Philadelphia Inquirer and many other publications. Besides writing poetry, he is the author of several stories, and has also composed music. THE FATE OF ADONIS. Deep in the forest lies Adonis, dead; By him, his bow and spear; there, in his side, Is the fell wound the cursed boar's tusk made; His clear blue eyes, his cold white eyelids hide; Cool zephyrs fan his cheeks and kiss his hair, And mourn the sad death of a youth so fair. Now lovely Venus suddenly appears, And by Adonis' prostrate form she falls; His white face she suffuses with her tears, And on the murderous boar dire vengeance calls; Kisses his bloodless lips, raves, tears her hair, And groans, and wrings her hands in her despair. At length to Pluto's realms away she speeds, Not his the flesh should feed the greedy grave. The goddess, sympathizing with her guest, For Venus' sake; Elysium ill may spare So sweet a youth; Adonis, thou'rt thine own No longer, but henceforth thyself must share [sign With these two goddesses, and each year reTo Venus half, and half to Proserpine! SUNRISE AT SEA. 'Tis dark, but in the distant eastern sky, [ing; The chill gray light of early dawn is breakNight's twinkling luminaries pale; on high, Yon fleecy cloud an orient tinge is taking. Now the long night's dark reign has neared its end; [brushing; Scarce is the breeze the slumbering ocean A rosy hue the waking East is flushing, Where seem the waters with the sky to blend. Now from the horizon carmine streaks ascend; The smooth yet ever restless sea is blushing; Now o'er its breast the golden light is rushing Far as those paths of liquid fire extend. In splendor now the sun, monarch of day, His head uprears, and sets the sea ablaze; Illumes the trackless ocean with his light; Assumes in royal state, imperial sway, Darts o'er the sparkling waves his gorgeous And ushers in another morning bright. [rays, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER. BORN: FAYETTE CO. ILL., JULY 16, 1860. ON both sides he is of German extraction. the name Phifer, Pifer, or Fifer, three generations back in the family's history spelled Pfeffer; and his mother's maiden name being Heisler. Reared on a farm until 1876, in which year his father died, Charley attended the district school; then, his mother having removed to the county capital, Vandalia, he soon after began learning the printers' trade; CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER. and graduated from the public schools of that city in 1880. In 1881 he became editor of the Fayette County News. Removing to California, Mo., in 1883, he started a job printing office and for nearly a year run a little sheet called Phifer's Paper, which gained quite a local reputation for humor. Selling the subscription to the paper, in 1888 he run, in connection with his job office, a campaign paper styled the Semi-Weekly Republican. He has originated several wrinkles" in printing, which were given to the craft through technical journals, and have passed into general use. Almost with the dawn of memory he manifested a liking for picture drawing; and while he yet sometimes makes sketches and even engravings (he never had any training for either), the passion for drawing seems to have merged into a passion for writing -- and 55 particularly verse writing-soon after he became a student of printing. He has contributed verses, or essays, to The Current, Chicago; Day Star, New York: Republican, St. Louis; Inter Ocean, Chicago; Toledo Blade, and various religious and local papers. Mr. Phifer has published by his own hands, for circulation among his friends, several pamphlets of verse, and one five-act play, ..Zaphnath-Paaneah," in blank verse, that has been highly complimented by author and actor friends, among whom it circulated exclusively. He is preparing to issue a volume of verse-an ambitious effort of some 300 pages. Mr. Phifer is unmarried. He is five feet three and one-half inches tall, and weights one hundred and twenty pounds. His hair is dark brown; his eyes are blue. IT CANNOT MATTER, It cannot matter where or when From birth we draw on toward the grave, The strongest are brought low. All men are worn out then they die: If weak, are broken easily; And peace must come where there is care, We wail when death destroys our friends, Their lineage shall not know. BOOGERS. When I was a little feller, I was jiss that 'fraid Past every tiny wee little spot of shade I was jiss that 'fraid the Bad Man 'u'd come, I wouldn't go out after night at all, If Jack (he's my dog) was to bark at a tree, 56 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. I was 'fraid 'twas the Bad Man come for me, And my heart 'u'd go thumpity-thump. But I ain't 'fraid of the Bad Man, now Leastwise till I get dead; 'Cause I never did see no Boogers at all, Now honest Injun -- please tell me true, Did ever a Booger appear to you? I guess the folks tell a heap o' stuff But I want some fun; un' I ain't afraid If a Booger 'u'd come, I'd jiss set Jack He'd leave before you could jiss say, 'Scat! I am big enough to whip 'em, I guess, A VOICE OF THE NIGHT. On the sultry summer night, From the copse and from the hill, And mosquetos hum in smoke, And the heart is calm and still, 'Mid the zephyrs sweet and cool Comes the sound of Whipporwill, Whip porwill!" Ceaselessly it rings, and shrill, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! Was some maid like Philome, Lost in new Arcadian wild, Near o'erpowered and defiled, Through her hair gag wailing still By the brook that murmurs low, From the dead oak just below, Like a mentor weird, or seer, Thus the wild voice echoes shrill, Till the judgment seemeth near, Ever one word, whipporwill, Whipporwill! 'Mong the ruins will ring still, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! ANGELS. I was passing along through the woodland, Where the wood was lone with echoes, And with his incantations, By his horoscope and art, Changed the leaves to gold and purple, Transforming every part And I saw, all alone by the roadside Where the grass was crisp and dead. 'Mid the broken lances of frost-sprites, Where the grand onslaught had led Flowers wounded and dying, The sweet ones and the bright; And I marveled at the mystery Wrought in the silent night. I thought of a dear one, wounded He had toiled through the summer long, And his hopes, like leaves, had withered, Clogging the channel of song. He would rest, and so he departed, Dawning beyond the height; Had not taken his soul in its flight: For he passed as if music was falling And fading away with the night. I wonder if God does not pity The soul that is burdened with grief, And at death send an angel from Heaven To the weary one with relief. The angels are ever around us - They speak in the passing breeze, They look with the eyes of flowers, They rush through the swaying trees. There is nothing mean or common; Each life has its romance fair; And the souls of the dead are around us And with us everywhere. |