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ALONZO L. RICE.
Would rise in his splendor and pillow his glow
On the bosom of cloudless to-morrow: BORN: LITTLE BLUE RIVER, IND., JUNE 12, '67.
The rim of the bubbles The poems of Mr. Rice have appeared in the
Gives token of troubles, Yankee Blade, Indianapolis Journal, and the
And over the waste of the threatening sky, periodical press generally. Mr. Rice is known
The sabre of cranes on its former course
With clouds are his tributes remaining;
And, in the dark thicket,
Anear, the lone cricket,
Awaiting the orb of the rounded, red moon.
The elfius speed by on their rambles;
On pinions of leather,
Alone and together,
To dream or to waken the vale with a shout.
of the forest resounds to the revel; And, Dian's red orb for an hour delayed, Now gleams o'er the meadow's low level:
And, thro' her dominions
On fluttering pinions, ALONZO L. RICE. as the Shelby county poet, and his produc
The night-bawk is sailing in ominous dread, tions have attracted quite a little attention in
And over the valleys and marshes the minions the world of literature, and he is undoubtedly
Of darkness are trailing in mantles of red. making a name for himself. He is still a resi- My heart and affection turns ever to thee, dent of his native place.
And swerves like the needle's emotion;
Unknowing the place where the fairest can THE DESERTED MANSION.
be. Deserted mansion, fallen to decay,
So fervent and deep the devotion: The marble lion on thy gateway sleeps
A hope that abideth, Serene; the hawk upon thy arras
Whatever betideth, sweeps
Tho' dimmed like the glance of a glittering On never-weary pinions, and the prey
star, Is toiling upward, from the fields away, Is sought for the first, when the storm-cloud In hope of vain escape; in tangled deeps
The white sail lessens in the misty baze; With rounded cheeks his loud and alien horn, And, on the headlands, weary watchers Nor evermore along the sunset rills,
raise Return the reapers with the sheaves of corn. Their bands against the sun and peering thro'
The intervening vapors, cry: - Adieu
To thy delightful presence; 'mid the days Dear love, could I bope in the future to know, The niem'ry of thy being sweetly stays, The sun from the ocean of sorrow
| But grace and beauty fade away with you."
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
ISAAC MCLELLAN. BORN: PORTLAND, ME., MAY 21, 1806. SEVERAL volumes of poems have appeared from the pen of this writer. Three were published in Boston, entitled Fall of the Indian, The Year, and Mount Auburn. In 1886 he pub
On the gray horizon's verge
Thou dost even now descry Some lone bark with shatter'd mast,
Bulwarks swept, and ragged sail, Fighting with the ocean-blast,
Lost in shipwreck and in gale. Restless, roving, lonely bird,
Wanderer of the pathless seas, Now where tropic woods are stirr'd,
Now where floating icebergs freeze; Seldom doth the solid shore
See thy wings expand no more.
ON LONG ISLAND SOUND. I wander daily by thy shore,
Thy rocky shore, Long Island Sound,
The secrets of thy depths profound.
O'er which the salt tides ebb and flow,
Rocks where the ribbon'd seaweeds grow; And there the glancing fish I view,
The weakfish and the dusky bass: The be galls and the blackfish schools,
And silvery porgees as they pass.
The welcome nibble to await,
The sea-bass tugging at the bait;
I see the shining sturgeon leap, Springing in air with sudden flash,
Then splashing, plunging to the deep; I see the porpoise schools sweep by,
In sportive gambolings at their play, Puffing and snorting as they rise,
Wheeling and tumbling on their way: And never wearied in my gaze
As o'er the blue expanse it roams, Viewing the endless billows roll,
White-crested with the yeasty foams.
ISAAC M'LELLAN. lished a neat volume of some two hundred and seventy-two pages, entitled Poems of the Rod and Gun, which has been well and favor. ably received. Mr. McLellan is now a resident of Long Island at Greenport.
Whither doth thy journey tend?
Where the meadow-rushes bend, Where the orange-blossoms blow,
Where the aloe and the palm Flourish, and magnolias glow,
Filling all the air with balm? Rather is thy pilgrim wing
Fleeting to some northern bar, Where the rocky reef juts out,
And the sand-beach stretches far? There in hot and silvery sand
All thy pearly eggs to lay, There to teach thy little brood
O'er the tumbling surf to play. Hap’ly sailing o'er the brine,
Painted 'gainst a lurid sky,
THE SHOT AT THE START. The sun had tipt the horizon's edge,
Launching in air a shaft of gold, Across the stream, athwart the sedge,
And where the rippling currents rollid: A boat was pushing from the shore,
A fowler's heart beat high with glee, Yet ere the boatmap touch'dan oar,
To reach the wooded island near, An early flock, on rushing wing,
Flew o'er the stream's pellucid face; When sudden report did ring,
And ceas'd a wild duck from the race. The artist hath depicted well Tha . Starting Shot," and what befell.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
Then shalt thou joyful look
REV. DRYDEX WM. PHELPS.
Born: New HAVEN, Conn., AFTER graduating at the Hopkins grammar school in his native city, Dryden passed one year in Yale college, and three in Brown university, graduating at the latter institution in 1877. The three years following he was assistant editor of the Christian Secretary, when he entered the Hartford theological seminary, in which he spent two years. In
TO THE MOURNER. In hours of grief, oppressed with tribulation, When storms beat sore within the troubled
breast, How sweet to know the author of salvation Said: .. Come to me, and I will give you
rest." Those words attend, 0 mourner sad and
lonely: Our Lord on earth was often love and sad. When loved ones sleep, the thought of Jesus
only Can dry our tears and bid the heart be glad. The day draws nigh --- how joyous the reflec
tion! --When Christ shall come, in glory from
above. The Lord Himself, our life and resurrection, Shall crown us His whom now unseen we
THE LIGHTS OF THE EARTH. Sun, thou king of day who sendest light to
our dwelling, O how grand thou appearest at noon in fiery
splendor! Who can stand thy glare? 'tis not poor earth
holden mortals: No, tby blinding gaze o'ercomes our shori
Sighted vision. Thou art a work of God, and manifestest His
splendor. 'Tis no wonder that people of old, not knowing
their Maker, Should have worshiped thee, and paid their
devout adoration Which belonged to God, to thee His horrible
emblem! Moon, thou queen of the night, of the sun a
poor imitation, Where would be thy light if the sun did not
freely bestow it? Yet thou art gentler far than the hot burning
day-king who lights thee, And we love thy beautiful gentleness, pride
of the evening! Stars, ye jewels who deck the lovely expanse
of the heavens When the moon has come to whisper of love
and the angels, Yes, we love ye the best, O bright magnificent
gold drops! And in ye the most can we praise the Eternal
THOUGHTS AT THE WATER-SIDE.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
BORN: DELAVAN, WIS. BIRCH ARNOLD is the author of Until the Day Break, an essentially American novel, which has been very favorably received. Her poems have appeared in the leading periodicals of
Though sorrow makes the sunshine less,
They're one with thee, Forgetfulness! Each heart must know its day of grief,
All earthly things must fade and die, Remembrance brings percbance relief,
Or bitterness of tear and sigh: For me, no other boon can bless
Alike to thee,- Forgetfulness!
THE ROUND OF BLUE. Oh, Maude, sweet Maude, with your golden
hair, Your witching eyes, and your winsome air Do you know the mischievous things you do, Crocheting the endless round of blue? I have watched your taper fingers, white Now in, now out, now left, now right, As the glittering needle willing flew, Crocheting the endless round of blue. At first my eyes you sought to chain To the tangled threads of your azure skein; At length, I think, you bolder grew, Crocheting the endless round of blue. For over my heart that tangled thread, Over my eyes, and over my head, In a filmy chain, you deftly threw, Crocheting the endless round of blue. I do not ask, sweet Maude, to be From the pretty prison e'er set free; I know full well there are jailers few Like the one crocheting the round of blue. If the fairy chain is woven strong, To hold me fast, and hold me long Then, Maude, weave on, if this be true; Weave ever on the round of blue.
America. This lady is a gifted conversationalist, a graceful elocutionist, and ably renders selections from her writings in a very pleasing manner. She now resides in Armada, Michigan.
Some gift of fortune, treasured there In garnered fullness, might be mine,
In answer to entreating prayer,
To equal thine - Forgetfulness!
To greet the morning's glad surprise, With only sense of misery
And bitter meaning in it's eyes; Alas! I cannot seek redress
Except in thee – Forgetfulness! The summer suns may rise and set,
And blossomed fragrance fill the air, I see thro' tears, nor can forget
That ever hovering wraith of care;
A WIND-BLOWN SOUL. .. The deepest pang of hell?
'Tis this remembering In present griefs, the joys of yesterday." Aye, look upon me while I linger
Behind the prison bars of sin! I can no longer bear in silence,
Or shut the burning truth within. I saw it speak in eye and gesture,
Tho' dead upon my lips it lay, Until It burst its bonds asunder,
And found my soul the potter's clay. That kiss! Oh, angels in yon heaven,
Is yours a dearer joy than mine? Upon my throbbing lips it lingers,
And maddens me with love's strong wine. And no remorse! Ah, Jesu! shrive me!
A dagger stroke my broken vow But deeper still lives unforgotten The love I had and might have now.
Are the eyes with which heaven hath blessed
her, Because she's our baby, you know.
REV. JOHN WESLEY ADAMS.
BORN: MAY 23, 1832. This gentleman is a lineal descendant of the presidents of that name. In 1858 he joined the New Hampshire Conference of the M. E. church, and has held pastorates in Rye, Derry, So. Newmarket, No. Salem, E. Canaan,
Her lips are like lilacs in blossom,
And the nectar with which they o'erflow Is sweeter than hive-stores in autumn,
Because she's our baby, you know Her laughter is serapb-like music
Wafted through the dear home here below, And her sayings more sage than the Delphic,
Because she's our baby, you know,
She's a darling, a picture, a pet,
A cherub from the crown to the toe; She has ne'er found her equal as yet,
Because she's our baby, you know.
DEDICATION OF HEDDING CHAUTAU:
REV. JOHN WESLEY ADAMS.
Winchester, Gt. Falls-High St., Tilton, Newport, Exeter, Keene, and in 1889 he took a year's rest at Chelsea, Mass., where he is still located. For several years Rev. J. W. Adams has been president of the trustees of the Conference Seminary and Female College.
OUR BABY Though babies count up by the million,
And all of them fit for the show, Yet ours beats the sum total billion,
Because she is our baby, you know. Her ringlets! O, their like never can be,
They all of them curl just so;
Because she's our baby, you know. Her complexion out-rivals the fairest;
The cheeks have an angelic glow; The dimples that fleck them the rarest,
Because she's our baby, you know. Transcendant expression and lustre,
And clear as the waters that flow,
Translated and regenerate,
From henceforth this shall be a shrine -