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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

81

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.
And wild humors, of idle hours,

That filled the eye with castled air,
And painted rainbows, thro' the showers,

Unfold again, sometime, somewhere.
Will broken loves, and severed ties,

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.

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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,
And think me, will this heart's wild throb

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,
And listen to the whispering breeze.

Each regal note,

From silver throat, Of song-birds reach, near and remote;

Their happy mood

Seek to intrude,
And lend joy to this solitude.

Not far away

The new mown hay,
Sends forth richest, royal bouquet;

And glim'ring sheen,

O'er velvet green,
Makes restful this enchanting scene.

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 island rising from the deep;

On either hand

Its pearly sand,
Lies sparkling in the sunlight grand.

0! calm, sweet June,

Thou hast o'er strewn,
The earth with garland and festoon;

No discord here,

To mar the ear,
Intrudes with form, or creed, or fear.

This temple grand,

The Artist's hand, Perfection shows, at his command;

Oh! who would miss

A day like this?
Sweet prelude of Elysian bliss.

Drink in, my soul,

The sweets that roll, From heaven's free, o'erflowing bowl;

Oh! heart of mine,

At Nature's shrine,
Pay homage to the hand divine.

EXTRACT.
Again the days are growing long,

And the dew rests on the flowers,
Winged minstrels never tire of song,

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.

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Think Mercy's Angel will hasten away,
With message to friend, of the Blue or the

Gray.
How it would solace the sorrow of years,
And lessen the grief, that's hallowed with

tears.

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.

83

REV JOSEPH D. HERRON.

BORN: KIRTLAND, O., Nov. 4, 1853.
MR. HERRON has a love for music, and Spring
Song he set to music, which has been render
ed by choruses of children in New York and

Paint with thy pencil the flowers fair,
The royal fuchsias and roses rare,
And the violets bending low.
Short is thy stay, 0 lovely queen,
For the summer is coming soon;
E'en now is the way of thy exit seen,
In the golden month of June.
But while thou art queen thy reign is sweet,
For thy sceptre is covered with flowers;
And before tby grotto the fairies meet,
And the elfins dance with glittering feet,
Beneath the jessamine bowers.
Then spring, bright spring we bid thee hail,
But soon we will say good-bye;
For thy brightest beams e'er long will pale,
When the violets droop in the woodland vale,
And withering, fade and die,
For the golden harvest-time will come,
And the reapers with sickles keen,
Will bring to the flowers their only doom,
And lay them low in their earthy tomb,
The mouldering sod between.
But after the winter snows are past,
And gone are the sleet and rain;
When the dreary days no longer last,
And bright spring comes again,
We will shout aloud as we did of yore,
All hail fair spring to tbee;
Scatter thy flowers the woodlands o'er,
Till the air is sweeter than ever before,
As it blows through each leafy tree.

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TWO PICTURES.

FIRST.

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,
Cracking the trees that are covered with ice,

Till bending and swaying they snap in a
SPRING.

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;

rare!

Little we heed how the buttons go,
Little we heed how the blinding snow
Flies in our eyes and fills our ears,
Till our bosom throbs with fleeting fears;
But flowing over with jubilant bliss,
We vow that nothing can equal this.
O ye, that sit in the halls of state,
That rule our country strong and great,
Give ye no thought to those halcyon days,
That ye spent in a thousand whimsical ways -
Ways that only youth may know,
To conjure joy and to banish woe?
Give ye no thought -- alas too oft,
Your minds are soaring too far aloft,
To give one glance at childhood's day,
But are wont to sneer at its foolish play.
Know ye then, men with minds so great,
That stand at the helm of the ship of state,
Know ye that these same jubilant boys,
That rend the air with their mirthful noise,
And slide down hill with their nose to the

ground,
In the halls of the nation may yet be found.
Then hip, hurrah! for King Winter cold,
With his shaggy beard so gray and old,
Long may he sit on his icy throne,
And rule the realm he now doth own;
Glassing the river with sheets of ice,
Where by a throw of fortune's dice,
The youth and the maiden perchance do

meet,
And fly o’er the ice with the wind so fleet,
The wind that causes a ruddy glow
On cheek and lip as they swiftly go.
0 rudest wind! to be so bold,
As to kiss those lips with a touch so cold;
But perhaps there would be no fault to find,
If the only culprit were the wind.
Then hurrah! once more for the Winter King,
Who moans and whistles and tries to sing,
And plays a prelude queer and odd,
On the creaking limbs that sway and nod.
And then with a shriek he leaves the vale,
And mounts to the hills of Annandale,
There with a whirry add flurry he stops,
And dances a horn-pipe to limber his chops;
And if a stray cat by chance he spies,
He nips her tail till she blinks her eyes,
And rends the air with yowls and cries.
O Winter King what a royal sway,
Thou holdest ever from day to day.
But the time will come when thy throne will

melt,
And no longer thy chilling breath be felt;
And tbou wilt sleep in the vast unknown,
While the golden summer reigns alone.

SECOND.
Oh! the groves of Annandale!
The balmy groves of Annandale;
Through whose trees with a whisper low,

The summer winds so wearily blow,
And fan our cheeks till we fall asleep,
While the hum-birds play at a wild bo-peep,
The bees croon drowsily in the clover,
The squirrel chirps like a rollicking rover;
And sweet to the soul beyond all price,
Nature foreshadows Paradise,
Hand in hand through the shady grove,
The youth and the maiden slowly move.
Her cheeks are red, but not with cold,
As when once they were kissed by the wind so

bold.
They set them down by a running stream,
And think they are living a fairy dream.
He scans her face with a loving eye,
Then looks to see if there's any one nigh,

- But here let me say, when they flew a pace
Over the ice, she slapped his face,
When he tried to follow the wind's example;
Of womanly spirit a worthy ample. -
But now when thesummer breezes blow,
And the rippling streamlets freely low,
And the blue-bird warbles a love song sweet,
A languor steals o'er their mossy seat,
And there, in the light of a summer's sun,
A precious heart is wooed and won.

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
Child of the grand old winter,

December floateth by;
And the ground without is bare and white

As the moon in the cloudless sky.
The wind blows cold and dreary.

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.

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