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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

The fish have th' fount - the flow'rs th' bee

Then why not th' forest be mine?

WILLIAM R. JACOBS.

BORN: ELIZABETH, PA., JAN. 2, 1868. Mr. JACOBS follows the occupation of a printer, and is connected with the Observer publishing house of Suffolk, Va. He publish

THE JAMES! THE NOBLE JAMES!
Oh, the Hudson! blue and brigbt,
As it flows with great delight,
Yet to me it ne'er could seem
Half so lovely – half so clean

As the James! the noble James !
It has its foam and azure wave,
Its coral and shells the waters lave;
Oh can ye find in southern land
Another rich and lovely strand

Like the James! the noble James!
See the gallant barks that glide
O'er its full and steady tide;
It's a stream from Cap. to sea,
That has beauties 'nough for me -

The James! the noble James!
Its shores are white with pearly shells –
Its banks are rich with marly cells,
And o'er this stream of liquid light
The sea-gull takes his morning flight -

O'er the James! the noble James! Many an army o’er her waters crossed – Many an ironclad or ram they've tossed; The blazing guns once shook her main The Monitor-Merrimac fought for fame

On the James! the noble James!

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THE HUNTED FAWN. 0, why doth th' hunter so follow my trail

With his murderous Beagle and gun; An innocent being so tender and frail

That I cannot but stumble when run.
I have th’lone wood for my cumberless lair,

And my bed – it is cold and so damp.-
While Nimrod has homes and luxuriant

fare,
And th' Shawnee a fire at bis

camp. They slaughtered my mother but yester' at

morn, And have left me with awe and no aid, And now they are hunting thro' meadow and

corn To be-cripple her innocent babe. The sea-gull has homes on th’ fathomless sea, And th’ eagle its nest in th' pine;

THE SYLVAN ALTAR. O summer winds and autumn sighs blow here, And fan this sacred Oak, so meek and dear To one who stood beneath its sylvan boughs, And offered up to Him bis solemn vows. O heaven 'fresh its drooping leaves with dew, And give the guerdon that to it is due: Full twenty centuries of sun and rain, With birds to sing unto the world its fame. Plant pansies at its roots, and vines, That o'er the Altar Oak may closely wind, And form a beauty that, tho'mute and still, Will make the yeoman say, .. I'll never kill." And give the runlet that so swiftly glides New vigor, that, while flowing to'ards th'

tides, 'Twill sing a louder song - much sweeter still, When passing by this rustic altar hill. This Oak bath kept th' dew from off the brow Of one who stood full many a morn, I trow, With feet bewet by rain and dewy sod, And offer'd up his daily prayers to God. The poet hath now remov'd too far away To pay this Oak his visits day by day, But let the chopper's axe go past with awe, And never make upon this tree a flaw.

MRS. ABBIE H. RICHARDS.

BORN: EAST UNITY, N. H., SEPT. 18, 1851. For nearly a quarter of a century this lady has resided in south-eastern Nebraska, and while there she has been connected with newspaper work. She is a strong temperance

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MOTHER.
I am weary, weary, mother,

of this ceaseless, endless strife, of the bitter disappointments

I've been meeting all my life;
Yes, I'm weary of them, mother,

So I'll give my fancy flight,
And go back in dreams, to childhood,

And be happy just to-night.
I'll go back to you, dear mother,

To the dear old .. long ago,"
Ere I had one thought of sorrow,

Or had felt the weight of woe;
I will dream of her, who loved me,

Ah! no other love so true,
So unselfish, pure, and sacred,

As that I received from you.
I remember once you told me -

It was just at twilight close –
That outside a mother's dwelling,

Lingered all the children's foes.
I have learned since then, dear mother,

Learned that all you said was true;
Tho' your words had such strange import,

Then, I scarce their meaning knew. It is said our Heavenly Father,

Loveth those He chasteneth, best!
That the sorrowing ones are dearer

Unto him than all the rest.
Oft you have the words repeated

Unto me, and now they come -
Come like the whisperings from Heaven,

Come like words of love from home.
Mother, now I'll take my Fancy,

Fold her tired wings to rest –
But I'll take your memory with me,

Mother, dearest, truest, best.
And whene'er temptations meet me,

God will keep me undefiled;
For your love will keep me purer,

And your prayers protect your child.

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TO BE. We say to ourselves, it might have been,"

When all eternity is .. to be,"— We say it over and over again,

For the truth is hard at first to see. We say to ourselves, the past is gone,

Is gone forever adown life's sea; But the might have been" that haunt sour

hearts, Will lose itself in the yet to be." Ah, many hearts that are crushed and sore,

Beneath the blow of the chast'ning rod; Who can see no ray of shining light,

Beam down on them from a gracious God.

DREAM VISIONS.
To-day my mind is filled with recollections,

I thought would never come to me again; My heart is throbbing fast with the old sor

row, And mocking visions seem to fill my brain. Full well I know, why now I link together

The dead past, and the shadowy yet to be; Because in dreams last night, you came back,

darling,

And bridged the gulf that separates you

and me.

CHARLES N. WOOD,

BORN: BROOME, N.Y., JULY 1, 1839. The poems of Mr. Wood have appeared in the Waverly Magazine and other publications.

Last night I dreamed you came and stood be

fore me, And on your face a look of anxious pain; The words you said to me are not forgotten, So fraught were they with hopes I know

are vain. So full of tender hopes, and hopeless longing,

So full of memories of days long past; Oh darling, did you think I had forgotten

One single blissful moment of the past?

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Last night I dreamed your hand clasped mine

as warmly, As ever in the days so long gone by, Your lips pressed mine in tender loving

kisses, Life held no terrors for me - you were nigh. I felt again your lingering caresses, Saw your dear face, your eyes with love

light gleam; Heard your dear voice whisper fond words of

loving, I woke to find all vanished — 'T'was a dream. A dream! oh darling, just a tender vision Brought to me on the wings of troubled

sleep; A season with lost joys, a brief illusion, That brings back memories o'er which I

weep. For bitter tears to-day will come unbidden, And dim my eyes, as memories sad but

sweet Come back across the years of lonely waiting, And nearer bring the day when we shall

meet.

For we will meet, I know it, in the future,

I know not how, or where, or when 'twill be That our divided paths again, my darling,

Will cross, and we each other then shall see. It may be when the sun of life is setting,

And we are nearing close, the other shore; But ere the summons comes to call me over,

I'll see your face, and clasp your hand once

CHARLES N. WOOD.
He follows the profession of teaching, and is
still a resident of bis native county.
WHERE WE LIVE MATTERS LITTLE.
Where we live can matter little,

While sojourning here below;
But 'tis how we live determines

Our eternal weal or woe.
If we search the lowly valleys,

Faithful hearts we find beat there;
But alas! the oaths of sinners

Break the stillness of the air.
If we search the hills or mountains,

Pleasant vales or prairies wide,
'Tis the same in every nation -

Wheat and tares grow side by side.
Faithful millers only ask us

If the wheat we bring is good;
Not about the field it grew on,

Or if brought by public road.
Thus 'twill be at God's tribunal

When we're judged at the Last Day;
Where we've lived we'll not be questioned,

All that matters is the way.
If we've only done our duty,

All with us will then be well;
We shall live in that bright country,

Where the good alone can dwell.

more.

Though morning banished all my fond dreams,

darling, And visions of the cherished long ago Must give their place again, to life's stern

duty, And years go on in ceaseless ebb and flow; And though the days are filled with passion

ate longings, The night of mocking dreams, and bitter

tears; I wait the time when I shall meet you, darl

ling, And live again the love of buried years.

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

679

ALLEN R. DARROW. BORN: NEW LONDON, Conn., APRIL 20, 1826. ALLEN R. DARROW, the author of Iphigenia and Other Poems has gained quite a reputation as a poet. Although now and for many years actively engaged in business pursuits

But over the graves of stranger ones,

The wreaths of flowers were laid.
A little child came wandering there,

And saw with a great surprise,
The floral offerings everywhere,

And the tears in sorrowing eyes.
One year before – with his fond caress -

She sat on her father's knee;
No more from him comes kiss to bless,

For he sleeps beneath the sea.
Within this little one's heart there came,

Sweet memories of his love;
At that shrine anew there burned a flame

Which a child's sweet faith could prove.
For with busy hands she labored there -

And a purpose pure and brare-
With many returning steps to bear

Earth and sod, to build a grave.
And then she gathered from lane and field,

Dandelions of golden hue;
Until her apron was more than filled,

And with starry daisies too.
Her flowers so bright into many a link

She wrought with many a tear;
And she said, .. Maybe that God will think

My papa is buried here."

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FEBRUARY GEMS.
To wandering children in the ages old,
I've often heard that mystic tales were told

of fairy lands, where oft on trees and bowALLEN R. DARROW.

ers

There fell from heaven pure crystal gems in he has, nevertheless, found time to cultivate

showers. a natural taste for authorship, furnishing Well, I believe, and so I think must you from time to time acceptable contributions

That myths are shadows sometimes of the to various journals and magazines. Mr.

true; Darrow is now a resident of Buffalo.

For going forth upon a winter morn
A wondrous glory did the day adorn,

On every tree along the city street,
A DECORATION DAY INCIDENT. What matchless splendor did my vision greet.
Winter had gone with its storms and cold, Pendant from. silver-coated branch and stem,
Again it was smiling May;

In argent beauty hung a brilliant gem; And the sun shone fair o'er field and wold, Sparkling in candescent glory bright, On the Nation's holiday.

Shone myriad diamonds in the morning light.

Nature from its exhaustless wealth and store, With muffled music, with speech and song, And a wealth of Howers in bloom;

Through every street and by-way o'er and

o'er, From their homes went forth the old and

Prodigal alike to all the rich and poor young To enwreath each bero's tomb.

Had scattered rivals to the Khoinoor. With solemn mien and reverent tread,

ENVOY. And memory all aglow;

O youth's first love, fresh, ardent, pure, Garlands were strewn o'er the graves of their

Whose vows must e'en all time endure, dead

That knows no shadowing specter fate Amid voicings soft and low.

That can fond heart's ere separate Not only for brothers and noble sons,

But ah!the leaves so fresh in May, Were the tributes so lovingly paid;

By Autumn winds are blown away.

MRS. EMMA F. CARPENTER.

BORN: HALIFAX, PA., JAN. 28, 1844. THE poems of Mrs. Carpenter have appeared in the Harrisburg Patriot, Telegram and oth

My plea ascends for thee.

I pray the darkness 'round thee,

That like a pall hath bound thee, May rent to atoms be,

That the sweet light of heaven

To guide thee may be given, And I thy joy may see.

God bless thee now and ever,

And keep thee safe forever, While I am far from thee;

May all thy grief and sadness

Be soon transformed to gladness, Then I will happy be.

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INVOCATION. Oh, speak unto me kindly,

I'll worship ever blindly, To forget is vain to try;

My soul will hover 'round thee

Though thou art far beyond me As the stars in the azure sky.

I long to draw anear thee,

If I perhaps might cheer thee, I blest indeed would be;

Forever thou hast blest me,

Though distance hath oppressed me, When far away from thee.

With power supreme you drew me,

Your glances piercing through me, Immersed my soul in joy;

With ecstacy you bound me,

You threw a spell around me Untouched by earth's alloy. When night so gently closes,

And all in sleep reposes,
Oh! then my soul is free;

In fervent prayer to heaven,
In the dewy hour of even,

THE DAWNING.
One more beautiful dream
In which my soul doth seem

Very near to beaven:
My heart with fevered throbbing
Its life away is sobbing,

Amidst earth's dull leaven;
Peace is marred by passion's gleam,
Making all the bright earth seem

With quick lightning riven. Yet one more passionate thrill Let its bright fulfillment still

Temper this sad yearning; Let me trace upon life's sand, With a firm, unwavering hand,

Thoughts within me glowing; Beauteous thoughts, fair and sweet, From my pen flow full and fleet

Shall I stop their flowing? Let me pour my soul away, While around me earth is gay

And the sun is shining: True, my life is all alone, And I oft with fevered moan

Seek the cloud's bright lining;
Clouds obscure the sunbeam's play,
Let me look where'er I may,

For more light I'm pining.
Do I pine without a hope,
While in darkness thus I grope,

Or is daylight dawning -
Dawning on my weary brain.
Bringing balm for every pain,

With the cheer of morning? Thus awaits my patient heart, Acting out its humble part

With an untold yearning.
When earth's pleasures cease to draw,
And we find a hopeless flaw

In our own perfection;
Then we weep in dire dismay,
O'er our idols made of clay,

Bowed in deep dejection.
God can wipe our tears away,
Sending us a brighter day,

Rich with hope's inflection.

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