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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
WILLIAM ROBERT FISHER. BORN: JEFFERSON Co., IOWA, JULY 12, 1865. WILLIAM commenced writing poetry at the age of sixteen, and two years later published a volume of poems in pamphlet form. At the age of twenty he wrote a poem of one thou
Though lessened is his manhood's claim,
SIGHT. The eyelids cannot dim the sight, Nay when they're closed 'tis far more
bright, Both in day dreams and dreams of night. In dreams of day mine eyes may see, A castle and an icy tree, Glossed by the sun all gorgeously. In dreams of night a thousand things, Wondrous as Saturn with his rings, O'ershadow me with condor wings.
TOO LATE. O mock me not with glorious eye,
Too late, too late; Nor pity to a soul deny
Accursed of fate.
Thou be elate,
Too late, too late.
WILLIAM ROBERT FISHER. sand lines, and has written ten times as much more since that time, of which there are a | number of translations from German, Danish and Norwegian authors. Mr. Fisher has high aspirations, and his literary career bas yet but just begun.
THE SONG OF YOUTH AND AGE. There's potency in youthful dreams,
As Keats, and White, and Drake attest, Who dared to touch immortal themes
Ere their frail beings sank to rest. Yet highest glory is for him
Who like old Milton sings with power, The song which Meditation grim,
Has given in life's silver hour.
EQUALITY. Our fathers told us long ago, And pledged to die for what we know, That all are equal born; Among the nations let it fly, And shout that message to the sky Till earth hath learned to scorn. To scorn the despot on his throne, But not the royal born alone, The usurer as well; The triumpher o'er innocence, Ill-gotten, blood-bought eminence, And all that speaks of hell. With them there are no low nor high, And we are brothers, you and I, And brothers of the king,
THE DWELLING PLACE. Where would you dwell my love? said I,
Your dwelling place where would it be ? In mansion on a mountain high,
Or in a cottage by the sea ? . A dwelling place," my love replied,
- On mountain or by ocean blue, Would be the same if by your side;
If living there, my love, with you."
MRS. ANXIE MARIA CLARK.
BORN: STILL RIVER, MASS., SEPT. 21, 1835. MRS. CLARK has written two volumes of prose - Light from the Cross and Olive Loring's Mission, both of which have been highly | praised. Her poems have appeared in many prominent periodicals. She now resides in the beautiful and historic old town of Lancaster, Mass.
Who used to kiss the pretty maids,
Of whom in Rome there was no lack. At length the pagans did destroy
This somewhat amatory bishop, And, as he perished at the stake,
He sent a very pious wish up, That he might reach a paradise
Where there were girls in goodly host. Then, with this very saintly prayer,
The boly man gave up the ghost. 'Tis told, when by such cruelty
The sweet St. Valentine was dying, That every little maid in Rome Did make ber black eyes red with cry
ing. On second month and fourteenth day
This good saint's martyrdom befell. And since that year the day has been
A sentimental festival.
I heard little Charlie say,
At the close of a busy day.
- My fancies have wandered afar, To Bethlehem, where the wise men came,
Led on by that wonderful star.
And close to my heart to-night,
And the glorious, beautiful sight.
In the midnight, calm and still, Singing . Glory to God in the Highest,
On earth peace and to men good will.' *. And sweeter than all, dearest Charlie,
Was the thought that came to me then, Of bow much the Lord must have loved us,
To have come as a child among men. - To live here and labor to save us,
If we will but love and obey,
Seek to walk in the heavenly way." . And it almost seemed that an angel
Whispered close to my heart, soft and clear, • Fear not, for I bring you good tidings, my
child, Greatest joy to bless and to cheer. And, Charlie, I think that to-morrow
Will be bright with a clearer light, And I hope I shall do more to make you glad, For the thoughts that have blest me to
BRIDGET. A pleasant friend to me It little Bridget Nee, Though her grandpa came from Erin
long ago; But in her pretty face There never is a trace But a true New England blossom she
did blow. The ancestors, may be, Of pretty Bridget Nee
Were barons very grand and very harsh; I really hope 'tis so, For 'twould pain me much to know
They were ordinary trotters of the marsh.
She is a friend very pleasant unto me.
school, And the people looked askance With a very scornful glance, Would you say those people kept the
Golden Rule. But I will moralize, Which is something I despise, Though of course 'tis appropriate at
times; And now I'll have to close, And go to writing prose, Which is not as interesting as these
JOHN LAWRENCE CLARK.
Borx: STILL RIVER, MASS., Nov. 30, 1871. The subject of this sketch is the son of Mrs. Annie Clark, whose name appears on this same page. Although quite a young man, John has written several poems of merit that have received publication.
BALLAD OF ST. VALENTINE. In early times there lived a saint,
None better in the almanac,
JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON.
BORN: PLANTSVILLE, O., JAN. 30, 1869. RECEIVING the degree of A. B. at the age of eighteen, Arthur then went to Michigan, where he became associate editor of a state historical and biographical encyclopedia, with headquarters at Kalamazoo; and later was managing editor of the Evening Herald
Night's spotless, gemmed skirts,
Supreme as any King
JAMES ARTHUR EDGERTON. at the same place. In 1888 he became connected with the Marietta Register of Ohio, with which he is still at work. His first publication of poems was made in 1889, which is a work that has been liberally noticed by the American press, and has received a fair circulation.
BIRTH OF A DAY. Once, when over the north A wealth of grass and flowers, A music in the air Proclaimed that it was June, A beautiful day was born, That with an unheard step, Led by the kindly Sun, Sped round the sleeping earth. She was the youngest babe Born unto passing time, From out the sable folds, That cling about the night
The moving shadows crept
MRS. SARAH A. THOMAS.
BORN: HOULTON, MAINE. REARED in an atmosphere of literature, it has been the ruling passion of her life. Her father was a man of high mental culture, brilliant in conversation, and a fine reader of prose and poetry. She commenced to write poetry at the age of ten, and shortly afterward several short stories, which were never published. In 1872 Mrs. Thomas contributed to a New York Magazine entitled For Everybody; since then she has contributed to the leading perio dicals of America, including the Waverly
But, had the sky no threatening clouds,
We would forget to prize the sun. And, gliding down life's quiet stream,
With life one joyous summer day, We would not note our rapid flight
Were there no landmarks by the way. I would not call to memory now
The sorrows of those vanished years: Our steps led through affliction's path,
Bordered by bitter falling tears. But I would have you think to-day
of all that made life seem most dear, of hopes that tint with pleasing ray
The prospects of the coming year. It seems that those who love are doomed
AMiction's bitterest cup to drain, As if they with their mutual strength
Were better formed to bear the pain. Or it may be, had fortune smiled,
Our love with years had colder grown: Yours might have followed fancy's paths,
And I have doubted e'en my own. Perhaps that Fate has been more kind
Then we, dear heart, shall ever know: The purest gem may worthless seem
If scanned by firelight's fitful glow. Then at our lot we'll not repine,
Though cold and dreary seem the way, But journey on, heart joined to heart,
Until we find the perfect day.
For rest is not for me.
For rest is not for me.
Ah! here is rest for me. I awake to find it only a dream; But this one thought is a joy supreme, That I, when my mission here is o'er, Shall reach that land and weep no more; For though life's cares may dim the light, There's One who will guide my steps aright,
To that rest which waits for me.
TO MY HUSBAND. Twelve years of sunshine, and of storms
Since first our lives were joined in one;
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
A QUESTION. .. What's a sigh, infant?" an old man said As he placed his hand on the curly head; The child glanced up, in mild surprise, With a question in its laughing eyes: - Oh, man of learning hast thou never read 'Tis an effort to strengthen life's slender
thread?” - What's a sigh, school-boy?” the sage then
asked, As the little fellow whistling passed; - Know you not you, who, once like me, Thought only of days that are to be? Have you never felt the rapturous thrill Of climbing a little higher still? " .. What's a sigh, maiden?” she paused in the
dance, With her winning smile and sparkling glance; 'Tis the coquette's shield, 'mid the gay
throng The lover's plea in his plaintive song; Fate has been kind, for my heart is free; Neitber lovers nor sighs ever trouble me." - What's a sigh, mother?" she leaned o'er her
child, A tear in her eye — the infant smiled, .. 'Tis a whispered prayer -- a hope – a fear For the absent one, or the darling near, And no earthly sound can reach as high As a mother's prayer - a mother's sigh!”
Æoliann breezes speed the swift-winged
hours. Our time of meeting may be far away, But still, I know that we shall meet some
day. It may be in the autumn, when the trees Have changed their airy hues for gold and
brown, And earth, robbed of its verdure, seems to
plead For every faded leaf slow fluttering down. But though the autumn winds may sadly
sigh, We may not meet in sorrow, you and I. Or we may meet in winter when the earth
Is robed in fleecy folds of purest white; With crystal gems on house top, tree and
tower, Reflecting beauteous rays of changing light, We may have reached the winter of our
age, With teardrops blotting life's close-writ
ten page. Or we may meet in that bright world above, Beyond death's valley, in that Aidenn
where Lost joys are all regained; loved ones re
stored; No restless yearnings - no unanswered
prayer. Ah! yes, dear friend, I know we shall
meet there, And we may meet on earth, some day,
LINES TO MY FRIEND:
YEARNINGS. Only to lay my poor, weary head On some faithful breast and whisper my
pain, Only to know that life holds for me
Some pledge that I have not lived in vain.
MRS. N. W. FOWLER, MEADVILLE, PA. I know that we shall meet again, somewhere;
It may be when we both are growing old, And youth has lost its bloom -- we shall not
care. Our hearts need not have in that time grown
cold. Yes, in some other clime - some other
land. I know that I shall clasp your warm, true
hand. Perhaps 'twill be in spring time, when the
earth Gives kindly welcome to the sun's bright
ray's — In springing grass and modest violets. With robins trilling forth their pure, sweet,
lays. I would not hope to meet you in the strife Of worldly cares, which mar the joys of
life. And we may meet in summer, when the fields Are rich with golden grain; when blooming
flowers And ripening fruits shed fragrance on the
Only to glance at the mystical page
Of the future and read my own dreary lot, Only to know one heart beats for me
That I in my loneliness am not forgot..
Only to drink from Lethe's still stream
Never again to wake or to weep.
Only to know that heaven will be mine
After life's tiresome journey is done Only to know though the storm-clouds be
dark Behind them is hidden the bright shining