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 MILLIE E. NOECKER. Brakeman's Journal. In person she is a little below the medium height. Millie is a great admirer of poetry, and takes great pleasure in her literary work. FORGIVE. We hear them saying, here and there, The day will come, when you think not, Do you expect his tender love, By these words, I'll not forgive," You will stand in deepest grief, You will try to ease your conscience, FORGOTTEN. Oh! how soon we are forgotten, In this busy world of ours, If our paths were only strewn, Not with thorns, but sweetest flowers. All our life long, we'd be happy, We would never more be sad, 101 Scores of friends would then surround us, Oft we see the truest friendship, But how sweet in deepest sorrow, 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, If a Bride was sure her Lover would Tho' you try, you can't forget me, 102 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. RAY RICHMOND. RAY RICHMOND is hardly more than a school girl, and is at present finishing in music and painting at the Boston N. E. conservatory. RAY RICHMOND. She has already edited the juvenile department of two monthly publications, and is a paid contributor of short stories for two or three other publications. MORNING. The purple mists of morning DAWN. Blushing morning is at hand; Dreaming cities lie in sleep A REVERIE. Faintly, softly fades the light Of the chill November day, Slowly, surely creeps the night O'er the hill-tops far away. Grayer, darker grow the clouds, All, at last, dies from the sight IN ANSWER. A little message comes to me A SONNET. As the sweet warm days of summer, She was tripping thro' the meadow; I gazed long, and long upon her Afterward we met together, And our looks said more than aye. Deep into her heart I gazed, 'till Blushing red, she turned away. May perhaps, my looks meant nothing, Would I change for their's, my lot? How I love my darling sweetheart, Who is always wondrous fair. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. BUTLER S. SMISER. BORN: OLDHAM CO., KY., JULY 6, 1862. MR. SMISER is now engaged in publishing the Indian Citizen at Atoka, Indian Territory. BUTLER S. SMISER. He has been reading law for the past few years, and intends to follow that profession. TO THE MEMORY OF A RUSTIC. Dear old rustic, famous rustic, Oft I've on thy lap reclined With thee, 'neath the cooling shade 'Neath thy cool and balmy shades As the downy breeze came rustling Through thy green inviting blades. How I grieve to know that early You and I are doomed to part, But I'll always cherish fondly Sweetest memories in my heart. Other friends will hover 'round thee, Seek thy shade with calm delight, While I court another's shadow, Lingering 'neath its folds 'till night. Then it is I'll fondly cherish Sweetest thoughts of olden times Spent in calm communion with thee And some poet's pleasant rhymes. Lovers fondly seek thy shelter, Seal their vows beneath thy shade; For no one will ever shun thee "Till thy vines are all decayed. Now, I leave thee, lovely rustic, To thy future friends and fates But I'll ne'er forget thy friendship, Though I roam in other states. Time may leave its marks upon me, Turn my locks to aged white, But I'll never cease to love thee While my eyes have earthly sight. MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. I love to sit on a calm, clear night, 103 When the moon is hid and the stars are bright; And ponder the depth and power of love MAY DAY. Oh! the chattering children, with faces so bright; [delight! How they frolic and ramble, with childish The time has seemed ages, as day after day, They looked for the coming of the merry spring May. The mind and the heart are the soul of a man, Which recks not of sin in its beautiful plan; But the body is human, and wars with the soul; As it passes through time to eternity's goal. We dream of the future, we dream of the past; The one we have blasted, the other we blast. We hope while we live if we die in despair, And trust all the future to mercy, through prayer. PHIL HOFFMANN. BORN: OSKALOOSA, IOWA, AUG. 16, 1868. IN 1885 Phil Hoffmann entered the field of journalism; he also about this time tended the Penn college for several terms. In 1887-8 he acted as correspondent of the Oskaloosa Daily Herald, during the session of the legislature at Des Moines. So thoroughly pleased were the proprietors of the Herald that he was installed upon the editorial staff, a position he still retains with merit. He is a fre PHIL HOFFMANN. quent contributor to numerous periodicals, including the Chicago Herald and Burlington Hawkeye, and is one of the editorial staff of the Midland Monthly. His prospects for a bright future are very encouraging, considering the fact that he has only just attained his majority. Mr. Hoffmann is orderly sergeant of the military company of his native city, and in business and social circles he is a general favorite. A MR.'S NOT ALWAYS A MAN. As I sat in my room one bright afternoon With the shades of my window thrown high, And watched far below midst the dust and the din The crowd as it hurried fast by, I caught from the breeze that silently stole On angelic wings o'er the throng, These words from the lips of a poor ballad boy, As he poured out his heart in a song: "To honor in life your neighbor and friend You may struggle the best that you can, Yet you'll find in the hour of trouble and need A Mr. 's not always a man." Though years have sped by since that afternoon, And time wrought her changes below, But why should I marvel if into my mind Last night in the beautiful moonlight, I sat by my window alone, And peered with an awful pleasure, Far into the great unknown. And each little constellation, With its thousand, thousand skies, Seemed bursting with laughter in basking Before my wistful eyes. While Venus, the star of the evening, That beautiful gem of gems, Seemed singing in tones that resounded Through all the heavenly realm. And I thought of He who created With movements so silent, so perfect, With a gentle and lenient hand RUFUS J. CHILDRESS. THE poems of this gentleman have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. He is a resident of Louisville, Kentucky, where he has a wide circle of friends and admirers. MY HEART. My heart is like the lonely shell, That trembles on the beach, Within when e'er its billows swell The ocean's reach. The dawn hath kissed with rose its lips, And though the tide dies down again, Caught from its sombre stave, The shell still breathes a mystic strain- So this poor shell-like heart of mine Caught from the realms of song divine The tides that stir within my soul I cry aloud for fitting speech That through me earth might hear, For oh! my glad Heart in their reach Feels Heaven is near! But on my lips their music dies, Too great the rapture given; God suffers few to pierce the skies And leap in Heaven! And so, though like the voice of June, My soul glad anthems fill, My heart at length must tire and swoon Of longing still. And I, though stirred by passion strong, But for this feeble strain, Stand looking toward the skies of songIn vain! in vain! Yet, mourn on, touched with grief sublime, O heart, for joys that flee! Still breathe unheard thy lowly rhyme One with the sea! Mourn on! For soon the glowing skies Will break their seals of blue, When like a lark my soul shall rise And flutter through! No more then in that golden noon, Of song and sorrow's might; No more my heart will tire and swoonNo more of night! MUSIC. I love thee when the leaves are brown, When bending skies with tempests frown, When gleaming snows the hill-tops crown, At morn or noon, Or when the happy day dies down In joyous June. I love thy sweet, inspiring powers, Love thee on art's harmonious towers, Love thee amongst the dewy flowers In throat of bird, Or flooding earth's enchanted bowers Wherever heard. When brooding shadows o'er me fly, And all the stars seem large and nigh, I love the strange aerial sigh That softly falls, Like some sweet whisper breathed on high, O'er sky-built walls. I love thee - love thy lightest form. In throats with mirth and laughter warm, Love thy loud voice in night and stormAnd strangely feel, But pleasure in the dire alarm Of thunder's peal. But love thee most 'mid yellow glooms Which many a vestal star illumes, Where floodest thou cathedral rooms From floor to dome, With echoes blown like scented blooms From glory's home. |