SAMUEL SLAYTON LUCE. BORN: STOWE, VT., FEB. 1, 1819. SINCE 1839 Mr. Luce has contributed both prose and verse to the periodical press generally, and published in 1876 a volume of poems in conjunction with his wife, who is also represented on this page. In 1881 Mr. Luce published a volume of poems entitled Echoes of the Past, and six years later appeared The Woodman. Since 1857 he has resided in Wisconsin at Galesville, where he established a newspaper in 1860. Five years later be sold out the publication and was elected county superintendent of schools, serving two terms of two years each. Mr. Luce next edited the Galesville Independent, which publication he bought two years later, editing the same until 1889, when it was sold. THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. I see him still, as erst of yore, With furrowed cheek and whitened brow; Though he's been dead of years a score, I see him stand before me now. I seem to see his withered form Beside his faithful white-faced mare, With old brown saddle-bags behind, Whose odor 'twas a grief to bear. With chronic cough I hear him pass He digs his steed with vigorous heel, Whose callous sides, from daily thumps, Had long since lost the power to feel. The constant grin upon his face His light..te-he!" at human pain, As oft he wrenched the offending tooth, Our memory ever will retain. But deeply down within his breast, Beneath a mail-like Milan steel, 'Twas said by those who knew him best, "The doctor has a heart to feel." "Twas in the old Green Mountain State, 'Mid deep, dread winter's drifting snow, The evening hour was waxing late, Some forty years or more ago. We sat around the ample hearth, Where maple logs were blazing bright; Glad songs arose, and social mirth Upon that dismal winter night. The storm-cloud hung on Mansfield's brow The wind blew piercingly and chill; Fierce through the leafless branches shrieked, And roared along the fir-clad hill. The deep'ning snow that all day long Had fallen silently and fast, Now densely filled the frosty air, And piled in drifts before the blast. And still we sat - the hours sped -- The storm increased with fearful might; ..I hope," our tender mother said, 86 No one's abroad this dreadful night." Our mother's voice had hardly ceased, When sudden through the opening door, O'er drifts, the quaint old doctor sprung, And forward fell upon the floor. His brow was crusted o'er with ice, And crisp and frozen was his cheek; His limbs were paralyzed with cold; For once, the doctor could not speak. With genial warmth, and tender care, He soon revived, and said: « Come Bill, Be kind enough to get my mare,— I must reach Martin's, on the hill.” Then on again, o'er trackless snow, Against the biting winter blast, Without the hope of worldly gain, Through mountain drifts, the doctor passed. Far up the winding mountain road, Through forest dark and blinding snow, He reached the desolate abode Of sickness, poverty and woe. Long years have passed; yet oft I ask, 372 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. O'er the broad Atlantic's billows, Here to find a peaceful home. To each brave, industrious hand; Let us work with earnest wills; With a God-like glory crowned. MRS. LYDIA M. S. MUDGETT. BORN: CANADA, 1831. THE poems of Mrs. Mudgett have appeared in the religious press and the local papers. She is now a resident of Elmore, Vt. MUSINGS. We're passing through a vale of tears; In that bright world our sinless feet The cadence sweet we list to hear, O Jesus, take my every care, The heavenly hosts thy praises sing, MRS. HARRIET N. FOSS. BORN: LIMINGTON, ME., 1819. QUITE a number of the productions of this lady, both prose and poetry, have been pub MRS. HARRIET N. FOSS. lished in the Maine newspapers. She has a pleasant home in South Limington, where she is surrounded by numerous friends. In an attic stands a cradle brown; As I pause, and sadly on it gaze, In fancy I see my dear mother's form As when she smiled on each baby face, Quietly nestled in pillows warm. Each child, in turn, found here a rest,Each shared alike her loving care; Now, all have left the parent nest, While all have silver in their hair. Darling Father! Precious Mother! We never shall forget your love. God grant we may again together Dwell in his glorious home above. Farewell little cradle!-ancient thing, Gladly I gaze again on thee; Sacred thou art, for thou dost bring Holy, sweet memories unto me! 374 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. From out my life's deep chalice-cup, As rich soul-nectar bubbles up PAPA'S LITTLE GIRL. Love's sweet dream of beauty wrought She grows in childish grace; Too costly for an Earl; My own to clasp and kiss. Who would miss the strange, sweet thrill, Where baby-fingers rest? Pure, exquisite happiness! Unknown, 'tis all unguessed. Sweet life, clinging 'round my heart And hair with sunshine glossed, My treasured gift of Love. IN THE DEPTHS. O soul-life, so grievously wounded, And deeps that no mortal has sounded, 'Tis dark in thy depths to-day. O bosom, with agony heaving, O'erswept by the tide of wrong, O sister! thro' sorrow made kindred, ing, Which destiny ever fulfills. O think not, in Love's dark Valhalla, The same thro' all trials and joy. The flowers of thought breathe a fragrance And healing naught else can impart, With tenderest sympathies glowing, If born in the true poet-heart. O sensitive soul! gather comfort, And singing, grow hopeful and strong; For only the beautiful spirit Can triumph o'er sorrow in song. And others, less gifted, shall bless thee, LOVE'S DELIGHT. Wafting us on, o'er sea of gold, In gem-lined barque of fairy mold: Lingering long by happy isles, Lighted with nature's choicest smiles; Incense wafted from spice-groves rare, Amber-tinted the sky and air, Merging all sense in dreamy bliss, Thrillingly sweet as rapture's kiss. Airily skims our boat along, Yet, pausing to the Naiad's song. Liquid and low, 'till lulled to rest. Old Neptune's gently swelling breast; Reflected in the waters bright; Each hue of day's declining light, Advancing o'er the sylvan scene, Twilight traileth her mystic screen; Only our barque disdains the night, Nearing the shore of Love's Delight." 64 MRS. MADELINE D. MORTON. BORN: NEW ORLEANS, LA., SEPT. 2, 1849. As a girl this writer was very studious, and at an early age contributed to such publications as the Home Journal of New York, Celtic Magazine, Sunday Chronicle, New York Sunday Mercury, Redpath's Weekly and the St. Louis Magazine. In all the poems of Mrs. Morton every idea is expressed clear and sparkling as a diamond, and the pictures she MRS. MADELINE D. MORTON. draws from nature stand out very distinct. Before the close of the war this estimable lady entered into a romantic marriage with Dr. J. C. Morton, a young surgeon in the union army, and they have lived together ever since in happiness and prosperity in the city of New York. Mrs. Morton is a handsome lady of high literary attainments, a fascinating conversationalist, and has a host of ardent friends and admirers. Her prose writings are welcomed by the best literary publications, generally, however, appearing over a nom de plume or anonymously. Mrs. Morton intends soon to prepare for permanent publication a collection of her beautiful poems. NATURE'S SONG. The streamlet whispers on its winding way: .. I scatter life and health as on I glide, And fringe my banks with flow'rets gay, While verdure blooms on every side. I murmur to the earth all bleak and bare And merry heart he gaily skims along; ..I cheer the mourner with my song, I teach the drooping ones their ills to bear; I tell the sinful from their ways to turn,To leave their earthly dross and care -They will need them not in funeral urn." The painted flower all joyous cries: .. How sweet the breath of my perfume- He created us and all things right,- And star of bright celestial birth. |