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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

EARL MARBLE.

BORN: OHIO.

In his youth Earl Marble worked at setting type on some of the leading newspapers, and later this journalist edited a humorous publication, American Punch. In 1880 he became editor of Folio, a musical journal, which position he held for seven years. He

EARL MARBLE.

has contributed much in stories, verse and sketch to the Independent, Youth's Companion, Appleton's Journal, Lippincott's Magazine, Detroit Free Press and other publications. In addition to his published operettas, songs etc., he has written a musical comedy. Mr. Marble is at at present editor or the Leadville Herald-Democrat.

"A HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS." "Abijah Dunn; Abijah Dunn!

Where art thou this bright Summer morn? Awake and greet the rising sun,

Whose rays both earth and sky adorn."
Beneath his porch, since toddling child,
I oft had lingered for awhile,
Charmed by his glance, as woman's mild,
And more than woman's sweet smile.

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Abijah Dunn! Abijah Dunn!'
So shot a summons through the air
Long hours before my later one

To see the sun's bright rising glare.
..Abijah Dunn!" This summoned him
To greater glory than the sun's,
Spilled over the horison's rim,
As up the sky he glowing runs.
"Abijah Dunn!" The midnight bleak
Stood still a moment as the Voice
Came down the old man's soul to seek,
And bear to realms where all rejoice.
"Abijah Dunn!" The hovel dark

Brief moments surged with spirit light, And then, forever, cares that cark

Were drowned in blisses that requite.

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..Abijah Dunn! came higher up!

Thine earthly house meets not thy needs; Dire want has filled thine earthly cup,

But heaven's o'erflows with souls of deeds. Thine earthly hut possessions built,

Of which, alas! but poor thy part; Thy heavenly house, with richest gift Adorned, is built of what thou art.

"Abijah, great Jehovah's son!

For such thy name's significance Thy father, here, Abijah Dunn, Hath kept thee an inheritance, And taken from thy life below

A thought or act, as love did warm, Its walls to deck; as thou didst grow, Its shape enlarged to grander form.

"Abijah Dunn! Abijah Dunn!

That window toward morn's brightest skies,

The glass-like diamonds in the sun,

Came when thou bidst one hopeless rise,

And turn his gaze to glory's realm;

And yon bright room, so sweet within,

Grew like Aladdin's when life's helm,

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Thou seized, and steered from shoals of sin.

Abijah Dunn! dost thou recall

A smile that dried a poor child's tears? That smile, a picture on the wall, Will sing of sunshine through long years. Rememberest thou a fallen one,

Long since returned to kindly dust, With whom thou shared, Abijah Dunn, When others sneered, thine only crust; ..From tears of thankfulness she shed

Grew trees whose fruits like pearls catch light,

And o'er the walks that thou wilt tread

Dispel forever aught like night, And throw their gleam to towers that grew When aspiration with thee dwelt,

And windows catching heaven's blue

When eyes looked whence the suppliant knelt.

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CALLIE L. BONNEY-MARBLE.

works from her pen, Wit and Wisdom of Bulwer and Wisdom and Eloquence of Webster, have been highly praised by the press. In 1889 she was married at San Francisco to Earl Marble, a well-known poet and journalist. As a writer of prose and verse Mrs. Marble is gaining a national reputation.

AN EASTER CUSTOM.

I met her Easter morning
In the old cathedral isle,

GOOD-NIGHT.

The golden gleam of the western sun

In a flood of amber light,

Streamed softly in at the window, where
It lingered to say good-night.

And slowly, sweetly the vesper bell
Rang out in the evening air,
While floating upward the music came
Like the sound of an angel's prayer.

Then over the misty clouds of pearl,
In a glorious wave of light,
The daylight faded from earth away,
And was lost in the starry night.

And clearly, softly the day went home,
With its record of joy and pain,-
Written in shadow or gleaming light,
The eternal loss and gain.

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And then you know the Christmas song,
Of Peace, good will toward men,"
Kept running through my mind, mayhap
Obscuring mental ken.

The circumstance, not I, to blame
That there should be I trow,
A kiss, a vow, a promised bride
Beneath the mistletoe.

MRS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE.

BORN: SOMERSET CO., ME., MAY 25, 1839. MRS. COOKE is a resident of Oconto, Wis., where her husband is a nurseryman and farmer. Since her twentieth year the pro

MRS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE. ductions of this lady have appeared more or less in the periodical press. In 1888 she published, in conjunction with Mrs. Julia Ellen Jenkins, a neat volume of poems entitled Memories, a work that has been well and favorably received.

DROPS OF DEW.

Radiant spark of trembling light,

Little silver spray;

The spear of knot grass' shining bright

In gorgeous array.

As diamond bright it does entrance,

The various rays combine,

Garnet and topas at a glance,

With violets do entwine.

Yes, there's the ruby's clearest hue,

And amethyst so gay,

And sapphires ever changing too,
The emerald; but stay,

It all in one bright rainbow seems,

And by the breezes tossed,

Like sudden gleams on life's dark stream, Is quickly, strangely lost.

INDIAN SUMMER.

Indian summer's golden days,

Tho' the leaves are sere and brown, The lonely heart now breathes thy praise, Blue-crested jays scream thy renown. Oh! blest incensed reviving air;

Than balmy June's most perfumed flower, That lines the walks, thou art more fair, Indian summer's golden hours. Indian summer's golden hours,

How soft thy breeze o'er smoky hill,

Bears autumn leaves and wrecks of flowers, Ere winters breath comes cold and chill.

I love thy tints, thy sweet perfume,

Thy dimmest ray, thy loudest tone; Thy voiceless morn, thy mellow moon, Indian summer's golden day.

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HUBBARD ALONZO BARTON. BORN: CROYDON, N. H., MAY 1, 1842. FOR many years this gentleman held the position of superintendent of schools. In 1879 he became the editor and one of the proprietors of the N. H. Argus and Spectator.

FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY.

O flag of our country and emblem of glory! How dear to my heart is the shrine thou infold,

How noble the deeds enbalmed in thy story, How sacred thy trust to the millons untold. The Royal of Britain may cause admiration To well in the heart of the Englishman's breast;

The German Inperial point admonition

To the foe that would dare that nation's behest.

The Stars and the Stripes have a far grander

meaning:

They stand for freedom and liberty's law; For learning and progress and Christ's spirit gleaming,

The grand, hailing future our forefather's

saw.

They tell of a nation whose glory and

grandeur

Are known in remotest abodes of the earth, Whose blessings are shed on the poor and the

stranger,

As well as the rich and the subjects by birth. Then guard ever well our lov'd ensign of free

dom,

Protect the proud emblem on land and by

sea,

Sing its praises in song and hopeful Te Deum, And long let it wave o'er the land of the

free.

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MRS. CLARA KING-TAYLOR.

BORN: HARTFORD, CONN., JAN. 4, 1866. THIS lady was married in 1886 to William H. Taylor, secretary of the Connecticut Weekly Press Association, and resides at Rockville, Conn. Mrs. Taylor is a gifted writer, and has gained quite a reputation as an author, writing with equal success both poetry and prose. She is undoubtedly the best known poetess and writer of her age in New England.

INDEPENDENCE DAY.

Hail to thee, glowing eastern sun,

Thou king of light,

Send out thy gleams o'er us, great orb, Thy rays most bright.

Goddess of peace and union fair,

Wave high to-day

The banner of thy freedom strong,
In colors gay.

Shout now for liberty anew,

Thy anthems swell;

One hundred years and 'leven ago
Oppression fell.

Fathers felt the fetters loose,

The tyrant quailed,

He dropped the sword to fight no more; Our rights prevailed.

This is our Independence day,

Reminder dear

Of hours when faithful hearts fought long Without a fear.

They loved thy true and noble cause,

Sweet Liberty,

May we in every future year

Be true to thee.

THE PRESS.

Genius, wisdom, wit and humor,
Sparkle in the timely toast,
As they grace the well-filled table,
Which the Tontine well can boast.
The Connecticut Weekly Press
Might honor a royal board;
Its value to the state and home
Is mightier than the sword.
To-day the Association

Has met; and this its object:
Mutual gain and protection;

To bless the Craft, its project. The want of fraternal concourse Will no longer cloud the skies; The light of growing ambition Will kindle new enterprise.

Friendship, strength will crown the union, Raise the standard of the press

As a preacher, teacher, power,

In the field of usefulness. We would see its numbers widen In good work and motive pure; Without difference or envy,

It must succeed and endure.

REV. TRUEMAN S. PERRY. BORN: OXFORD, ME., DEC. 20,1826. IN 1861 Mr. Perry was appointed one of the clerks of the U. S. senate, at the same time acting as correspondent for the Portland Press, Transcript, Washington Chronicle and other papers. In 1873 he was ordained as a Congrational clergyman, laboring for twelve years at Cumberland, and is now a pastor of the above demomination at Limerick, Me. He was married in 1854 to Miss Elizabeth G. Hale.

SILVER.

Five and twenty years have sped,
Gentle heart, since we were wed!
Some in shade, but more in light,
Some bedimmed, but more bedight;
Five and twenty years have run
Since the day that made us one.

I will weave a simple lay,
Wifle mine, for thee to-day:
Glad and thankful shall it be,
Time has touched us sparingly;
He has stolen away our youth,
He has left us love and truth.

Loyal faith and tender love,
Fortune's golden gifts above,

More than praise of sweetest tongue,

More than plaudits said or sung;

These have made us rich alway,

These our treasures are to-day.

Blessings on thee, gentle wife,

Who hast crowned with love my life,
Shared each sorrow and annoy,
Doubled for me every joy,

Sweetness of the sweet lang syne,
Blessings on thee, heart of mine.

Unto Him whose will benign
Made thee mine, and made me thine,
Who has filled our lot with weal,
Made us loving, kept us leal,
Kindly led us on our way,
Render we our thanks to-day.
Thanks to God for years gone by,
For these moments now that fly;
May He guide us hand in hand,
Journeying toward the better land,
Keep us still in trust and love,-
Bring us to the home above.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

801

Praying again to be its patient guest.

She

ALICE W. ROLLINS. BORN: BOSTON, MASS., JUNE 12, 1847. ALICE WELLINGTON was taught by her father, and completed her studies in Europe. taught for several years in Boston, and in 1876 married Daniel M. Rollins of New York. The Ring of Amethyst is the title of her volume of poems. She has written several prose works.

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Too dreamy even to dream.

I hear the murmuring bee and gliding stream;
The singing silence of the afternoon,
Lulling my yielding senses till they swoon

Into still decper rest.

While soul released from sense,
Passionate and intense,

With quick exultant quiver in its wings,
Prophetic longing for diviner things,
Escapes the unthinking breast:
Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist,
But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed
By burning stars; delirious foretaste
Of joys the soul - too eager in its haste
To grasp ere won by the diviner right
Of birth through death-is far too weak to
Bathed in earth's lesser light,
Slipping down slowly through the shining air,
Once more it steals into the dreaming breast,

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And as my senses wake,

The beautiful glad soul to take,

The twilight falls:

A lonely wood-thrush calls
The day away.

..Where hast thou been to-day,

O soul of mine?" I wondering question her. She will not answer while the light winds stir And rustle near to hear what she may say. Thou needst not linger, day!

My soul and I

Would hold high converse of diviner things Than blossom underneath thy tender sky. Unfold thy wings;

Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze, And gliding down the slowly darkening ways, Vanish away!

JOHN BURROUGHS.

BORN: ROXBURY, N. Y., APRIL 3, 1837. AFTER receiving an academic education, John taught school eight or nine years, and then became a journalist in New York. For ten years he was a clerk in the treasury department at Washington, and at the end of that time was appointed receiver of a national bank. In 1874 he settled on a farm in Esopus, N. Y., devoting his time to literature and fruit culture, except the months when his duties as bank-examiner called him away. He has issued several volumes of prose, and has contributed largely both prose and verse to periodicals.

WAITING.

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day

The friends I seek are seeking me: No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky: The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me.

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