76 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. Without a word she led the herd, And kept it at her home securely; But Adam stood in angry mood, And scowled and knit his brows demurely. Though whipped, he tried with manly pride, To get and cook his daily victuals;Made soup of cheese,-made pies of peas, And burnt his hands on pots and kettles. But life like this, was not the bliss, That Adam, at the first expected; So off he went to Eve's nice tent, And reconcilement was effected. And to this day, the wife has sway, And husbands know 'tis best to let her; I've known no strife,-'twixt man and wife, But what the woman got the better. THE LOVER'S SOLILOQUY. A brilliant rose, in blushing grace, Too modest to expose its face, May make the bower its hiding place, And bloom in covert there; And though we do not see the rose, Yet every one its presence knows, For far and wide, its fragrance flows, And dwells upon the air. "Tis thus her spirit, every hour, Where'er I am, with mystic power, Regales me as the hidden flower, And makes my heart rejoice. And something whispers in my ear, That her pervading spirit's near; And I imagine that I hear, The music of her voice. I meet her in my raptured dreams; We rove by sylvan vales and streams, And talk of love and kindred themes, And promise not to sever. Can she, though absent, cheer me so? Has perfect bliss been found below? Can dreams of her, such joy bestow? Then let me dream forever! A WIFE'S UNDYING LOVE. The moonlight is soft, and the fields are invit ing; Come, husband, let's walk in the meadow apart; For I am enraptured, when you are reciting, The story of love, in sweet words from the heart; That story, they tell us, is old and fictitious,And soon we'll grow weary and careless, they think; But love is like wine, that, from age is delici ous, And time gives it body, and flavors the drink. The brook, from the mountain, comes dancing and leaping And merrily sings as it troops through the lea; But when its a river, it seems to be sleeping, And silently wends its deep course to the sea; So love, at the first, was a shallow emotion, And made a great noise, like the brook as it goes; But now it's a river, profound in devotion, And deeper the stream the more softly it flows. Come, tell me you love me, I never grow weary; As well might the songs of my mother grow old, Or even the home of my childhood grow dreary, As words of affection seem lifeless and cold. Come tell me, again, the delightful old story, You told me before your betrothal to me:The love that you show is my lifeguard and glory, And death be my portion, if parted from thee. THE BRIDEGROOM'S ECSTACY. In my heart I've set your throne, Soon, the holy marriage rite Beaming from thy beauty. And when I, in joy and pride. Clasp thee as my charming bride Thou Shalt be the star to guide, And incite to duty. Trees, since I became thy choice, Clap their hands, and hills rejoice, And I seem to hear thy voice, Even when I'm sleeping. On life's journey we will start, Bidding every care depart, And we'll give both hand and heart To each other's keeping. EXTRACT. A mother true and pure as dew, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY. BORN: PEKIN, N. Y. BORN within sound of Niagara Falls and educated in Adrian, Mich., Mrs. Bailey removed to Kansas in 1871. Her first poem appeared in 1879, since which time she has written both prose and verse for the leading periodicals of America, including the Kansas City Journal, New York Tribune, Chicago Inter-Ocean and MRS. MATTIE L. BAILEY. the local press of Michigan, Indiana and Kansas. A woman of decidedly quiet domestic tastes and habits, Mrs. Bailey has written mainly for relief and pleasure of expression. She has had three children, one of whom is now living - Robert Victor, a bright child, of nine years of age, who is gifted with remarkable oratorical powers. MARA. Out from the depths I cry to Thee, Wild are the winds that 'round me blow, My dearest earthly wish denied, The phantoms of my dead hopes rise, So varied were the woes I felt, So dark the future looked to be, I marvelled why the Lord had dealt, And as I sadly mused, came then All is still. Be of good cheer."— O glorious truth to hearts sore tried BIRDIE. 77 Are there no children there? No dear child faces. Blooming with fadeless beauty in that bliss ful air; Nor prattle sweet with winsome baby-graces, Making our home more fair? Will she my spotless one, who has this life outgrown, Be changed to womanhood, ere I again can know, The loving, gentle, soul that grew unto my own? O, poet, say not so! Our Savior when on earth the little children blest, And said: .. Of such the kingdom is;" cannot it be, That he may take my baby to his loving breast, And keep her thus for me? For one bright year she led me with her tiny hand, Dull care was banished, while joy crowned each hour, As I watched the leaflets of my bud expand, To form the perfect flower. A radiant vision of these hours, I seeA fair and smiling face, with soul-lit eyes of blue; Sweet lips, whose kisses deeper rapture gave 78 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. With love's mute eloquence, those wistful eyes fill mine, With happy tears. O, sacred joy akin to pain, An ecstacy divine! Too soon the vision fades; how would it still this wild, Impassioned longing for what I held most dear, To know that some glad morning I may clasp my child, Just as I had her here. To know that in the glorified hereafter, E'en as when here--- her arms outstretched in glee, Her lovely face all dimpled o'er with laughter Thus may she welcome me. Peace, eager heart! Faith doth no questions ask; but when My ransomed soul finds home, then shall be gratified. Its hungry yearnings all, in sweet content; For then, ..I shall be satisfied." MRS. LISA A. FLETCHER. BORN: ASHBY, MASS., DEC. 27, 1844. MRS. FLETCHER is an invalid, and has really never known a well day in her life. Yet beauty in every form appeals to her and she finds much sweetness and joy from couch and pillows in writing, painting and reading. During the past few years she has written many beautiful poems, of which a few are here given. AT SUNSET. Beyond the sunset gleaming bright, SWEET JUNE. Buttercups and daisies, golden and white, O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! Beautiful laurel, stately and tall, O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! O sweet June days, move slow, move slow! FULFILLMENT. The hope to which we fondly cling, Is oft the swiftest to take wing, The wish for which we long and sigh, May be but a bitter draught to drink, Which we should spurn. The evil which we fear and dread, And dare not face, God may give the strength to bear, And needed grace. The good for which we scarce have hoped, May be sweetest in its fulfillment, The joys for which we seek and strive, When we call them ours, may be With dark o'ercast. The trials which we fain would shun, Like precious pearls may show to us SLEEP. Weird, shadowy sleep, From night to morn;Sweet, silent dreams, Glad, golden gleams, Tired, fitful sleep The hours away:- Till breaks the day: Sweet, painless sleep Peaceful and deep For hearts oppressed, Quick, fleeting hours 'Midst dreamland bowers, By angels blessed! LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 79 IRVING J. A. MILLER. BORN: WORCESTER, O., OCT. 14, 1866. IN 1876 Irving's parents removed to Marshalltown, Iowa, where he enjoyed a thorough course in the grammar school, and in which town he now resides. About 1884 he commenced to court the muse, and ever since that time has contributed quite freely to some of the most worthy and widely quoted periodicals of America. He is at present assistant editor of the Marshalltown Electric IRVING J. A. MILLER. Light. During the fall of 1887 he issued a book entitled Fireside Poems, which met with a ready sale. In 1888 he took editorial charge of the Star, in Union, Iowa, which position he filled for about one year. Mr. Miller was married in 1888. He is a practical printer by trade, and in person is a little above ti e average height, with brown hair and eyes. Mr. Miller has also issued a book of campaign songs, which was heartily received by all. THE HERO OF CONEMAUGH. Down through a valley of love and repose, Where the roses once bloomed and the Conemaugh flows O'er hillock and crevice, o'er dyke, bridge and stone, Inspired by his duty and trav'ling alone, X Rode a hero, unknown, with his warning to all, But the number who harkened and listened was small. Came the rushing of waters their thundering roar, As they hastened, with fury, to pillage and gore, And the trees and the houses gave way, like a straw, In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. On! On! with that courage a patriot thrills, Shouting: .. Run for your lives! Run for the hills!!" He dashed like a war-maddened Chippewa brave, For his was a duty to rescue and save; In the hurricane tide of the wild Conemaugh. dead, 'Mid the thousands of bodies that lay on the ground Not a trace of the steed or his rider was found; For a stranger he was, but his heroic deed Finds a place in the minds of the sufferers freed. In the years to come, and the time to be, Like a phantom 'twill pass through our mem ory, And we'll see, like a ghost of the buried past, AXIOMS. A noble deed; an action wrought; A modest girl; a manly boy; A cheerful home; a household kind; As one will pass life's journey through. When friendship dies, and love has fled, Forevermore the heart is dead. THE TWO WRECKS. The sea moaned, surging heavily Under a gloomy sky, While the seething, white-capped breakers Tossed their briny foam on high. And the ship, that sailed at daybreak Out from the harbor bar, Beneath the sunny heaven, Floating proudly stripe and star, Was being widely driven, Like a bird before the gale. Before the arching rainbow, The wreck of a once proud manhood, Somebody kissed that bloated face, Somebody thought of the comfort and pride |