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ALBERT CLYMER. BORN: FAIRFIELD Co., O., DEC, 10, 1827. MR. CLYMER now resides on a farm near Morley, Iowa. Ile has issued a little volume of poems entitled Echoes of the Woods, consisting of songs, ballads and lyrics which in a charming manner carry the author back to the days of boyhood and young manhood in
In rhyming verse, we've measured time,
dull. We hope from time to time, as shall appear most meet,
[repeat. To give you fruit; who taste it will the taste Though it holds meat all ready to your hand, It's taste who'd judge, should skill to taste
command. This fruit may, then, be cracked, and tasted too, all round,
[sound. And cracked again; remaining fresh and
EVOLUTION. Wonderfully long, indeed, Haeckel's chain, Which gave the moneron two legs and a
brain, From the depth of the sea the moneron
came;--Haeckel the scientist gave it a name;As small as a pin's head, a globular cell; After ages to crawl, snail-like, from a shell.
An infusory, neither male nor female, Acquires a back-bone, and fins, and a tail. A thing without nerve, or muscle, or wish, Is changed to a polyp, a mollusk, a fish. Hatched by the sun from the spawn of the frog,
[wog. Reigns queen in a mud-puddle, Miss PolliA tortoise, a monkey, four legs recollect; A man with two hands and a mind walks
erect. Some millions of years requiring to span
The chasm between the monkey and man. The billions betwixt his first and last state And the number of times he did transmi
grate No man from such data can calculate.
The existance of man, how brought about,
They ne'er can explain if God is left out. So scientists fail, with all their great skill, To solve the great problem; aye fail thus they
will. God says he made man;--- of the ground 'tis
confessed As good, when first formed, as is Haeckel's
best. Those naturalists sure have been to great
pains, To prove that they sprang from a race minus
ALBERT CLYMER. his Ohio home. The true spirit of the muse pervades the entire volume. He has had a strong partiality for poetry from his earliest recollection. Mr. Clymer bas several volumes of verse ready for publication, and devotes his time mainly to writing and doing light farm work.
POETRY AS COMPARED TO PROSE. True poetry of thought, if it is well expressed, In prose, blank verse, or rhyme, as suits men
best. Dull nature wakes from lethargy and sleep; To contemplation, laughter, chance to weep. It - heaven-born – the soul of man inspires With rapture, and his zeal it fires. It thrills the soul with beauty's vital charm; To noble deeds it nerves the palsied arm; It cultivates the heart; incites to love, And elevates the thoughts to things above. Since prose is deemed sufficiently complete, Devoid of rhythm, of rhyme, and of poetic
T. G. LA MOILLE.
BORN IN ILLINOIS, AUG. 29, 1874. By his own efforts Mr. La Moille has acquired a college education, is a shorthand writer, and has a fair knowledge of five languages. He is over six feet tall, weighs 150 pounds, and is a total abstainer. Mr. La Moille has edited numerous books, published several songs, and follows the pursuit of literature and journalism.
Such teachers as they should exit the hive;
By nature's great law the fittest survive." Since they from the spawn of the rena were
hatched, And by them the bull-frogs as croakers are
matched, - From the form of the arm, and the length
of the thigh,” They sprang from the species the gentry
would fry. They judge of the class, order and strain, By range of vision and compass of brain. From grinders, and molars, and curve of
the jaw, And spinal column, they inference draw. The texture of muscle, the form of the bone, The order of teeth, and the organs of tone;
The size of the skull, the brain caliber,
The pedigree and habits infer. Whence a class sprang, thro' which line they
descend, When they went crawling, or stood upon end.
The reptile, the grub, the molecule source; They draw their conclusions from data of
course; If valves or bivalves; we're told that those
seers Calculate back for a billion of years; To prove evolution must have produced
man, Without a creative intelligent plan. Infidels madly the bible have spurned: 'Tis only the present in which they're con
cerned: Trusting their reason they're going astray,
As others will do who take the same way. 'Tis clear, quite clear, very clear to my mind, Those men, as the frogs, to leap are inclined; Equally good at the game of leap-frog, They jump at conclusions and croak in a
BEYOND. Beyond the siren wiles of sin, And struggles where more strength we win, Approving smiles of God begin. Beyond where griefs make earth forlorn, Stars that this life the most adorn, But her the eternal morn. Beyond these sorrows, pains, and tears, Glad day succeeds the night of fears, And blissful rest that realm endears. Beyond the river's silent tide, Where those who wait for us abide, We shall awaken, satistied.
WE HAVE HAD ENOUGH.
Of poison drugs and watering;
Of feeing men for slaughtering;
Tili Liberty is tottering:
Of shilly shally pottering, We've had enough! The above jingle may be read from top to bottom, and vice versa.
UNFINISHED. Easel, palette, brushes, paints, we have kept
here, Just as he left them on that morning drear. Lift up this red silk curtain as you would Perform a rite of holiest priesthood. You start at seeing face art-prisoned here A dream and thought to haunt life's latest
year. - Alas!" exclaimed her painter, - thy dear
face Defies my art and love to catch its grace! .. I'll come again," the smiling maiden said, And there for him with her his sunshine fled. Above this glowing canvas here he toiled, With hope and fear, half conquering, half
foiled. Till, vanquished by fatigue, her painter
slept;-Yet all his visions her sweet presence kept, And at the day-break to that rapt youth there
seemed To come charm bringing seraph that he
dreamed: His joy waked him, but sorrow came instead, For one stood there who shuddered, “ She
is -- dead!" Spurred by his love and woe's relentless goad. Quick to her home that tortured paintei
strode; Tho' love kissed her, yet death still chained
her clay; He vanished from our sight her burial-day.
JOHN JACOB DICKSON.
BORX: Scott Co., InD., SEPT. 8, 1826. WORKING on the farm when young at six dollars per month, Mr. Dickson afterward learned the cooper trade. In 1850 he removed to West Grove, Iowa, where he now resides, buying his farm from the government. In 1864
Where Freedom feels no license or restraint, Who fears a wrong more than the public ban, Yet feels unworthy to be called a saint, Though on the highest mount, serene, above
complaint. But I am under law e'er since my birth So that I cannot soar on angel wings From care and the discordant sounds of Earth Far up away from there to fairer things That Faith has pictured, where the dweller
sings; For love has no opposing foe above To mar its Eden joy from which there springs A peace that Earth's contending sects approve, Then take the sword and disobey the Lord of
TO A BUDDING POETICAL GENIUS.
Was once a bud unseen,
The world's admiring theme.
(If you will read my story,
And help you on to glory.
No rule can be your bar,
And Bonaparte of war.
From Custom's iron rule.
Or be esteemed a fool.
Whose great inventions show
In things it does not know. As Webster said, there's - room above,"
Where lawyers great may go,
There is a crowd below.
And laurels crown your brow,
The lines we send you now.
According to the rules,
The text book of the schools,
On Fancy's wings away
Where all the muses play.
Pathetic or sublime,
Nor wink at public crime.
YOUTH AND AGE. In memory I recall my hopeful days (There was a buoyant spirit once within , And brood o'er youth's contented, cheerful
ways, So full of joy and innocent of sin; For then the world, with its eternal din Of creeds, oppression, strife for help,and war, Had not made me lose faith in all but HimHad not impelled a course my peace to mar; And now I sigh for days in memory afar. And yet there is a recompense for Age. The purpose of a wise Creator's plan Is found recorded in the Sacred Page, And happiness is for the aged man Who yields a willing soul, whose mind can
Write from your heart - you'll not cater
To kings or reigning wrongs-Like Milton, Burns, or Whittier,
Breathe freedom in your songs. The poet's sympathies are not
To party lines confined;
Upon a narrow mind.
The favor of the nine,
A thousand of mere rhyme.
This praying, fighting, brightest star
Was shot the danger braving.
Halos the old flag waving.
Their deed of martial glory,
Nor read in hist'ry's story.
Is where the lead is flying.
Among the dead or dying. * John Bright, (England's Quaker Statesman), resigned his place in Gladstone's ministry, because of his war in Africa, but held that our war for liberty and union was justifiable. The law is a terror to evil doers," and must have power to enforce it. Our war was a police force, to enforce the law, and prevent anarchy.
THREE HUNDRED HEROES. The sunset's glow shines o'er the trees, The pine leaves rustle to the breeze,
The feathered warblers prattle; But man is vile, the evening star Looks on a crimson scene of war
The carnage of a battle. On come the legions of the Gray(..The Union must be shot away"
All Howard's corps is broken. The Babel noise proclaims the tale, Which through the pines the evening
gale The fearful news has spoken. 0, for ten minutes more of time To get the cannon into line,
And stop by rapid shelling,
Of fugitives, are yelling.
But Stonewall's corps is nearing.
To Death the Union cheering.
He said; . be quick and steady. Charge, Keenan, charge, upon the foe, And hold them back until you know
Our batteries are ready." Brave Keenan, smiling made reply, - You had as well said I must die;
For yon pine woods are gory.
Until the guns were sighted;
And Jackson's charge was blighted,
- PUT UP THY SWORD." There is a field where just men work,
A high untrodden plain,
That strive for present gain.
Go forth to work and die,
A dwelling 'neath the sky.
On issues past and gone.
And truth goes marching on.
And let the « dead past" go?
O who will meet this foe?
So loud, so clear, so strong,
Against this giant wrong.
On dogmas' worthless food,
Tossed by the passion's flood. Ye. Five and twenty” chosen men,*
Will ye prepare a creed Defining sin, proclaiming war
To be the devil's deed? Make no more creeds in Jesus' name
While ye are slaying men,
For all your bloody fields proclaim
No titled men -- no useless forms
Within their building found;
No unpaid toil, no clash of arms,
Ah, there is . holy ground.”
Though men of peace they charged upon Of what ye do today.
The citadel of sin;
Moved by the Holy Spirit on,
They conquered foes within.
They make no compromise to gain
The world's admiring throng;
Their record is without a stain
Of blood, or crime, or wrong.
If Heaven is for those alone
Who have subdued the tares 0, for a Garrison to lead
The enemy of souls hath sown,
What great reward is theirs? ('ntarnished by a selfish deed
The warlike sects for dogmas fight,
And with the world unite;
Their morals in a rusty plight,
Their fighting weapons bright.
The eagle's claws are on the dove
Since Adam's race begun;
0, Prince of Peace, O God of Love,
When will Thy will be done?
JACOB A. ALFORD.
BORN: KENDALL Co., ILL., FEB. 16, 1865. This bloody, damning crime,
As editor and publisher of the Colfax Leader, And say “mysterious Providence,"
Mr. Alford has written extensively for numAnd idle pass their time.
erous papers other than his own. In 1889 he O, sluggish soul arise and work
went out of the publishing business, and is For truth and right to-day.
now a minister of the Methodist church, A holy purpose kept in view,
which profession he intends to follow the reAnd God will show the way.
mainder of his life.
A NEW YEAR'S CALL.
In his spring-bottom chair, the editor sat,
On new year's day of eighty-nine,
He and .. Old Webster" were having a - spat," * Written in 1880, when the theological, if A word how to spell and define. not all lineal descendants of the Pilgrims, in All of a sudden the door opened wide, their then late Council at St. Louis had chosen
Six belles of the town sallied in, a committee of twenty-five to prepare a creed
And surrounded your servant on every side, or interpretation of the Bible.
Crying .. Happy New Year" with a vim.
Dazed with excitement the editor rose,
No sooner this done, than he fell,
His poetic mind all mixed with prose,
His feelings no mortal can tell.
The editor thought of the wife at his home, George Fox, the Friend, built on this Who was kneading the small loaf of bread, rock,
When she heard of the call, in wrath she
Call again pretty girls, it is true we are wed,
And while you are sparking we'll just bow
our head, And that is a holy ground."
| We remember when we were there too.