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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
MRS. MARY A. A.SENTER.
A form that seem'd like a truant from heaven,
And that nerer sinn'd, but to be forgiven. BORN: GREAT FALLS, N. H., SEPT. 1, 1835.
Though death was so stern, he left the trace Tais lady was educated at New Haven, Conn., or a boly smile on her calm white face; and at Northfield, N. H. Her father was a
Methinks 'twas a shade that the spirit had cast noted Methodist clergy man. She married
As away from that temple so lovely it pass'd.
IT MATTERS NOT.
Fall in my life's short day,
Burst from my lips alway.
And darkness gathers now,
My weary aching brow.
That I must journey through,
or Him who suffered too.
Its glitter nor its show,
I all your sorrows know.
To this vain world of sin,
And Jesus reigns within.
I stand on death's lone shore,
To gently bear me o'er.
WILT THOU COME NOT THEN? the town of Exeter, N. H. The poems of Mrs. When at last the twilight falleth, Senter are distinguished for their classic
And the shadows come apace, beauty, deep feeling, and delicate descriptive And around me friendship calleth, power.
Many a dear familiar face,
Wilt thou come not then?
When my life has almost drifted
To the far-off golden shore, And on wings of purity vanished away,
Ere the curtain is uplifted, While she raised her hand in the gesture of Hiding heaven never more, prayer,
Wilt thou come not then? That the God of Heaven would welcome it When my eyes with earnest pleading, And the tears roll'd down her cheek of snow, Look for those that are most dear, As she murmur'd it forth in accents so low, As my life is fast receding, That you saw but the motion her pale lips Shall I know that thou art near? gave,
Wilt thou come not then? While her bosom heaved like a swelling wave.
Ere my voice is hushed forever, And her white hands shook as she held them And my eyes are closed for aye, in air,
Ere my hands can clasp thine never, And like autumn leaves they seem'd wither Ere the angels bear away, ing there,
Wilt thou come not then? Till like autumn leaves they fell to rest,
Must the golden bowl be broken, On a pulseless heart and silent breast.
And the vale of shadow past, And thus death had won for its chamber so Ere I hear the dear word spoken, dark,
Saying I have come at last? With an arrow that ne'er had miss'd its mark,
I shall see thee then!
Dream not helm and harness
The sign of valor true: Peace hath higher tests of manhood
Than battle ever knew.
SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.
Lay by! lay by!” they called to him.
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
By the women of Marblehead!
Through the street, on either side,
Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!”
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, common school education: yet, on becoming of age, he assumed the editorship of a paper, and has ever since devoted himself to literature. Although he has written both prose and poetry, he is chiefly distinguished as a poet, borrowing his inspiration largely from current events. The best poems of Mr. Whittier are: Maud Muller, My Psalm, My Playmate, Snow Bound and Centennial Hymn. His principal prose works are Old Portraits and Modern Sketches, and Literary Recreations. In the poems of Whittier we find masculine vigor combined with womanly tenderness; a fierce hatred of wrong, with an all-embracing charity and love. He is unmarried, and has resided at Amesbury, Massachusetts, since 1840.
Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Cut the rogues tether and let him run!”
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead?
EXTRACTS. The riches of a commonwealth Are free, strong minds and hearts of health,
THE BAREFOOT BOY. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan; With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! From my heart I give thee joy: I was once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art: the grown-up man Only is republican.. Let the million-dollared ride: Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou bast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye Outward sunshine, inward joy. Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase; of the wild-flower's time and place: Flight of fowl, and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell; How the woodchuck digs his cell; And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young; How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lillies blow; Where the freshest berries grow; Where the groundnut trails its vine; Where the wood-grupe's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay; And the architectural plans Of gray hornet-artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all te asks. Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy: Blessing on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for! I was rich in flowers or trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry-cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden-wall, Talked to me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond;
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Maud Muller, on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast,A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.
When he hummed in court an old love tune;
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Thanks!" said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor And all should bless me who left our door.” The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still: “A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. “And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. “Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her a harvester of hay. ..No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, But low of cattle, and song of birds And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
And the young girl mused beside the well,
BORN: MARCH 26, 1859. In New England the name of Robert Rexdale, journalist, is well known as the author of Saved by the Sword, a novel, published at Boston, Mass., early in 1889. But as a poet be gained an enviable reputation at a much earlier age, and in 1886 appeared his Drifting Songs and Sketches, a volume of verse and
Though we mingle no more
On that magical shore, Where brightly the sunlight is shining!
There are raptures tbat blend
When the shadows descend, And life to its close is declining.
For the stars will arise
In our evening skies, The blossoms will bloom in the heather!
While so trustful and true,
We will look to the blue,
Is sacred to the muse of song!
And bid the fainting soul be strong.
With gems that flash like morning rays, She gives us music for each wound, And bids the spirit lift its gaze
To skies blue-arched above the mound. If olden memories of tears,
The ghosts of unforgotten pain, Rise through the mournful mists of years! She sings of undiscovered spheres,
And solace brings the weary brain. O sentient Lyre! O breathing Shell!
Thy mission to the world we own; Since in the light of thy sweet spell, That star-like o'er the desert shone,
New scenes of beauty rise and dwell. So heavenward, on triumphant wings, Take flight, tired heart! and end thy
quest. Where Music's wand hath touched the
springs, And love is in the song she sings,
There flow the crystal streams of Rest.
prose. Among poets he is best known as the author of Transit of Venus, a mythological poem of much strength and beauty. He is entirely self-educated, being apprenticed to the printers' trade when he was but thirteen years old. His literary career dates from 1880. Mr. Rexdale is yet unmarried. Since 1885, becoming actively engaged in journalism, he has been assistant editor of the Portland Sunday Times; and as poet, novelist and newspaper man, he enjoys a reputation achieved by but few men before their thirtieth year,
THE CRICKET. Araluen, vexed and weary
With the dreamy summer day, Said the cricket's song was dreary,
Thought the shadows cold and gray. . Little maiden, little maiden,"
Seemed the cricket's chant to be, .. Life to-day with love is laden,
God is good to you and me.” Sang the cricket in the thicket,
By the swiftly-flowing stream; Softly ope'd the golden wicket,
To the fairy land of Dream! Stars of Elfand! faintly stealing
Through the mists that fold the night,
IN THE GLOAMING.
Of a mist-bidden stream,
But their light, as it nears,
Shall illumine the years Where waters of Lethe are flowing.