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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
From the dead oak just below, Like a mentor weird, or seer,
Thus the wild voice echoes shrill, Till the judgment seemeth near, Ever one word, whipporwill,
Whipporwill! 'Mong the ruins will ring still, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill!
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;
Ceppun on Jim Smith's head.
Jiss true as ever you can:
Jever see the Bad Man?
To scare us to bein' good;
No more of the dark er the wood.
On him, un I guess he'd run;
Er I'd shoot him with my gun.
For the Boogers leave big folks be.
They jiss won't bother me.
A VOICE OF THE NIGHT. When the family sit outside
On the sultry summer night, And the frogs croak far and wide
And a dark wood bars the sight;
And the owl is by the mill,
And mosquetos hum in smoke, And the fireside light the gloom,
And the lightning wrinkles up; When the evening air is full,
And the heart is calm and still, 'Mid the zephyrs sweet and cool Comes the sound of Whipporwill,
Whipporwill!" Ceaselessly it rings, and shrill, Whipporwill, whipporwill, whipporwill! Was some maid like Philome,
Lost in new Arcadian wild, Seized by some rough deity,
Near o'erpowered and defiled,
Kindly by Minerva heard,
By the brook that murmurs low,
ANGELS. I was passing along through the woodland,
And down through the meadows where The grass and leaves were rustling
In the cool October air —
And all was somber and gray -
Blew smoke aloft like spray,
By his horoscope and art,
Transforming every part -,
Where the grass was crisp and dead. 'Mid the broken lances of frost-sprites,
Where the grand onslaught had led Flowers wounded and dying,
The sweet ones and the bright;
Wrought in the silent night.
As the flower, and since forgot,
And by morning he was not. Stricken and weary and troubled,
He had toiled through the summer long, And his hopes, like leaves, bad withered,
Clogging the channel of song.
At the close of a weary night,
Dawning beyond the height; And I wondered if an angel
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.
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
On the evil, on the good,
And turn from joy away?
Upon a summer's day?
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.
O'erwhelmed by others' woe;
Would rest or comfort know.
All human sorrow bore;
Sweat bitterest drops of gore.
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.
Long'd for, look'd for boon.
Of summer, joyful June!
Or cure much fancied woe.
As is the sunshine's glow.
Still, within the narrowest sphere,
May indeed be shed;
To lift the drooping head. Sympathy! thy heaven-born might, Lines the gloomiest clouds with light, Turning oft to paths of right
Souls by sorrow bent;
Rest will come full soon;
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
Prophets have for Faith been murder'd, men
have sorely been opprest; For their Faith – through much privation –
.. sought they out a habitation," Even in a distant desert, in the wild, uncul
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 itThough we never can explain it, Faith doth
power and peace impart. Faith's the fruit of revelation, Faith's the an
chor 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, Men have. cru'lly been tormented,” scorn
ing to accept reprieve, Knowing, though by fiends surrounded, that
in truth their faith was founded Scorn'd they to deny for freedom what they
could not but believe; By the ladder of affliction - sword, and fire
and crucifixionFor their Faith, by death's most tortuous, no
blest souls bave upward soard 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 Faitlı hare bled. So, within this generation, by a free and
Were it lived for self alone;
Beat responsive to ourown:
With a constancy divine,
Bright celestial garlands twine.
Give to life a healthful zest, And when these are most expansive,
Then most truly, we are blest; Shall we circumscribe the feelings
Emanating from above,
Even universal love?
That he sacrified his Son,
Shall by love alone be won;
Strive against so broad a plan? Or, in charity and meekness,
Love the family of man? If we recognize as kindred
All the children of our Sire, Shall we limit our affections
And within ourselves retire? No! the truly good and noble
Do rejoice in giving joy, Not alone for self they labor,
Holy Ones their aid employ. For the mission of the angels
Is to cheer and bless the soul; They have joy in this surpassing
Mortal's uttermost control; Surely goodness is immortal,
Charity is all divine, Universal love extendeth
From the God-head's sacred shrine. Whoso these celestial graces
Ever cherish in the heart,
Light and comfort shall impart;
It hath joy's elastic spring It shall ever cheer the giver,
Back to him a blessing bring. Love shall gather love around us,
Onward through the stream of time, Love shall make our old age youthful,
And our destinies sublime.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
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, usbering him into lifelong darkness. It was a hard trial, but to one of his disposition he soon be
All things are changed in bed and gears,
That we should honor or despise? To judge of grain, are we to scan,
The husks wherein the kernel lies? A coat, by honest labor torn,
May wrap a heart as true as steel, And so may husks, all weather worn,
A perfect grain of wheat conceal. A crown may rest upon a head
Where seldom dwells a worthy thought, While countless noble thoughts are bred, Neath bats of straw that's roughly
wrought. What signifies our place of birth,
The length of purse, or place we fill? The only real test of worth,
Is passing through the fanning mill.
Alike upon the rich and poor.
Are equal on the threshing floor.
That chaff and wheat doth separate,
To slight the artisan,
He's nature's nobleman:
By men of genius wrought,
Though humble be his lot.
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 stea:), So bit by bit, in seven years,
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
All my caresses
Availeth not, now.
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
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, With unison of chords in sweetness wrought Not molded characters, where books were
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' de
cline 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,
GOING FOR THE COWS. Adown the lane a tangle
Of rankest weeds and grasses, Starred here and there with spangle
Of dogwood bloom in masses That overhanging dangle
Upon the head that passes. His way toward the dingle,
The barefoot boy is wending, Where comes the faint commingle
Of cow-bell rhythm, blending With melodrama, single
The mocking-bird is rend'ring.