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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
Can one weigh the baby's wiles,
MARGARET. When you passed me yesterday, Deigning not to look that way, Did you know that I was near, And with all your coldness, fear Just to meet my earnest gaze, Lest some thought of other days Should defy you to forget What we have been, Margaret ? Did your memory like a dream, Bring before you then a gleam Of a farm-house white and small, Where the brightest sunbeams fall; Where the woodbine clambers up, Holding many a dainty cup Filled with incense sweeter yet, Than all others, Margaret? Did you see the roses white, And the red ones, where one night 'Neath the solemn light of stars, Shadows held us in their bars, And the soft wind floating by, Heard us vowing -- you and I, That our love's sun should not set, While life lasted, Margaret ? Are your hot-house flowers as sweet As the ones that kissed your feet ? Do your prisoned birds e'er sing Like the wild ones on the wing? Will your wealth and station pay For the true heart cast away? Does no wild remorse, regret, Prey upon you, Margaret? Turn your head away in scorn, Rich in gold - in heart forlorn; Mingle with the heartless, gay; Laugh and jest and ne'er betray Through your mask of calm, cold pride, How your aching heart is tried; Yet through all life's tangled net, You shall love me, Margaret.
WEIGHING BABY. Baby's weight! how much it means, When the children's angel " leans From God's door through cloud-rift sails, Holding Love's own shining scales Weighing baby as she lies, With her open, deep-blue eyes Filled with wonder, while she swings, Like an angel without wings. How much does the darling weigh ? None but heavenly scales can say; None but heavenly tongues can tell, All the precious things that dwell In this body warm and small, Making it out-weigh them allAl the dimpled, crowing throng, That in other homes belong.
IDA MAY DAVIS.
BORN: LA FAYETTE, IND., 1858. MRS. Davis has written for many leading magazines and newspapers, among which might be mentioned the Chicago Inter Ocean,
On wings of wind is borne to me.
Gray sbreds of gauze in ochre light
Into the olive veii of night. It must have been the friendly breeze,
With magic touch upon my brain. With voice soft soughing thro' the trees,
That brought me thee, O love, again.
Slumbering in the summer heat.
IDA MAY DAVIS. Chicago Current and Indianapolis Journal. She is of medium hight, with brown hair and hazel eyes, and now resides in Terre Haute, Indiana.
EVENING SONG. Farewell, sweet day,
Thy thoughts and mine in perfect tune; And rhyme have blent this day of June,
And ere the rapture of thy spell Dissolves, I turn to thee and say,
Sweet day, farewell. Farewell, sweet day,
For I would rather part from thee With every chord in harmony
Than meet thee in the cold, gray light
The thrush's song is sweet, so sweet; The river lies, a flame of blue,
The morn is golden and complete.
Alike no other melody;
A HARMONY. The dawn's unfolding wings the breeze fret, Kissing the gentian's slumbrous eyelids
swift; Her silk-fringed lashes with the dewdrops wet, Quivering 'neath the sun's bright glance,
uplift. The bee, hid in the trumpet-blossom's spire,
Reels to the chimes within its nodding cells. The trembling hollyhock's red chalices of fire
Rock with the unseen ringer of their bells. O'er purple clematis the butterfly
Hovers to taste the sweetness from its lips: And all the opal tints of sun and sky
Are drank in rainbow colors that he sips. The reeds that grow down by the crystal
spring, Meeting the morning breezes from the sea, Their matutinal lays are offering
In notes that might awake sad Niobe. The ripples from the brook, where bluedragons
Upon its bosom clear reflected float, Are like the soft-voiced ring-dove's carillons, Or silvery laughter from a young girl's
throat. And every swaying stem keeps time complete,
To fill its part in nature's melody Of rhythmic cadence to the low wind's beat –
Song without words-a voiceless symphony.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
MRS. FRANCES L. MACE.
Borx: ORONO, ME., Jan. 15, 1836. The poems of this lady have appeared in the Century, Atlantic, Lippincott's, Harper's and the leading magazines of America. In 1884 appeared a volume of over two hundred pages from her pen, entitled Legends, Lyrics and Sonnets; and in 1888, Under Pine and Palm, a magnificient volume of her collected poems.
And the autumn winds are come. Quickly, reapers, gather quickly
The last ripe hours of my heart For the bloom of life is witbered,
And I hasten to depart.
Open wide the mystic gate,
Weary, poor, and desolate.
And their voices far away:
Only waiting to obey.
Are a little longer grown,
Of the day's last beam is flown; Then from out the folded darkness
Holy, deathless stars shall rise.
And all the dim, delicious June
And trills an eager, joyous tune.
.. The violets – the violets!" l'pon the water's velvet edge
The purple blossoms breathe delight,
As sweet as dawn, as dark as night.
.. The violets - the violets!"
My life is done with fading things,
To which my memory fondest clings.
EBB AND FLOW.
Where tides of song perpetual ebb and flow.
Like thine the current of his life runs low At times, his visions suffer loss and dole, and sunken griefs break through the water's
shoal. Then while despair is tossing to and fro
His stranded hope, a breath begins to blow From the great sea! With rising swell and roll The waves of inspiration lift and float
His being into broad and full expanse. Now rocks his fancy like an airy boat
On wreathed billows; his impassioned giance Little of cloud or reef or wreck will note,
On the high tide of song in blissful trance.
For toil of hand or brain,
As heeds no loss nor gain;
The life of wind and tree; Soft odors, tremulous boughs reveal
Against the opal sky,
The pine-tree's pensive sigh,
Or flery flags unfurled,
In some primeval world,
The glittering branch of palm;
A fruit of heavenly balm, And underneath the greenwood tree Are flower and fruit for me.
The day of toil seems long ago,
THE RAINBOW. Bridge of enchantment! for a moment hung Between the tears of earth and smiles of
heaven, Surely the sheen of jasper, sapphire, gold,
Flashes and burns along thy colors seven, And to the lifted heart, the beaming eye,. Reveals the splendor of the upper sky. Whether as Northmen dream, the hero's soul
Enters its rest across thy brilliant height; Or, as the more melodious Greek bath told,
Iris descends with message of delight; Or in the silence beautiful is heard The still, small whisper of the Hebrew Word; Welcome forever to a stormy world,
Dear in each sign and symbol of the past As of the future; for our Hope shall climb Thy lustrous arch to realms unseen and vast; Peace shall come down to us, and in thy light God's finger still the golden Promise write!
ECHO LAKE. In sunset beauty lies the lake,
A limpid, lustrous splendor!
An aspect warm and tender.
Here haunts the fleeting summer,
In every transient comer.
The lake's pellucid fountain,
The spectre of the mountain.
Here where the lilies glisten;
True love doth long and listen.
THE ANGELUS. Ring soft across the dying day,
Angelus! Across the amber-tinted bay, The meadow flushed with sunset ray, Ring out and float and melt away,
TEARS OF ISIS. When İsis, by true mother love oppressed, Held wounded Horus to her goddess breast, Each tear that touched the sympathetic earth To some rich, aromatic herb gave birth. Such healing sprang from her celestial pain, Mortals no longer seek relief in vain, (years, For oft as spring awakes the slumbering In wood and meadow blossom Isis' tears.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
lege periodical. Dr. Holmes was one of the
founders of the Atlantic Monthly magazine, to Born: CAMBRIDGE, Mass., AUG. 29, 1809.
which he contributed from time to time; and This great scholar is equally noted as a poet, in the pages of this periodical first appeared novelist, essayist, and physician. He is con- The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. His sidered one of the most witty, originai and bril- lyrics, such as Old Ironsides, Union and Liberliant writers of the present day. Educated ty, Welcome to the Nations, and others, are partly at Phillips academy, he graduated at not only spirited, but also the most beautiful Harvard when twenty years of age. Young in our language; and his humorous poems, inOliver then spent a vear in studying law: but cluding The One-Hoss Shay, Lending an Old
Punch-Bowl, My Aunt, The Boys, and many others, are characterized by a vivacious and sparkling wit which makes their drollery irresistible. His prose works are greatly admired, the best of which are The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The Professor at the Breakfast Table, The Poet of the Breakfast Table, and the novels Elsie Venner, and the Guardian Angel.
Dr. Holmes," says John G. Whittier, has been likened to Thomas Hood; but there is little in common between them, save the power of combining fancy and sentiment with grotesque drollery and humor. Hood, under all his whims and oddities, conceals the vehement intensity of a reformer. The iron of the world's wrongs has entered into his soul. There is an undertone of sorrow in his lyrics. His sarcasm, directed against oppression and bigotry, at times betrays the earnestness of one whose own withers have been wrung. Holmes writes simply for the amusement of himself and his readers. He deals only with the vanities, the foibles, and the minor faults of mankind, goodnaturedly and almost sympathizingly suggesting excuses for folly, which he tosses about on the horns of his ridicule. Long may he live to
make broader the face of our care-ridden genOLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
eration, and to realize for himself the truth of the subject of this skeich very soon abandon- the wise man's declaration, that • A merry ed the law in order to enter upon the study of heart is a continual feast!'' medicine, which course he pursued in Europe, chiefly in Paris.
THE LAST LEAF. In 1836 Mr. Holmes returned to America, took the degree of M. D., and two years later he
I saw him once before became professor of anatomy and physiology
As he passed by the door; in Dartmouth college, which position he held
And again until the time of his marriage, in 1840, when he
The pavement-stones resound removed to Boston, and there won much suc
As he totters o'er the ground cess as a practicing physician. In 1847 he was
With his cane. appointed to the chair of anatomy and physiology in Harvard – the seat of the medical de
They say, that in his prime, partment of this university being in Boston-a
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down, post which he has filled with honor until 1882.
Not a better man was found While Dr. Holmes has won distinction not
By the crier on his round only as a professional man and a writer on sub
Through the town. jects related to his profession, he is best known to the public by his purely literary produc
But now he walks the streets, tions.
And he looks at all he meets, During the year 1830, while studying law, he
Sad and wan; contributed a number of witty poems to a col
And he shakes his feeble head,