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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MRS. MARY J. O. WHITING.

BORN: NEW YORK CITY, AUG. 17, 1834. THE poems of Mrs. Whiting have appeared in the Union Signal, Daughters of America and various other publications. She was married in 1864 and resides in Belmond, Iowa. Mrs. Whiting is a great advocate of temperance, and is very popular in her adopted city.

TO MY LAST TOOTH.

Farewell; a last, a long farewell, my true my oft-tried friend;

This life of ours we've spent as one comes to a sudden end.

Through thick and thin, whate'er betide we've firmly held together;

"Tis hard to break the tender ties, the loving cords to sever.

'Twas sixty years ago when you, a pearl of rarest beauty,

First came to me to take your place and do a servant's duty.

You did what all the world has done from generations old,

You pushed your little brother out and left him in the cold.

And you usurped the place he held, while to the dogs he went:

It may be only just that you should after him

be sent.

You've served me well, stood firmly by, though you have grumbled sore, And I have firmly stood by you, and all your sharpness bore.

How many times with aching pain my tongue has wagged its way,

Because your cruel biting self forgot where duty lay.

But that is passed, we'll let it go; it gives me greater pain

To feel your leaving comes so hard, and we'll not meet again.

But I'll not ask you to remain, your lot is sad and lone,

And you're the last of all your set who've broke with you and gone;

Then go my friend. It grieves me sore that the cruel steely clasp

Must pinch your brittle, broken crown withits clinching grasp.

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A LOVER'S LAMENT.

In the love of a maiden I once took delight, But where is the love I once knew?

It has gone! It has gone! For alas, the fair maid,

Like all of her kind, proved untrue.

She said that her love for me would endure,
That love like her love would remain, [name,
But memory of falsehoods that sullen her
My heart will forever retain.

Her words were spoke in jest I suppose,
My words were in earnest I know,
My gift was pure love, not much you will say,
"Twas all that I had to bestow.

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924

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

WILLIAM LEIGHTON, JR.

BORN: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., JUNE 22, 1833. THIS gentleman has published several books, and is well and favorably known in the literary world. Two dramatic poems from his pen, The Sons of Godwin and At the Court of

WILLIAM LEIGHTON, JR.

King Edwin, are very fine; and a long poem entitled Change has been well and favorably received. He has also written several Shakesperian sketches and prose essays. Mr. Leighton was married in 1860 to Miss Mary Jane Reed, and is now living at Concord, Mass.

THE FLOWERS.

I see no use in them, quoth Peter Bell,
These wild-flowers of the woods; they bloom

and die

In secret nooks, where not a human eye
Looks on their blossoming. It were as well
A constant blight their opening buds befell.
He knows their use whose heart of sympathy
Throbs to the touch of nature's poesy;
Who hears sweet song tones and a rhythmic

swell

Of music in the flowers. Though no eye view
Its beauty, who can say the blooming vale
Is purposeless? or that the painted sod
Hath not a use? the tints of varying hue
May sing to angels, as to men, a tale

In mystic verse of harmonies of God.

MOTHER EARTH.

Old mother earth, so great thy family,
Small is the share of love thou giv'st to one,
Out of thy teeming, ripe fecundity,
Brood after brood thy countless children

come.

Lo, I, thy son, to thy maternity

Make my appeal! Hast thou a mother's

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heart?

Or art thou callous to thy offspring's cry?
In human loves perhaps thou hast no part,
And all of tenderness to us deny.

Hath summer's sunshine no beguiling art, To draw thy heart to all the host that cling To thee? Ah, mother earth, if thou dost

know

What joy the throbs of sweet affection bring, Thou can'st not then life's crowning bliss forego.

THE SONS OF GODWIN.

Life-a short day- an interval between Nothing and darkness-flitting consciousness, Vivid and startling as the lightning's flash; And like that blinding glare beholding all, But in an instant gone beyond recall. Death- a grim phantom ever haunting lifeThe night that swallows day-a frightful

pause

The black reverse of glory's shining shieldLife's opposite, whose emblem is the grave. Life, Death-the two conditions of one thing, Whose margins meet; - which is the normal

state?

Which real, and which the shadow?-which is health?

And which disease? to-day we have the one,
To-morrow comes the other-a slave's spear,
A random arrow, some disastrous chance,
And on this day of life, a black eclipse.
To him who dies it is as if the world,-
This solid, steadfast earth, on which is writ
Forever in its sunshine,-at a touch
Melted again in chaos. And what then?
The future, grandly pictured by the church,
Is it a fact or fable? Let that pass.

O Tostig! where thy valor now, thy strength,
Daring ambitions built above all hope?
Two days ago thou wast elate with life,
Now as inert and senseless as the sod,
Cut by the heel's sharp track.

And I must meet my mother; her last words
Harold, be merciful unto my son,

Ring in my ears; but louder than her words Fate called to him. He fell, as falls a starAcross the heavens a bright and gleaming

track,

Then quenched its light forever. So to me. My soul forewarns, will come the shaft of

death.

CLARENCE H. PEARSON.

BORN: OSSIPEE, N.H., FEB. 21, 1859. THE subject of this sketch evinced a taste for literature at a very early age, and at fourteen published for one year an amateur journal. In 1882 he was for a time city editor of the Saginaw Herald. Subsequently Mr. Pearson was admitted to the bar, and in 1883

CLARENCE H. PEARSON. began the practice of his profession at Gladwin. In 1884 he was married to Miss Flora O. Biehn. Mr. Pearson has contributed to the Detroit Free Press, Drake's Magazine, Texas Siftings, and other prominent publications. Suffering much from rheumatism, Mr. Pearson removed to his old home at Laconia, N.H., where, as he has humorously remarked, he is dividing his time between law, literature and lumbago.

PENSEE.

They say the shades of those who pass
Death's mystic river o'er,
Anon return to scenes and friends

Beloved of them of yore.

They tell of wondrous secrets learned,
From those whose souls abide
In that dim, distant land that lies

Beyond the Stygian tide.

I listen unbelieving still,

For were thy spirits free

To leave Death's realm, I know that thou Would'st sometime come to me:

And hold some friendly token up

To glad my yearning sight, Or clasp the hand I sadly stretch Into the empty night.

LIFE'S GAME.

We strolled across the moonlit fields,
The air was laden with perfume,
And all the earth seemed filled with mirth,
Moonlight and love and apple bloom;
She raised her eyes of azure hue
And all her soul was shining thro',

For hearts were trumps.

But ere the trees bore fruit there came
A rival suitor to her door
With jewels rare to deck her hair,

Of gold and silver muckle store.
She slew the love her lips confessed
And wore his gems upon her breast
Diamonds were trumps.

Maddened with grief I rashly strove
To drown my woes in ruddy wine,
My worldly self, my hopes, myself

I sacrificed at Bacchus' shrine.
My days were dregs, my nights were foam,
And every club house was my home,

For clubs were trumps.

Old Time and I sit vis-a-vis,

Outside the winter's wind doth moan, No friend is near to aid or cheer

And I must play my hand alone.

The cards are dealt, the trump is turned, Grim reaper, thou the stake hast earned, For spades are trumps.

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LLORENTA.

Thou wert a blossom beautiful and sweet That bloomed a space to glad our worldly

sight,

But envious angels thought it was not meet That earth should wear a flower so pure and bright [fleet

And bore thee hence on voiceless wing and To deck the bosom of the Infinite.

MY AUTOGRAPH.

My autograph she begged the night
When first her beauty filled my sight;

Not just your name, you know, quoth she,
But something nice beside, maybe

A poem or a maxim trite.

I yielded to the witching light
Of her soft eyes and did indite,
Entwined with flowers of poesy,
My autograph.

She perches on my knee to-night,
And in her eyes so clear and bright
The old light dwells-ah, woe is me!
My check-book in her hand I see,
And once again she begs me write
My autograph.

926

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

BORN: DEC. 29, 1848.

AETER teaching for a while Mr. Cheney entered a law-office, and was admitted to the bar a few years later. Ill-health compelled Mr. Cheney to visit the Pacific coast, where he now resides at San Francisco. He has published three volumes, The Old Doctor, ThistleDrift, and Wood Blooms, the first a prose work, and the latter two volumes in verse. He was married in 1876 to Miss Perkins, a handsome and brilliant lady who had just returned from a sojourn of six years in Europe - a graduate of the Royal Conservatory of Stuttgart. Mr. Cheney is an industrious man, and is librarian in the Free Library of his adopted city.

I'd rather be

MY CHOICE.

'Neath a greenwood tree,

With a song and a handful of daisies,

Than the darling of victory

In the blaze of the wide world's praises.

I'd rather ride

On the wings inside,

Which waft where the world may not after, Than fold fair Fame as a bride

To feed on her sighs and her laughter.

FANCY'S FLOCK.

Fancy's flock in dreamy close,
Soft they rise when darkness goes;
Tasting sweets of sun and shade,
Down the meadow, up the glade,
Here the field and there the grove,
Now they rest and now they rove.
Up and down all happy ways
Fancy's flock at pleasure strays,
Up and down and far and wide,
Pretty shepherds at their side,
Some before and some behind,
Lest they meet the chilly wind,-
Hark! the little silver bell!
Pretty shepherds tend them well.

A DAY DREAM.

'Twas not 'neath spectral moon,
But in the day's high noon,
That, pillowed on the grass,
I saw a vision pass.

Strange quiet folded 'round,

Strange silence, close - profound; Sweet peace, sweet peace and deep, Bade every trouble sleep.

"O spirit! stay with me, Lying all quietly;

If this is death," I said,

Be my lot with the dead."

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