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ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

BORN: JOHNSTOWN, Wis., ABOUT 1850. WHEN thirteen years of age, Ella first began to write poetry, but it was many years before she received any financial return for these early efforts. Poems of Passion at once brought her into prominence, and she is now in receipt of a

How poor that love that needeth word or mes

sage,
To banish doubt or nourish tenderness.

Days will grow cold, and moons wax old,

And then a heart that's true
Is better far than grace or gold —

And so my love, adieu!

I cannot wed with you.
Whoever was begotten by pure love,
And came desired and welcome into life,
Is of immaculate conception.
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.

Rejoice, and men will seek you:

Grieve, and they turn and go.
Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,

Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.

Waste no tears
Upon the blotted record of lost years
But turn the leaf, and smile, oh, smile, to see
The fair white pages that remain for thee.

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ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

THE LEGEND OF THE STORKS AND good income. She is married, and resides in a

BABIES. beautiful home in the City of New York. In Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland speaking of past events, she says: I had ceas

The realm where the dear little darlings stay ed to expect any sudden success in literature Till the kind storks go, as all men know, when I published Poems of Passion. The in

And 0 so tenderly bring them away? tense excitement th book caused, the hue and cry against its alleged immor: 'ity, and the cor- The paths are winding, and past all finding sequently remarkable sales, were all a stunning

By all save the storks, who understand surprise to me.” She has written a novel, and The gates, and the highways, and the intricate still writes poetry for the learling periodicals.

by-ways

That lead to Babyland.
EXTRACTS.

The path to the Valley of Babyland
Lore, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe, Only the kind white storks know.
Needs friendship's solid masonwork below. If they fly over mountains, or wade through

fountains. Hearts are much the same;

No man sees them come or go. The loves of men but vary in degree

They find no new expressions for the flame. But an angel, maybe, who guards some baby, But now I know that there is no killing

Or a fairy, perhaps, with her magic wand,

Brings them straightway to the wonderful A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no husbing, there is no stilling

gateway

That leads to Babyland. That which is part of your life and breath. You may bury it deep, and leave behind you All over the Valley of Babyland The land, the people that knew your slain; Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss; It will push the sods from its grave, and find And under the ferns fair, and under the leaves you

there On wastes of water or desert plain.

Lie little heads like spools of floss.

162

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

JOESPH S. GITT. BORN: ADAMS Co., PA., SEPT. 9, 1815. For several years Mr. Gitt taught school and later was editor and proprietor of the Hanover Democrat, Planet and Weekly News. In 1841 he was married to Anna M. Bachman.

The scalp axe reposes

Within the dark tomb The calumet bas given

Its last lingering fume. The silence that hovered,

In solitude dressed, And in thy cool arbors

Young fancy caressed; Unbroken, except by

The Savage's tread, Before the swift march of

Improvement has fled. Thy mineral caverns,

Supplied and well stored, Yield columns of riches, E'en faintly explored; Thy mellow-breezed climate,

And rich fertile soil, Reward in great plenty,

The husbandman's toil. A well-defined system

Is strung through the land, By which education

All dare command;
Thy people have anchored

Within its great sea,
And cherished the motto,-

Let knowledge be free.
Philosophy, also,

Has boldly appeared,
And o'er thy wide vegas

Its canopy reared,
A Franklin has flourished,

Whose much-honored name, Has long been thy passport

To regions of fame. He rode on the tempest

Reserved – undismayed – When thunder and lightning

Their terror displayed; And from earth's low bosom,

Taught men to converse, In electrical signals

With clouds in their course. And Poetry's lyre,

With elegance strung, Already its ode of

Ascription has sung; The timbrel has sounded,

And who yet can tell,
How far o'er thy confines

Its echo may swell?
God prosper the Keystone

Of freedom's firm arch,
And light her to glory

By liberty's torch; I envy not scepters,

Nor wealth's hollow fame; Content but to call thee

. My dear native home."

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JOSEPH S. GITT. and has two children now living. He has held prominent railroad positions. During his brief busy life Mr. Gitt has been a very successful man, and has now retired.

ODE TO PENNSYLVANIA.
Arouse, and with spirit,

Frail Muse touch the string,
Assist me the grandeur

of Nature to sing,
Despel all thy sadness,

Awake from thy dream,
Let proud Pennsylvania

Be marked as the theme.
First under the boughs

of the aged elm tree,
Thy founder in council

Did barter for thee,
In friendship the compact

Was ordered and given,
And sealed with a vow –

Recorded in Heaven,
The war-whoop's shrill echo,

No more now is heard,
But sleeps in thy valleys,

Long, long since interred;

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163

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR.

BORN IN ENGLAND, MAY 5, 1850. WHEN a boy, Henry wrote a Poetical History of England. He was attached to the London Telegraph and All The Year Round, and at one time was amanuensis to Charles Dickens. He was subsequently employed by several prominent London and provincial papers, and wrote several able pamphlets, socn gaining a reputation as a forcible, witty, ele gant and entertaining writer. Mr. RyderTaylor has edited various other publications

They'll soon grow big and alter things,

In the better by and by. The lovers often quarrel,

And think each other hard, As often they make up their titfs,

And greater grows regard. They think upon the future,

When bound by dearer tie, And hope for wedded happiness,

In the better by and by.
When man and wife are parted,

As oft we see in life,
By cruel fate, or worse yet still,

Perhaps by cankerous strife:
If pure love in their hearts has burned,

This solace they apply,-
The hope of blessed reunion,

In the better by and by.
The widow, in her sore distress,

Is turned from her grief,
To her dear, loving little child,

And in it finds relief;
By want and care she is oppressed,

And under ban doth lie,
Yet waits in patience and in hope,

The better by and by.
The rich man's often envied,

By reasons of his wealtb; He trials has, vexations too,

And often bad his health. Surrounded by his riches,

His heart has still its cry,
And even he looks forward

To the better by and by.
The poor man going forth at dawn

Toils very hard all day,
His wages small, his comforts few,

And very rough his way;
To make the most of humble means,

He and his wife doth try,
Encouraged by the goodly hope,

of the better by and by. The prisoner in his lonely cell,

As punished for crime,
Toils sadly on throughout the day,

And wears away his time:
He thinks of wife and loving friends,

And on them doth rely,
And longs for Freedom's bappy hour,-

In the better by and by.
The sick man tossing on his bed,

Racked by the body's pain,
For him there seems but little hope

He may be well again;
But when folks come to see him,

How welcome the reply,
You are doing very nicely -

You'll be better by and by."

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HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR. of note; has filled several public offices; was for a time professor of English literature and elocution, and gave lectures on important subjects. In 1881 he came to the United States, settling in San Antonio, Texas, where he soon became an American citizen. He is now editor of the Texas World, and contributes to several prominent journals. Mr. Ryder-Taylor has a wife and a family of several children, of whom he is very proud.

THE BETTER BY AND BY.
As onward through the world we go,

We many trials see,
And troubles oft oppress us sore,

They seem so hard to be;
But when the heart is lone and sad,

Then hope to us is nigh,
And shows a happy prospect

In the better by and by.
The children think it very hard,

That elders bear the rule;
And harder still the lessons

They learn in life's great school. Hope gives them courage as they think,

It sparkles in the eye

Where oppression cannot trouble,

In the haven of the blest. I have fought the fight now fairly,

But I seem to be awrong And waiting still I sadly cry,

- How long, oh! Lord, how long?"

But when we mourn our loved, our dead,

How bitter is the heart!
'Tis then we feel the force of love

How hard it is to part !
But hope stands by to cheer us,

While we with tate comply,
And says that we shall meet again

In the better by and by.
Since all of us, both rich and poor,

Of trials have a share,
To each let's give a helping hand,

And bave a friendly care;
Let's do our duty in this world,

And when we come to die, We'll surely be rewarded,

In the better by and by.

MRS. JANER. H.CARPENTER.

BORN: ROCKINGHAM, VT..JAN.2, 1834. This lady has written poems from time to time for the past quarter of a century, many of which have appeared in the local press. She was married in 1853 to Byron F. Carpenter; removed to Orient, Iowa, in 1874, where she now resides with her husband and family.

THE SONG OF THE WEARY. I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of this fell earthly strife,
That day by day I'm waging

Just to sustain our life.
But I struggle on still hoping

That Time will right the wrong;
And yet my weary heart will sigh,

How long, Oh! Lord, how long?". I am weary, ob! my darling,

of the sights I daily see, Of vice in glorious splendor,

The poor in misery.
The gilded herd, with iron rule,

Oppress the common throng;
I'm patient, yet the heart will cry:

.. How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of the friendship that's not true,
And sigh that we no Damons find

To gild life's dreary hue.
I am weary of the love that comes

Just like a Syren's song;
And sadly does my heart repeat,

- How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of the fashions of the time,
That only make dressed dummies

Of womanhood sublime,
That make of young men noodles,

Effeminate, not strong;
And, sickened, then I sadly cry,

- How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

of politic's shrewd game, Where bosses rule in all things,

Defile the people's name;
Where the sharp" and not the honest,

To power pass along;
And, heart-sick, I cry the louder,

How long, oh! Lord, how long?"
I am weary, oh! my darling,

And I long to be at rest,

FANCY'S PICTURE. Beautiful moonlight over me falling --Dearly loved scenes to my mind thou’rt call

ing, Scenes of my childhood, long gone though

they be, Thou bringest these back in bright mem'ries

to me. In the old home, nestled 'mong forest-crown

ed hills, I list to the music of swift dancing rills, And musical voices far sweeter than these Are floating to me on the soft evening breeze. Over my heart, long shaded in sadness, Softly there falleth a feeling of gladness, For the dear old days have come back to me, When I was a child so careless and free. Here in their prime I find Father and Mother; Once more I frolic with sister and brother, Building a playhouse in some pleasant nook, Or romp in the orchard or down by the brook. Sweet as the flowers that bloom in the wild

wood Are the beautiful days of innocent childhood, And like the fair flowers how short is their

stay, The swift passing years soon bear them away. E'en as I gaze, fancy's picture is fading, Realities, stern my pathway are shading, Life's burdens and years have furrowed my

brow, And my loved ones dwell not in the old home

now.

EXTRACT. Many a time comes sorrow and care, And trials the heart can scarcely bear,-But seldom will come a measure of bliss, In a world as cold and careless as this; The strangest of things will sometimes befall Yet the pleasures we know as the sweetest of

all May come but once in a lifetime.

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