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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,
She gave me a kiss!
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
The fair, sweet summer is dead;
With the soft, warm breezes has filed;
Are silent, yellow and red;
That on summer joys bas fed !
The fair, sweet summer is dead.
The days of his youth have fled;
And flowers respond to his tread:
To another gay songster is wed;
That on summer joys has fed!
The fair, sweet summer is dead.
With features passing fair;
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,
Seems bettered by its magic sway.
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.
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.
bring The dream of happiness that shall be given.
I gaze upon your leaves now curled and dry
Knew that the time had come to say good-bye
Long and wearily I waited;
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.
That you hav n't heard folks tell
The night of the Prairie Belle?
Is all pretty much alike,-
And another one here, in Pike;
And an awkward hand in a row,
I reckon he never knew how.
Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Alone is nothing worth.
They sigh not for the past?
No future overcast?
With longings undefined:
For what they seek they find.
No wonder in the plain;
No questions dark and vain.
A bright and blest abode;
In haru.ony with God.
Their hopes and longings bring,
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.
The something still beyond.
Our spirits ask more room,
They pierce beyond the tomb.
There is no life to come:
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.
The oldest craft on the line-
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
For that willar-bank on the right.
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.
Afore the smokestacks fell, -