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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,
We've harmony, and rhythm, and rhyme;
The parts arranged in order all complete:-
Some lines have many, others have few feet.
Instructive poems we, besure have seen;
And some we ne'er could tell just what they

mean.
We here will not affirm, nor yet deny,
That such is poetry; though it seems dry;
Perchance the author gave us but the hull;
And kept the kernel:- chance our taste is

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

brains.

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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

feet.

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

bog.

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.
We've had enough!

Of poison drugs and watering;

Of feeing men for slaughtering;
Of interested flattering;
Of learned legal smattering;
Politic jugglers cattering:-
The public sore while mattering,
The owls of Bacchus chattering,
The liquor drivel pattering,
The sacred shrine bespattering,
The badge of Justice tattering,
The social fabric battering,
The legal cog-wheels clattering;

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

love.

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TO A BUDDING POETICAL GENIUS.
The flowers that crowns a rosary

Was once a bud unseen,
Your genius may, developed, be

The world's admiring theme.
In prosy lines devoid of art,

(If you will read my story,
I'll try to act the critic's part,

And help you on to glory.
If you have genius, rare and great,

No rule can be your bar,
Shakespeare made his own law of verse,

And Bonaparte of war.
None but the great dare step aside

From Custom's iron rule.
The common mind must follow her,

Or be esteemed a fool.
No genius now upon the stage,

Whose great inventions show
To all the smallness of the age,

In things it does not know. As Webster said, there's - room above,"

Where lawyers great may go,
And so it is in ev'ry thing;

There is a crowd below.
It is our wish you may succeed,

And laurels crown your brow,
And when you do you will not need

The lines we send you now.
Your feet" the measure" fit exact,

According to the rules,
The poets of the past have made

The text book of the schools,
Then mount Pegasus' back and soar

On Fancy's wings away
To old Parnassus' mountain shore,

Where all the muses play.
In language pure compose your verse,

Pathetic or sublime,
But at a sinner" hurl no curse,

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

scan

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;
Nature does not dispense the gift

Upon a narrow mind.
When woeing for the muses' grace

The favor of the nine,
Know this one line of sense is worth,

A thousand of mere rhyme.

This praying, fighting, brightest star
The rebels had in all the war

Was shot the danger braving.
But treason's guilt his glory mars,
And Fame, above the fallen bars,

Halos the old flag waving.
Three hundred heroes rode away,
Their bodies in the pine woods lay.

Their deed of martial glory,
Though unsurpassed on bloody plains,
Is yet unsung in measured strains,

Nor read in hist'ry's story.
An exit that all men admire,
An exit that the brave desire

Is where the lead is flying.
It is the soldiers' ..hallowed ground"
To fight in battle and be found

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,
The onward charge of Jackson's corps,
Who, louder than the Babel roar

Of fugitives, are yelling.
The old Third corps's a mile away,
Fast pushing forward to the fray,

But Stonewall's corps is nearing.
To live with Fame's heroic dead
A forlorn hope must now be led,

To Death the Union cheering.
Up rode commander Pleasanton,
* Align those pieces, man each gun,"

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.
But you command: I will obey."
They charged, they died; they saved the

day;
They turned the tide of glory.
The charging legions of the Gray,
Were by three hundred held at bay

Until the guns were sighted;
Then on they came with louder yell,
But they were stopped by shot and shell

And Jackson's charge was blighted,

- PUT UP THY SWORD." There is a field where just men work,

A high untrodden plain,
Above the jostling crowd below,

That strive for present gain.
Where men by love of truth inspired

Go forth to work and die,
That God's eternal truth may have

A dwelling 'neath the sky.
The doctors wrangle through the years

On issues past and gone.
A Providential man appears

And truth goes marching on.
O, who will work for God to-day

And let the « dead past" go?
War stays the progress of His truth:

O who will meet this foe?
And blow the Trumpet of Reform"

So loud, so clear, so strong,
"Twill rouse the nations of the world

Against this giant wrong.
The party men have fed the flock

On dogmas' worthless food,
And they have drifted from this rock

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
Ye must be born again."

Within their building found;
Your task is greater now than when

No unpaid toil, no clash of arms,
Your fathers sailed away.

Ah, there is . holy ground.”
May Plymouth Rock be typical

Though men of peace they charged upon Of what ye do today.

The citadel of sin;
O may ye build a new Mayflower

Moved by the Holy Spirit on,
To stem the world's rude shock,

They conquered foes within.
Above the passions of the hour

They make no compromise to gain
On God's eternal rock.

The world's admiring throng;
O, for a faith that overcomes

Their record is without a stain
A faith in God and right.

Of blood, or crime, or wrong.
Then saints would put His armor on

If Heaven is for those alone
And Christians would not fight.

Who have subdued the tares 0, for a Garrison to lead

The enemy of souls hath sown,
This moral movement on,

What great reward is theirs? ('ntarnished by a selfish deed

The warlike sects for dogmas fight,
Until the work is done.

And with the world unite;
To stand and wait for God to work,

Their morals in a rusty plight,
Shows lack of common sense.

Their fighting weapons bright.
The lazy work their garden thus

The eagle's claws are on the dove
And get no recompense.

Since Adam's race begun;
Are all the virtues waiting for

0, Prince of Peace, O God of Love,
Some great propelling power?

When will Thy will be done?
Are weeds and vice the only things
Not idle for an hour?

JACOB A. ALFORD.
Men see this wrong from age to age,

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.
Your labor may be fruitless now,

A NEW YEAR'S CALL.
You may not live to see

In his spring-bottom chair, the editor sat,
The victory of the Prince of peace.

On new year's day of eighty-nine,
But what is that to thee?

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,
THE QUAKERS.

No sooner this done, than he fell,
A sincere purpose to do right

His poetic mind all mixed with prose,
Proceeding from within,

His feelings no mortal can tell.
A walking by the Inward Light
Protects the soul from sin.

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
The building stands secure;

would foam,
The only sect the world's rude shock And apply the old mop to his head.
Has left unstained and pure.

Call again pretty girls, it is true we are wed,
They sought the Heavenly Father's care, But the lad on the stool you can woo,
No thronging crowds around;

And while you are sparking we'll just bow
They bowed their heads in silent prayer,

our head, And that is a holy ground."

| We remember when we were there too.

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