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LOCAL AND NATIONAL. POETS OF AMERICA.

And in the sunlight careless bask,
Or view the sunny ripples' gleam.
But he is doomed to constant toil,
While riches glide with sunny sails;
They seem to have no weary moil,
But waft along with pleasant gales.
To him they seem a happy crew,
With plenty in a world of ease,
As glad as fancy ever drew,---

The fairest vision labor sees.

Yet his poor crew must watch the tide,
To see how well he meets its force,
While wealth and pleasure onward glide,
And careless view his anxious course.

At times they note his toiling way,
And mark the distance he may hold;
So wealth glides on to rest or play,
Comparing human toil to gold.

THE CRUELTY OF NECESSITY.

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O stern necessity! what cruel power
You exercise against the life of man!
How many conquered souls before you cower;
With what persistency you crush each

plan!

It's hard to have our tenement of clay

Besieged by such relentless, cruel force! Our minds are starved by your consuming

sway,

And lives cut off from every rich resource; Our time is taxed by a continued war,

So that our souls to poverty are doomed. E'en genius cannot always break your law; To such as those there is a double gloom, Because they know so much they could enjoy, Did you not constant give them mean employ.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.
On our eventful voyage of human life,

We have with us a large and motley crew; All navigators on a sea of strife,

And all in hopes to see the whole voyage through.

But while we labor on, what change is

wrought!

The old and able hands soon find their port, And leave to us the charge of toil and

thought,

While younger voyagers constantly report. With such we sail life's sea so swiftly on, The young soon gaining all our strength and skill,

Because the log is left of all that's gone,

And older hands are teaching with a will. So may our journals prove a fit resource, To help the future shape its onward course.

SARAH E. PULVER MCLEAN.

SIDNEY MCLEAN.

BORN: WATERLOO, N. Y., JUNE 26, 1854. SIDNEY MCLEAN commenced writing at the age of eighteen, and has contributed largely to the local press and leading pericdicals of

SARAH E. PULVER MC LEAN.

the country. Aside from her literary efforts she also follows the profession of music teacher in Rochester, N. Y., where she now resides.

MY LOVER.

What if my lover be dark, or fair-
I have no wish; I do not care-
If only his manly, honest face

Shows in each feature an inward grace.

What if my lover be tall, or slight

I do not care, if only his sight
Be lifted above earth's sordid care
To see God's handiwork, true and fair.
What if my lover be poor, or rich
To me it makes no difference which,
If only his heart be stanch and true,
His hand will lead me safely through.
What if my lover be famous, or no-
Fame may fade, or perchance may grow;
If he comes to me, his manhood clear
From the stain of sin, I will not fear.
Somewhere he tarries and waits for me -
Sometime his face I shall surely see.
For I shall know when my king I meet,
My soul will rise and his coming greet.

THE MASQUE.

Oh! the faces, faces, faces

Faces young and faces fair;

Faces smooth from lives of ease, and
Faces seamed by toil and care.

I stood upon a busy street

They passed me to and fro

Masques are they, thought I, and cover

The life that lies below.

Once in awhile, but rare, there passed,

A face so marred by sin,

That all the baseness stood revealed

No need to look within.

And standing there, this queer thought

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came-

Suppose that now and here

The masque of flesh should fall, and souls

Stand forth distinct and clear."

E'en as I thought, lo! it was done,

I started with affright;

All suddenly they stood, and were

As air is, thin and light.

But what a change! that woman's face,

So beautiful before,

Had lost its charm, for mark of Cain

She on the forehead bore.

And each sad feature of her soul,

Was hurt, and bore a scar;

The blood of innocents was there,

Its perfectness to mar.

And over there had been a form
Manly and full of grace,

His soul a very pigmy was,

And what a sin-scarred face.

But one, was he of that long line,
Who choose with sin to bide,
Content to follow fleshly lust,

And seek no other guide?

But there were some who walked beside,
Whose souls were pure and white,
And each of these on forehead had

A cross of dazzling light.

And thus they were, the bad and good,
Mixed as they went along
But this I saw the best of masques
To blackest souls belong.

I looked and looked till heart and brain.

Filled with such bitter pain,

That in an agony I cried,

"Oh, masque them all again!"

I drew a deep sigh of relief,
As each its flesh resumed,
The faces smiled and were so bright,
Their darkness not illumed.
And still the crowd went surging by,
Each had his cross to bear,
Which I saw not, and thanked my God
We bad a mask to wear.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

ELIZABETH B. STODDARD.

BORN: MATTAPOISETT, MASS., MAY 6, 1823. THIS lady is the wife of Richard H. Stoddard, the great American poet, whom she married when twenty-eight years of age. Soon after her marriage she began to contribute poems to the magazines. Her poems invariably contain a central idea, not always apparent at first, but always poetical though not generally understood by the average reader. Mrs. Stoddard has published three novels, and also a story for young folks - Lolly Dink's Doings.

What centuries are counted here- my books! Shadows of mighty men; the chorus, hark, The antique chant vibrates, and Fate compels!

A SUMMER NIGHT.

I feel the breath of a summer night,
Aromatic fire:

The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.

The white moths flutter about the lamp,
Enamored with light;

And a thousand creatures softly sing
A song to the night!

But I am alone, and how can I sing
Praises to thee?

Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul
That waiteth for me.

ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT. On my bed of a winter night,

Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream, What care I for the wild wind's scream? What to me is its crooked flight?

On the sea of a summer's day,
Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail,
What care I for the fitful gale,

Now in earnest, and now in play?

What care I for the fitful wind.

That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree? Groaning and sighing are nothing to me; For I am a man of steadfast mind.

THE COLONEL'S SHIELD. Your picture, slung about my neck, The day we went a-field,

Swung out before the trench;
It caught the eye of rank and file,
Who knew. The Colonel's Shield."

I thrust it back, and with my men
(Our general rode ahead
We stormed the great redoubt,
As it were an easy thing,

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Beneath these battlements

My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king,
My tomb remains!

When Rome commanded the earth
Great were the Metelli:

I was Metella's wife;

And loved him--and I died.

Then with slow patience built he this memorial: Each century marks his love.

Pass by on the Appian way The tomb of Cecilia Metella: Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter, Wild buffaloes tramp at its base. Deep is its desolation,

Deep as the shadow of Rome!

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

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CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER.

BORN: FAYETTE CO. ILL., JULY 16, 1860. ON both sides he is of German extraction. the name Phifer, Pifer, or Fifer, three generations back in the family's history spelled Pfeffer; and his mother's maiden name being Heisler. Reared on a farm until 1870, in which year his father died, Charley attended the district school; then, his mother having removed to the county capital, Vandalia, he soon after began learning the printers' trade;

CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER. and graduated from the public schools of that city in 1880. In 1881 he became editor of the Fayette County News. Removing to California, Mo., in 1883, he started a job printing office and for nearly a year run a little sheet called Phifer's Paper, which gained quite a local reputation for humor. Selling the subscription to the paper, in 1888 he run, in connection with his job office, a campaign paper styled the Semi-Weekly Republican. He has originated several wrinkles" in printing, which were given to the craft through technical journals, and have passed into general use. Almost with the dawn of memory he manifested a liking for picture drawing; and while he yet sometimes makes sketches and even engravings (he never had any training for either), the passion for drawing seems to have merged into a passion for writing - and

particularly verse writing-soon after he became a student of printing. He has contributed verses, or essays, to The Current, Chicago; Day Star, New York; Republican, St. Louis; Inter Ocean, Chicago; Toledo Blade, and various religious and local papers. Mr. Phifer has published by his own hands, for circulation among his friends, several pamphlets of verse, and one five-act play, ..Zaphnath-Paaneah," in blank verse, that has been highly complimented by author and actor friends, among whom it circulated exclusively In 1890 appeared Annals of the Earth, a volume of three hundred pages, in verse, which was published by the American Publishers' Association of Chicago. The volume was extensively noticed by the press of both America and England.

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IT CANNOT MATTER,

It cannot matter where or when
The light of life goes out with us;
For only a few years, and then
We all must end in darkness thus,
In utter darkness, thus.

From birth we draw on toward the grave,
Like arrows speeding from the bow,
And though to three-score years we live,
'Tis but a little flight, and so

The strongest are brought low.

All men are worn out - then they die:

If strong, we must the longer bear;

If weak, are broken easily;

And peace must come where there is care,

The speedier solace there.

We wail when death destroys our friends,
But grieving hastens us to peace;
We die, and mourning love expends
Itself in tears, till sorrows cease,
And quickly comes release.
Peasants and monarchs side by side
Into the silent tomb shall go,
And none shall know they lived or died,
In one brief century or so-

Their lineage shall not know

BOOGERS.

When I was a little feller, I was jiss that 'fraid
Of the Boogers, I'd jiss run

Past every tiny wee little spot of shade
That I would happen upon.

I was jiss that 'fraid the Bad Man 'u'd come,
If I had done anything wrong,

I wouldn't go out after night at all,
Ceppun my ma was along.

If Jack (he's my dog) was to bark at a tree,
My goodness! how I would jump!

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