LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. BORN: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., FEB. 22, 1819. THIS poet, essayist and critic graduated at Harvard, and for more than twenty years was professor of belles-lettres in that college. In 1877 he was appointed minister of Spain, and LONGING. 97 Of all the myriad moods of mind So beautiful, as Longing? Still through our paltry stir and strife To let the new life in, we know, Perhaps the Longing to be so When I was a beggarly boy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; My beautiful castles in Spain! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright, For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose. You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain! EXTRACTS. Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected. Be noble! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own. New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still and onward who would keep abreast of truth. But better far it is to speak One simple word which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men. The busy world shoves angrily aside And he who waits to have his task marked out No man is born into the world whose work Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like And I honor the man who is willing to sink Half his present repute for the freedom to think, And when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, Caring naught for what vengeance the mob has in store, Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or lower. 98 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. Life is a leaf of paper white His word or two, and then comes night; THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. NOTE. The following extract is the prelude to Part First of The Vision of Sir Launfal, one of the best of Lowell's efforts as a poet. The poem appeared in 1848, and it has done much to establish the reputation of its author as one of the most scholarly of American poets. Over his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay. Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushed sent Not only around our infancy With our faint hearts the mountain strives; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what earth gives us: The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the graves we lie in; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross cost its ounce of gold: For a cap and bells our lives we pay; Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking; "Tis heaven alone that is given away, "Tis only God may be had for the asking. No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer, And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look or whether we listen, We hear life murmur or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice; And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace. The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, ¦ 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green. We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell, We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing. The breeze comes whispering in our ear That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue'Tis the natural way of living. Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burned-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow? LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. MARIA B. LINDESAY. BORN IN ENGLAND, JAN. 1, 1862. MRS. LINDESAY is known more as a Christian poet, and her poems have appeared in the MRS. MARIA B. LINDESAY. Chicago Living Church and other prominent periodicals. She now resides with her husband in Asheville, N. C. THE SCULPTOR'S TEST. Within his studio, one bright day, A massive block of marble lay. So wondrous pure, so spotless white It seemed to fill the room with light, And woo his genius to dare And try to form a Being there. Spurr'd by the one inspiring thought, From day to day he patient wrought, From week to week, from year to year Till fourteen of them pictured there, And he all doubt if 'twas his best, And trembling much, applied the test. He called a child, a little child All innocent and undefiled, And pointing to the figure there, In its pure beauty grand and fair, He bade her mark it long and well, And who she thought it was to tell. He watched her with a beating heart, Nor could he check a fearsome start, When the bright eyes had wandered o'er His work, and viewed it yet once more, She spoke, as though of holy things, Looked on it once with thoughtful brow, 66 CHRIST'S HUMANITY. O! Child within the temple's court, With brow and garments crimson-stained, LIFE. 99 How beautiful is Life! When the first streak Touches the sunrise hills, [of dawning And all the glint and glow of early morning How beautiful is life! At noontide's hour How beautiful is life! When eventide Steals softly on, And sunset's gates are flining open wide How beautiful is life! When mystic night Gleaming with other world's far distant light, And man must rest. AMARALA MARTIN. BORN: NEW CALEDONIA, ILL., MAY 2, 1837. MRS. MARTIN has had an active pen in various reforms, including the suffrage question among many others. Her husband died in 1887, leaving her in good circumstances Her writings have appeared in the leading period My loved one and I, but a few years ago, Built a home-nest with rivers and blossoms aglow, And time, like a sunbeam, came in through our door, And left in his blessings, our sweet nestlings, four, But, when we were happy as happy could be, Death, reaching his hand for our darlings, stole three, The fourth spread her wings and flew off with her mate, And the home-nest's deserted and desolate. sing, Since your brood rest not 'neath the soft mother-wing; And you daily wait for their chirping and song As the voiceless summer-time passes along, So wait we for footsteps we never more hear, Since none of our tender young fledgelings are near Too close to the earth have our best treasures lain, Let us build higher up if we build again! AMARALA MARTIN. icals of America. She has written two books, which have received quite a wide circulation. Mrs. Martin's best poems are yet unpublished; one of which is a story of some length. In person she is a little below medium height, with brown hair and eyes, and now lives with her family in Cairo, Ill. THE DESERTED NEST. In the dewy woodbine all fragrant with sweet, Two little wrens made a nest, dainty and neat; And songs of delight did they joyfully sing When four birdies peeped from the motherwren's wing. But, when they were happy as happy could be, A child reached their birdlings and took of them, three, The fourth made a wee, pretty home of her own, And the nest in the vine swings empty and lone. MYRTLE MOORE. O, darling, innocent baby-girl! Your rose-flushen cheeks and your brow of pearl, And your lips with musical words apart My little one's prattlings were like your own, I will keep all fresh in my memory; May your heart be ever as pure as now, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MILLIE E. NOECKER. BORN: KENDALLVILLE, IND., SEPT. 14, 1862. MISS NOECKER has written for some of the leading periodicals for the past ten years; among which might be mentioned the Methodist Advocate, Fort Wayne News and the FORGIVE. We hear them saying, here and there, The day will come, when you think not, Asking Jesus to forgive, You will try to ease your conscience, You will then forgive in death. FORGOTTEN. Oh! how soon we are forgotten, In this busy world of ours, If our paths were only strewn, 101 Not with thorns, but sweetest flowers. All our life long, we'd be happy, We would never more be sad, Scores of friends would then surround us, Oft we see the truest friendship, Is a tried, true, loyal friend; Tho' the world would scorn, condemn us, Faithful they'd be to the end. A LEAP IN THE DARK. A leap in the dark, oh! what's beyond, The matrimonial brink? Will the paths to tread be rocks of love! Will there be a sun of Love to shine, Or the Sun of Love, forever set, Ah! who can see o'er the brink of time It may be joy, or it may be pain, Be comfort or despair! If a Bride was sure her Lover would Tho' you try, you can't forget me, For remember after twilight Comes the dark'ning of the night; Yes, a night so dark and dreary, E'en the stars cannot shine through; Then with mingled joy and sorrow, You'll think of her who loved you true. |