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WILLIAM B. DOWNER.

BORN: FENNER, N. Y., DEC. 12, 1815. SINCE his youth Mr. Downer has contributed verse more or less to the local press. He was

married in 1839 and is still a resident of his native state at Cazenovia.

OUR PICNIC.

Once on a time, as poets say,
The tenth month and second day,
The weather being nice and fine,
In eighteen hundred sixty-nine-
Some friends whom I had known before
In district number twenty-four,
All looking well, for none were sick,
Came to my house for a picnic.
Their names I need not now rehearse,
And thereby much prolong my verse,
But of the doings of that day
Proceed to write without delay;
Not doubting but my friends will find
My narrative quite to their mind,
And nothing put in malice down,
To merit or receive a frown.

As fast as e'er my guests did come
Unto the place I call my home,
They were invited to alight,
An act in which they took delight,
For all had come a day to spend
With one they seemed to think a friend,
And what was kind, to say the least,
All brought an offering for the feast.

Then soon long tables three were spread,
With cakes and honey, pies and bread,
While other things, both good and nice,
Were added to them in a trice;

And then around those tables three
Were gathered quite a company,
And of those good things with a will,
Both one and all did eat their fill.

Once and again those tables 'round,

A new supply of guests was found,

And from the abundance there displayed,
Each one of them a dinner made;
Nor yet exhausted the supply

Of food and drink, though all kept dry,

For of the fragments there were still

Enough to many baskets fill.

The dinner through, the sports began, Down to the lake some walked, some ran,

Nor waited they for wind or tide,

But in the boats all took a ride:

And on the waters of the bay

Some pleasant hours thus passed away,

For all did seek with happy mind

Their mutual pleasure thus to find.

Of other pleasures, too, I sing,

For many did enjoy the swing,

And what, perhaps, was not the least,
All had of grapes abundant feast:
And thus throughout the livelong day
The happy hours did glide away,
For all seemed joyous thus to spend
A social picnic with their friend.

But earthly joys are not for aye,
They come and go without delay,
And as the shades of night came on,
The joyous throng had come and gone;
Leaving to memory's thoughtful care
The face of those so young and fair,
Who kindly once endured my rule
As teacher of their district school.

And now, kind friends, permit me here
To tender thanks to you sincere,
And when again you care to spend
A pleasant picnic with a friend,
Remember that I'll be at home,
Whene'er to see me you may come,
And do my best in every way
To help you pass a pleasant day.

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A FRIEND LOVETH AT ALL TIMES.

The patriot loves his native land,
With its rocks, and mounts and rills,
And e'en its very poorest strand,
His heart with rapture thrills;
But still that love may change and die,
Or pass to other climes,
Yet this great truth will still apply:
A friend loveth at all times.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

THOMAS C. HARBAUGH.

BORN: NEAR MIDDLETOWN, MD., JAN. 3, 1849. THOMAS CHALMERS HARBAUGH has written numerous poems of the events of the civil war. He has delivered many of his poems at regimental re-unions and grand army gatherings, and his presence always insures a large audience.

In 1883 Mr. Harbaugh published a

THOMAS C. HARBAUGH. volume of poems entitled Maple Leaves, which was favorably received by press and public. He hopes soon to publish another volume of his poems. Mr. Harbaugh devotes the whole of his time to literature, working in his study for two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon; and in his leisure hours he strolls around the fields and glens surrounding Casstown, Ohio-very often with rod and gun.

THE ROSE OF WATERLOO. How fragile art thou, little flow'r! And yet how very fair;

The fragrance of thy one brief hour
Still lingers on the air.

Thy home is where the god of war
Trod down the brave and true,
And where went out an empire's star,
O rose from Waterloo!

The soil that nourished thee was red
With blood one summer day;

It groaned beneath its weight of dead
Where nations fought for sway.
The royal Timor of his age
Was conquered where ye grew,
To die within his ocean cage,
Fair rose from Waterloo!
The Belgian lion guards the plain,
And Mars' baptismal font;
The spectres of the gallant slain
Stand guard at Hugomont.
Thy sisters in the soft starlight
Receive the spotless dew,

And wonder where thou art to-night,

O rose from Waterloo!

The cannon ruts, those scars of hate,
Have vanished with the years;

The cricket calls his timid mate
Where died the grenadiers.

The soaring lark her matins sings

Amid the balmy blue;

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With happy notes thy birth-place rings,

Sweet flower of Waterloo.

The lambkins sport where battle's wave

Beat high that fateful day,

And where the bravest of the brave

Went down, the children play.
The language that thy petals speak
They whisper 'neath the yew,
Till blushes crown the lassie's cheek,
O rose from Waterloo!

Now, as I look thee o'er and o'er,
And touch my lips to thine,

I hear the tide of war once more
Roll down the allied line!
But ah! the flags that floated then
Wave o'er a pensioned few,
And silent is thy native glen,
Lone rose from Waterloo!

GRANT DYING.
It seemed to me.. that yester-night
I heard the branches sighing
Beneath my window, soft and low:
.. The great war chief is dying!"
His marches o'er, his battles won,
His bright sword sheathed forever,
The grand old hero stands beside
The dark and silent river;
Whilst fame for him a chaplet weaves
Within her fairest bowers,

Of Shiloh's never-fading leaves,
And Donelson's bright flowers:
Grim Vicksburg gives a crimson rose,
Embalmed in deathless story,
And Appomattox adds a star

To crown the wreath of glory.
He's dying now!- the angel Death,
Insatiate and impartial,

With icy fingers, stoops to touch
The Union's old field-marshal,

388

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

Who, like a soldier brave, awaits

The summons so appalling,
While o'er the land, from sea to sea,
The silent tear is falling.

Still in his veterans' hearts to-day
His battle drums are beating;
His bugles always blew advance
With him was no retreating;
And tenderly, with moistened eye,
Columbia bends above him,
And everywhere the sorrowed heart
Tells how the people love him.
From golden-fruited orange groves
To where the pines are sighing,
The winds waft messages of love
To Grant, the hero, dying.

The Old World sends across the waves,
A token of its sorrow;
The greatest chief alive to-day
May fall asleep to-morrow.

--

O touch the hero gently, Death!-
The land is filled with weeping;
And be his passing like a child's -
The counterfeit of sleeping.
A million boys in blue now stand
Around their dying brother;

The mighty world know but one Grant, "Twill never know another.

So let him die with honors crowned
To live fore'er in story;

The fields he won, the land he saved,
Will be his lasting glory.

O mighty Ajax of the North!
Old field-martial immortal!

My saddened heart's with thee to-day
Before the darkened portal.

I listened to the winds last night,
How mournful was their sighing!

It seemed to me a nation's sobs

O'er Grant, the soldier, dying.

O touch him, touch him softly, Death-
Insatiate and impartial;

He is the Union's mightest chief
My cherished old field-marshal!

PALMETTO AND PINE.
Once again the flow'rs are falling
On the gallant and the true,
Who to-day are sweetly dreaming
'Neath the canopy of blue.

"Tis for them we weave the chaplet,
'Tis for them that we entwine
The leaves of the palmetto

With the branches of the pine.
Ah! methinks their drums are beating
In their long deserted camps,
And I seem to hear the music

Of their grand and martial tramps. But I know they march no longer

Where the stars of southland shineOn the crest of the palmetto,

And the plumage of the pine. Where the waters in their beauty Oft through groves of orange run, Where the rivers seek the ocean Thro' the shadow and the sun, Sleep the boys who did their duty On the lurid battle line, Some around the tall palmetto, Others underneath the pine. Once their camp-fires lit the darkness, Once their snowy tents were spread Where the bluebird woos his sweetheart, And the lily lifts her head.

Long ago o'er hill and valley,

Stretched their gleaming picket lines, From the fair sun-kiss'd palmettoes To the shadow of the pines.

O'er a country undivided

Peace hath spread her gentle wings,
Where the cannon hoarsely thundered,
'Neath a leaf the cricket sings;
And in hamlet, home and city,
Lovely hands sweet chaplets twine
For the graves beneath palmetto,
And the mounds around the pine.
There are many gallant comrades
Who from war will never come;
They are those whose hearts beat gladly
At the rattle of the drum.
Over them from night till morning
There's a guardianship divine,
And above them bend in beauty
The palmetto and the pine.
Many a patient one is waiting
In an aureole of pray'r,
And upon the shrouded hearthstone
Stands to-day a vacant chair;
Waiting for the hero sleeping

Where the dark and dreamy vine
Seeks the heart of the palmetto,
And the coronets of pine.
Lips to be will chant their praises,
Ages yet will come to tell
How they marched to loyal music,
How they fought and how they fell;
And each year will grateful Freedom
Deck anew her sacred shrines
For the sleepers 'neath palmetto,
For her sons among the pines.
In their silent camps of glory,
Stretching far from sea to sea —
Reaching from the land of snowflakes
To the shade of cypress tree,
Lie to-day our blue-clad warriors
On an endless battle line-
Guarding still their loved palmetto,
Keeping free the waving pine.

Buds and blossoms sweet are falling,

On the tender and the true,
And the land we love does homage

To her chevaliers in blue;

While the flag for which the bravest Pour'd their blood like crimson wine, Waves aloft in spangled grandeur

Over palmetto and pine!

Let it float! They fell around it,

On the land and on the foam,
From the fire and smoke of carnage
Gallantly they bore it home;
And till time is time no longer,
May its stars with splendor shine
On the home of the palmetto,

And the birthland of the pine!

THE JINGLE OF THE BELLS. Ah! the fleecy flakes are falling

Through the frosty winter night, And December's winds are calling Us to scenes of rare delight! There are roguish eyes that glisten, As the snow of pleasure tells; And the rustic sweethearts listen For the jingle of the bells

For the jingle and the tingle
Of the merry winter bells.
In the Cupid-haunted valley,
"Twixt the old hills lying low,
Where the summer breezes dally,
Falls the lover-cherished snow;
Oh! the silence of to-morrow

Will be broken in the dells!
And the heart will gladness borrow
From the jingle of the bells —
From the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
Of the never-ceasing bells.
Jingle! jingle! in the starlight,
Tinkle tinkle! in the dark,
Gliding swiftly toward the far light
In the window but a spark!
There can be no joys completer

Than the ones the snow foretells; Ah! my darling, what is sweeter Than a kiss behind the bells

As they jingle, jingle, jingle O'er the snow, the sleighing bells! Life is but a dream of pleasure

That returns with every snow, Winter fills to-day the measure Emptied often long ago. 'Neath the cutter's furry covers Many a heart with rapture swells, And the merry laugh of lovers Greets the jingle of the bellsGreets the laughter and the jingle Of the ever-merry bells. On the road and in the wildwood Nature dons a robe of white,

And the happy laugh of childhood
Will be heard to-morrow night!
Everywhere the bells will jingle
'Neath the starry sentinels,
And the lassie's cheek will tingle
With the kiss the sound impels ---
With a kiss that gently mingles
With the laughter of the bells.
Oh, the bells my heart remembers,
With their music soft and low!
Oh, the sleigh bells of Decembers
Buried in the long ago!

I remember eyes that glistened
When the snow was in the dells;
I remember ears that listened
For the jingle of the bells

For the jingle, jingle, jingle
Of the rich December bells.

MRS. SARAH J. BLOUNT.

BORN: STOWE, VT., JUNE 17, 1842. UNDER the nom de plume of Beth Thorne, many bright verses have appeared from the pen of this lady in the Chicago Inter-Ocean and other papers of equal prominence. Mrs. Blount has held prominent positions in the Grange as lecturer, master, etc.

MY MORNING GLORIES.
Out on the porch each morning I stand,
At sunrise's dewy hour,

Training the vines with a tender hand,
Loving each dainty flower.

Sweet flowers that to the morning light
Their loveliness enfold,

And fairest hues of heaven smite
With sunrise's brightest gold.
Over the vines of tenderest green,
Blossoms of every hue,

Purple and daintiest white I ween,
And fairest shades of blue.

Some have the tint of the sea-shell caught,
And others the rose 's red,

While some have brightest crimson brought
The emerald vine to wed.

At sunset hour of purple and gold,
Only vines and leaves of green;
At dawn from silken buds unrolled,
Bright flowers in silken sheen.

I do not envy the rich their gold,
Their gems and jewels rare,
The while my morning glories unfold
Their blossoms to my care.

Their dainty beauty and purity,
With every sense I drink,

And their influence lingers round one
To keep me pure I think.

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MARGARET FAULK.

BORN: CLARKSTOWN, OHIO.

MISS FAULK follows the profession of teaching. Her poems have been published quite

MARGARET FAULK.

frequently in the eastern journals. She now resides in Beaver, Pennsylvania.

MAY.

The last of May! its close-so near,
The crowning days of another year;
The fresh sweet flowers opening to bloom,
Are strewn at the toilet, and over the tomb,

The fairest and sweetest of roses,
Are strewn where the hero reposes.

The thirtieth day, has come -'tis here,
The old spangled banner has many a year
In triumph waved on land and sea,
Emblem of peace and liberty.

This day in peace she waves,
Over her country's braves.

Oh, the charming month of May,
Queen of the year, must pass away;

A smile for the living - for the dead a tear-
As we march along the rest of the year;
Smiles like the sunshine, tears as the dew,
In the great grand army of the brave and
true.

The crowning day of all sometime,

Will dawn up in another clime;
The valiant soldier then will shine,

In glittering crowns pure and divine,
With never-fading flowers,
Found in celestial bowers.

A SOLDIER'S PICTURE. Noble boy! all buttoned to the chin, That patriot heart must surely victory win, A smile upon those lips so sweetly plays! The full blue eyes that seem at me to gaze Are full of hope and beauty, Oh! for grace, That I may look again upon his smiling face. Noble soldier! off in the horseman's rank The fairest brow in all that loyal flank! The brightest locks, e'er fell on mortal brow, Speak more than gold; sweet liberty e'en now They seem to say: the glad, glad day is here, When liberty brings every heart a cheer! Gallant soldier! among the rebel crew, Where shot and shell in thickest volleys flew; That steed and armor through the battle came! All honor to the gallant soldier's name, ..But where is he? 'tis only this I see!

The picture and the rose he sent to me.

"A rebel rose," he said, "I send to thee,"

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The blue-eyed soldier and the dark-eyed maidAll passed those days of yore,- war is turned into peace,

Yet naught of his return,-since war's release.
Dead,-ah no,- that picture telleth me
Of life,- of hope,- of purest liberty,
Of battle's way, of dreadful wounds and scars
So nobly borne through all the cruel wars:
Of vanquished foes with heart of living grace,
I yet may see my soldier's smiling face.

THE CHARITY MAN.
EXTRACT.

Beautiful oceans, gulfs, seas and lakes;
Beautiful raindrops and pretty snowflakes;
Beautiful sky in the blue far away;"
Beautiful earth in its mantle of gray; [plan
But the dearest and loveliest of God's holy
Was when he created the charity man.
Beautiful mountains, valleys and hills;
Beautiful rivers and rippling rills;
Beautiful sun in his glorious light;
Beautiful moon and stars so bright;
All the works of God's great plan,
But none to equal the creation of man.

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