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676

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

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 fish have th' fount - the flow'rs th' beeThen why not th' forest be mine?

THE JAMES! THE NOBLE JAMES!
Oh, the Hudson! blue and bright,
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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WILLIAM R. JACOBS.

ed a monthly periodical, The Rosewood Library, for about one year. The poems of Mr. Jacobs have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press of Virginia.

THE HUNTED FAWN.

O, 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 his 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 his 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 hath 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.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

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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677

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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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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,

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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

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 passionate 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.

CHARLES N. WOOD.

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

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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.

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 a kiss to bless,
For he sleeps beneath the sea.

Within this little one's heart there came, Sweet memories of his love;

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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 brave-
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."

ALLEN R. DARROW.

he has, nevertheless, found time to cultivate a natural taste for authorship, furnishing from time to time acceptable contributions to various journals and magazines. Mr. Darrow is now a resident of Buffalo.

A DECORATION DAY INCIDENT.
Winter had gone with its storms and cold,
Again it was smiling May;

And the sun shone fair o'er field and wold,
On the Nation's holiday.

With muffled music, with speech and song,
And a wealth of flowers in bloom;

From their homes went forth the old and

young

To enwreath each hero's tomb.

With solemn mien and reverent tread,

And memory all aglow;

Garlands were strewn o'er the graves of their

dead

Amid voicings soft and low.

Not only for brothers and noble sons, Were the tributes so lovingly paid;

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 bow-

ers

There fell from heaven pure crystal gems in showers.

Well, I believe, and so I think must you
That myths are shadows sometimes of the
true:

For going forth upon a winter morn
A wondrous glory did the day adorn,
On every tree along the city street,
What matchless splendor did my vision greet.
Pendant from. silver-coated branch and stem,
In argent beauty hung a brilliant gem;
Sparkling in candescent glory bright,
Shone myriad diamonds in the morning light.
Nature from its exhaustless wealth and store,
Through every street and by-way o'er and

o'er,

Prodigal alike to all the rich and poor Had scattered rivals to the Khoinoor.

ENVOY.

O youth's first love, fresh, ardent, pure,
Whose vows must e'en all time endure,
That knows no shadowing specter fate
That can fond heart's ere separate-
But ah! the leaves so fresh in May,
By Autumn winds are blown away.

680

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MRS. EMMA F. CARPENTER.

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

MRS. EMMA F. CARPENTER. er publications. She was married in 1862 to Thos. B. Carpenter, and resides at Benvenue.

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,

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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THE DAWNING.

One more beautiful dream

In which my soul doth seem

Very near to heaven;

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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