LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. JEAN KATE LUDLUM. BORN: NEW YORK CITY, FEB. 20, 1862. MISS LUDLUM has written for the leading periodicals of America, including Demorest's, Godey's Lady's Book, Ladies' Home Journal, JENNIE KATE LUDLUM. and other equally prominent journals. Her poems have received favorable notice from critics and the press generally, and have been widely copied. During 1890 three novels from the pen of this lady were given to the public. HOW MY SHIP CAME IN. I stood on the shore at sunset Faint on the far horizon And I watched with eager, anxious eyes The wind was dead against it, The tide flowed strong and still; But steady and sure as the wind and tide, And just as certain a will. The sail grew large and larger, Wavered and faded away, Yet still I watched with anxious eyes 131 That was touched to a delicate, roseate hue By that ray from the sunset pale. 44 But how did it enter the harbor?" I asked of a sailor hale. ..Why, child, it tacked 'gainst wind and tide, And came in with glowing sail!" But the wind and tide o'ercame it," I said, as 'twas entering the bay." ["yes, "Yes," answered this gray-haired sailor, But, child, it tacked, I say!" ..Tacked?" I repeated vaguely, "Tis coming in 'gainst the breeze!" ..But how is it done?" I queried, .."Tis sailing hither and fro, my child," ..Till at last, with stern endeavor Gaining against the tide Tho' that and the wind may both be strongInto port 'twill certainly ride; .. For, child, a patient waiting As the sailor paused, the ship hove to, 132 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. GEORGE WALDO BROWNE. BORN: DEERFIELD, N. H., OCT. 8, 1851. AT the age of twenty Mr. Browne commenced writing prose, of which he has written over one hundred serials and three hundred short stories that have received publication. In addition to these stories he has written numer GEORGE WALDO BROWNE. ous poetical productions, and has in preparation a book entitled Lyrics and Legends. In 1883 Mr. Browne assumed editorial charge of the American Young Folks, a position that he still retains. THE KING OF KINGS. The pastor meek instructs his flock THE WHITE STEED. O'er the trackless green a rushing sheen, Swift as arrow sent from bow strong bent, As the ocean breeze from o'er the seas, Then with nostrils glowing, mane outflowing, With a proud-stepping grace, and tireless pace, Sped the white steed rushing by. Let the bounding deer glance back with fear, And the eagle gaze from yonder; Never bird of wing nor fleeing thing Can outmatch this prairie wonder! From his unshod heel no ringing steel Till a speck of white he fades from sight, Let the swift-footed deer live his career While the earth we've span'd with an iron band, And the steam-king's reign is won. Long my gallant steed with wondrous speed May you roam your native plain; And your arching neck ne'er feel the check Of a master's cruel rein. LOVE. Distill the dew from roses, Steal the starlight from above, Bind with the breath of morning, And you've imprisoned Love! As fades the dew at daylight, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 133 MRS. E. O. DANNELLY. BORN: MONTICELLO, GA., JUNE 13, 1838. THIS lady graduated from the Madison female college in 1855, afterward spending a year in New York City receiving instructions in oil painting. In 1862 she was married to Dr. F. Olin Dannelly, at that time a surgeon in the army. After the war she removed to Balti MRS. ELIZABETH OTIS DANNELLY. more, and in 1870 to Waxahatchi, and is now left a widow. Mrs. Dannelly published in 1879 a volume of poems entitled Cactus, and in 1891 Wayside Flowers, from the press of the American Publishers' Association. The poems of Mrs. Dannelly have been well received, and have been favorably noticed in Hart's American Literature and the Living Writers of the South. FIRST LOVE. Love is not a fleeting passion, Born to cheer us but a day, "Tis not love that comes to vanish, Something we can ne'er recall. Though the blooming cheeks have faded, And the raven locks are gray; Though another fondly loved her, Though she knelt at Hymen's shrine. If her heart was truly given, Falter not, it still is thine. Tell the same sweet story over, Though together you've grown old, And her heart 'twill touch and lighten, E'en as when at first 'twas told. Though the voice with age may tremble, And the ear has duller grown. If she loved thee when a maiden, For 'tis true that love's immortal, Though she may have drifted from thee, Doubt no more her heart is thine. Time, with all its cruel changes, May have brought her care and grief, Widow's weeds her form may cover, And methinks her eyes will brighten, With the love-light as of old, IF IN THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. If, in the voyage of life, dear Lord, I've drifted far at sea, Send gentle breezes, fraught with love, To waft me back to Thee; Let not my fragile bark go down 'Mid waters dark, and deep. But gently turn the wayward sails From where the dangers sleep. If storms it takes to rescue me, Then, Savior, let them come; I'll soon forget the billows' roar When anchored safe at home; The blood-dyed streamers on my bark Will float as glad and free, As though in calmness they had waved If in the voyage of life, dear Lord, Cast over-board the gathered freight, But let her, though in emptiness, Land on the other shore. WEDDED TO ART. Tell me true, O son of Genius, Devotee to ancient art, Hath its pleasures filled thy heart? Tell me true, O son of Genius, Hast thou ne'er, with such endowments, Are there not some tones or glances That thy heart can ne'er forget; Do they not like distant music, [ings, Tell me true, O son of Genius, Through the long, long weary day? Rivaled yet this ideal queen? Does she reign, the only sovereign, Strange and mystic, all unseen? Far o'er distant seas you've wandered, Where are daughters wondrous fair; Hath thy heart been proof against them? Have they made no impress there? Tell me true, O gifted Genius, With such wealth of mind and heart, Can no human charms enchain thee? Wilt thou cleave alone to art? ALL THINGS. O can it be that all these things, So fraught with mystery and woe, These evils that beset my life, These seeming ills that grieve me so That all these strange, these wondrous things, Yes, as the varied, scattered threads So must these things together work, And fit on earth the immortal soul Beneath the chemist's skillful hand, "Tis known that bitters sometimes meet, And, in a combination strange, Unite to form a substance sweet, And pleasant to the taste. Then let me not refuse to drink The bitter wormwood and the gall, For all things work for good to me, Then let me never more repine, A CURIOUS FACT. When old and young, the rich and poor, In finery come out, It is a fact significant, They seem to grow devout; When all have spent their ready casn But when the outfit's been displayed, How very strange when pretty clothes Appear no longer new, That those who still frequent the church Find worshipers so few. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. CELESTE MAY. BORN: LEE Co., Iowa, OCT. 20, 1850. MRS. MAY has written and published a work entitled Sounds of the Prairie, which has received favorable notice from press and public. She occasionally lectures in the cause of tem Others pleasing and light as air, 135 The narrative to which I've lost all clue; I've plucked from Time's forelock some moments new In which I could write some sentiments true; Though poorly expressed, I hope that a few May revive my true image, in your heart, anew. That blessings on earth and in heaven accrue To your share, is the wish of - adieu. NOTHING WORTH WHILE." There is nothing worth while Unless shared by another; What is fortune's sweet smile If it glads not our brother?It is nothing worth while. The sweetest of song The sirens can sing Allures us not long, Unless we can bring Our best friend along. The joy of beholding A beauteous picture, Loses half the unfolding Of its soft-tinted feature, To a lonely heart viewing. And wisest tales known, If they do not beguile Other hearts than our own, Are hardly worth while, Though in bard's sweetest tone. The choicest of food, To the one who prepares it, Is not half so good If nobody shares it, To speak our own name So there's nothing worth while, O there's nothing worth while. "Tis companionship sweet |