46 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. I a child again am kneeling In the splendor of thy light. On yon heights of sunset mountains, Life is dreary, filled with pain, Araluen! child of laughter, Would that life were young to me; Filled with dreams of some hereafter, Bright, and beautiful, and free! Evermore with thee to ponder, By the river's ceaseless flow; Evermore with thee to wander, Where the tangled roses grow. While the cricket in the thicket, By the swiftly-flowing stream, Guards for aye the golden wicket To the fairy land of dream! DRIFTING. O fairest maid of rarest days, Pomona's child with golden tresses! I loiter in thy sylvan ways, My heart is warm with thy caresses. And o'er again, as in a dream, I voice the words the spell is wreathing, As in the reeds beside the stream Pandean pipes are lowly breathing. I think of one whose starry eyes, And laughter through the woodland ring ing, And shy caresses, and tender sighs, And like Ausonian king of old, I listen to the wood-nymph's pleading, While this poor form of human mold Plods sadly after fancy's leading. O river rippling to the sea, Thy silver waters, softly stealing In shadowed beauty o'er the lea, Awake the slumbrous chords of feeling. And on thy waves of rosy light, Seen in my boyhood's happy vision, I'm drifting from the shores of night, To isles of rest in realms Elysian. DROPPED DEAD. Stranger he was to the pitiless throng, Viewing his corpse as they bore him along, Heedless for aye of their laughter and song Dropped dead! LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 47 But raging hurricanes, in tumult hurled, wise. Weak doubting heart receive the lesson taught: Beyond each storm of grief a blessing lies, Becalmed within the center of God's thought. THE ISLAND SPRING. Far from shore, where salt seas only Not a blade of floweret tender Nestles to its rocky breast Through the warmth of summer splendor, But as pure as from the mountain Fresh and clear, though all surrounded Never once its laugh confounded By the hostile, dashing tide; Singing always with a spirit Envying not the high-born spring; Satisfied to just inherit Dreams of wayside blossoming. Canst thou recognize the presage, O my heart, with better trust? Canst thou read a heavenly message On this tablet of the dust? God will bid a fount of gladness Spring from out thy rock-bound soul, Free from every tone of sadness, Though wild seas around thee roll. Thou shalt sing the same glad measures Caroled in earth's fairest bowers, Though bereft of life's green pleasures And a world of dewy flowers. COBWEBS. Meshes touched with the morning-mist, Sheer enough for the ghosts of fairies; Gossamer forms that the vapor kissed To the verge of a dream as light as the air is; Discs of pearl from the fences that swing; Glittering patches of veiling drawn over Meadow-grasses where night-damps cling; SUBMISSION. Not on seas of wild commotion, Not on such the mirrored glory Of the great protecting sky; Waves but sigh along the shore But, when every sound is muffled, By a faint, disturbing breath, Then the image of its glory Answers all the watching sky; Humbled waves repeat the story In adoring ecstacy. AN APOLOGY. Please send us some Thanksgiving verses," The editor writes in July, While Sol's very hottest of curses The mercury's passions defy. I wipe the warm dews from my forehead, And write up the pudding and turkey To the foot of Parnassus I wander To borrow the famed winged steed, Full conscious that Mother Goose's gander Is more apropos of my need. "Come, Pegasus, come," I go calling — No whinnies send welcome reply; Instead comes an impish voice bawling: The help that you'll get's in your eye. I reach, with much toiling, the summit, come it, The well of the Muses is dry. " "They, skylarking Nine, with Apollo, MISSING. Late at night I saw the Shepherd On His face I saw the anguish, Oft his voice rang thro' the darkness Far away the truant, sleeping Lay, unconscious of its danger, But at last the Shepherd found it- Then I saw the Eastern spaces ལ LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. EMMELINE B. WELLS. BORN: PETERSHAM, MASS., FEB. 29, 1828. THIS lady has been connected with the editorial staff of the Woman's Exponent since 1875, and has been the sole editor and publisher since 1877. She has written verses from her MRS. EMMELINE BLANCHE WELLS. childhood, and will at some future time publish them in book-form. Mrs. Wells has attended conventions of women in Washington and other places; presented memorials to congress: called upon presidents and senators and members of the House in the interests of Utah, in which state she resides at Salt Lake City. AT EVENING. How softly fall the evening shadows pale, Golden and purple sunsets blend and fade; Night robes earth quietly with mantling veil, And peace and rest the gentle hour pervade. Great nature soothing with her potent power, Breathes to the world-worn heart her sympathy; And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound hour, The mem'ries of the past steal tenderly. Athwart the scene the moon with golden trail As erst with pitying glance and mellowed light, 49 Sweeps thro' the empty space with steady sail, And floods with beauty the enchanted night. It is the hour for sweet and tender thought And whisperings of the life that is to be,And Faith and Trust with holy impulse fraught, Speak to the soul in nature's poetry. Unconscious of ourselves we sink to sleep And bright-robed beings round our couches stray, In sacred stillness holy vigils keep, And night assumes the sceptre of her sway. THE DEAR OLD GARDEN. My dear old garden still I cail it mine; And mine it is, for in its grateful shade Of ev'ry tree, and shrub and flow ring vine, My children and my children's children play'd. 'Round these my aching heart instinctive clings, And they to me are sweet and tender things. Under those trees I've sauntered to and fro, In search of hidden gems of precious thought, Perchance some wayward fancies all aglow Have been in chains of measur'd rhythm caught, For rustling leaves, and sighing boughs have stirred The depths of love, no living voice hath heard. And here young lovers, plighted vows have given, And scaled them with the first fond lingering kiss That hallows love, and makes earth seem a heav'n, A sweet enchanted dream of rapt'rous bliss When two pure hearts, in confidence and truth, Unite their joys and hopes in early youth. These trees and shrubs, and ev'ry bush and vine, We've watched from tiniest seed and stem; Why then should I not always call them mine? For in my heart of hearts I treasure them. No matter how neglected now they be They were a part of my home life to me. Yes, I remember sitting there so well, With baby in my arms and children 'round; And a sweet peace hung o'er me like a spell, While the white blossoms fluttered to the ground; For the young apple trees were just in bloom And we were breathing in their sweet per fume. X 50 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. O, how the childish voices loud and clear, Rang out in laughter and in merry song; No wonder that to me the place is dear, To which so many memories belong; O, would those days but come to me again "Twould ease my heart of all this racking pain. O, little ones, 'mong the long tangled grass, Where buttercups and clover nestled down; Or like a shadow flitting as you pass, To gather hollyhocks in silken gown, Or pull the morning glories from the vine Which gaily 'round the fav'rite tree entwine. MEMORY OF THE SEA. In the midnight hour, a memory Swept like music o'er my soul As I stood in silent reverie, Where the surging billows roll; Minor music, sad and sorrowing, Full of trembling, full of tears, Ever like the ocean's murmuring, Bringing back the tide of years. Telling of the long forgotten In the cycles of the past, Of the nations crushed and broken As I listened so entrancing Was the music of the sea; And my broken heart-strings shivering Of the music deep and strong O, such music, weird and mournful, How far off the dreamy vision To the murmuring in the sea. And the ever constant beating |