HARRY LYMAN KOOPMAN. BORN: FREEPORT, ME., JULY 1, 1860. GRADUATING at the age of sixteen, Mr. Koopman has since supported himself chiefly with his pen. He has published several books of both prose and verse which have attained fair circulations. Mr. Koopman has been extensively engaged in library work. The Great Admiral; Woman's Will, a love play of five acts with other poems; and Orestes, a dramatic sketch with other poems, are among his principal published works. Mr. Koopman was united in wedlock in June, 1889, and now resides in Burlington, Vt. THE DEATH OF GUINEVERE. It was the season when there falls no night, Then pious hearts think on the heavenly city, With any thrill the sick heart of the queen, Upon her bed she lay. Around, her maids Stood weeping, while her fevered dreams out These weary years! Hath he no kiss for me? May I not clasp his knees, and in my love Have him again all mine, my own? But what If in that world the sight of me were pain. Must I then see thee not? May nevermore Myself thy face, to spare thee sight of mine, My love, my hope, my strength, my life, my king? Yea for thy sake I will." Here ceased the queen, And on her face a deadly pallor fell, The light sank from her eyes;- then leaped again, And in her cheek the rosy flush of youth Flashed, and a smile like summer bent her lips; She cried again O Arthur!" and the smile Lingered, but she had gone to meet her king. Through the bowed window came the breath of morn, And high in heaven the bright lark sang for glee. PRINCESS EYEBRIGHT. Though she's grown since then, somehow Her lips are farther from me now. Yet she lifts in olden wise Dusky veiled, violet eyes; But the look they wear is new, Shy, and yet so trustful too, WALT WHITMAN. BORN: WEST HILLS, N. Y., MAY 31, 1819. OF English origin, the Whitmans have lived three centuries in America. Walt, in one of his poems, says: "My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air. Born here of parents born here, from parents the same, and their parents the same." His youth was passed in New York and Brooklyn, receiv LOVE. Blow again trumpeter! and for thy theme, Take now the enclosing theme of all, the solvent and the setting, Love, that is pulse of all, the sustenance and The heart of man and woman all for love, O how the immortal phantoms crowd around I see the vast alembic ever working, I see and know the flames that heat the world, The glow, the blush, the breathing hearts of lovers, So blissful happy some, and some so silent, dark, and nigh to death: Love, that is all the earth to lovers - love, that mocks time and space. Love, that is day and night-love, that is sun and moon and stars, Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, No other words but words of love, no other thought but love. THE WORLD BELOW THE BRINE. The world below the brine, Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves, Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds, the thick tangle, and pink turf, Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold, the play of white through the water. Dumb swimmers there among the rocks, coral, gluten, grass, rushes, and the aliment of the swimmers, Sluggish existences grazing there suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom, The sperm-whale at the surface blowing air and spray, or disporting with his flukes, ing but a common school education. When a young man he worked in a printing office. During the Rebellion he was a volunteer nurse without pay, supporting himself during this time by writing letters to various newspapers. It is said that during the course of the war he attended to the wants of a hundred thousand wounded soldiers, treating both confederates The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, and federals alike. Walt Whitman's crowning poetical work is Leaves of Grass, a record of the author's thoughts, in song-solely of America and to-day. He has also written two volumes of prose: Specimen Days and Collect, and November Boughs. WHAT AM I AFTER ALL. What am I after all but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over; I stand apart to hear-it never tires me. To you your name also; Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound in your name? the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting- Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes, sight in LIFE. The same old role, the role that is what we ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS. Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human. With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet? Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet? ('T is while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines. Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me. As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea. Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd, A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought." No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound, yel low, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvelous you see or have seen? RECONCILIATION. Word over all, beautiful as the sky, Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost, That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world: For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin- I draw near, Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin. FAILURE. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! SELF. Each man to himself and each woman to herself, is the word of the past and present, and the true word of immortality; No one can acquire for another - not one. No one can grow for another- not one. The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him, The teaching is to the teacher, and comes back most to him, The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him, The theft is to the thief, and comes back most to him, The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him, The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him- it cannot fail, The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress not to an audience, And no man understands any greatness of goodness but his own, or the indications of his own. ANIMALS. I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousand of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. OPEN ROAD. Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wher ever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune. I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticism, Strong and content I travel the open road. LOTTIE CAMERON EFNOR. BORN: LIVERPOOL, N. Y. MRS. EFNOR is best known by her poems and letters published in the leading papers of Texas for the past twenty years, although she has contributed quite extensively to the east LOTTIE CAMERON EFNOR. ern press. She will doubtless publish her entire works in book-form at an early date. Personally she is of medium height, with black hair and eyes. THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE. Ah! joyously murmur of life's brightest side, The side we deem nearest the sun; A well-spring of joy they tell us we'll find, If in earnest the search is begun. Yea, it is true! there is a bright side of life When little feet patter the floor, And sweet, childish laughter out on the lawn Comes rollicking" in at the door. But how can we say there is a bright side of life When these sunny echoes are o'er, And little feet turning to mold in the grave Will gladden these hauntings no more? Can the mother well look on the bright side of life Whose anguish and moanings are heard When her heart and arms are empty and bare As winter's cold nest of a bird? A lover will call it the bright side of life When he looks in the eyes of his love, And reads in their depths the return of his hopes, The truths that his happiness wove. Her smiles like the moonbeams appeal to his soul, Her laughter, like ripples of pearls, Keeps filling his heart with the rarest of gems, As it playfully floats through her curls. But his mind is all changed when the bright side of life Has turned the dark side to his view; And eyes that looked up to his own manly Misfortunes have reached him at last; The friends that so warmly extended a hand Seem scarcely to know he has past: His heart being tender, his pride being bowed, He feels in his soul for the poor; And wonders if follows the dark side of life, The many once turned from his door. Ah! Well may we deem it the bright side of life When all of life's blessings are near, When beauty and wealth, like a glorious boon, Shelter the eye from a frown or a tear. The world is so bright when the laurel-crowned brow Grows calm and content with its rest; When the fruitage of toil to the weary, worn soul Has anchored its hopes in the breast. But when these have all sunk in life's darkened sea, And blessings gone down with the tide; Or heartaches and sorrows assume their control, And loving ones sickened and died; "Tis then we look out on the dark side of life, Well knowing its shadows are here: And better it were to take burdens of life With seldom a murmur or tear. 196 LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. L. A. MARTIN. BORN: FAYETTE CO., OHIO, JAN. 14, 1865. AFTER receiving a good education, Mr. Martin entered the profession of a school teacher. In 1889 he was school commissioner of Livingston county, and also editor of the Teachers' Re L. A. MARTIN. view, an educational journal published at Chillicothe, Mo. The poems of Mr. Martin have appeared from time to time in the periodical press. THE WITHERED FLOWER. I saw a withered flower, Fading fast; For the north wind then did blow, But its leaves were folded quiet To await the Reaper's call, So designed. Oh, I almost shed a tear, As I gazed upon the bier Of that flower; Though its leaves were sere and brown, 'Twas as sweet as when spring's down Decked its bower. And its humble dying smile Showed signs of brightest hope, Oh, a lesson it me taught, As that humble dying flower, Let me e'er, as it, when spring And contented dwell alone And when life's end is near, That bright again once more, When the winter death is o'er |
