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NICHOLAS L ESTER.
BORN: CANADA, MARCH 29, 1842. DURING the civil war Mr. Lester served in the 110th N.Y. volunteers for over three years. When quite young Mr. Lester wrote verse, and his poems have since appeared quite ex
And he must put them out to air;
A fea gets in his ear.
station, Sent down his shrill challenge for swift con
fiscation Are gone, or we'd offer you pot-pie instead. Time was when the voice of the chanticleer
crowing, Was sweet to the soldier whose ears now are
dull; The turkey's loud gobble would set his heart
glowing; The bleat of the lampkin to him was a show
ing That mutton was free -- tho' they tariff'd
the wool. NICHOLAS LESTER,
The squawk of the goose and the quack of the tensively in the local press of the state of
duckling New York. He follows the occupation of a Were melody sweeter than timbrel or lute; painter, and is now a resident of Fulton. He The motherly porker's low grunt to her suckis well known and highly respected in his
ling, native state. Mr. Lester was married in 1870 Whose squeak reach'd his when his knapsack to Miss Ellen Fleming.
Has caused every gland of his mouth to diFIRST OF MAY.
lute. The winter's breath of snow and sleet
But gone are the days of our grub confiscaNo longer on our faces beat,
tions; And loungers bave resumed the street;
No longer to forage we turn from the track; To work the house-wife quick will go
Our marches have brought us to one of the House cleaning, that the world may know
stations She is to dirt a deadly foe.
Where we must content us with government The house she'll rummage through and
And swallow our coffee and nibble our tack. The bed-rooms and the closets too;
Alas for those days – they are ever reminding Mid-floor their contents she will pile,
The soldier how swift from the mess-fire he And greet her lord with winning smile
fled, While she demands a carpet new.
When the cook in a rage from the smoke that Each table, bedstead, stand and chair,
was blinding, Of scrubbing gets an ample share,
Stopp'd stirring his beans or his bacon unAnd soon the spouse becomes aware
winding, The carpets from the floors are ripped,
To fling both an oath and a club at his head.
Our army experience has thoroughly taught
That no opportunity we should neglect To dine on such fodder as circumstance
brought us Not wait 'till some feast epicurean sought
USLest to go to bed hungry should be the
effect. Yet we miss from the board many delicate
dishes, The epicure soldier was wont to invent When his thoughts wander'd back to the
loaves and the fishes, Prepared by his ma, who consulted his wish
es, In all that to tickle the palate was meant. For hoe cake in vain we have rummaged the
grub-sack; No mush nor molasses we find in the house; We find but the every-day coffee and hard
tack, And 0 how we long for the grease dripping
flap-jack, And dainty of dainties - we miss the lob
In half a canteen on the end of a stick,
river, And held to the fire with persistent endea
vor, 'Til cook'd to the semblance of miniature
bricks. Ah! oft in the light of the camp-fire's gleam
ing, Enwrapped in his blanket, a log for his
head, While gray-backs were friskily over him
streaming, In blissful oblivion the soldier lay dreaming Of cookies and doughnuts and mother-made
bread. But his dreamings of home and its knick
nacks are ended, Realities now are his staple in life; No longer he sleeps in the fire-light extend
ed, His slumbers, instead of by bad dreams at
tended Are seasoned by lectures or snores from his
Now dimn'd for aye? Is that warm hand which erst 'twas mine to
clasp Now seized by death's inexorable grasp? Have those loved lips been open'd in thy gasp, Thou grim restorer of earth-borrow'd clay? Comrade, when thoughtless boys!
And is thy heart now cold? Are death's dark waves, submerging all
earth's joys Now o'er thee rollid? Is thy great soul from earthly thralls un
bound? Has thy freed spirit gone where joys are
found Of holier source - -of depths still more pro
found Than those which have thy mortal life con
To mourn thee gone from here?
Of memories dear?
Thine earthly joys are past;
Their hearts with anguish torn,
To them is borne,
[mourn. Where all, who knowing loved thee, come to Author of life -- of love!
In justice thou dost deal;Direct our hopes to thy bright realms above
For all our weal! Give us we pray, the strength to bear our
woes; Mingle with love the terror of thy blows! Teach smitten mortals, while in anguish
throes, Thy spirit's calm to feel! Each burst of contrite grief,
Beneath the chastening rod,
And brings it nearer God!
LINES ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF
A SOLDIER FRIEND. Friend of my youthful days!
And art thou passed away. Is that bright smile that cheer'd me with its
HELEN MARR HURD.
BORN: HARMONY, ME, As a teacher Miss Hurd has been very successful. When a mere child she composed stanzas, and from an early age her beautiful poems readily found their way into the peri
Till thy waters underneath
Silent meet the river.
Laughing, tumbling, shaking
Through the air,
Or the fen?
In the glen?
Like the sea;
Hedge and tree –
Hangs o'er me.
And the sky;
Seem to hie
That the blue
In silence grave the great owl sits, Which yesterday boded a storm
With its . tu-whoos" and its . tu-hits!" Adown the mountain's sloping side
The brooklet dashes! frowns the sky! Darkness is dense! clouds crowd the west!
Among the lichens dead shapes lie! The great frame of the giant oak
Rocks madly 'neath the hurricane! And by forked tongues of lurid fire
Huge rocks are swift smitten in twain! The angry billows, mountain high,
Sullen, and dark, and capped with foam, Roll upward, until sea and cloud
Seem to be surging sea alone!
HELEN MARR HURD. odical press. In 1887 appeared a large volume of the poems of this lady containing over four hundred pages, which has had a large circulation. Miss Hurd is at present engaged in preparing for the press a second volume of poems and a prose story entitled The Three Orators; and she is also employed in the compilation of the history of Hallowell, Maine.
All of joy partaking,
For my heart is breaking!
All thy shouted surges,
Seem like lonesome dirges!
Is thy joyous sweeping;
To a silent weeping.
Fling an icy quiver,
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
BORN: WAYNE, Mich., JULY 18, 1866. THE poems of Miss Grace Holmes have appeared in Arthur's Home Magazine, St. Louis Magazine, and the local press generally. She
O brilliant are the flowers soon to feel the
touch of frost, And glorious the sunset sky that the full
noon-day lost: And beautiful each countenance of the aged
man and wife, Who sit within the doorway near the tranquil
close of life.
Summer, gracious with thy music,
Why so call thee, Queen of Season? For thy glorious sky at sunset,
For the nights fair, starlit heavens, For the fresh and dewy mornings,
So we term thee Queen of Seasons. Summer, robed in all thy glory,
Summer, wrapped in all thy splendor, Summer, bathed in all thy brightness,
Why so call thee Queen of Season? For the meadows green with clover,
For the bill tops touched with sunshine For the woodlands decked with blossoms,
So we term thee Queen of Seasons.
is studying shorthand and typewriting at St. Louis. Miss Holmes is very fond of literature, and her poems have already received favorable mention.
A SUNSET. The fair day closes, calm and still, The red sun sinks behind the hill; Above the hill, in varied hue, The red cloud quivers through the blue. Through fields of corn, through crowds of
trees, One breeze doth chase another breeze; They twirl the leaves and stir the grass, And bend the flowers as they pass; They shake the vines that clamber o'er And round about a farm house door, And fan the cheeks and brush the hair, Of an old couple sitting there. O, ripened are the cornfields, and flaming are
the leaves, And the breeze that stirs the mellow land is
not a languid breeze;
NATURE'S SECRETS. There's a secret with these rugged hills, whose
slender tops are gray; There's a secret with the wild flowers that
bloom along the way; There's a secret with the roaming clouds that
change the changeful sky: A secret have the busy winds, that chant and
moan and sigh. A secret bas the moonlight, that touches land
and sea, A secret is between the stars that blink at
you and me. Ah the secrets! can you count them? so num
erous are they! Ah the secrets! can you find them out? can
you find them out, I say? I knew that some sweet secret 'twixt my gar
den flowers grew, But I said, .. I know, I feel, it is not for me, or
you." I felt there was a secret with the wond'rous,
charming sea, But again I shook my head and said, .. That
secret's not for me." Yea, every where I turn my eyes on nature's
living show, I feel there is a secret that 'tis not for me to
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
JOHN C. ROGERS, M.D.
BORN: PERRY, ME., MARCH 28, 1835. This gentleman graduated at Harvard in 1863-4, receiving his diploma as a physician. During the civil war he served as assistant surgeon in one of the Massachusetts regiments. At the close of the war he commenced
Death, the tyrant, reigns supreme:
Time, the avenger, spurs his steed To reach earth's bounds, the most extreme;
And harvests life with miser's greed. Hope and life afar have fled,
Dismal cries from wrecking pain Come tumultuous from the dead,
That by time and death are slain. Fear with horror's crouching form,
Shrinks in awe with bated breath; Whilst the elements of storm
Rush in madness o'er the earth. Sheets of lurid lightnings glow,
Blast the shrinking, cowering form! Thunders peal; whilst fierce winds blow,
And onward sweeps the maddening storm. All is darkness, deep, profound,
Silence reigns through every sphere;Life is dead; no mortal sound
Shall wake in death the startled ear, Lo! a light from out the gloom
Bursts in glory on my sight; Thunders in the distance boom,
Morning breaks in love and light. On a bright ethereal throne
Borne through Heaven on angels' wings, Stands the Prince of Light, alone
Save the choir that round Him sings. Death appalled before Him flies,
Darkness shrinks in utter night;And the dead in myriads rise,
Quickened by the effulgent light. Clothed in an eternal spring,
Earth all radiant now appear; Through the groves the angels sing,
Music soothes the raptured ear. Sorrow, care, disease and pain,
Wan despair and sin have fled; They o'er earth no longer reign
They have perished, death is dead! God, the Omnipotent, shall reign,"
Floats upon the ambient air; . Here His kingdom shall remain,
Eternal as the ages are." Honor, adoration, praise,
Sound triumpbant through the skies; Cherubim sweet anthems raise,
The song of glory never dies.
EXTRACT. I still enjoy the sounding lyre, Although my youth has lost its fire; And sometimes tempt a simple lay To while the lonely hours away. And though my harp has not the skill Or art to soar away at will, I can compose a rhyme with ease, If not sublime, at least will please.