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ROBERT DUKE WEAR.
of the children now is gone
How sad to be alone. BORN: VERONA, Miss., FEB. 28, 1854.
When the soul is bowed in sorrow By profession Mr. Wear is a lawyer, and re
After many toiling years, sides in Granbury, Texas. He was married
When no sheen is on the morrow, in 1876 to Miss Cora Leeper. The poems of
Then the soul is spent in tears. Mr. Wear have appeared quite extensively in
0, God! we're all alone. the periodical press, and in 1885 published a
And the spirit sounding hollow volume of verse entitled Beauty, a romance
With its emptiness and pain, from real life, together with other poems.
Seems about inclined to follow
On the first departing train;
For now, we're all alone. Hist! listen! Hear the rolling, rumbling | If the dark and silent reaper, boom
Seeking for a flower fair, Now sounding forth a nation's dreadful | Should a sweet and tender creeper doom.
From my very spirit tear, There comes from Sumpter's fiery mouth
'Twould leave me all alone. A belching stream with lurid glare
If I knew w'd meet forever That heats the land from north to south,
In another world than this,
Then I could thus bear to sever,
And their sacred presence miss;
But, 'tis sad to be alone.
As the twilight lingers softly
On the fading rims of day,
Hear the toiling whisper gladly, boom
Plodding homeward on their way, Now lifting forth a nation from its gloom.
Home, sweet home! I'm going home. The storm has swept the nation wide;
As the noonday's sun is sinking And now the sun is shining bright
Like a bird with weary wing, Beholds our heroes side by side,
Seems to me the world is thinking
As the birdies sweetly sing,
Home, sweet home! I'm going home.
When the evening's blushing beauty
Crimsons all the earth around,
Then we hear the man of duty
With his weary echoes sound,
Home, sweet home! I'm going home.
When the brain is tired and weary
With the busy cares of life,
And the world is dark and dreary, All the light of hope has flown,
Man will sing in ev'ry strife, And we stumble on the stairway
Home, sweet home! I'm going home. With a sad and plaintiff moan
When the heart is sad with failing, 'Tis worse when left alone.
And the soul with anguish burns; And the soul is filled with sadness
When the light of hope is paling, As we reach the silent door,
Then the spirit always turns And we miss the childish giadness
Home, sweet home, no place like home. of the happy days of yore
And the children in their gladness, 'Tis hard when left alone.
Loit'ring on the verge of night, In the evening, will we gather
Never feel a pang of sadness With the little ones around
As a vision comes in sightWhere the sacred name of father
Home, sweet home, they are going home. Is the all-enchanting sound?
Oh, the sweet and sacred treasure
of our own domestic vine, How we miss the childish prattle
And its holy thoughts and pleasure And the infant's gentle tone;
We will sing through coming time Yea, the constant tattle, tattle
Home, sweet home, no place like home.
MRS. LAURA GRICE PENUEL.
BORN: SOUTH CAROLINA. This lady is a widow, and has resided in Hearne, Texas, for the past ten years. For several years she assisted Dr. Royall as
But the stars above were marching,
And they shouted, The victor's wreath?" And we longed to march with the legions,
Heroic, and grand and strong, That storm the castles of evil,
That scatter the ranks of wrong. Now, we know not if gardens are sunny,
If blossoms and berries are sweet,
Or linger for resting feet.
Remembering beauty and balm,
We look for refreshment and calm.
The earth is thy footstool small,
Where we may recover all.
Dear Lord, could we only know,
M. C. KING. The poems of this gentlemen have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. We here give an extract from The Silent Majority, one of his most popular pieces.
MRS. LAURA GRICE PENUEL.
teacher in Baylor university. Mrs. Penuel is at present engaged in teaching, in which profession she has a reputation of being a super ior literary instructor.
LONGINGS. Oh for the clash of the battle,
The shouting, the banners, the strife!" So longed we, ignorant children,
Not knowing the whole of life. Then cherry boughs drooped in the orchard,
And strawberries hid in the leaves, And blackberries girdled the cornfields,
And poppies sprinkled the sheaves. We wandered at dawn in the woodland,
We lingered at eve on the hill, And the Brownings sang in the bird's song,
And Tennyson laughed in the rill. The golden glow of the gloaming,
With one star trembling through,
And the city's" distant view.
The roses blushed beneath,
THE SILENT MAJORITY.
EXTRACT. Could all who thirst for empty fame he con
scious of false hopes, One ship, with crew of some fourteen, would
not have loosed its ropes. But it sailed on the tempting waters of glory
and renown; And, not without fair warnings, the ship and
all went down. There was our Captain, Tracy, the bravest
man on deck. As he'd never heeded danger, he never
thought of wreck; He saw his doom before him, but filled with
contemplation, He thought of nothing, to the last, but
. Irren's Vindication." 0, for private Zimmerman, most timid of the
lot, Who sniffed the breeze of ruin, took sick, and
died upon the spot. His mother'l ever weep and mourn the fate
of her mad son, Who died for .. Old England and the Policy of
DANSKE DANDRIDGE. She commenced writing verses at the age of eight. Her first poem appeared in Godey's Lady's Book in 1885. Since that time she has published several volumes of poems, among which might be mentioned Joy and Other Poems. Many of her poems have also appeared in miscellaneous periodicals.
MAURICE THOMPSON. ALTHOUGH Mr. Thompson is chiefly known through his prose, perhaps his best work is poetry. Songs of Fair Weather are fresh and breezy as a May morning; Between the Poppy and the Rose is a gem; and Ceres is also a very fine piece of versification. He has been a member of the Indiana legislature, and has lately resigned the office of State Geologist of Indiana.
Alas! I have an ancient enemy,
We have cries, we have laughter: The phantom that baunts us
Comes silently after, This Ghost-lady follows,
Though none hear her tread; On, on, we are flying,
Still tracked by our Dead; By this white, awful Mystery,
Haggard and dead.
He is a Poet strong and true
A FLIGHT SHOT.
We'll watch, how since the morning rain The spider sitteth at her loom,
To weave her silken nets again. I know a field where bluets blow
Like frost from fingers of the night, And in a sheltered coppice grow
Arbutus trailers, blush and white.
THE RAINBOW. We are akin, dear soul:
Akin as are the rainbow in the sky, The runnel on the knoll;
We are akin in spirit, you and I.
You stand with shining feet,
You catch the light of heaven and repeat
But I am like the stream
As changeful as a dreem; As restless and as wild As an impatient child: Yet thankful, dear, if in some tranquil space, I may reflect the radiance of your face. 1
We were twin Brothers, tall and hale,
JAMES B. KEN YON. BORN: FRANKFORT, N. Y., APRIL 28, 1858. AFTER receiving a collegiate education he taught for three seasons in the common schools and at the age of twenty entered the ministry. He is highly esteemed at Watertown, N. Y., where he is now preaching. Mr. Kenyon has published four volumes of poetry. The Fallen and Other Poems,Out of the Shadows, Songs in All Seasons, and In Realms of Gold. He is a constant contributor to the leading periodicals.
A ROMAN QUEEN. Imperious on her ebon throne
She sits, a queen, in languid ease; Her lustrous locks are loosely blown
Back from her brow by some stray breeze Lost in that vast, bright hall or state, Where thronging suppliants fear and wait. A dreamy fragrance, fine and rare,
Of sandal, nard and precious gum, With balmy sweetness fills the air,
And mingles with the incense from A quaint and costly azure urn, Where Indian spices ever burn.
ELUSION. Ah, happy poet who may guess The ever-changing loveliness, The lightsome grave, the airy wiles Wherewith coy nature masks her smiles, And, stealing on her unaware, Behold her when she is most fair!
A jeweled serpent, wrought in gold,
Coils round her white and naked arm; Her purple tunic, backward rolled,
· Reveals the full and regal charm Of her fair neck, and ivory breast, Half veiled beneath her broidered rest.
IF IT WERE.
Her eyelids droop upon her eyes,
And curtained by the silken lash, The smoldering fire that in them lies
Is scarcely seen, save when a flash, Like that which light the polar snow, Gleams from the dusky depths below.
Love, that thou lov'st me not, too well I know, Yet shouldst thou look to-night on my dead
face For the last time on earth, and there shouldst
trace The silent meaning of a heavy woe, Wouldst thou not feel a pang that it were so? Would not regret within thy heart find place, That thou didst stay the guerdon and the
grace Thy lover so besought thee to bestow? Wouldst thou not feel a want unknown before;
A something gone familiar grown so long? A vanished light-a ship gone from the shoreA presence past from out the world's great
throng? O Love, wouldst thou not miss the voice of
yore? The song-bird flown, wouldst thou not miss
Her proud, coid lips are lightly wreathed
In smiles, as it with high disdain
And that he sues not all in vain
He stands before her white and fierce:
His bosom with swift passion shakes: His burning vision seeks to piorce
Her very soul; he pleads; he wakes Within her heart a wild desire, That flames and mounts like sudden fire.
A subtle glance, a whispered word,
A waving of her perfumed band. He feels his secret prayer is heard
That she will know and understand: The queen is hid, and for a space A love-swayed woman holds her place.
The while he led them up the height to feed, And heard him merely pipe upon his reed,
And mock the echoes from yon rocky steep; 'Twas yesterday I found him fast asleep, His flock forgot and wantoning in the mead,
His pipe flung lightly by with idle heed, And shadows lying round him, cool and deep. But though I seek I shall not find him more,
In dewy valley or on grassy height; I listen for his piping - it is o'er,
From out mine ears gone is the music quite There on the hill the sheep feed as before, But Pan, alas, has vanished from my sight! |
He bows, he leans toward the throne:
Her breath is warm upon his cheek; She murmurs, and in every tone
He hears the love she dares not speak; What though the surging hundreds press? No eye shall see her swift caress.
Let him beware; he toys with fate;
False as the glittering serpent is On her white arm, her love to hate
Shall change eftsoons; then every kiss She gives him with her fickle breath Sball be surcharged with secret death.
MOODY CURRIER. BORN: BOSCAWEN, N. H., APRIL 22, 1806. GRADUATING in 1834 with high honors from the Dartmouth college, this gentleman has since received from his alma mater the degree of LL.D. For a number of years he practiced law at Manchester, N. H., and since 1848 has
No, 'twas not companions leaving;
No, 'twas not the sweets of home:
'Twas the thoughts of thee alone.
To conceal what sighs might tell?
Could I utter, .. Fare thee well."
With clouds, with tempest and storm;
With the speedy approaches of morn.
May threaten to burst on our head;
When the anguish of sorrow is fled.
O'er the prospects of youth, its dark shroud;
Its sweet beams of joy o'er the cloud.
And the soft smile of friendship may die;
Flow down from regions on high.
May wither and fade in its bloom;
Through shadows that hang o'er the tomb.
IF I WERE A CHILD.
I'd rove through woods and fields;
I'd pluck the earliest flowers of May, been a prominent banker. Mr. Currier was
And drink the sweets they yield. the governor of his state in 1884 and 1885 I'd sit by the side of the babbling brook, and has filled many other prominent political As the zephyrs passed along; positions. In 1881 a neat volume of poems | I'd hide in the alders' shady nook, appeared from the pen of this gentlemen, And mock the red-breast's song. entitled Early Poems, which has had a wide I'd find where the painted rainbows rise, sale and has received the enconiums of the And chase them from morn till noon: press throughout the United States.
By night I'd watch at the foot of the skies,
And catch the rising moon.
I'd seek where the sweetest wild flowers blow; Lady mine, I need not tell you
I'd find where the streamlets run: [grow, What the tears of anguish spoke,
In the meadows I'd find where the fox-gloves When my fainting eyes beheld you,
The tall wild grass among.
I'd make me wings to fly in the air;
I'd rise at the break of day,
And drive the hawks away.
I'd build me a boat, a jolly boat,
As light as the lightest feather;
And on the dancing waves I'd float
In the bright and suppy weather.
If I were a child how sweet 'twould be
To prattle and laugh and play; [knee, Not to pleasure, scenes, or flowers,
Then at ere to be rocked on my mother's Weeping, sighed I that adieu.
And sleep my cares away.