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JESSIE F. O'DOXXELL.
Against the night dew-drops,” they said;
And the little green balls of the daisies BORN: LOWVILLE, N. Y., JAN. 18, 1860.
Never stirred in their soft, grassy bed. M188 O'DONNELL has published a volume of
But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily poems entitled Heart Lyrics, and now follows
C'plifted her chalice of light, the profession of literature. Her poems have
And the roses threw open their bosoms
And gladdened the fair summer night,
Leaned down from the trellises' height.
Smiled back at the roses' perfume,
Or shaking the hyacinth's perfume,
Close hiding her beautiful bloom.
And slowly uncovered her face,
With reverent, ineffable grace,
The souí of that wonderful place.
The Lord watched the flower unfold,
The last snowy petal had rolled,
And rich with the Master's breath,
The Night-Blooming Cereus saith;
And gathering her garments about her, appeared in a number of the leading Ameri
She yielded her sweetness to death. can periodicals. In person she is very slight, Wherever a Cereus blossoms, and now resides in her native town.
'Tis said that the Master is nigh;
That he watches the glorious flower THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS.
Uncurl the gold stamens that lie The indolent four o'clock ladies
In the petals that tremble with rapture, Had waked from their long, dreamy rest,
And shut round his kiss when they die. But the sun-flower's golden-lashed blossoms
Had turned their brown eyes to the west, And the lilies grown suddenly weary,
EXTRACTS. Lay hushed on the river's cold breast.
Oh, the wondrous, glistening Easter, The blue-bells began a soft tinkle,
Shining in the morning light! The primroses opened their eyes;
Silently the world had blossomed And the grasses waved low where the fairies
Like a white rose in the night; Had stolen the violets' disguise;
Softly smiled the winter landscape And above, through the angels' vast gardens, To the sunbeams' glances bright. The stars blossomed out in the skies.
And who can blame the woman that she chose A voice from the lily-bells calling,
Life's warmth and color, ere her first love Rang out on the even air clear:
burned . () ye blossoms! awake, in the gardens!
To ashes? Hearts need hearts. And, oh! The Lord of the flowers cometh near!
God knows () awake! in the field and the woodland;
Dear love is sweet although but half returned. The Maker of blossoms is here!" The poppy just murmured: .. I'm sleepy!" Can you measure a bluebird's quivering And nodded her round drowsy head; [ters
flight ? And the tulips had closed their bright shut-Or the speed of a homesick swallow ?
JOHN WILLIAM EVERETT.
BORN: CEDAR GROVE, LA., DEC. 13, 1869. In his youth his parents removed their place of abode several times, finally settling in Lake Charles, La, when the subject of this sketch was sixteen years of age. His father is editor of The American in that town, and young Everett also resides there. While still
l'pon this bank I have stood in days gone by; In youth's bright, happy hours I've wander
ed here, With one who now is sleeping silently Beneath the sod, whose voice I'll never
hear! Ah, yes! Upon this bank of rocks and sand,
Beneath the shady trees that bow above, I've kissed her cheeks, and pressed her little
hand, And spoke to her in tender words of love. How often has she knelt to write her name
Upon the ground upon the river's strand, And stood and watched the wavelets as they
came, And washed the writing from the glittering
sand! She knew not then while standing by my side,
And gazing at her name as't disappeared, That her own life, so lovely - and my pride Was pictured there in emblems she had
reared! Ah, life is short! But oh, how beautiful
Is her's to me while memory draws it nigh! How gentle! Oh, how mild and dutiful Was she, who -- lovely, darling girl --- should
die! Yes, time has borne her from this sacred
place; No longer meet we by the river's shore, No more shall I behold her lovely face, And her sweet voice shall greet me, never
JOHN WILLIAM EVERETT. in the university at Waco, Texas, he contributed several poems to the local press. He next attended the Mississippi college at Clinton, where he continued his studies as a theological student, a profession he intends to follow. Besides his poetic writings, he has contributed prose to various publications; and he has published a musical composition.
REFLECTIONS. ON THE BANKS OF THE AMITE RIVER. 'Tis late; the sun is sinking in the west; The wind moans lonesome through the
waving trees; The twit'ring birds have hushed to seek their
rest; The swallow's wing beats homeward on the
breeze. The river moans and ripples as it flows;
The moon is rising now upon the scene; The stars are stealing slowly from their close,
And adding pleasure to the thought serene.
EVENING ON THE CALCASIEU.
The day is done;
The setting sun,
The lowing herds
And twitt'ring birds --
The old saw mill
As death is still, Save sundry hissings now and then;
'Neath the sky blue
Gathers the dew,
Reflects the blue And beauteous sky that bows above,
And from afar
A little star
What is that? Hush!
I hear a slush!
A maiden fair
With golden hair, Sweetly, softly sings, afloat!
MRS. E. B. BISANT-DEL ANY.
BORN: MUSKINGUM CO., O., MARCH 16, 1844. SINCE 1856 tbis lady has contributed quite extensively to the Zanesville Journal and the periodical press generally. She now resides
Will choose a fair Lily
An emblem so chaste, When the meadow is grac'd
By the lithe golden-rod, The zephyrs a-quiver,
All glorify God. Pretty pansy attuned
To blithe notes of the harp, Might to sweet violets,
Tone of envy impart. When the tube-rose's soul
Caught the hot breath of June, The lily grew pale
'Neath the blush of the moon. So cbaste is the Lily
of rarified soul, That all passionfied tides
Must obey her control. Then cherish the Lily!
Mind-petals of trust Are soul-nooks etherial,
That gather no dust.
A sonnet of love!
As cooing of dore,
And buttercups nod
That glorify God.
MRS. EURA BROOKE BISANT-DELANY. on the Old Homestead near Zanesville, where she has become very popular. Personally this lady is of the average height with gold brown hair and blue gray eyes.
INTRODUCTION. Petals of poetic passion –
Yellow, crimson, vari'gated, Briar-rose, thorn-spear be-mettled!
Is thy warsome mood e'er sated? Muse of Satire? Flee this moment!
Seek the desert of distress; Mortal woman is not faultless.
Fallen angel! - nothing less!
Pity, holds the helm of ship.
Mercy kneels with quiv'ring lip.
Read finale in her eyes!
A florist of taste,
LITTLE MARIAM KING. Wee namesake of thy grandma's, Thou daughter of a King; Fair child of many graces, Of thee the muses sing, Sweet bud zephyr kiss'd, Bud beguiling mist, Song nymphs proclaim thee Child of delight! Thy mother- a poetess courting the stars, Threw kisses at Venus, and frowned on old
Mars, Whose face grew so red with the cruel war
glowReflection lent blush to a crystal of snow O sweet little Mariam;
God shield thee from harm!
At sign of alarm
Set creation ajar,-
In Fair-Land, afar.
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON
BORN: NEW YORK CITY, OCT. 7, 1857. EDUCATED at Pennington seminary, New Jersey and university of the city of New York, he was married in 1878 to Sue Rockhill, daughter of Capt. Z. Rockhill of New Jersey. For past eight years has been on the editorial staff of New York Tribune. Mr. Johnson has lectured frequently and made many other public addresses. He is the author of several books
To this new world, the victory won.
O hated foeman Fate! Now all is sense, and life, and love, And footsteps unrestrained rove;
O baffled Fate! And where I lead, Fate follows me, Myself my lord of destiny.
O baffled, vanquished fate!
And when above the yawning chasm,
Dreaming each rude and ragged dint Through the coming years' unceasing march Would herald his deathless fame.
But the name was only read
By eagles in their flight,
And buried it out of sight.
And I know the ink may quickly fade,
In a thousand ways my pen's poor toil May come to naught, and a vacant place Alone wait the coming age.
But my name, I trust, shall live,
Safe kept in memory's shrine;
Shall have faded this fleeting line.
AUTUMN. The aster glows the falling leaves beneath, The goldenrod gleams by the hedgerow
brown, As tho' the dying summer in the frost king's
Had hurled her gauntlet down. So when the shades of solemn silence sink
Upon us, and we reach life's latest breath, The soul exultant bids, e'en on the grave's
Defiance unto death! We perish not. The mounting spirit towers
In conscious immortality sublime, And gains beyond death's feeble, fleeting,
O tyrant Fate!
O cruel tyrant Fate!
O foeman Fate! And fought my way, ere set of sun,
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
Russet garb, and couch of moss, Treasures free from rust or loss Why should not my life be gay? I am rich; who says me nay?
As mind's pinions are unfurled,
I am rich; who says me nay?
THE STONES OF MANHATTAN. I tread the stones of Manhattan; I, who have
journeyed far From the meadow-sward and the moss bank,
and the streamlet's pebbly bar; I, who have wandered hither, allured by the
tales they told Of how the stones of Manhattan were reeking
with ruddy gold.
BOOKS AND BINDINGS. On my study shelves they stand, Well-known all to eye and hand, Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold, In morocco rich and old, Some in paper, plain and cheap, Some in muslin, calf and sheep; Volumes great and volumes small Ranged along my study wall; But their contents are past finding By their size or by their binding. There is one with gold agleam, Like the Sangreal in a dream, Back and boards in every part Triumph of the binder's art; Costing more, 't is well believed, Then the author e'er received. But its contents? Idle tales, Flapping of a shallop's sails! In the treasury of learning Scarcely worth a penny's turning. Here's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook. Take it down, and lo! each page Breathes the wisdom of a sage! Weighed a thousand times in gold, Half its worth would not be told, For all truth of ancient story Crowns each line with deathless glory. On my study shelves they stand; But my study walls expand,
I tread the stones of Manhattan, the stones
that are hard to my feet --As hard as the hearts around me, as hard as
the faces I meet. Hot is their breath in summer, with fever of
selfish greed, Cold is their touch in winter, as hearts to the
hand of need. My heel strikes fire from the flint, but the
spark is dead ere it burns,Strikes fire in my angry striding, but is bruis
ed by the stone it spurns.-And echo scorns with a stony voice the cry of
a soul's despair Breathed out on the thunderous throbbings of
the city's desert air, Oh! faithless stones of Manhattan, that tempt
ed my boyish feet Away from the clover-meadow, from the wind
woven waves of wheat! I thought ye a golden highway; I find ye the
path of shame, Where souls are sold for silver, and gold is the
price of fame! But my weary feet must tread ye, as slaves on
the quarry floor, And my aching brain must suffer your piti
less uproar, Till the raving tide shall sweep above, and
careless feet shall tread On the futal stones of Manhattan, over my
POETS UNKNOWN TO FAME. Who questions if a brazen trumpet sound,
Or siiver clarion, or pipe of reed, When echoes linger 'miū the Switzer hills? Who seeks the poet's name or native bound,
So but his song be melody indeed, And his inspired word the spirit thrills?