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112

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

DO I LOVE THEE? Do I love thee?" Ask of the bee, If it loves not the flowers of Spring; Ask of the bird, If it loves not to fly and sing; The answer they return to theeIs mine, And thine, Marie. “Do I love thee?”' Ask of the sea, If it loves not the wind's shrill hiss; Ask of the rose, If it loves not the dewdrop's kiss: The answer they return to thee Is mine, And thine, Marie. “Do I love thee?" Ask not of me, Look in my eyes and read love there: List to my heart, And hear it beat in sad despair; The answer they return to thee.Is mine, And thine, Marie.

I met her one night,
And to my delight

She gave me a kiss!
Perhaps 'twas amiss

In that fairy sprite To give me a kiss: Perhaps 'twas amiss But oh! the sweet bliss

I tasted that night. 'Neath the stars so bright,

O sweet little Miss ! With no one in sight, 'Neath the stars so bright, To our hearts' delight

We gave kiss for kiss. O sweet little Miss !

Wbat intense delightWhat infinite bliss – O sweet little Miss! Lies hid in a kiss,

On a starlit night.

A GLANCE. I caught but a glance of her eye, So tender, and blue as the sky, As she hurriedly passed me by. Her face- more worthy than my praise, So sweet and so pure in its grace, I caught but a glimpse of her face. Though she hurriedly passed me by, Her face, and the glance of her eye, Will haunt me until I die.

THE MONTHS OF THE FLOWERS ARE

OVER.
The months of the flowers are over,

The fair, sweet summer is dead;
The perfume of the sweet-scented clover,

With the soft, warm breezes has filed;
The green woods, but yesterday ringing
With the voices of glad birds singing,

Are silent, yellow and red;
Alas, for the soul of the rover,

That on summer joys bas fed !
For the months of the flowers are over,

The fair, sweet summer is dead.
The joys of the singer are over,

The days of his youth have fled;
No longer will fields of green clover,

And flowers respond to his tread:
The world, that was yesterday ringing
With notes of a joyous youth's singing,

To another gay songster is wed;
Alas, for the soul of the rover,

That on summer joys has fed!
For the months of the flowers are over,

The fair, sweet summer is dead.

MY VALENTINE.
A girlish face with wondrous grace,

With features passing fair;
With mouth like rose in calm repose,

As of Love's presence unaware. Cheeks soft as plush and quick to blush

When word or look surprise; And auburn hair - ah! I declare,

None know how much her hair I prize. Sad, blue gray eyes that ne'er disguise

The soul from out the gray,
A soul so good that womanhood

Seems bettered by its magic sway.
A form of mold as fine as gold

And graced with queenly air; A fairy step, by which she crept

Into my heart and nestled there. O sad, sweet face! in all this place,

There is no love like thine. O heart so true! it is for you

I pray-.. God bless my Valentine."

THE KISS. I met her one night

O sweet little Miss ! 'Neath the stars so bright.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

113

EUGENIE E. CLARK.

BORN: PADECAH, Ky., DEC. 10, 1869. THE young lady whose picture and name appear here is one of the quite accomplished young ladies of Paducah. Graduating from college, Miss Clark has devoted much of her time and her talent since to literary pursuits, mostly over the nom de plume of Geneva. Her writings on various subjects, both in prose and poetry, have won for her a very enviable reputation, both at home and abroad. Her first literary effort was at the age of ten, when she wrote a poem which promised her subsequent literary ability. She bas lately

TO A ROSE. LA BRIDE.
Pale, perfect flower, to thy petals cling
A sweetness born of dew, of sun, of heaven;
An incense that upborne to paradise,
Meets wafts of angels' breath in downward

sighs
Swayed earthward, that to mortal souls it

bring The dream of happiness that shall be given.

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I gaze upon your leaves now curled and dry
And yellowed into pale and softened gold,
The days and weeks and months - a year has

past
Since he who gave thee sighed, when we at

last

Knew that the time had come to say good-bye
Till many moons should wave and buds un-

fold.
Thy faint breath whispers of one sunny hour
Passed where the trees and blossoms wove

their spell
Of trembling sweetness in the dappled shade;
The drowsy note of birds borne from the glade
Came on the truant breeze, that wooed the

flower
Then tossed her fragrant kisses o'er the fell.
In thy pure heart the subtle perfume lives,
As lives in mine the sweetness of that hour.
Whate'er betide, whate'er the years may bring,
The fragrance of a thought to thee will cling.
Though fame or place – whate'er the future

gives
To me, to thee I give all in my power -
A kiss, a tear, a sigh, pale, perfect flower.

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PATIENCE.
Long and wearily I waited,
Waited Jamie for thy coming,
Listened for thy loved footsteps -
Tearful leaflets sighed: . He comes not."

Long and wearily I waited;
EUGENIE E. CLARK.

Pitying skies wept all day with me;

E'en the birds were silent, while I written an opera, which she is now setting to Watched and waited, but you come not. music, and which competent critics who have examined it pronounce a sure success, as the

Shall I ever feel your hand-clasp public will soon have a chance to verify. Miss

Warm my blood like wine, and tingle Clark has also written a novel, which East

Through my veins like drops cf ichor! ern publishers have examined and declared

Feel your warm lips' tender clinging? full of power and great promise. As a con

Yes, I hear your solemn promise, tributor to the local literature of the city her

And a soothing peace falls o'er me articles have been most flatteringly criticised,

Like a heavenly benediction; and show a graceful and easy flow of lan

And my waiting heart hath patienee. guage and thought. There is evidently quite a brilliant future before Miss Clark if she shall

EXTRACT. decide to utilize the talent she has for author Oh! golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust ship. Her poems have been widely read and In gleaming mist o'er all the silent earth, admired by lovers of the muse throughout | Tell me, dost look upon another face the United States.

So sad as mine, another heart so sad?

ANNA C. L. BOTTA.

BORN: BENNINGTON, VT., IN 1828. This lady was educated in Albany, N. Y., and began early to write for literary periodicals. Mrs. Botta's style is musical, elegant and finished. Among her best poems are Paul at Athens, Webster Books, and Wasted Fountains. She has published in periodicals numerous stories, essays and criticisms, and has edited various works. A new edition of her poems appeared in 1884.

JOIIN HAY BORN: SALEM, IND., OCT. 8, 1838. John HAY practiced law in Illinois in 1861, but immediately after went to Washington as assistant secretary to President Lincoln, remaining with him, both as a secretary and a trusted friend, almost constantly till the death of Mr. Lincoln. He then served the government in various capacities. In 1870 he became an edi. torial writer on the New York Tribune, where he remained about five years. Pike County Ballads is his best book of verse. Col. Hay is supposed to be the author of Breadwinners.

THE DUMB CREATION.

JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,

Becase he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three year

That you hav n't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks

The night of the Prairie Belle?
He were n't no saint,- them engineers

Is all pretty much alike,-
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill

And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,

And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never funked, and he never lied, -

I reckon he never knew how.

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Deal kindly with those speechless ones,

That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life

Alone is nothing worth.
What though with mournful memories

They sigh not for the past?
What though their ever joyous Now

No future overcast?
No aspirations fill their breast

With longings undefined:
They live, they love, and they are blest,

For what they seek they find.
They see no mystery in the stars,

No wonder in the plain;
And Life's enigma wakes in them

No questions dark and vain.
To them earth is a final home,

A bright and blest abode;
Their lives unconsciously flow on

In haru.ony with God.
To this fair world our human hearts

Their hopes and longings bring,
And o'er its beauty and its bloom

Their own dark shadows fiing. Between the future and the past

In wild unrest we stand: And ever as our feet advance,

Retreats the promised land.
And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and

Power,
Bind in their gilded bond,
We pine to grasp the unattained,

The something still beyond.
And, beating on their prison bars,

Our spirits ask more room,
And with unanswered questionings,

They pierce beyond the tomb.
Then say thou not, oh doubtful heart,

There is no life to come:
That in some tearless, cloudless land,

Thou shalt not find thy home.

All boats had their day on the Mississip

And her day came at last,The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she would n't be passed.
And so she came tearin' along that night -

The oldest craft on the line-
With a nigger squat on the safety-valve,

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clared the bar,

And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash see turned, and made

For that willar-bank on the right.
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled

out,

Over all the infernal roar, " I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin'

boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness,

And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off

Afore the smokestacks fell, -
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle,

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