Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB
[ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

918

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

M. WALLACE.

THE poems of Mr. Wallace have appeared in numerous newspapers, and certainly contain merit. He is at present living in Texas at Huntsville.

ON THE WING.

While musing o'er the events of Time,
A pleasing sense of things sublime
Came o'er my thoughts in grand review,
Of scenes, with interest, ever new.
First I looked on childhood's life,
With smiles of joy and tears of grief,
And next the sports of early youth,
With some deceit and much of truth.
Then riper life, with heavy cares,
And age, with all its weight of years,
These every-day affairs of man
Strew quickly o'er the path of Time.
But looking past this business life,
Where love of gain makes constant strife,
The aged come with trembling step,
Life's weary journey nears its close.
Anxious spirit, wrestling with delay,
Longs for home, but here must stay
And bear the cross till crown is given,
And labor finds reward in Heaven.
Where calm delights serenely roll,
Or richer joys enthuse the soul,
And happiness runs full and free
From Time throughout eternity.
Love, the sweetest passion of the soul,
In Heaven enjoys supreme control,
And soft, sweet light and fragrant air
In rich refulgence waving there.

But hark; what mean those childish raptures
In the Lord's reception rooms;

A cherub infant looking out,

Hails a distant coming shout.

Rising high o'er Heaven's headlands
Comes a shining angel convoy,
Bearing from the stream of death
A rescued sinner saved by grace.
When first they sight the plains of glory,
Celestial beauty's dazzling splendor
Thrills with joy the enraptured mother,
Looking o'er the Heavenly mansions.
In a window waits her nurslings,
In flowing robes of Heavenly brightness,
Waves starry crown and golden harp,-
This way mamma, here's the Savior.
The Savior smiles a princely welcome
To all the joys a Heaven may know,
Mother from earth's low-lands coming,
Finds life's lost darlings saved in Heaven.
A mother's soul, enthused with love,

In emotion lost she clasps her child,

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

And Poca and Joe had written, Mag and Nannie had penned sweet lines,

And out from my package of letters shone a ray of brighest sunshine.

But off to themselves were bundles tied with
ribbons, red, white and blue,
Written in bolder chirography, by the boys"
I had ever found true.

They were pink-tinted, cream and gold filled with eloquence and fun.

Each line tells its own happy story, and I treasure them every one:

Because, they were written by Walter, Forest, Tom, Johnnie, Bob and Phil,

And last, but by no means least, my stanch friends, Frank and Will.

HERBERT M. SYLVESTER.

BORN: LOWELL, MASS., FEB. 20, 1840. AFTER practicing successfully the legal profession for thirteen years in Portland, Mr. Sylvester then removed his office to Boston. It was here he wrote his Prose Pastorals, which have been called by competent critics poems in prose. Although Mr. Sylvester has written numerous poems of beauty, he is best known as a prose writer.

RAIN MUSIC.

Hear the welcome of the rain!

Patter, patter,

Tuneful chatter,

On the flashing fire-lit pane.

Hear the honeysuckle creak

As the winds its secrets seek,

Twisting through its matted vines.

And the windows how they rattle, bang, and

batter!

Pitter, patter,

Dripping chatter,

Tripping down the shingled roof,

Filling up its liquid woof;

How the notes each other throng,

Making up their slumber-song,

Full of softly drowsy lines,

With their drip, and rush, and gush and clat

ter!

Pitter, patter,

Dripping chatter,

Hear the night-tide of the rain!

A LARK SONG.

A monkish group in sober garb,
The pasture maples stand
Against the soft, gray sky.

The weather-cock wakes with the wind;

The meadow mists, like fleets

Of ghostly ships sail by.

Seaward, the ripples grow apace;
Morn, blushing like a girl,

Betrays with rosy grace

Her sun-god lover by her face.

From dewy nest and meadow bloom,

The brown lark upward soars;

His dusky-throated song

Falls, sparkling down, now faint, now clear-
A shower of liquid tones,
Strewn wood and field along,

Like drops of slanting, sunlit rain

And breathless lies the earth

To catch the wondrous strain,

That woos the breaking day again.

A MUTE PROPHECY.

Aslant the threshold of the West Stretches a sombre reef

Of gray; its low, uneven scarp, Outlined in sharp relief Against the sky, is roughly set With pinnacles that glow Like Norombega's mystery

Of centuries ago.

The hills, with ragged, rock-set domes,
Wind-blown and bare, uprear

Their brightly polished topaz walls,
In the clear atmosphere;
While o'er the cloud's thin, ragged rift
Burst the deep golden floods
Of Nature's alchemy, that sift
Their glory through the woods.

Night comes; the Spirit of the Frost

His shuttle swifter plies

"Twixt Nature's warp, and swifter weaves

For Earth its subtle guise;

And down the river-path the pines

Echo the dreary cry

Of winds whose dying cadences

Are Nature's lullaby.

In the crisp air of growing dusk

Night sets her cordon-line

Thick with groups of glittering stars,

That weirdly burn and shine,

And come and go, as silently

As lights that far at sea

Are sailed o'er restless tides, by hands
We cannot know or see.

THE GREAT SCHOOL-ROOM. Life finds its meaning in its scope, As broad or na rrow as its aim,

A poor, frail jest, if only hope

Or untaught hand may feed its flame. Dame Nature's school keeps open door,Her novice needs no less, no more,Where long apprenticeship of thought is gain Of stouter brawn and larger thrift of brain.

MRS. MARY C. KELSEY.

BORN: LOGANSPORT, IND.

THIS lady is the wife of J. S. Kelsey, M. D., and resides in Xenia, Ind. Mrs. Kelsey has a poetic style of her own, and has written poems occasionally from her girlhood, which have appeared from time to time in the local press. Mrs. Kelsey is the oldest daughter of Mrs. Julia M. Kautz of Cutler, Ind., who is represented elsewhere in this work.

CHILDHOOD. EXTRACT.

In the sunny days of childhood,
In the years that are gone by,
Swiftly sped the golden hours
'Neath the blue and laughing sky.

920

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MRS. ELIZABETH O. SMITH.

BORN: NORTH YARMOUTH, ME., ABOUT 1807. MRS. SMITH has long stood before the public as essayist, poet, novelist, lecturer and preacher. Not only her own boys but several of her grandchildren are poets. She hopes to publish her works at an early date.

UNATTAINED.

Alone, we stand to solve the doubt

Alone, to work salvation outCasting our helpless hands about.

For human help for human cheer-
Or only for a human tear-
Forgetting God is always near.

The poet, in his highest flight,

Sees ranged beyond him height o'er height, Visions, that mock his utmost might,

And music borne by echo back

Pines on a solitary track

Till faint hearts sigh, alas, alack!

And beauty, born of finest art,
Slips from the sinner's hand apart,
And leaves him aching at the heart.
The fairest face hath never brought
Its fairest look - the deepest thought
Was never into language wrought.
The quaint old litanies that fell
From ancient Seers, great hearts impel
Impel to nobler deeds than poets tell.
We live, we breathe, all unexpressed,—
Our holiest, noblest in the breast,
Lie struggling in the wild unrest,
Awaiting fibres that shall leap,
And an exulting harvest reap
In Death's emancipating sleep.
Our onward lights eternal shine:-
Conquer'd by no unmanly pine,
We, royal Amaranths, shall twine.
The great God knocks upon the door,
Ready to run our chalice o'er

If but the heart will ask for more.
If hungering with a latent sense,
We know not, ask not how or whence,
But take our consecration thence.
The wine-press must alone be trod -
The burning plowshare press'd unshod -
There is no rock of help but God.

MRS. SARAH M. KIMBALL. BORN: NEW BRUNSWICK, JUNE 25, 1833. IN 1884 appeared My Aunt Jeanette from the pen of this lady. She has written numerous short stories, and her poems have always been gladly received by the press.

INDIAN SUMMER.
Behold the earth to-day,

Lapped in the glory of the autumn-time,
Robed in this bright array,

Crimson and gold, russet and pearly rime!
Now comes the after-glow,

Like sunset splendors flushing orient skies, While lightly from below

Soft floating folds of gauzy mists arise.

Yea, earth is beautiful

In vestments dyed so exquisitely fair;
Grateful the pensive lull

Of voices late upon the ambient air.
The cheery notes are still

Of harvest songs so gaily ringing here,
And low, sweet anthem fill

With slumbrous melody the attent ear.

Dear is the soft caress

[now Of light winds warm from sunny south lands Lifting the auburn tress

In playful coquetry from Nature's brow.
The gladsome spring is past,
And the full beauty of the summer-time;-
O Year! to thee, at last,

Hath come the golden glory of thy prime!
O Life! thy spring lies far
In misty shades, half-hidden from my sight;
Thy summer glories are

Far back 'mid bowers of beauty and delight.
O heart of mine! to thee

Hath come thine Indian Summer, and to-day
With wondering eyes I see

Life's after-glow illumining my way!

One backward glance, half sad,

I give the beautiful, the vanished past,
Then turn my gaze, half glad
That I have gained this summit grand at last.
Father, take Thou my hand,

And lead me down with gentle, loving care
Into the sunset land,

Life's restful vale, 'tis beautiful down there!

ELIZA ELLEN STARR.

MISS STARR has written several works, notably Songs of a Life-Time, and Pilgrims and Shrines. This lady resides in Chicago, where she occasionally lectures on Art Literature at her Studio, 399 Huron St.

EXTRACTS.

Thou mindest me, by thy celestial dye, Of our most Virgin Lady's heavenly eye. Love strewed her couch with bloom;

Laid rose and pansy on her breast; Who took so gently to that silent room White poppies? Dear one, rest!

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »