56 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. I was 'fraid 'twas the Bad Man come for me, And my heart 'u'd go thumpity-thump. But I ain't 'fraid of the Bad Man, now — Leastwise till I get dead; 'Cause I never did see no Boogers at all, Ceppun on Jim Smith's head. Now honest Injun please tell me true, Jiss true as ever you can: Jever see the Bad Man? I guess the folks tell a heap o' stuff But I want some fun; un' I ain't afraid If a Booger 'u'd come, I'd jiss set Jack He'd leave before you could jiss say, 'Scat! I am big enough to whip 'em, I guess, Where the hoary old alchemist, Autumn, Blew smoke aloft like spray, And with his incantations, By his horoscope and art, And I saw, all alone by the roadside The sweet ones and the bright; I thought of a dear one, wounded He had toiled through the summer long, And his hopes, like leaves, had withered, Clogging the channel of song. He would rest, and so he departed, Dawning beyond the height; Had not taken his soul in its flight: For he passed as if music was falling And fading away with the night. I wonder if God does not pity The soul that is burdened with grief, And at death send an angel from Heaven To the weary one with relief. The angels are ever around us -- They speak in the passing breeze, They look with the eyes of flowers, They rush through the swaying trees. There is nothing mean or common; Each life has its romance fair; And the souls of the dead are around us And with us everywhere. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. EMILY HILL WOODMANSEE. BORN: ENGLAND. THIS lady came to America in 1856 and settled in Salt Lake City, Utah, where she has ever since resided. Mrs. Woodmansee is counted among the first of our local poets, and many of her poetical productions have been copied EMILY HILL WOODMANSEE. in the eastern publications. She is a vivacious little woman of rather less than average height: and although she has experienced sorrow and suffering her countenance always wears a cheerful and hopeful expression. She deals quite extensively in real estate, and is possessed of quite a little business ability. JOYFUL JUNE. Gone, the chilly wintry blast; Long'd for, look'd for boon. Of summer, joyful June! Rip'ling streams and murmuring trees, Sights and sounds that well might ease, As is the sunshine's glow. On the evil, on the good, Pity all, whose grief's too great- To join in nature's glee; Who cannot swell creation's shout, Who cannot trust as well as doubt, That He, who calls such beauty out To cheer us, hears our plea. "Tis as well we cannot read All the quivering hearts that bleed, Would rest or comfort know. Not to mortals is it given To assume the tasks of heaven, All human sorrow bore; Still, within the narrowest sphere. Some there are, both true and dear, Some, with whom a heartfelt tear May indeed be shed; Some, whose direful need demands Sympathy! thy heaven-born might, Souls by sorrow bent; Fate doth hold us so in thrall - Wherefore sing so sad a strain? 57 58 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. FAITH AND WORKS. See! the wilds, so long forsaken, into life and bloom awaken "Tis the meed of Faith unshaken, the reward of labor too. Faith hath wrought this exultation, for the "Outcasts of the nation; Yea, through Faith God favors Zion"— Faith and Works can wonders do. Ah, this Faith! Can words express it? Can the jeers of foes suppress it? 'Tis superior to language, far above reproach and scorn; "Tis indeed the blest assurance, that for patient, brief endurance, We shall reap the full fruition of the hopes within us born. 'Tis in vain men cry delusion," souls are thrilled with Faith's infusion, Faith reanimates the spirit as the life-blood cheers the heart; Needful 'tis that we obtain it, needful 'tis that we retain it Though we never can explain it, Faith doth power and peace impart. Faith's the fruit of revelation, Faith's the anchor of salvation; Faith obtains from God a knowledge of the truth that cheers the soul; Faith's the true appreciation of Christ's love and mediation; Faith's the force of Truth within us, Faith's the power that makes us whole. For this Faith it is no wonder, men have e'en been torn asunder, 64 Men have cru'lly been tormented," scorning to accept reprieve, Knowing, though by fiends surrounded, that in truth their faith was foundedScorn'd they to deny for freedom what they could not but believe; By the ladder of affliction-sword, and fire and crucifixion For their Faith, by death's most tortuous, noblest souls have upward soar'd — Passed these martyrs up to glory, leaving us their deathless story, While the cry, .. How long, Thou just One, ere thy vengeance is outpoured?” Of eternal condemnation there's a fearful res ervation For the murderers of these just ones, of these brave, illustrious dead! Read we from the sacred pages, how that from remotest ages, From the death of .. righteous Abel," many for their Faith have bled. So, within this generation, by a free and favor'd nation, UNIVERSAL LOVE. Oh, this life would be a burden Which the gods delight to practice- God so loved the whole creation All the children of our Sire, Do rejoice in giving joy, Not alone for self they labor, Holy Ones their aid employ. Is to cheer and bless the soul; From the God-head's sacred shrine. Whoso these celestial graces Ever cherish in the heart, Back to him a blessing bring. Onward through the stream of time, Love shall make our old age youthful, And our destinies sublime. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 59 WILLIAM TAYLOR. BORN IN SCOTLAND, FEB. 7, 1850. IN 1867 Mr. Taylor lost the sight of his left eye through a piece of the gun cap penetrating the pupil. The same year he sailed for America. In 1873 he was married: one year later a sliver of steel from the head of a tool he was using pierced the ball of his right eye, ushering him into lifelong darkness. It was a hard trial, but to one of his disposition he soon be WILLIAM TAYLOR. came reconciled to his loss. This blind poet is called the Milton of the West, and he gives recitations of his own original poems to churches, Sunday schools, and other organizations, which have met with universal approval. Mr. Taylor has a wide circle of admirers, and we predict that his journey through life will be comparatively a smooth one. AM I A SCOT, OR AM I NOT? If I should bring a wagon o'er From Scotland to Columbia's shore, And by successive wear and tear, The wagon soon should need repair; Thus, when the tires are worn through, Columbia's iron doth renew; Likewise the fellies, hubs and spokes Should be replaced by western oaks; In course of time down goes the bed, But here's one like it in its stead, So bit by bit, in seven years, All things are changed in bed and gears, I came a Scotchman, understand, My body has been changing too; I wonder if I'm now a Scot? Since all that came across the sea STERLING WORTH. What is there in the garb of man, A coat, by honest labor torn, May wrap a heart as true as steel, Where seldom dwells a worthy thought, While countless noble thoughts are bred, Neath hats of straw that's roughly wrought. What signifies our place of birth, The length of purse, or place we fill? Is passing through the fanning mill. That chaff and wheat doth separate, MRS. HELEN A. RAINS. BORN: ROME, O., DEC. 16, 1838. AMONG the many publications to which this lady has contributed might be mentioned Peterson's Magazine, Cincinnati Weekly, La MRS. HELEN A. RAINS. dies' Repository, and the Christian Standard. This lady was married in 1870 to George W. Rains. She follows the profession of a journalist, and now resides in Mt. Ayr, Iowa. JUNE PICTURES. Framed in my window? what a bit of sky Of azure blue-a snowy cloud afloat With tiny sails, so like a fairy boat, Suspended in mid-air, as by the eye Reflected in the mirage we can see Objects transcribed with perfect symmetry. Waves upon waves of greenness just below, (Of that peculiar shade that June full crowned And flush with all her rarities has found To beautify the earth, which ebb and flow As with the tide. The country roads' decline O'er distant hills the eye can scarce define. MY BABY. Fold her hands tightly Over her breast, Close her lids lightly, Lay her to rest. Smooth the dark tresses Over her brow, All my caresses Availeth not, now. APRIL. And so the spring is here, with memories That cling to ev'ry thing with loving touch. The fields afresh with kindling green-the skies Blue and empyreal. I wonder much If in the land where my young days were spent These things in old-time loveliness, have lent Hue to the streams, and on the dewy air Apple-bloom diffusion. The dell, whose soil In spring, was rank with yellow cowslips, where We mired at every step, and hours of toil Rewarded us with prize-the very bestA pail of greens"-do little children test With cheeks abloom, through labyrinthine ways Its grape-vine swings, the roots and spicy bark If sassafras, these lovely April days? Has modern culture stolen ev'ry spark Of interest in woodland haunts, from those Whose life's expanding, like the morning rose, Promise of vigor in the bud, should hold. Do blooms, perfumes, and healthful airs bespeak To young hearts now, the same delights that told In days agone, on childhood's lip and cheek? Of what avail the knowledge of to-day, If youth has lost her happy, care-free way? Do books impart, one-half the wisdom caught From running brooks and feathered song sters' lays? Have lessons learned (the Harmonies have taught That Nature blends sublimely in her days, GOING FOR THE COWS. Of rankest weeds and grasses, The mocking-bird is rend'ring. |