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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

For all your bloody fields proclaim

..Ye must be born again."

Your task is greater now than when
Your fathers sailed away.
May Plymouth Rock be typical
Of what ye do to-day.

O may ye build a new Mayflower
To stem the world's rude shock,
Above the passions of the hour
On God's eternal rock.
O, for a faith that overcomes
A faith in God and right.

Then saints would put His armor on
And Christians would not fight.

O. for a Garrison to lead

This moral movement on,
(Untarnished by a selfish deed
Until the work is done.

To stand and wait for God to work,
Shows lack of common sense.
The lazy work their garden thus
And get no recompense.
Are all the virtues waiting for

Some great propelling power?
Are weeds and vice the only things
Not idle for an hour?

Men see this wrong from age to age,
This bloody, damning crime,
And say mysterious Providence,"
And idle pass their time.

O, sluggish soul arise and work
For truth and right to-day.
A holy purpose kept in view,
And God will show the way.
Your labor may be fruitless now,

You may not live to see

The victory of the Prince of peace.
But what is that to thee?

* Written in 1880, when the theological, if not all lineal descendants of the Pilgrims, in their then late Council at St. Louis had chosen a committee of twenty-five to prepare a creed or interpretation of the Bible.

THE QUAKERS.

A sincere purpose to do right
Proceeding from within,

A walking by the Inward Light
Protects the soul from sin.

George Fox, the Friend, built on this

rock,

The building stands secure;
The only sect the world's rude shock
Has left unstained and pure.

They sought the Heavenly Father's care,
No thronging crowds around;
They bowed their heads in silent prayer,
And that is holy ground."

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Though men of peace they charged upon The citadel of sin;

Moved by the Holy Spirit on,

They conquered foes within.

They make no compromise to gain

The world's admiring throng;
Their record is without a stain
Of blood, or crime, or wrong.
If Heaven is for those alone
Who have subdued the tares
The enemy of souls hath sown,
What great reward is theirs?
The warlike sects for dogmas fight,
And with the world unite;
Their morals in a rusty plight,
Their fighting weapons bright.
The eagle's claws are on the dove
Since Adam's race begun;

O, Prince of Peace, O God of Love,
When will Thy will be done?

MRS. HARRIET T. TRACY. BORN: TURNER, ME., MARCH 7, 1817. THE greater part of the life of this lady has been past in California, where she now resides at Sacramento. Her poems have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press.

TO MY BIRDS. Little Tam O'Shanter,

Oh, why cannot you sing A wee sweet little song Before in comes the spring?

The day is so gloomy,

And I am so sad, Oh sing me a song

To make my heart glad.

Yes, when it comes spring And my throat is all right, I will sing merry songs From morning till night. And little brother Fred

Will join in my song, And other little birds

Will then come along

And join in the chorus

As we hang by the tree, We will sing of our love

To the birds that are free.

MRS. JULIA M. KAUTZ.

BORN: BETHANY, N. Y., Nov. 16. 1825. GRADUATING at Le Roy, N. Y., in 1849, she took charge of the young ladies department in Logansport seminary. In 1850 she was married to the Rev. W. P. Kautz of the Pres

MRS. JULIA M. KAUTZ. byterian church, by whom she has two daughters. Mrs. Kautz has written more or less for a number of years. She also read the C. L. S. C. course and graduated with the class of 1887.

THE WEST WIND.

From golden orange groves, on fluttering wings,

Magnolia-scented, laden rich with balms, When Ev'ning whispers soft to waving palms,

Thy spirit comes and thro' the forest rings;
The rev'rend oak his branches gaily flings,
Forgetful of the dreamy ocean calms,
Which Florida's soft air at eve embalms,
Or gulf-stream's measur'd flow, the oreole
sings.

Away upon the eastern shore in glee
Thou risest; thy gay sprites at sunrise play
With other sprites; and haste to meet the sea,
'Till rush, and roar, and cold from far away
In icy fetters binds each swaying tree,
The rippling stream, the lake where elfins
play.

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main.

O, West Wind! Tell to me of mountains old Whose brows are hid in clouds; whose sides

are bare,

Why in their hearts are hid the shining gold, And sparkling gems, and mines of silver fair? Why should we care for fame and wealth un

told?

Do whistling winds to us a message bear?

HARMONIES.

The green has left the rustling corn,

And dying leaves on winds are borne;

Sweet songsters trill 'mid southern bowers--

Sad echoes of their songs are ours.
The blue has faded from the skies,
The rosy dawn with springtime dies,
Soft spicy breezes no more cheer:
How like my life, the passing year.

The lily's form, beneath the mould
Creeps slowly down, transfixt and cold.
Stern winter's blast her heart sweeps o'er
With sullen plunge and ruthless roar.
My grave shall be 'neath grassy sod,
At rest my hands, my soul with God.
Ah, me! at rest from carking cares,
My peaceful bed the lily shares.

LAWS.

Distilling the attar destroys the rose,
Deal gently with others, for Jesus knows;
By crushing the vintage we spoil the grapes-
Tread softly the paths our Father shapes.
Hearts cease their wild beating, and where is
man?
[can.
Then wound not, and crush not because you
The perfume of roses, in their own sphere
Leaves blackened rose-petals damp mould-

'ring here,

The red wine which sparkles in limpid light,
Leaves clusters of beauty no longer bright,
The spirits of martyrs will soar on high,
While their bruised bodies sore broken lie.
Be kind to thy brother! God only knows
The making and scenting the queenly rose,
The growing and loading the fruitful vine,
The tinting and blessing the ruby wine,
The trials his children are wont to heed,
His hand is beneath them in sorest need.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MARY PEARLE.

BORN: IRELAND, NOV. 23, 1849. EDUCATED in Dublin, Mrs. Mary Pearle has filled many important positions in different schools and missions, and was held in high regard in the best society in the land of her nativity. In 1881 she came to America with her

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So shine on me, thou guiding star,
The first in love's fair sky.
That sealed two soul's affinity
Through language of the eye.
Since first my lonely heart sent out
Its yearning sigh for thee,
Hast thou not read it by the light
That guided thee to me?

And should one doubting cloud arise
On love's transparent sky,
Then, dearest, look not in mine eyes,
Nor ask the reason why.

JUNE ROSES.

Red roses of June, in your beauty sweet, I wish you could bloom forever;

In shady arbors, where lovers meet.

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When moonbeams o'er dead leaves quiver. White roses of June, that smile upon all With that far-off look of wonder, Some fairer clime you fain would recall From depths of azure yonder!

Say farewell" to the earth, arrayed anew
In vestments fair of heaven,

As you shed sweet balm around like dew
From your beautiful petals riven.
Pale roses and red, ere you pass away,
Teach me your pure, frail beauty;

How best to fill life's transient day
With pleasure and with duty.

Give me the key-note of heavenly love.
Albeit in chords of sorrow;

Then up and away, we may meet above,
In God's fadeless, bright to-morrow.

THE CHILD AND THE LILIES.
Two lilies my darling brought me,
The last in her garden fair;
One she placed upon my bosom,
The other in my hair;
And then an unvoiced question

Threw its shadow o'er her face,
As she gazed on her pure white lilies
Drooping with patient grace.

Then with a skeptic's logic

She questioned soft and low: "How can we consider the lilies, Now they no longer grow?" And I saw a teardrop glisten O'er the sunshine of her eye, Like the rainbow's transient glory On the blue of April sky. ..We recall their sweetness, dear one, And learn from them to grow Each day more meet for heaven In earth's garden here below; And when we are apt to murmur Over the clothes we wear; "Tis well to consider the lilies,

Of which the Lord takes care."

WILLIAM A. TAYLOR.

BORN: PERRY CO., O., APRIL 25, 1837. COMMENCING to write prose and verse at the age of fifteen, Mr. Taylor taught school at intervals for the following six years, at the same time being editor and part proprietor of Perry County Democrat. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to the bar, practiced law for four years in connection with editorial work, and was also state's attorney a part of the same time. He then became one of the editorial writers of the Cincinnati Enquirer. Mr. Taylor served in the army of the Potomac during the war, after the close of which he resumed editorial work on the Enquirer. He was chief editorial writer of the

Pittsburg Post for eight years subsequent to 1868. He next was employed successively on the New York Sun for two years; then on the New York World for a period; next was managing editor of the Pittsburg Telegraph for nearly two years; and then became editorial manager of Columbus Democrat and Times for several years. He is now again with the Cincinnati Enquirer as staff correspondent and general political writer. Mr. Taylor has declined a number of tempting positions, including a secretaryship of legation under President Cleveland, preferring journalism and literary work to political promotion.

ALL IN FOUR LINES. Love's labor of life Is to live and let live; Life's labor of love

To forget and forgive.

THE CURSE OF GENIUS.

ON A PORTRAIT OF T. D. JONES, SCULPTOR.
The curse of Genius, Art and Worth-
The crime of man against mankind -
Is the fierce struggle that besets

The friendless pioneers of Mind.
Grim hunger turns the tempered steel
To lead, in many a brawny hand,
That else had shorn away the wrong,

And purified the waiting land. Old Homer begging in the streets Of seven cities, sang in vain; Each thrust him out of gilded gates A hunger forth the arid plain. Old Homer lying in his grave

A god was worshipped-turned to dust, And madly fought for, where his songs

Gained not the vagrant's dole of crust. This is life's curse-its crowning thornThe ill to which the good is turnedMen gild the lamp when life is gone,

Who never trimmed it while it burned;

Pile granite over pulseless dust,

That died upon the cruel stones

Of hunger's threshold, while the trump
Of fame blared down his parting groans.
Fame may be sweet, but bread-God's
name!-

Is sweeter than Parnassian rills, Where hungering genius droops and dies, Amid the plenty of the hills.

What though God paints the bended skies, And clothes the earth with song and sheen,

If he who copies dies athirst

Amid the glory of the scene!

This is the curse of life- to live

At the sharp point of mortal strife, To find neglect more keen than scorn, And death a bald burlesque of life. To fill a maus'leum's stately crypt, Blazoned with that which gave not bread

The meed of life in mockery,

Heaped on the cold, unheeding dead.
Before her lay the unconquered waste.
Behind her, smiling by the sea,
Her virgin mother, proud and chaste,
Chanted the hymn of Liberty.

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WILLIAM M. PAXTON.

BORN: WASHINGTON, KY., MARCH 2, 1819. EDUCATED for the law in his native town, he removed to Platte Co., Mo., where he still resides. In 1850 he removed to Platte City and spent twelve years in mercantile pursuits. Later he resumed the practice of law, and for twelve years prospered; but in 1872 he became hard of hearing, and it was necessary for him to give up his lucrative practice. Having,

WILLIAM M. PAXTON. however, a complete abstract of titles of real I estate of Platte Co., he still, at the age of seventy-one, is industriously employed in the business of abstracting and examining titles. In 1881 he published a small volume of poems of 135 pages, In 1884 he compiled a genealogy of his mother's family, a work of 425 pages. In 1888 Mr. Paxton published a book of poems containing 452 pages, which has attracted universal admiration.

THE ROGUISH GIRLS. The girls are dainty rogues, 'tis true, And full of fun and art, sir; For when I first met cunning Sue

She sweetly stole my heart, sir; And when the parson came and tied

The pleasant nuptial band, sir, The crafty Sue stood by my side

And slyly stole my hand, sir.

And then she stole my house and farm;

It was, indeed, a shame, sir; She made them charming, bright and warm, And even stole my name, sir. Upon the street I used to roam,

And nightly drink and play, sir; But now she's fixed so nice a home

That there I'm bound to stay, sir. She keeps the house too nice and neat, And everything too clean, sir; And when she makes me wipe my feet I think it very mean, sir.

On rocking chairs I have to sit,

And back and forth I sway, sir; And when I'm forced to cough and spit, A vase is in my way, sir.

I am a prisoner every day,

With cords of love I'm tied, sir;
In Susie's bonds I want to stay,
And with her I'll abide, sir;

For Sue has pilfered everything.

And now she's stolen me, sir,

But makes me happy as a king,

And wealthy, proud and free, sir.

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HOW ADAM DIVIDED PROPERTY WITH

EVE.

When man rebelled and was expelled

From Eden's vales and groves elysian, He said to Eve, "You now must leave; But you shall have a fair division.

So, as your half, I'll give the calf,

And keep the cow, whose milk I'm needing; The colt is thine,-the mare is mine; -

The calf and colt are broke to leading. "The lambs for thee,- the ewe's for meThe wool is what I've set my heart on; I'll take the hog, and you the dog,

And these are all we've got to start on. With sweat of brow you'll have to plow,

And earn the bread that's so much needed; Now do not stay, but haste away,

For tears are vain and won't be heeded." The calf was brought,- the colt was caught, And in Eve's arms the lamb was taken; With failing heart she made the start,

And seemed by God and man forsaken. She stopped to tell her last farewell,

In voice subdued and full of feeling,When Tray, the dog, attacked the hog,Who rushed to Eve, in terror squeeling. The cow and mare and ewe were there,

And heard while feeding at their manger; Of course they flew as mothers do,

To save their offspring when in danger. To Eve they clung, who held their young, And as she went they followed after. Her tears were gone,- she hurried on,

And nearly split her sides with laughter.

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