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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

SIMEON TUCKER CLARK.

BORN: CANTON, MASS., OCT. 10, 1836. WAEN 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

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 bear

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!

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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.

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 bad 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 1 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!

THE DEAD VIOLINIST. In grief, I sing for those alone

Whose heart-strings are so sadly strung, They only tremble when a moan

From Music's soul is wrung.
They dare to sit with me to-night,

Where, like a statue cold and still
The master lies – the man whose might

Brought smiles or tears at will!
Ask neither wife nor child to speak;

Nor man nor maid a word to lend.

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

His memory its own; Some loved one who had known his worth,

t'nable 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.

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 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.

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

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.

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

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.

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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.

THE ARTIFICIAL AND THE NATURAL. You take a yokel, lumbering in his walk,

And put him in your military school, Braced to a ramrod, teach him how to stalk,

And dress him like a monkey, or a fool, Boss him well down, and wheel him 'round

about, And you will turn a first-rate soldier out. To make a priest you take the « family

dunce," What little sense he has you strain away, Cram him with cant theology at once, (may

And mold, or dish him for what sect you Just as the French cooks fix up frogs or snails, Or pig-iron's fused and rolled out into rails. To make a lawyer – best to take a knave,

But sometimes you can work an honest man, If for some - paying office" he should crave And strives to stretch his conscience all he can,

[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

rude, And like the love-begetting mistletoe, Must ever flourish wild if they would grow.

RULE FOR INDIVIDUAL ACTION. When compassed 'round by factious zealots

who Would fain proscribe and prescribe from mankind,

[bind, Contemn the treacherous burdens they would Who gave the thy volition, gave thee too A monitor within – to that be true

And let none shackle thee in limb or mind,

And let no fog of logic make thee blind Concerning what thou shalt or shalt not do.

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,

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 bands
Once bound each other's golden curls

With silken bands?
Aye, they have perished too,

Along life's ocean strand:
The fireof lovestrewed 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!

0 days that come no more! O Memory, why walk ye here

This dreary shore?

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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,

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-

less, So shall Love's sweet life prove painless,And life's dream be not the gainless,

Joyless thing that poets tell.

DREAMS. Hideous dreams! terrible dreams! Visit my nights of despair;Wearisome birds are they, Clad in their sable and gray, Driven by storms on the spray O'er the shoreless Ocean of Time, Perching themselves on my bed, Pecking their bills in my heart; Flapping their wings on my head Lifting themselves with a start, Only to light again, To feast themselves on my brain; O horrible birds! terrible birds! Devilish dream-birds of prey!

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 0, 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 niore 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,

In my dreams.
Cloud-pictures, a rainbow, a sunset;

Ah! these have a mission, believe; He misses a glory worth having

Who will not their beauty perceive.
They've helped me to weave brightest fancies,

For them I am richer to-day:
Can beautiful dreams hurt one who feels
Reality's better than they?

Dear old dreams,

EVALINE WRIGHT NELSON.

Born: NEW LISBON, O., APRIL 13, 1854. This lady is a member of the Ohio Woman's Press Association, and is a regular correspondent to the Wellsville Daily Union. Both her prose and verse have appeared in some of the leading magazines, Miss Nelson is still a resident of her native town.

DREAMS.
This fair land of ours I've traversed

Without inconvenience or cost;
I've come, and I've gone, and none missed

me, The time - I have not counted lost.

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