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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
IN MEMORIAM: Death's blighting blast
Came cold and fast, Engulfing in its gloom Love, Worth and Youth,
But this soul of truth Finds life beyond the tomb. Immortal fame
lilumes this name Now numbered with the dead; And clouds of woe,
For the nation's life
When fear was rife, Devoutly Knelt in prayer; Each battle fought,
With anguish fraught, Delfina's thoughts were there, In the land above
Where peace and love
'Mid the chosen few,
No more shall the blood of thy children
MEXICO'S NATIONAL ANTHEM. Bind, oh my country! thy brow with the olive Or peace, for Archangels thy future foretold; And heav'n decreed it when time was an infant The hand of Jehovah thy life would unfold. Should daring monarchs attempt to invade
thee, Profaning thy soil with unhallowed tread, Remember, dear country, that kind heaven
[dead! In each son a soldier, unconquered, though CHO.-Mexican men, to the tocsin of war,
Make ready the charger and steel,
With the cannon's sonorous appeal! In war's fiercest combats thou often hast seen them,
[thy name, Their hearts nerved with courage and love for Braving death and destruction, as heroes, serenely,
[fame. Who seek, as their guerdon, the death-bed of If all deeds and all exploits of glory, Of thy brave sons in battle, were told, How thy records would glow with the story Stamped in letters of crimson and gold! As the oak by the lightning is shattered And hurled to the torrents below, So discord, domestic, is banished By thy Angel of Peace, Mexico!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
BORN: CAMBRIDGE, Mass., FEB. 22, 1819. This poet, essayist and critic graduated at Harvard, and for more than twenty years was professor of belles-lettres in that coilege. In 1877 he was appointed minister of Spain, and
That through the soul come thronging, What one was e'er so dear, so kind,
So beautiful, as Longing?
For one transcendent moment,
Can make its sneering comment.
Glow down the wished ideal,
Carves in the marble real.
Desire must ope the portal;
Helps make the soul immortal.
Be noble! and the nobleness that lies
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own, New occasions teach new duties; time makes
ancient good uncouth; They must upward still and onward who would
keep abreast of truth.
One simple word which now and then
And friendless sons of men.
think, And when he has thought, be his cause strong
or weak, Will risk t'other half for the freedom to speak, Caring naught for what vengeance the mob
has in store, Let that mob be the upper ten thousand or
ALADDIN. When I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy,
But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for cold,
I had fire enough in my brain,
My beautiful castles in Spain!
I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,
For the one that is mine no more; Take. Fortune, whatever you choose.
You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
For I own no more castles in Spain!
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
Life is a leaf of paper white
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. NOTE.-- The following extract is the prelude to Part First of The Vision of Sir Launfal, one of the best of Lowell's efforts as a poet. The poem appeared in 1848, and it has done much to establish the reputation of its author as one of the most scholarly of American poets. Over his keys the musing organist,
Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his
lay. Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his
Along the wavering vista of his dream.
Against our fallen and traitor lives
With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood
Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood
Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its prise for what earth gives us:
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives
For a cap and bells our lives we pay: Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking;
'Tis heaven alone that is given away,
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice; And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace. The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and
sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her
nest,In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are
green, We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell, We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help
knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing. The breeze comes whispering in our ear That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are
flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon beifer's lowing; And hark! how clear bold Chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Everything is upward striving;
"Tis the natural way of living. Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burned-out craters healed with snow. What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow?
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
MRS, MARIA B. LINDESAY.
BORN IN ENGLAND, Jan. 1, 1862. MRS. LINDESAY is known more as a Christian poet, and her poems have appeared in the
She spoke, as though of holy things,
'Tis some good angel, — without wings.” He turned him to his work again With more of pleasure than of pain, And labored on, with hopes and fears, For seven more long weary years; And feeling he had done his best, He once again applied the test. The child he called unto him now, Looked on it once with thoughtful brow, And worshiping with reverent face The beauty of its wondrous grace, Bent all abashed, her infant head, And, It is Jesus Christ," she said.
CHRIST'S HUMANITY. 01 Babe upon thy mother's breast, In our weak garb of suffering drest, So lowly, yet so wondrous high That angels might not pass thee by, And wise men came from distant lands, With kingly offerings in their hands; What dreams prophetic, strange and old Thy heritage and work foretold! 0! Child within the temple's court, Where priest and prophet wisdom sought, And thy young lips first ope' to tell, The message that they knew so well; 0! Man upon the upward way Beneath the heat and toil of day, With weary feet and tender frame, Yet ever, always, just the same: Mighty to heal, lowly and mild, Yet grand in justice, undefiled, And blending with a god-like love Thy life work with Thy place above! 0! Savior at the awful close, Forsook by friends, beset by foes – Before the vengeful bar arraign'd With brow and garments crimson-stained, Amidst the mob, whose only cry, In thirsty voice was, Crucify!'
MRS. MARIA B. LINDESAY. Chicago Living Church and other prominent periodicals. She now resides with her husband in Asheville, N. C.
THE SCULPTOR'S TEST. Within his studio, one bright day, A massive block of marble lay, So wondrous pure, so spotless white It seemed to fill the room with light, And woo his genius to dare And try to form a Being there. Spurr'd by the one inspiring thought, From day to day he patient wrought, From week to week, from year to year Till fourteen of them pictured there, And he all doubt if 'twas his best, And trembling much, applied the test. He called a child, a little child All innocent and undefiled, And pointing to the figure there, In its pure beauty grand and fair, He bade ber mark it long and well, And who she thought it was to tell. He watched her with a beating heart, Nor could he check a fearsome start, When the bright eyes had wandered o'er His work, and viewed it yet once more,
LIFE. How beautiful is Life! When the first streak
Touches the sunrise hills, [of dawning And all the glint and glow of early morning
The wide east fills.
When, glowing like the sun,
Is mapped and run. [power, How beautiful is life! When eventide
Steals softly on,
Till day is done.
Disrobes her starry breast, Gleaming with other world's far distant light,
And man must rest.
BORN: ENGLAND, JULY 13, 1860. MR. PEBERDY is now a resident of Middletown Conn., where he follows the occupation of an
Which left impression there.
She's master of her will,
Where death sball make thee still. Then laid at last within the tomb,
That churchyard's quiet bed, Where leaves will drop and daises bloom
As though thou were not dead. And all the world will still pursue
Every motion as before, Feeling not the loss of you,
Because thou art not with us more. Prepare, or yet the breeze of June,
Or one bright ray from that great zone May mark the mantle of our tomb,
Or glance upon a new laid stone That bears thy name or scores our years.
The nightly shades which o'er us waves, Unnerves the stranger, breeds his fears;
Such lonely sentinels of our graves.
WILLIAM PEBERDY. engineer. His poems have appeared in the press since his youth. He was married in 1884 to Miss Belle M. Patrick, of Gorham, Me.
AN AGED MAN,
Late falling of its bloom,
And shares its honored doom.
And far advanced the day
But silent death shall say,
My shoulders broad and square
Thy days should end in prayer. [life The part ye have chose from the chalice of
Hath carried thee well to the last; Hard frozen and frosty, thy season of strife,
Now bleak blows its wintrly blast, [head, Such numbers of seasons hath changed thine
Ne'er again shall we see its bright glow; All fairness has gone, and all traces have fled
and left it as white as the snow. Those long deep lines across thy brow,
Designs of anxious care, Bespeaks that it hath made a blow,
THE FOREST GLADE. Warble, dear bird, with thy notes to the sky, This place is a home for thy kind; Thy songs are so cheery. Oh, where were ye
taught? Is thy teacher still living? Can thy lessons be
bought? Or is it a song of thy mind? I know not a place that is lovely as this, On my memory impress it with love; Oh, find me the builder, and say when his
birth, Are there any more places so like this on
earth? Or a scene that has fell from above. What photo could picture, what artist can
paint, With impressions that make such a bliss; Oh, could I but model thy looks with a pen, What art would exceed or price buy such a
gem, With them there are no low nor high, Now may it preach or rather teach appeared in the leading periodicals. He was one of the founders of the Theta-Delta-Chi. Th sun is now setting low down in the west, Each plant in itself doth exclaim; To separate one from its friend I could ne'er, Yet each one to my heart I will cherish as
dear, I must them, for want of a name. Does it not in itself quite proclaim what it is? The Nightingale's song I can hear, Its soft silvery voice re-echoes the hill, And then in a moment, again it is still.
My footsteps hath filled it with fear. Such salubrious air with a soft balmy breeze, That silently glides through the dell, [glade, So the stream with a swiftness adds life to the