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CHARLES W. HILLS. BORN: MAYFIELD, OHIO, JULY 30, 1840. MANY of the poems of Mr. Hills have appeared in the New Eclectic Magazine, and have been very favorably received by press and

One trod the sands with me.
What word to-day of him whose feet

Were swift to run in pathways dim?
How wrought be in the dust and heat?

The plodder, what of him?
The duller wight o'ertops the crowd,

The bolder delves with willing hands;
One dares the storm and fronts the cloud,

One cowers amid the sands.
Ah! slow to hail the princely-born,

And spirit darkling swift to chide:
The taper lit at early morn
Burns low at eventide.

THEY CAME NO MORE.
A lordly castle fair to see!

The sloping beams of early suns
Nlume its chambers royally;

Hard by, a tranquil river runs,
In shadow, to the sea.
Long years ago, ere moss and rime

And storm bad blackened roof and walls,

A maid abode within those halls, In woman's dreamy wooing-time. The maiden's birth was half divine:

Her sire had walked among the stars;

The king, long heir of names and wars,
Could boast no bigher line.
And troops of suitors from afar,

To whom this thing was told,
Some clad in vestments silken, rare,

And some in shining gold,
Came, singing, to the radiant gates,-
Go tell the maid what suitor waits

To breathe the olden story;
Around her life, a wedded wife,

Shall dawn an added glory."
But still the warder from within

Made answer as the wooers came,-
Who weds my charge must be of kin
To deathless gods, or bear a name

Of new renown or ancient fame."
And worthy lovers, day by day,

Withdrew with humbled pride;
Each, grieved and silent, turned away,

To seek a willing bride.
But now, when winter hours are long,

No footfall breaks the snow,
Not one of all the vanished throng

Returns to woo.
Unmated, hopeless, desolate,

The faded damsel rules her own,
And, scowling, by the castle gate

The baffled warder sits alone.
This legend shows in stone: -
..When strangers knock give prompt response,

Unbar the door;
For guests forbade to enter once
Return no more."

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CHARLES W. HILLS. public. Mr. Hills is now a resident of Washington, D. C., where he is well known and highly respected as a scholar and a gentleman.

STATUARY.
Half to the ear, half to the eye,

The sculptor's marble forms belong;
The group, in postured symmetry,

Is but embodied song.
The severed bud, the broken vase,

The stricken bird in act to drop,
The column perfect at the base

But shattered at the top,
The lamb at rest, the angel white,

The pillar wound with sombre crape,
Are anthems palpable to sight,

And dirges turned to shape.
The voice of music dies away,

But art arrests a truant tone
Within her charmed halls astray,

And turns it into stone.

BROTHERS. I walked abroad at eventide,

With brothers twain, to view the sea: One climbed the cliffs with haughty stride,

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

513

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

BORN: GREENFIELD, IND., 1854. MR. RILEY in his youth led rather a wandering life – traveling from place to place as a sign writer, sometimes simulating blindness in order to attract custom. He thus acquired a knowledge of men. For some time he performed in a theatrical troupe. In 1875 he began to contribute to the local papers verses in the

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IN BOHEMIA.
Ha! My Dear! I'm back again -

Vendor of Bohemia's wares!
Lordy! How it pants a man
Climbing up those awful stairs!

Well, I've made the dealer say
Your sketch might sell, anyway!
And I've made a publisher

Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.
In Bohemia, Kate, my dear -

Lodgers in a musty flat
On the top floor – living here
Neighborless, and used to that,-

Like a nest beneath the leaves,
So our little home receives
Only guests of chirping cheer-

We'll be bappy, Kate, my dear!
Under your north-light there, you

At your easel, with a stain
On your pose of Prussian blue,
Paint your bits of shine and rain;

With my feet thrown up at will
O'er my littered window-sill,
I write rhymes that ring as clear

As your laughter, Kate, my dear. Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair –

Bite my pencil-tip and gaze
At you, mutely mooning there
O'er your . Aprils " and your .. Mays!"

Equal inspiration in
Dimples of your cheek and chin,
And the golden atmosphere

of your paintings, Kate, my dear! Trying! Yes, at times it is,

To clink happy rhymes, and fling
On the canvas scenes of bliss,
When we are half famishing!-

When your jersey " rips in spots,
And your hat's .. forget-me-nots
Have grown touled, old and sere-

It is trying, Kate, my dear!
But- as sure - some picture sells,

And — sometimes — the poetry -
Bless us! How the parrot yells
His acclaims at you and me!

How we revel then in scenes
Of high banqueting! - sardines -
Salads - olives -and a sheer

Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!
Even now I cross your palm,

With this great round world of gold?«Talking wild?" Perhaps I am Then, this little five-year-old!

Call it anything you will,
So it lifts your face until
I may kiss away that tear
Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. western dialect, which he found more popular than serious poetry. He afterward found regular employment on the Indianapolis Journal, and in that newspaper many of his poems have appeared from time to time. The collected works of James Whitcomb Riley are Old Swimmin' Hole and 'Leven More Poems, Boss Girl and Other Sketches, and in 1887 appeared Afterwhiles, and Character Sketches and Poems. The narrative of his poems and sketches are connected with prose, thus making them stand out more boldly, and also giving more life thereto.

The name of James Whitcomb Riley as a great poet has become especially prominent the last few years, his poems having been extensively quoted from, in the journalistic press throughout the country; and in consequence, his works have met with great success.

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

BORN: MENDHAM, N. J., MAY 10, 1818. MR Coxe has devoted his life to christianity, and is now Second Bishop of western New York, a position he has held since 1865. This gentleman has made various valuat le contributions to theological iearning, biblical criticism, and church literature. He published several volumes of poems before receiving ordination. In 1877 appeared the well known poem The Ladye Chase. Christian Ballads, bis best known volume of poems, appeared in 1845, and became so popular that it was reprinted in England in 1850.

WOMEN.
Magdalene hath seen and heard!
Gard'ner, we believe thy word.
But oh! where is Jesus fled,
Living and no longer dead?
Tell us, that we too may go
Where tbe Rose and Lily grow.

MAGDALENE.
Come, the stone is rolled away;
See the place where Jesus lay;
See the lawn that wrapp'd his brow;
Here the angel sat but now.
Seek not here the Christ," he said;
Seek not life among the dead."

EASTER MADRIGAL.

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS.

BORN: CHATHAM, OHIO, Aug. 12, 1854. Edith was educated at the Geneva normal institute of her native state. She has contributed largely to periodicals, and has published in book form A New Year's Masque and Other Poems, The Round Year in 1886, and in 1887 Lyrics and Sonnets.

MARY AND SALOME.
Tell us, Gard'ner dost thou know
Where the Rose and Lily grow,
Sharon's Crimson Rose and pale
Judah's Lily of the Vale?
Rude is yet the opening year,
Yet their sweetest breath is here.

GARDENER. Daughters of Jerusalem, Yes, 'tis here we planted them: "Twas a Rose all red with gore, Wondrous were the thorns it bore! 'Twas a body swathed in white, Ne'er was Lily half so bright.

THE WOMEN.
Gentle Gard'ner, even so,
What we seek thou seem'st to know.
Bearing spices and perfume,
We are come to Joseph's tomb:
Breaks e'en now the rosy day;
Roll us, then, the stone away.

GARDENER.
Holy women: this the spot.
Seek him, but it holds him not.
This the holy mount of myrrh,
Here the hills of incense were,
Here the bed of his repose,
Till, ere dawn of day -- He rose.

THE FOUNTAINS OF THE RAIN. The merchant clouds that cruise the sultry sky, As soon as they have spent their freight of rain Plot how the cooling thrift they may regain; All night along the river-marsh they lie, And at their ghostly looms swift shuttles ply To weave them nets wherewith the streams to

drain; And often in the sea they cast a seine, And draw it dripping, past some headland high. Many a slender naiad with a sigh, Is in their arms uptaken from the plain; The trembling myrmidons of dew remain No longer than the flash of morning's eye, Then back unto their misty fountains fly:This is the source and journey of the rain.

MAGDALENE.

Yes, my name is Magdalene:
I myself the Lord have seen.
Here I came, but now, and wept
Where I deem'd my Saviour slept.
But He called my name -- and lo?
Jesus lives, 'tis even so.

GARDENER.
Yes, the mountains skipped like rams;
Leaped the little hills like lambs.
All was dark, when shook the ground,
Quaked the Roman soldiers round,
Streamed a glorious light, and then
Lived the Crucified again.

HOMESICK. This were a miracle, if it could be! Jf, never loitering since the prime of day, Since kissing the cool lips of Northern May, This drowsy wind, at evening, brought to me The fragrant spirit of the apple-tree; Or, if so far sweet sounds could make their way, That I should hear the robin's twilight lay Float o'er a thousand leagues of foamy sea! Now, save I know those eyes exchange no

beams With yonder star (so curves the earth between,, I'd say: My friend doth fnom his casement

lean, And charge Canopus, by his pilot-gleams, To bear love to my port, and lovely dreams Of homeward slopes new-clothed with summer

green.

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