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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
JOHN LANDOR KRYDER. BORN: NEW BERLIN, OHIO, DEC. 22, 1833. By self-study, application and observation, Mr. Kryder gathered the rudiments of his education, and at the age of nineteen taught his first school. For several years thereafter he was engaged in teaching and studying medicine. In 1858 he commenced the practice of medicine, and has been engaged thereat
O'er blurr'd past, and wonder if we,
Shall meet again sometime, somewhere. Will rough places all be made smooth,
All leveled and even and fair; All envies and crosses forsooth,
Be banished, sometime, somewhere. And all the vows, that have betray'd
The ears and hearts of brave and fair. And all the wrecks, that they have made
Restored again, sometime, somewhere.
That filled the eye with castled air,
Unfold again, sometime, somewhere.
That strew dead seas, with wild despair. In realms of peace, 'neath azure skies —
Be reconciled, sometime, somewhere. Fair hope inspires; the eye of fạith
Invites the wish, and builds the pray'r, Love, there shall rule, instead of wrath, Sighs change to smiles, sometime, some
where. Yes, on the verge where two worlds meet,
All things will be made even there: Serf and King, Priest and Clown, will greet,
On equal terms, sometime, somewhere. And that far shore of prophetic dreams
With all its myst'ries grand and fair, Will be disclosed, when best it seems,
In God's good will, sometime, somewhere.
BY-PAST TIMES. There are treasures in mem'rys urn; Embalmed with the loves of the past, And we have lived, to know aud learn, Their joys were too fragile to last:
Yet while affection's ties remain, Those by-past times come back again. Forever o'er the sea of thought, Like gentle swells of peaceful waves That hide the wreck and ruin wrought, By tempest when it fiercest raves,
A heart-calm to unrest and pain,
Comes some sweet by-past time again. Wonderful sea, Oh! changing tide, Forever freighted with weal or woe; Joyous sunbeams dance and ride, Thy billows crest, or cradle low.
And o'er thy bosom now and then
Floats some sweet by-past time again. Some idle song in sweet low trills, That wafts along the shaded years; Soft as the purl of meeting rills, Endearing hopes, dissolving fears,
SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. I think to-night of drifted years,
Lying behind in the grave of care, Of life's pages, written in tears,
Torn and scattered, sometime, somewhere. I hear the night-wind's mournful sob,
Like spirit whisp'rings in the air,
Cease soon, and rest, sometime, somewhere. Low murm'rous voices speak to me,
As my thoughts go hither and there
Awakes from its dream Lethean,
And echo's by-past times again. Alas! it seems so passing strange, That from the censer of those days, The incense should so widely range; And their perfume, thro' distant maze,
Wake in each heart the mellow chimes, And fragrance of the by-past times.
MEMORIAL DAY. Tenderly strew over cach grave to-day, The perfumed blossoms of balmy May. And the “ nameless mounds by stream or
lake, Bedeck them for mother's or sister's sake. What matters it now whether friend or foe, Lies mould'ring to dust in the tomb below. Spread sweet charity's mantle o'er the brave And cover with flowers each hero's grave. Known or unknown, Oh! how many to-day, Grieving, are wond'ring where their loved
ones lay; Weeping and wond'ring, they gladly would
know, If tribute to their's, some hand w bestow. Time and its changes should soften the heart, And sympathy lessen pale sorrow's dart, And tears should refresh the green on each
grave; Bright flowers shed their fragrance o'er the
brave, Think, some sad heart, that is far, far away; In gratitude deep would gladly repay, For the drop of a sigh, a bud or a tear, On the grave
unknown to some one so dear.
So clear and free
There comes to me, Soft cadence of past melody;
As 'neath the trees,
I lie at ease,
Each regal note,
From silver throat, Of song-birds reach, near and remote;
Their happy mood
Seek to intrude,
Not far away
The new mown hay,
And glim'ring sheen,
O'er velvet green,
While here and there
Sail cloud-ships fair, Sailing, sail by on waves of air,
Until they greet
The anchored fleet, Where azure skies and landscapes moet,
There vines o'er creep
Willows that weep,
On either hand
Its pearly sand,
0! calm, sweet June,
Thou hast o'er strewn,
No discord here,
To mar the ear,
This temple grand,
The Artist's hand, Perfection shows, at his command;
Oh! who would miss
A day like this?
Drink in, my soul,
The sweets that roll, From heaven's free, o'erflowing bowl;
Oh! heart of mine,
At Nature's shrine,
And the dew rests on the flowers,
To charm and cheer the passing hours; Hours, that seem to me passing slow,
While a wakeful memory strays To you, and scenes of long ago,
Recalling other summer days.
Think Mercy's Angel will hasten away,
A JUNE DAY DREAM.
This sweet June day
I drift away, Where care cannot my peace betray;
From toil and heat,
And dust retreat, Where fairer scenes my senses greet.
My footsteps seek
The highest peak, O'er looking lake and crystal creek;
Like yine-clad wall,
of castled hall, Hill-sides abloom, arise and fall.
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
REV JOSEPH D. HERRON.
BORN: KIRTLAND, O., Nov. 4, 1853.
Paint with thy pencil the flowers fair,
JOSEPH D. HERRON. other cities. He has held but two positions
Oh! the winds of Annandale! in the ten years of bis ministry - assistant The bracing winds of Annandale, minister in Trinity Parish, New York; and Blowing and sweeping o'er hill and plain, Rector of Trinity church, New Castle.
Piling snow drifts in road and lane,
Till bending and swaying they snap in a
trice. Hail, hail, all hail !
Cold are the winds of Annandale; "Tis the halcyon month of May,
But never a cheek is blanched and pale, Hail, hail, all bail!
That out of the house is wont to tarry, 'Tis nature's gala day,
And brave the wind of January. Ye nymphs of the mountain,
January's bitter cold; Ye sprites of the fountain,
But sprightly youth will scarce grow old, That dance 'mid the leaflets green:
And pine away before its time, Come out from your bowers,
If, committing the so-called crime With garlands of flowers,
Of lingering out in the ice and snow, And welcome your fairy queen.
We make the days of the winter go. Hail! fairy of spring!
Oh! the hills of Annandale! Scatter thy flowers o'er hill and dale,
The snow-clad hills of Annandale; While the breezes o'er them blow,
Glittering white in the sun's bright rays, And soft be thy touch in the woodland vale, That shimmer and dance like a troop of fays; Where the leafy tendrils of myrtle trail, Placing a gem on each feathery flake, And the sparkling fountains flow.
Till they look like stars on a frozen lake, Hail! beautiful queen!
Soon is heard on the frosty air, Deck with thy blossoms the branches bare, The shout of the coaster - Oh! sport most And thy golden smiles bestow;
Little we heed how the buttons go,
The summer winds so wearily blow,
- But here let me say, when they flew a pace
h! the summer of Annandale! The golden summer of Annandale. Happiest hours of all the year, Happy indeed to the maiden dear, Who laughed at love when the Winter King Held his sway over everything. Now, no more howls the cbilling blast, No more the snow falls thick and fast Over the field and over the plain, Till we look for a fence or a road in vain. No more is heard the coaster's song, As it swelled into melody loud and long. The hills are green, and the flowers wave, And lift their heads to the sky's blue nave; And seem to whisper as they nod: All that is lovely belongs to God.
December floateth by;
As the moon in the cloudless sky.
Across the whitened plain; And we see the oaks with their branches bare,
Through the frost on the window pane. But within where the yule-log's burning,
Each leart is happy and gay; For the loving Prince of earth and Heaven,
Was born on Christmas day. Then hail! grand old December,
We welcome you once more! For the memory sweet or a night you bring,
That came in the days of yore.