106 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 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 has yet but just begun. EQUALITY. Our fathers told us long ago, And pledged to die for what we know, And shout that message to the sky To scorn the despot on his throne, 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, Though lessened is his manhood's claim, To have his dangers, hopes and fears, But not alone we scorn the base, For love hath claims upon the race, That love called charity, Which earth must have ere that bright day When knowledge hath eternal sway And all mankind are free. 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, In dreams of night a thousand things, TOO LATE. O mock me not with glorious eye, Too late, too late; Nor pity to a soul deny Accursed of fate. Thou'rt victor, let thy love forbid Thou be elate, I cannot hope as once I did, Too late, too late. 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. MRS. ANNIE 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. CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS. .. A kiss for your thoughts, Sister Alice," As we sat 'mid the twilight in silence And Alice said, speaking softly, My fancies have wandered afar, To Bethlehem, where the wise men came, On earth peace and to men good will.' . 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 tonight." JOHN LAWRENCE CLARK. BORN: 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, 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 holy 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 her black eyes red with cry- On second month and fourteenth day BRIDGET. A pleasant friend to me Though her grandpa came from Erin But in her pretty face There never is a trace But a true New England blossom she The ancestors, may be, 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. The Yankee girls can say Whatever things they may, And laugh and sneer at pretty Bridget That's but another reason Why in this summer season She is a friend very pleasant unto me. Should you be cast awhile On the shore of Erin's Isle, Young ladies of a certain high-toned And the people looked askance Would you say those people kept the 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 rhymes. 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 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. Proclaimed that it was June, She was the youngest babe Night's spotless, gemmed skirts, The jeweled stars looked down And paling shrank, abashed. The night grew old and died. The smile of day grew bright, Breaking upon the earth, From off the flowery fields, The still earth answering smiled. Supreme as any King That ruled in days of Eld, Upon a shifting throne Whose feet stood on the hills, The young queen ruled alone. And crowned the new-born day. All the wood-crowned heights; And with a softer glow The verdured, grass-clad slopes. With kindly eye he looked, Far in the blushing east, That laughed its answer back; Upon the drooping flowers The moving shadows crept The glad-voiced birds sang out 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 periodicals of America, including the Waverly MRS. SARAH H. THOMAS. Magazine, Ballou's Magazine, Saturday Evening Post and the Chicago Ledger. Mrs. Thomas has about twelve hundred pages of unpublished manuscript that she intends to issue at some future time. She has written for publication under the noms de plume Rena Snow, Blanche Raymond, Mary F. Schuyler, and Josephus. Mrs. W. H. Thomas now resides in a beautiful little home near the city of El Dorado, Kansas, where she numbers amongst her friends many ardent and enthusiastic admirers. TO MY HUSBAND. Twelve years of sunshine, and of storms Since first our lives were joined in one; But, had the sky no threatening clouds, We would forget to prize the sun. The sorrows of those vanished years: Of all that made life seem most dear, It seems that those who love are doomed 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 Though cold and dreary seem the way, But journey on, heart joined to heart, Until we find the perfect day. A DREAM. In the gathering twilight calm and gray, For rest is not for me. Then I fly to a fair, Elysian land I rise on the wings of the silent night I awake to find it only a dream; 110 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 Eoliann 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, |