JOHN PARKER. BORN: ENGLAND, JAN. 17, 1822. IN 1864 Mr. Parker settled in Pennsylvania at Mahanoy City. He there edited the Anthracite Monitor, the organ of the miner's and laborer's association of Pennsylvania. In 1872 he bought the Mahanoy Valley Record, which he published as a weekly paper until 1877, when it was changed into a tri-weekly, of which he is still the sole publisher and proprietor. Mr. Parker has taken an active part in all labor movements, and served four years in the Pennsylvania senate, from 1878 to 1882. HOLD UP YOUR HEAD. Hold up your head! what need to cower? Hold up your face to view the sun; For tho' your worldly wealth be poor, You've got the glorious form of man. Let that not bend, but proud and high, Erect your head toward the sky. Hold up your head! that gaudy thing With all its gorgeous pomp and show; Hold up your head! 'tis no disgrace Than live by rapine proud or guile. Thou'rt useful to the world, and thou Can'st well afford to lift thy brow. Hold up your head!- move boldly on, To right or left-turn not aside; Keep honor's beauteous path and shun The devious ways of worldly pride; Then those who may thy actions scan Will say: Behold an honest man!" FRIENDSHIP. When worldly sorrows o'er us throw How sweet it is to feel to know, That friendly hearts are beating near, That friendly smiles, amid the gloom, How sweet to know that other tears Are mixed with ours-that other eyes Are moist with sympathetic cares; That friendly breast will heave with sighs When ours pulsate with pain or grief, And share the load or give relief. Friendship! thy genial smile doth throw A beauteous radiance o'er life's path; Makes pleasures greater, lightens woe, And gilds the dreary hour of death With heavenly beams that softly shed Their light around our dying bed. THE FAIRIES. In the silvery moonlight Sporting merrily, Dancing on the green sward 'Neath the old oak tree; Little, laughing fairies, Ever blithe and gay, Drinking from the dewdrops Free from every care; Frolicksome and gay, JESSIE LOVE. Oh, sweet art thou my Jessie Love, LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 779 EMILY W. PEAKES. BORN: HARMONY, ME., DEC. 1, 1847. THIS lady graduated in 1874 from Westbrook seminary. She follows the profession of school teaching, in which she has always been EMILY W. PEAKES. very successful. Personally Miss Peakes is of a very amiable and pleasing disposition. She is now a teacher of literature in the high schools of Terre Haute. IN SCHOOL-A PERFUME. I close my eyes, and the lilac's perfume And this plumy branch for the June must wait. A farm-house stands from the road aloof, And a winding road, with a double ridge Why do they wait? There's one little creature For the longest arm comes short of the prize A strong, tall man; see! he lifts her over What was I saying?- I open my eyes; One instant ago 'twas a six-year-old Who smelled of the lilac, and my father's hold Was strong around me; the years and death Were swept away by the lilac's breath. MRS. N. ELVIRA NELSON. IN 1883 Mrs. Nelson published in conjunction with her sister, Mrs. Sarah King-Marine, The Garland, a little volume of poems of superior merit and talent. At the age of twenty-one this lady was married to George Nelson, who served in the union army; and with whom she now resides, with a splendid family of two sons and one daughter. A REPLY. AFTER THE WEDDING Ten weary years have swept away Ten years! alas, those weary years Full of the anguish and the tears I've seen their dying shimmer. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. 780 Ah, yes, could I have seen him die, My heart would cease its weeping; Not even one rebellious sigh Should chide the grave's cold keeping. Life lays my hopes beneath my feet, Better to let the roses fade, While yet their sweets are budding, Than hide the wounds the thorns have made, While grief the soul is flooding. Better to watch the sun go down Behind the amber ceiling, Than wait till noon to feel his frown, Yet I must smile, nor dare betray I must smile at dead hopes mocking me 1 I close the coffin with a prayer For thoughts are insurrection My murdered love is buried there, And waits no resurrection. MAGGIE CALDWELL. IN 1888 this lady published a little volume of poems entitled Bird Notes from the Mountains. Her poems have appeared in the periodical press, and have received complimentary notices. MY LIFE. Not a single ray of light Shines into my lonely heart, My life has ever been a night Into which no sunbeams dart. My past is a desert waste, Where not a flower blooms, The future! ah! what is my future? In this dark and cheerless day. TO A FRIEND. On memory's golden harp THE CENTURY PLANT. I have smiled on his face, And I am numbered in the Yet few do me know, Though they oft speak my name, And yet I create a sensation. I'm old and I'm rare, Then I am young, and then fair, Yet seldom I young do appear. Then my bloom it goes down With my youth to the ground, Yet on earth 1 shall ever be here. |