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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

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CHARLES A. M. TABER. BORN: ROCHESTER. Mass., APRIL 3, 1824. From 1839 till 1862 Mr. Taber spent most of his time in whaling, with the exception of being in California in '49. Mr. Taber has published essays on Prevailing Winds, Ocean

And in the sunlight careless bask,

Or view the sunny ripples' gleam. But he is doomed to constant toil,

While riches glide with sunny sails; They seem to have no weary moil,

But waft along with pleasant gales. To him they seem a happy crew,

With plenty in a world of ease, As glad as fancy ever drew,--

The fairest vision labor sees. Yet bis poor crew must watch the tide,

To see how well he meets its force. While wealth and pleasure onward glide,

And careless view his anxious course. At times they note luis toiling way,

And mark the distance he may hold; So wealth glides on to rest or play,

Comparing human toil to gold.

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TAE CRUELTY OF NECESSITY. Ostern necessity! what cruel power

You exercise against the life of man! How many conquered souls before you cower; With what persistency you crush each

plan! It's hard to have our tenement of clay

Besieged by such relentless, cruel force! Our minds are starved by your consuming

sway, And lives cut off from every rich resource; Our time is taxed by a continued war,

So that our souls to poverty are doomed. E'en genius cannot always break your law;

To such as those there is a double gloom, Because they know so much they could enjoy, Did you not constant give them mean em

ploy.

CHARLES A. M. TABER. Currents and Frigid Periods. In 1873 he published a volume of poems, entátled Rhymes from a Sailor's Journal, containing nearly one hundred very fine poems. Mr. Taber has been out of business for the past sixteen years, and now resides in New Bedford, Mass.

THE TOILER.
For years he's floated on life's deep,

And stemmed its tide with heavy oars; A weary time he's had to keep

His boat in sight of hopeful shores. He has on board a precious freight,

Depending on his anxious toil; His health and strength decides their fate,

For down the stream the rapids boil. The dangers down stream look so dread,

He cannot slack his tiring stroke. No wealth has he in sails to spread,

So he must bear life's heavy yoke. Fain would he rest his weary task,

To note the pleasures of the stream,

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.
On our eventful voyage of human life,

We have with us a large and motley crew;
All navigators on a sea of strife,
And all in hopes to see the whole voyage

through. But while we labor on, what change is

wrought! The old and able hands soon find their port, and leave to us the charge of toil and

thought, While younger voyagers constantly report. With such we sail life's sea so swiftly on, The young soon gaining all our strength

and skill, Because the log is left of all that's gone,

And older hands are teaching with a will. So may our journals prove a fit resource, To help the future shape its onward course.

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

SARAH E. PULVER MCLEAN.

SIDNEY MCLEAN. BORN: WATERLOO, N. Y., JUNE 26, 1854. SIDNEY MCLEAN commenced writing at the age of eighteen, and has contributed largely to the local press and leading pericdicals of

THE MASQUE.
Oh! the faces, faces, faces

Faces young and faces fair;
Faces smooth from lives of ease, and

Faces seamed by toil and care.
I stood upon a busy street

They passed me to and fro
Masques are they, thought I, and cover

The life that lies below.
Once in awhile, but rare, there passed,

A face so marred by sin,
That all the baseness stood revealed

No need to look within.
And standing there, this queer thought

came -• Suppose that now and here The masque of flesh should fall, and souls

Stand forth distinct and clear.”
E'en as I thought, lo! it was done,

I started with affright;
All suddenly they stood, and were

As air is, thin and light.
But what a change! that woman's face,

So beautiful before,
Had lost its charm, for mark of Cain

She on the forehead bore.
And each sad feature of her soul,

Was hurt, and bore a scar;
The blood of innocents was there,

Its perfectness to mar.
And over there had been a form

Manly and full of grace,
His soul a very pigmy was,

And what a sin-scarred face. But one, was he of that long line,

Who choose with sin to bide,
Content to follow fleshly lust,

And seek no other guide?
But there were some who walked beside,

Whose souls were pure and white,
And each of these on forehead had

A cross of dazzling light.
And thus they were, the bad and good,

Mixed as they went along -
But this I saw - the best of masques

To blackest souls belong.
I looked and looked till heart and brain.

Filled with such bitter pain,
That in an agony I cried,

.. Oh, masque them all again!" I drew a deep sigh of relief,

As each its flesh resumed,
The faces smiled and were so bright,

Their darkness not illumed.
And still the crowd went surging by,

Each had his cross to bear,
Which I saw not, and thanked my God

We had a mask to wear.

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SARAH E. PULVER MCLEAN. the country. Aside from her literary efforts she also follows the profession of music teacher in Rochester, N. Y., where she now resides.

MY LOVER. What if my lover be dark, or fair I have no wish; I do not care — If only his manly, honest face Shows in each feature an inward grace. What if my lover be tall, or slight I do not care, if only his sight Be lifted above earth's sordid care To see God's handiwork, true and fair. What if my lover be poor, or rich To me it makes no difference which, If only his heart be stanch and true, His hand will lead me safely through. What if my lover be famous, or noFame may fade, or perchance may grow; If he comes to me, his manhood clear From the stain of sin, I will not fear. Somewhere he tarries and waits for me Sometime his face I shall surely see. For I shall know when my king I meet, My soul will rise and his coming greet.

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ELIZABETH B. STODDARD.

BORN: MATTAPOISETT, MASS., MAY 6, 1893. This lady is the wife of Richard H. Stoddard, the great American poet, whom she married when twenty-eight years of age. Soon after her marriage she began to contribute poems to the magazines. Her poems invariably contain a central idea, not always apparent at first, but always poetical though not generally understood by the average reader. Mrs. Stoddard has published three novels, and also a story for young folks - Lolly Dink's Doings.

I thrust it back, and with my men

(Our general rode ahead
We stormed the great redoubt,
As it were an easy thing,

But rows of us fell dead!
Your picture hanging on my neck,

Up with my men I rushed -
We made an awful charge:
And then my horse, " The Lady Bess,"

Dropped, and - my leg was crushed! The blood of battle in my veins

(A blue-coat dragged me out But I remembered you I kissed your picture- did you know?

And yelled, " For the redoubt!”

What centuries are counted here - my books! Shadows of mighty men; the chorus, bark, The antique chant vibrates, and Fate compels!

The Twenty-Fourth, my scarred old dogs

Growled back, He'll put us through: We'll take him in our arms: Our picture there -- the girl he loves

Shall see what we can do."

A SUMMER NIGHT.
I feel the breath of a summer night,

Aromatic fire:
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir

With tender desire.

The foe was silenced --80 were we,

I lay upon the field, Among the Twenty-Fourth; Your picture, shattered on my breast,

Had proved The Colonel's Shield.”

The white moths flutter about the lamp.

Enamored with light;
And a thousand creatures softly sing

A song to the night!
But I am alone, and how can I sing

Praises to thee?
Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul

That waiteth for me.

ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT. On my bed of a winter night,

Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream, Wbat care I for the wild wind's scream?

What to me is its crooked flight? On the sea of a summer's day,

Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail, What care I for the fitful gale,

Now in earnest, and now in play? What care I for the fitful wind.

That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree? Groaning and sighing are nothing to me;

For I am a man of steadfast mind.

ON THE CAMPAGNA.
Stop on the Appian way,
In the Roman campagna;

Stop at my tomb,
The tomb of Cecilia Metella.

To-day as you see it,

Alaric saw it, ages ago,
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,

Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin! thy curse remains!

Beneath these battlements
My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king,

My tomb remains !
When Rome commanded the earth

Great were the Metelli:
I was Metella's wife;

And loved bim - and I died.
Then with slow patience built he this memorial:

Each century marks his love.
Pass by on the Appian way

The tomb of Cecilia Metella:
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base.

Deep is its desolation,
Deep as the shadow of Rome!

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

EDWARD S. GOODHUE.

BORN: CANADA, SEPT. 29, 1861. MR. GOODAUE has received a good education. For a year he lectured in the state of New York, and in 1883 edited the Dawn, but the following year went to California to regain his health. Since that time he has resided in Riverside, and has been connected with several of the daily and weekly publications of

How do they drift and drift

Onward so far away, Going no wbitherward,

Where can they stray? Large grows my vision now,

Nothing but sky I see Nothing but clouds that pass

On silently.

EVENA.
They do not flash, her eyes,

But they sparkle and shine,
Reflecting the kindly light

Of a soul divine;
I wish - I have often wished -

Their dark orbs were mine.
Mine to look into- and

Mine, to have love express,
With, oh! such a wealth and power

Of deep tenderness;
With virtue to cheer, I know

And comfort and bless.
Better than words they speak

Out what the heart would say,
Bidding me wait and hope

Till another day -
When clouds which threaten low

Have all cleared away.

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THE EBB AND FLOW. 'Tis an ebb and a flow of the ocean wide, Of the tireless tide. It is coming and going the long hours thro' Rushing along in its beaten track, Onward and upward and forward and back, To its paths in the rocks and the sand, Here and on every hand. What it brings it will take away, What it takes it will give again Even as rain clouds give the rain .Some day. If we only knew, And we all may know, This life of ours is an ebb and a flow, Of days and of years, Of joy and of woe. And, like the tide that breaks on the rocks And throws in the air its briny spray, Is the tide of our life which bears along Toward the ragged rocks of illand of wrong, That cast through our year's Their spray of tears. By our Tide Must we all abide; What it brings it will take away What it takes it will give again All but the woe and the pain Some day.

MIDNIGHT. 'Tis midnight and no sleep,

No sleep, comes to my eyes; Long have I lain awake

Watching the skies. Watching vague waves of cloud,

Moving like ghosts of night Over the moon's pale face,

Veiling her light.

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

55

CHARLES LINCOLN PHIFER.

BORN: FAYETTE CO. ILL., JULY 16, 1860. On both sides he is of German extraction. the name Phifer, Pifer, or Fifer, three generations back in the family's history spelled Pfeffer; and his mother's maiden name being Heisler. Reared on a farm until 1870, in which year his father died, Charley attended the district school; then, his mother having removed to the county capital, Vandalia, he soon after began learning the printers' trade;

particularly verse writing – soon after he became a student of printing. He has contributed verses, or essays, to The Current, Chicago; Day Star, New York; Republican, St. Louis; Inter Ocean, Chicago; Toledo Blade, and various religious and local papers. Mr. Phifer has published by his own hands, for circulation among his friends, several pamphlets of verse, and one five-act play,

Zaphnath-Paaneah," in blank verse, that has been highly complimented by author and actor friends, among whom it circulated exclusively In 1890 appeared Annals of the Earth, a volume of three hundred pages, in verse, which was published by the American Publishers' Association of Chicago. The volume was extensively noticed by the press of both America and England.

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IT CANNOT MATTER,
It cannot matter where or when

The light of life goes out with us;
For only a few years, and then
We all must end in darkness thus,

In utter darkness, thus.
From birth we draw on toward the grave,

Like arrows speeding from the bow, And though to three-score years we live, 'Tis but a little flight, and so

The strongest are brought low. All men are worn out — then they dje:

If strong, we must the longer bear; If weak, are broken easily; And peace must come where there is care,

The speedier solace there. We wail when death destroys our friends,

But grieving bastens us to peace; We die, and mourning love expends Itself in tears, till sorrows cease,

And quickly comes release.
Peasants and monarchs side by side

Into the silent tomb shall go,
And none shall know they lived or died,
In one brief century or so —

Their lineage shall not know

CHARLES LINCOLN PAIFER. and graduated from the public schools of that city in 1880. In 1881 he became editor of the Fayette County News. Removing to California, Mo., in 1883, he started a job printing office and for nearly a year run a little sheet called Phifer's Paper, which gained quite a local reputation for humor. Selling the subscription to the paper, in 1888 he run, in connection with his job office, a campaign paper styled the Semi-Weekly Republican. He has originated several . wrinkles" in printing, which were given to the craft through technical journals, and have passed into general use. Almost with the dawn of memory he manifested a liking for picture drawing; and while he yet sometimes makes sketches and even engravings (he never had any training for either), the passion for drawing seems to have merged into a passion for writing - and

BOOGERS. When I was a little feller, I was jiss that 'fraid

of the Boogers, I'd jiss run
Past every tiny wee little spot of shade

That I would happen upon.
I was jiss that 'fraid the Bad Man 'u'd come,

If I had done anything wrong,
I wouldn't go out after night at all,

Ceppun my ma was along.
If Jack (he's my dog) was to bark at a tree,
My goodness! how I would jump!

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