426

SIMEON TUCKER CLARK.

BORN: CANTON, MASS., OCT. 10, 1836. WHEN but fourteen years of age Simeon Tucker Clark determined that he would make his life a success, and he certainly has succeeded in a marked degree. He has obtained the Master's degree in arts, become a doctor in medicine, and holds many positions of pro

SIMEON TUCKER CLARK.

minence. His writings have appeared in the magazines of Appleton, Scribner, Godey, Peterson, and other publications, from which they have been extensively copied by the periodical press from Maine to California. As a lecturer, Dr. Clark has always attracted enthusiastic audiences. Besides his successful practice as a physician, Dr. Clark is an indefatigable student, and is a member of many of the most important scientific bodies in the United States. His place of residence is Rockport, in the state of New York.

In yonder well worn case we seek
The dead man's fondest friend!
His violin. He touched and heard
The soul-throbs of that instrument,
And every pressure, every word,
With his caress was blent.
His viol. Raise with reverent fear
And press it to your tear-stained cheek
As was his wont, and you shall hear

What words the dead would speak!
Hear them and heed, but not repeat,
There are so few that understand
The Sons of Genius, till their feet
Have touched death's silent land!
To speak were casting pearls away;
Who needs to be forgiven, forgives!
Where night is lost in endless day
Our great musician lives!
We who have loved will not forget
The rosy-thorny path he trod!
Beyond upbraiding or regret
We leave him safe with God!

AFTER THE HARVEST.

The wonders of harvest are manifold

As mystical words from the sphinx of old, When over the meadows the sheaves are rolled,

The barley like silver, the wheat like gold;

But the darkest riddle of life is told,
When love like the grain, for a price is sold!
Janett and I with the reapers wrought
As a lowly lad and a lassie ought,
When little is said, but much is thought;
What did I garner but sorrow? Naught!
As over the meadows the sheaves we rolled;
And barley was silver and wheat was gold!
She was a woman wondrous fair,

A score of summers had sunned her hair;
My lips were beardless, my brown cheeks bare;
For sixteen seasons had brought no care
If barley was silver, or wheat was gold-
Or love, like the grain, for a price was sold!
This was the way my love was won-
She turned to me when our task was done,
As ripe grain turns to the glowing sun
Before the harvesting is begun!

A riddle alike to the young and old
When barley seems silver and wheat pure gold.
We kissed! Before, but a mother's kiss
Had blended with mine; but this, Oh! this
Discovered and filled my soul's abyss
With life's best vintage-a lover's bliss!
But the story of harvest will never be told;
And the wonders of loving are manifold!
Next day I wrought in the fields alone,
The heart in my bosom a blood-red stone,
For I heard the winds to the stubble moan;
The lord of these lands has wedded his own!"
When love like the grain for a price is sold,
No barley seems silver, no wheat like gold!

C. DREW.

BORN: ALEXANDRIA, VA., JAN. 6, 1820. IN 1833 Mr. Drew entered Gale's & Seaton's office in Washington as an assistant to one of the proof-readers, where, by way of pastime he soon picked up a knowledge of type setting. In 1845 he became associated with James M. Davis in the publication of The

C. DREW.

American, at Washington. Three years later he removed to Florida and published a newspaper in Jacksonville, where he finally opened a book store, which is still conducted on a good scale by his sons - Horace Drew & Bro. Mr. Drew served four years as state comptroller of Florida, and he has also held other public positions of trust. The poems of Mr. Drew have appeared from time te time in the periodical press since his youth.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

I marked a lonely grave among
The mansions of the dead,
Where slept an humble child of song,
His notes forever fled,
Save when their echoes gently stole
Back to the haunts where he
Poured forth the music of his soul
In numbers wild and free.

I knew it was the poet's grave,
Although no sculptured stone,

Nor urn, nor towering column, gave

His memory its own;

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Some loved one who had known his worth, Unable to do more,

Had smoothed the rugged mound of earth And turf'd it greenly o'er.

The sauntering crowd passed heedless by
That lowly place of rest,

To view the marble piled on high
Above the rich man's breast;
But they forget the wreath of love
That lives when gold and stone
Have perished from the earth above
And left the dust alone.

They knew not that the form laid nigh
By lowly, loving hands,

In memory's mystic alchemy

Would turn to golden sands;

For had they felt one throb that stirred

The loving hearts that knew

The poet's grave, their ears had heard
His lingering music too.

The crowd will linger by the scene

Where marble shafts uprise,

But some will seek the hillock green

And precious in their eyes;

For well they know who sleeps below,
Whose pillow they could crave --
The one below the shaft of snow,
Or 'neath the poet's grave.

THE FADED FACE.

There are faded faces we sometimes see
Haloed in eloquent mystery,
Even though every trace marked there
Be the sign of sorrow, the seal of care,
Often, it seems, a beautiful grace
Covers the lines of the faded face.

After the bloom of the fragile rose,
The petals fall as the summer goes,
And the rose tree sinks to its winter sleep,
In the valleys the germs of springtime keep;
But there's never a season, there's never a

place,

We read not the tale of a faded face.

If sight were ne'er glad with a rouge-leaf more, The mind could have spring-time o'er and

o'er,

And joy fill our souls as the seasons came: The breast should fill with shame, with shame, If we could not, in loving, before us spread The heart's repast of the leaves still red.

And every true heart should have a place
To keep the bloom of a faded face,
For love and fancy to paint sublime
With the brighter tints of an olden time-
Even its pallor will change and glow
For the heart that sees it turning so.

X

428

JAMES FRANCIS GELLETLY.

BORN IN SCOTLAND, 1848.

IN his youth James was apprenticed to the silversmiths' trade, at which he worked for six years, when he came to America. He has

JAMES FRANCIS GELLETLY. always taken a great interest in literature, and has a volume of poems that he hopes soon to place upon the market.

HOPE.

I am embarked on life's tempestuous sea,
I hear the roar

Of billows as they beat destructions shore
Awaiting me

The cloudy darkness deepens into night,
And the bright sheen

Of starry prospects now no more is seen
To shed its light.

Fear, passion, doubt, the treacherous friend, the foe

Strain hard my bark

That toils upon their surges in the dark,
Rocked to and fro.

Through deepening shades no longer will I

grope

My devious way,

I cast beneath the billows as they sway
The anchor Hope.

And while the warring elements fierce fight

With clamorous sound,

Here will I rest deep-grappled in the ground,

Waiting for light.

Oh God! On whose vast bosom I lay hold,
Hear! thou my prayer,

And give me patient fortitude to bear
Life's waters cold.

And in the fury of the muffled night,
While tempests roll,

[soul

Strengthen the cords that bind my wavering To thy great might.

can,

64

[aye Keeping a sharp look out for number one Most likely he'll die rich - at least in money. Doctors are formed of somewhat different stuff:

The minimum of wit allowed by law Will make out, if the stomach's strong enough To see dead negro paupers carved up raw; Still they must have for stock in trade " complete

Some little knowledge, and the rest conceit. Artists are built by unremitting toil,

Combined with natural taste and aptitude; But poets spring spontaneous from the soil, Wild flowers adorning herbiage the most

429

ADLINE SILLIMAN KIEFFER

BORN: MIAMI, Mo., AUG. 1, 1840.

FROM an early age this writer has coutributed both prose and verse to the press. He has followed the profession of printer and journalist, and is now part proprietor and

Love's fairy craft lies there,

Round which the sad winds sing: The tide went out, returned no more,Poor, stranded thing!

Where are the radiant forms
Whose gentle, lily hands

Once bound each other's golden curls
With silken bands?

Aye, they have perished too,
Along life's ocean strand:
The fire of love strewed ashes here
Upon the sand.

Light ghosts go tripping by :-
No perfume in their hair,

No song, no voice, no whispered breath
Disturbs the air.

O sea! O bark! O soul! O days that come no more! O Memory, why walk ye here This dreary shore?

KISSING BY THE WELL.

In the land of eastern story
Strewn with wrecks of ancient glory,
Like a lawn with autumn leaves,
There are ruins that surprise us,-
Temple walls whose age defies us,-
Broken shrines that solemnize us,-

Yet the heart for glory grieves.
In that land of faded glories,
Where the dust is full of stories

That no tongue can ever tell!
There's a spot I love to think of,
Where in olden days, the pink of
Eastern beauties came to drink of
Our old father Jacob's well.

Ah, those pretty maids of Sychem!
(Who with soul could help but like them!)
With their eyes of wondrous light?
Even yet the whispering fairies
Tell the loves of Ruths and Marys,
Gentle Magdalenes and Sarahs,

Round this olden well at night.

There in mystic, antique ages,
Prophets, bards and royal sages,

Told their loves when twilight fell;Breathed soft words in love's warm meas

ure:

Dreamed sweet dreams of fame and pleas

ure,

Drew sweet draughts of living pleasure From the heart's unfailing well.

By a well of living water

Jacob kissed old Laban's daughter-
Fair-faced Rachel, half-divine;
And though earth with age is hoary,

430

Still she owes one-half her glory,
More than half her sacred story,
Rachel, to that kiss of thine!

Though thy heart with dust hath blended,
Thy heart's love hath never ended!

Israel's daughters live to day!
Rachels, with their sunny faces
Still make glad the olden places,
Leaving on Time's page new traces,
As the old years, die away.

Lips of love! ah me, the blessing.
What, but for their sweet caressing

Were this tear-stained world of ours?
Lips of Love have soothed the weary
Lips of Love have blessed the dreary —
Making life's wild pathway cheery

With sweet smiles and sunny hours.

Gentle reader, boy or maiden,
If your heart with love is laden,

Kiss beside Life's wayside well,

Keep your young hearts pure and stain

I've oft watched the poor blind birdies
Gainst Liberty's Light dash and die,
And long at the Golden Gate tarried
With many a laugh and a sigh,

In my dreams.
I've heard Niagara's thundering roar,
And felt the damp spray in my face;
And I have gathered in Florida,
Moss, finer than exquisite lace.
I've crossed the tempestuous ocean
Quite often without any fear,
And wonderful thoughts have come to me
With only the sea and sky near,

In my dreams.

I've visited Shakespeare at Avon,
And Tennyson, Browning and Burns;
I've fished in the Lakes of Killarney;
In Scotland I've oft gathered ferns.
I've been the guest of Victoria,
I've looked at the weird Midnight Sun:"
I've traveled in every direction,

And O, but I've had fun, fun, fun,

In my dreams.

I've taken Bibles to heathendom,

And cheering words to workers there,
And freedom sweet to the shackled ones
Who blot Siberia, the fair;

I've rescued the weak from power's grip,
And happiness brought to the sad;
Why, I cannot tell all that I've done,
How glad I have been, glad, glad, glad,
In my dreams.

Been courted? Of course; and married too?
Yes, many a time, who has not?
With noblest and truest of lovers
I have lived in mansion and cot.

All lovers are knightly, maid noble,
And happiness easy to find;

But I'm not to tell all the secrets

Of this realm, you must mind, mind, mind, Of our dreams.

There's naught that is fine in the landscape, In poetry, music or art,

But touches me more as a memory

Than something quite new to my heart;
I've seen it, I've heard it, I've known it
Some time in the past, and it seems
A part of the infinite empire

I own and control in my dreams,