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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!
As the James! the noble James !
Like the James! the noble James!
The James! the noble James!
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!
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.
And my bed – it is cold and so damp.-
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
of this ceaseless, endless strife, of the bitter disappointments
I've been meeting all my life;
So I'll give my fancy flight,
And be happy just to-night.
To the dear old .. long ago,"
Or had felt the weight of woe;
Ah! no other love so true,
As that I received from you.
It was just at twilight close –
Lingered all the children's foes.
Learned that all you said was true;
Then, I scarce their meaning knew. It is said our Heavenly Father,
Loveth those He chasteneth, best!
Unto him than all the rest.
Unto me, and now they come -
Come like words of love from home.
Fold her tired wings to rest –
Mother, dearest, truest, best.
God will keep me undefiled;
And your prayers protect your child.
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.
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,
And bridged the gulf that separates you
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?
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
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.
While sojourning here below;
Our eternal weal or woe.
Faithful hearts we find beat there;
Break the stillness of the air.
Pleasant vales or prairies wide,
Wheat and tares grow side by side.
If the wheat we bring is good;
Or if brought by public road.
When we're judged at the Last Day;
All that matters is the way.
All with us will then be well;
Where the good alone can dwell.
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.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
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.
And saw with a great surprise,
And the tears in sorrowing eyes.
She sat on her father's knee;
For he sleeps beneath the sea.
Sweet memories of his love;
Which a child's sweet faith could prove.
And a purpose pure and brare-
Earth and sod, to build a grave.
Dandelions of golden hue;
And with starry daisies too.
She wrought with many a tear;
My papa is buried here."
of fairy lands, where oft on trees and bowALLEN R. DARROW.
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
On every tree along the city street,
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.
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,
In fervent prayer to heaven,
Very near to beaven:
Amidst earth's dull leaven;
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;
For more light I'm pining.
Or is daylight dawning -
With the cheer of morning? Thus awaits my patient heart, Acting out its humble part
With an untold yearning.
In our own perfection;
Bowed in deep dejection.
Rich with hope's inflection.