My spirit may weep on the waters of night, When Death moves the boat from this desolate [light, When he waves his dark banner and vanishes And mortality's portals are shut from my sight, [more.
When the waters recede and I see you no The birds have all ceased to sing, Nature locked up is staying his breath, The angel of Death by the might of his wing Will wipe out what's mortal, but the spirit will cling [death. To its idol and worship, o'er the slumbers of The curtain of darkness has closed on my view, Your face is shut out as I grope on the strand. The storm god, fantastic, rides high; in lieu Of billows that rage, that beat me from you; As we part on the beech of mortality's land. Glendora, farewell, life slips from my grasp, The veil is loosened which darkens my eyes, When life grows heavy as it glides from your clasp,
When 'tis sabled with time and turbid at last, With the angel of light come home to the skies.
LEROY STONER.
MR. STONER has written quite a few poems, and herewith is given a few stanzas from America, a poem from his pen that has been published in pamphlet form.
America, great domain,
Blest land of Liberty.
Praise to thy God, Great King,
Ruler of the Universe,
Who out of nothing made
The Earth, Sun, Moon, and Stars. Bounteous Earth,
Garden and habitation of man Of whom many families there be; Some in darkness, some in light. Those who live in the light receive The richest blessings of the Great King. America, fertile land,
Inhabited by a noble race of men; Men of courage, and shrewd device. Land of pretty women, queen of her sex. Men and women chaste and refined Greatest nation on the Earth.
Born of an industrious and pious maid, Who sought the wilderness to escape The designs of evil minded men, Who did seek to destroy
The bloom on her fair cheek.
Child of divine paternity, Nursed in the wilderness by a mother Who by patience and much toil, Converted the wilderness into a garden Laid out into thirteen plats
In which grew all manner of fruits.
The garden, beautiful and rare, Was claimed by a certain lord and trader Who owned a host of ships
That sailed, loaded with merchandise, From the trader's mart and port To all known ports on the Earth.
The lord, crafty and bold, Denied the maid a choice of marts Wherein her produce she might dispose; Decreed that all her trading she should do At his port or mart, and her exports Must be carried in either his ship or cart. The maid, virtuous and just, For his discovery of the land, Allowed the claims of the lord so far As to appoint governors in the garden, One to preside over each plat
In the execution of civil law.
But liberty and justice Claimed the maid of strong character, Gave her the exclusive right
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
CHARLES C. ARNOLD.
BORN: MONROE CO., N. Y., JUNE 8, 1857. ALTHOUGH but recently has Mr. Arnold commenced to court the muse, his poems are attracting universal admiration in the state of his adoption - Nebraska, where he now re
sides at Culbertson. He is a painter by profession. The range of his poetic subjects are remarkable, and the Culbertson Sun speaks highly of his poetical genius.
THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.
The snow, the snow, the beautiful snow, Falling so gently to the earth below, In thy lovely garb on a mild March morn To deck the earth in thy cloudless form, Thou wert sent by the hand of an all-wise one, Those numberless flakes falling one by one. Thou beautiful form of spotless white Falling to earth for our delight, Thou makest us glad by thy presence here, Which doubtless betokens a plentiful year; The people all hail thy advent below, Thou spotless form, this beautiful snow.
TO A PRETTY MAID. Pretty maid with eyes so bright That sparkle like the summer's night! In whose orbs a beauty lies That's likened unto summer skies,
And thou with silken nut brown hair Crown of glory dost thou wear. Form of which a god is proud, And a brow without a cloud, Lips which put a rose to shame, And in whose eyes a brightness flame, Standing in thy sweetness there Forever be thou without care. Pretty maid with neck like snow One whose cheeks do ruddy grow, Graceful form and step so light And whose eyes are ever bright, Like the stars of summer's night. Pretty maid of pure desires In whose heart as burns a fire, Thou that always free from care, Light as birds of summer air, Happy art thou everywhere. This thou art, and many more Could be named by the score,
In whose orbs a beauty lies,
That's likened unto summer skies,
And thou with silken nut brown hair, Crown of glory dost thou wear.
She was taken peacefully away, To the land of blissful rest, And now is among the numbered Who dwell in the land of blest. She was a good kind mother,
That oft our hearts did cheer; But now she reigns in glory, Where heavenly beings appear. This beautiful memory's picture, Doth often haunt me still, As when the spirit departed, And death her brow did chill. And to the days of childhood, Does my memory often roam; As we gathered round the fireside In our far away eastern home.
THE CLASSIC FRENCHMAN. Down the beautiful valley Flows the classic Frenchman stream, How its pretty waters glisten, How its sparkling waters gleam.
They flow along so smoothly And pass along so grand,
We think it the finest river
Out in this western land.
They wind about those waters pure And glisten on their way,
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
They pass along through bridges, How those sparkling waters play. Was there ever such a river As this classic Frenchman stream, Mingling with the old Republican Grand and beautiful they seem. What a mighty power these waters Which in combination flow,
Passing gently down the valley And in the sunlight glow.
BEAUTIFUL MOONLIGHT. Beautiful moonlight so starry and bright; O! What rejoicing this lovely night- Beautiful stars in the firmanent shine: You are held in space by one Divine. Emeralds set in Heaven's crown so fair, Sparkling like diamonds rich and rare: Beautiful moonlight we love of thee to tell, To express all thy glories we cannot well. Thou cometh at the close of day, And of thy beauties what shall we say; To mention the charms thy grandeur unfold, Has not been accomplished by poets of old. Thou has led the traveler on his way, And by thy light he's not gone astray; Thou hast turned the darkness into light Thou beautiful emblem - the orb of night.
THOSE FLEECY AND SILVERY CLOUDS. A sheen of clouds a silvery white Were in the summer sky, And marvelous beauty did appear Unfolded to the eye.
"Twas tinged with silver purest white: No refiner could compare
With those white and fleecy cloudlets
Up in the Heavens there.
They moved about in wondrous beauty; They appeared a misty light
Pure as the snow immaculate
Those fleecy clouds of white.
They unfolded their silvery outlines With Heaven's background of blue, Then vanished soon and sank away - Those clouds of wondrous hue
THE RIVER. Thou beautiful river that flows along, Bright thy waters and sweet thy song; Low thy murmur, thy melody sweet, That swiftly runs in thy channel so deep. Beautiful river how thy waters gleam, Broad is thy way and bright thy stream, Onward thy course to the ocean flow Bearing thy ships as the winds do blow. Beautiful river that murmurs all day: What is it that thy bright waters say, Running along in thy channel so strong, Pray, O, pray tell me what is thy song.
HON. THOMAS J. BUTLER.
BORN: BEDFORD, IND., FEB. 5, 1826. THIS gentleman has filled the position of reporter, editor, etc., and wielded the pen more or less for the past thirty five years, his writings having appeared chiefly in local newspapers in California, Nevada, Idaho, Arizona, and the western states generally. He was married in 1881 to Miss Carrie E. Blake, and now resides in Prescott, Arizona. Mr. Butler is now receiver of public moneys. In person he is of very large stature, being six feet and four inches in height, and weighs two hundred pounds. Mr. Butler is well known and highly respected in his adopted city as a man of great integrity and business ability.
FROM FOURTH OF JULY POEM, 1886.
Of human progress, every age Begets an impulse most sublime That may be measured by a gauge Peculiar to its day and time. Cœur de Leon clad in steel, The holy Sepulcher to gain, An impulse of religious zeal Impelled him and his faithful train. Columbus bore the flag of Spain Beyond the world, as wise men thought, Adventurous impulse o'er the main Impelled him to the goal he sought. Extent of Empire o'er the world Impelled the nations to these coasts, And colonies, with flags unfurled, Pressed on his track in mighty hosts. They builded better than they knew Those Kings and Queens of foreign lands: The seeds of Liberty to strew
Was not a part of what they planned.
They hoped the fealty to retain
Of subjects born to be their slaves, E'en though beyond the raging main, The Atlantic's wild and stormy waves. Divine the right of Kings had been To reign and rule with high behest. The subject deemed it mortal sin To thwart the ruler God had blessed. But now, three thousand miles across The Ocean's heaving, billowy breast, Freedom dared her mane to toss And Liberty to raise her crest; To own and till the virgin soil New thoughts and new emotions bring; The power that gave them leave to toil They realized was King of Kings. The spirit surging through each frame Of self dominion wide and strong, And boundless as the land they claim, Would ne'er again submit to wrong.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
FRANCIS BRET HARTE.
BORN: ALBANY, N. Y., 1839.
BRET HARTE is a thorough American poet, a man of brilliant wit, wide information and strong purposes. In 1854 he removed, with his parents, to California, where he became a compositor in a printing office, then he mined for himself, then became a school teacher, then an
FRANCIS BRET HARTE. express messenger. In 1857 he returned to the compositor's case on the Golden Era, where he was soon assigned a place in the literary department. All the works of Bret Harte show keen wit and pungency of expression, and his prose tales teem with noble thoughts.
To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee,-
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,- .. Bring the sot, alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, ..Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine; Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed,
Stops the pumps that give us breath,Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine."
Say, there! P'r'aps
Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well-no offence; Thar ain't no sense
In gettin' riled! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar; That's why I come Down from up yar, Looking for Jim.
Thank ye, sir! You Ain't of that crew- Blest if you are! Money! Not much; That ain't my kind;
I ain't no such,
Rum? - I don't mind,
Seein' it's you.
Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him?- Jess about your size; Same kind of eyes- Well, that is strange; Why, it's two year Since he came here Sick, for a change.
Well, here's to us:
Dead?
That little cuss?
What makes you star
You over thar?
Can't a man drop A glass in yer shop But you must r'ar? It wouldn't take D-much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor-little-Jim! Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben- No-account men: Then to take him!
Well, thar-Good-bye- No more, sir-I-
What's that you say? Why, dern it!-sho!No? Yes? By Jo! Sold!
Sold! Why, you limb, You ornery,
Derned old Long-legged Jim!
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
Which I wish to remark,- .
And my language is plain,—
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,—
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name.
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply:
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third;
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was cuchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was childlike and bland.
Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve:
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see,—
Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor;" And he went for that heathen Chinee.
In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand;
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, ..he did not understand."
In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs,—
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers,- that's wax. Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,-
Which the same I am free to maintain.
MRS. JUDGE JENKINS.
THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO MAUD MULLER. Maud Muller, all that summer day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay;
Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the Judge would come again. But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered «Ha-ow?" And spoke of her pa," and wondered whether He'd give consent they should wed together. Old Muller burst in tears, and then Begged that the Judge would lend him "ten;" For trade was dull, and wages low,
And the craps" this year, was somewhat slow. And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride. But, on the day that they were mated, Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated: And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the Judge's hall. And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain. And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change: For Maud grew broad and red and stout! And the waist that his arm once clasped about Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,
How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;
And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back. For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. Alas for maiden! alas for Judge! And the sentimental,--that's one-half "fudge." For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore. And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair face
For more refinement and social grace. If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, . It might have been,"
More sad are these we daily see: ..It is, but hadn't ought to be."
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