ARNOLD HENRY ISLER. BORN: SWITZERLAND, 1848. AT the age of five the subject of this sketch was brought to America. When nine years of age he ran away from home; and three years later, when the civil war broke out, he again ran away from the place he was then making his home, and became a member of the 23rd Ohio Infantry. He served through the war from beginning to the end, as a private, scout, spy, and color-bearer, and has often been written up as the youngest soldier of the war. After the war young Isler settled down in O, sweet is the sleep of the dead! Quiet their rest in the clay; Unmoved by the strife and tread Of humanity, day by day Unmoved by the terrible sway Of the masses fighting for bread. Oh, sweet is the sleep of the dead! Quiet their rest in the clay. I'm weary; I would I were dead! At rest in the cold dark clay. I'm tired of the strife I've led, Of the struggle day by day, Just to live like a slave and say, I drink, and I eat my own bread. I'm weary; I would I were dead! At rest in the cold dark clay. PAINTER, PAINT A PICTURE. Of a maid most fair; Graced with the completeness Of the poet's words. Give the face the brightness Of a summer day, With a look of lightness And a touch of play; Give the mouth a splendor Of the budding rose, Tempting, soft and tender In its sweet repose. Give the eyes the fire And passion of a soul Strong in its desire To break beyond control; Give the hair the beauty Of weird loveliness, Truant in its duty To its fair mistress. Give the form the glory, And the queenly mien, Of her who lives in storyEgypt's fairest queen; Give it airy motion Of a fairy sprite, Claiming heart devotion By a royal right. Painter, paint a picture 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 thee Is 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 theeIs mine, And thine, Marie. Do I love thee?" Ask not of me, Look in my eyes and read love there: And hear it beat in sad despair; And thine, Marie. THE MONTHS OF THE FLOWERS ARE OVER. The months of the flowers are over, For the months of the flowers are over, The joys of the singer are over, The days of his youth have fled; That on summer joys has fed! For the months of the flowers are over, THE KISS. I met her one night O sweet little Miss! 'Neath the stars so bright. I met her one night, She gave me a kiss! In that fairy sprite To give me a kiss: Perhaps 'twas amissBut 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! What intense delightWhat infinite blissO sweet little Miss! Lies hid in a kiss, On a starlit night. A GLANCE. I caught but a glance of her eye, Her face-more worthy than my praise, I caught but a glimpse of her face. 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 O heart so true! it is for you I pray God bless my Valentine." LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. EUGENIE E. CLARK. BORN: PADUCAH, 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 has lately written an opera, which she is now setting to music, and which competent critics who have examined it pronounce a sure success, as the public will soon have a chance to verify. Miss Clark has also written a novel, which Eastern publishers have examined and declared full of power and great promise. As a contributor to the local literature of the city her articles have been most flatteringly criticised, and show a graceful and easy flow of language and thought. There is evidently quite a brilliant future before Miss Clark if she shall decide to utilize the talent she has for authorship. Her poems have been widely read and admired by lovers of the muse throughout the United States. TO A ROSE. LA BRIDE. 113 Pale, perfect flower, to thy petals cling Swayed earthward, that to mortal souls it bring The dream of happiness that shall be given. 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 unfold. 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. 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; Pitying skies wept all day with me; EXTRACT. Oh! golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust 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. THE DUMB CREATION. Deal kindly with those speechless ones, What though with mournful memories No aspirations fill their breast With longings undefined: They live, they love, and they are blest, They see no mystery in the stars, To them earth is a final home, To this fair world our human hearts 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, That in some tearless, cloudless land, JOHN 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 editorial 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. JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year He were n't no saint,-them engineers All boats had their day on the Mississip The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she would n't be passed. And quick as a flash se turned, and made There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. BLANCHE HERMINE ADAMS. BORN: VANCOUVER, WASH., OCT. 22, 1871. MISS ADAMS is the daughter of Major Enoch George Adams, the poet, lecturer, journalist and soldier, who is fully represented elsewhere in this work. In 1885 she removed with her And may our class as time shall pass Aye cling with zeal, and always feel When life shall fail with ache and ail, To higher things divine. Aspire to heaven with sins forgiven, And heavenward go from things below, 115 ARBOR DAY POEM. O'er castle old where wealth untold Which now in ruins lie. The ivy green how oft 'tis seen By some observant guest! To him the thought with truth well fraught That wealth may flee on land and sea, Close to the right with all our might, Our ivy green that you have seen Now may it preach or may teach MT. HOOD. In the far and glorious West, Stands a mountain lone and grand Overlooking fir and pine, Overlooking New World's Rhine, Lordly stream of Oregon, River poets boast upon Hood in purity sublime, Changeless still in lapse of time, Show'st how great thy beauties are, Nothing can thy whiteness mar. 'Gainst the azure hemisphere, Standest thou without a peer. Towering above the ills of life Or when on a sultry day, I within thy shadow born, |