Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 104

Author: Collins, Lewis, 1797-1870. cn; Collins, Richard H., 1824-1889. cn
Publication date: 1874
Publisher: Covington, Ky., Collins & Co.
Number of Pages: 1452

USA > Kentucky > Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I > Part 104

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ECHO AND THE LOVER.

BY JOHN M. HARNEY.

Lover. Echol mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made and what you are-

Lover. Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw ! Echo. " Pshaw !" Echo. " Air !"

Lover. 'Mid airy cliffs, and places high, Sweet Echol listening, love, you lie-

"You lie ! " Echo.

Lover. You but resuscitate dead sounds- Hark ! how my voice revives, re- sounds !

Echo.

" Zounds !"

(554)

Lover. I'll question you before I go- Come, answer me more apropos !

Echo. " Poh ! poh ! "

Lover. Say, what will win that frisking coney

Into the toils of matrimony !" " Money ! "

Echo.

Lover. Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow ! Is it not white as pearl-as snow ! Echo. "Ass, no !"

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Lover. Her eyes ! Was ever such a pair ! Are the stars brighter than they are?

Echo. "They are ! "

Lover. Echo, you lie, but can't deceive me; Her eyes eclipse the stars, believe me-

Echo. " Leave me ! "

Lover. But come, you saucy, pert romancer, Who is as fair as Phoebe ? answer. Echo. " Ann, sir ! "

ON A VALUED FRIEND. BY JOHN M. HARNEY.

DEVOUT, yet cheerful ; pious, not austere ; | I flatter not : absurd to flatter where

To others lenient, to himself severe ;

Tho' honored, modest ; diffident, tho' prais'd ;

The proud he humbled, and the humble rais'd ;

Studious, yet social; though polite, yet plain ;

No man more learned, yet no man less vain. His fame would universal envy move, But envy's lost in universal love.

That he has faults, it may be bold to doubt, Yet certain 'tis we ne'er have found them out.

If faults he has (as man, 'tis said, must have),

They are the only faults he ne'er forgave.

Just praise is fulsome, and offends the ear.

GEN. WILLIAM ORLANDO BUTLER.

For sketch of this distinguished civilian and soldier (a native of Kentucky, and still living at Carrollton, Feb., 1874, aged nearly 83), see under Carroll county, in Volume II of this work, page 121. Gen. B. wrote several poems of merit, in early life. The following was published about 1835.

THE BOATMAN'S HORN. BY WILLIAM O. BUTLER. O, BOATMAN ! wind that horn again, For never did the list'ning air Upon its lambent bosom bear So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain ! What though thy notes are sad and few. By every simple boatman blown, Yet is each pulse to nature true, .And melody in every tone. How oft, in boyhood's joyous day, Unmindful of the lapsing hours, I've loitered on my homeward way By wild Ohio's bank of flowers ; While some lone boatman from the deck Poured his soft numbers to that tide, As if to charm from storm and wreck The boat where all his fortunes ride ! Delighted Nature drank the sound, Enchanted, Echo bore it round In whispers soft and softer still, From hill to plain and plain to hill, Till e'en the thoughtless frolic boy, Elate with hope and wild with joy, Who gamboled by the river's side, And sported with the fretting tide, Feels something new pervade his breast, Change his light steps, repress his jest, Bends o'er the flood his eager ear

To catch the sounds far off, yet dear- Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why The tear of rapture fills his eye. And can he now, to manhood grown, Tell why those notes, simple and lone, As on the ravished ear they fell, Lind every sense in magic spell ? There is a tide of feeling given To all on earth, its fountain heaven, Beginning with the dewy flower, Just ope'd in Flora's vernal bower- Rising creation's orders through, With louder murmur, brighter hue- That tide is sympathy ! its ebb and flow Give life its hues, its joy and woe. Music, the master-spirit that can move Its waves to war, or lull them into love- Can cheer the sinking sailor mid the wave, And bid the warrior on ! nor fear the grave; Inspire the fainting pilgrim on his road, And elevate his soul to claim his God. Then, boatman, wind that horn again ! Though much of sorrow mark its strain, Yet are its notes to sorrow dear ; What though they wake fond memory's tear !

Tears are sad memory's sacred feast, And rapture oft her chosen guest.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE,

Although not a native of Kentucky, in 1830, when twenty-seven years old, became a resident for life. (See sketch, under Jefferson county, in Volume lI of this work.) His fame as poet, editor, and statesman belongs to Ken- tucky. Besides the short poems below, he wrote a number of pieces-which are now (Feb., 1874) being gathered for the press in an enduring volume : among them-" The Flight of Years," "The Dead Mariner," " Sabbath Even- ing," and "The Stars.'

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

Gone ! Gone forever ! Like a rushing wave Another year has burst upon the shore Of earthly beings-and its last low tones, Wandering in broken accents on the air, Are dying to an echo.

The gay spring

With its young charms has gone, gone with its leaves,

Its atmosphere of roses, its white clouds Slumbering like seraphs in the air-its birds

Telling their loves in music, and its streams Leaping and shouting, from the up-piled rocks

To make earth echo with the joys of waves. And summer with its dews and showers has gone :

Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud Like spirits of the storm -- its peaceful lakes Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams

Were of the opening flowers and budding trees

And overhanging sky-and its bright mists Resting upon the mountain-tops as crowns Upon the heads of giants. Autumn, too, Has gone ! With all its deeper glories gone, With its green hills, like altars of the world Lifting their rich fruit offerings to their God,

Its cool winds straying 'mid the forest aisles

To wake the thousand wind harps; its serene

And holy sunsets hanging o'er the west, Like banners from the battlements of heaven ;

And its still evenings-when the moonlit sea

Was ever throbbing like the living heart Of the great Universe. Ah, these are now But sounds and visions of the past-their deep

Wild beauty has departed from the earth

And they are gathered to the embrace of death,

Their solemn herald to eternity.

Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts

Of passion have gone with them. The fresh dust

Is chill on many a breast that burned ere- while

With fires that seemed immortal. Joys that leaped

Like angels from the heart, and wandered free

In this young morn, to look upon the flowers,

The poetry of nature, and to list

The woven sounds of breeze and birds and stream

Upon the night air, have been stricken down

In silence to the dust. Exultant Hope, That roved forever on the buoyant winds Like the bright, starry bird of Paradise, And chanted to the ever-listing heart In the wild music of a thousand tongues, Or soared into the open sky until

Night's burning gems seemed jeweled on her brow,

Has shut her drooping wings, and made her house

Within the voiceless sepulcher. And Love, That knelt at Passion's holiest shrine, and gazed

On his heart's idol as on some sweet star Whose purity and distance made it dear, And dreamed of ecstacies, until his soul Seemed but a lyre, that wakened in the glance

Of the beloved one; he, too, has gone To his eternal resting-place. And where Is stern Ambition ? He who madly grasped At Glory's fleeting phantom; he who sought His fame upon the battle-field, and longed To make his throne a pyramid of bones Amid a sea of blood ! He, too, has gone ! His stormy voice is mute-his mighty arın Is nerveless on its clod ; his very name Is but a meteor of the night of years

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Whose gleam flashed out a moment o'er the earth

And faded into nothingness. The cream Of high devotion, Beauty's bright array, And life's deep idol memories, all have passed

Like the cloud-shadows on a starlit stream, Or a stream of soft music, when the winds Are slumbering on the billow.

Yet why muse

Upon the past with sorrow ? Though the year

Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide Of old Eternity, and borne along

Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks Of glory and of beauty. Yet, why mourn That such is destiny ! Another year

Succeedeth to the past. In their bright round

The seasons come and go; the same blue arch

That hath hung o'er us will hang o'er us yet,

Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour Like lilies on the tomb of day-and still Man will remain to dream as he hath dreamed,

And mark the earth with passion. Love will spring

From the lone tomb of old affections. Hope And Joy, and great Ambition will rise up As they have risen, and their deeds will be Brighter than those engraven on the scroll Of past centuries. Even now the sea Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves

Life's great events are heaving into birth, Is tossing to and fro, as if the winds

Of heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths,

And struggled to be free.

Weep not that time

Is pressing on, it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. Hark ! Along the vales and mountains of the earth There is a deep, portentous murmuring, Like the swift rush of subterraneous streams,

Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, When the fierce tempest with sonorous wing Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds

And hurries onward, with his might of clouds

Against the eternal mountains. 'Tis the voice

Of infant Freedom, and her stirring call Is heard and answered in a thousand tones From every hill-top of her Western home, And lo !- it breaks across old ocean's flood, And "Freedom ! Freedom !" is the answering shout

Of nations starting from the spell of years. The dayspring-see-'tis brightening in the heavens !

The watchmen of the night have caught the sign ;

From tower to tower the signal fires flash free,

And the deep watchword, like the rush of seas,

That heralds the volcano's bursting flame, Is sounding o'er the earth. Bright years of Hope

And Life are on the wing. Yon glorious bow

Of Freedom, bended by the hand of God, Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its high arch-

A type of Love and Mercy-on the clouds Tells that the many stormas of human life Will pass in silence; and the sinking waves,

Gathering the forms of glory and of peace, Reflect the undimmed brightness of the heavens.

MAMMOTH CAVE.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

ALL day, as day is reckoned on the earth, I've wandered in these dim and awful aisles,

Shut from the blue and breezy dome of heaven,

While thoughts, wild, drear, and shadowy, have swept

Across my awe-struck soul, like specters o'er

The wizard's magic glass, or thunder- clouds

O'er the blue waters of the deep. And now

I'll sit me down upon yon broken rock,

To muse upon the strange and solemn things

Of this mysterious realm.

All day my steps Have been amid the beautiful, the wild, The gloomy, the terrific. Crystal founts Almost invisible in their serene

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

And pure transparency-high, pillar'd domes

With stars and flowers all fretted like the halls

Of Oriental monarchs-rivers dark

And drear and voiceless as oblivion's stream,

That flows through Death's dim vale of silence-gulfs

All fathomless, down which the loosened rock

Plunges until its far-off echoes come Fainter and fainter like the dying roll Of thunders in the distance-Stygian pools Whose agitated waves give back a sound Hollow and dismal, like the sullen roar In the volcano's depths-these, these have left

Their spell upon me, and their memories Have passed into my spirit, and are now Blent with my being till they seem a part Of my own immortality.

God's hand,

At the creation, hollowed out this vast Domain of darkness, where no herb nor flower

E'er sprang amid the sands, nor dews nor rains,

Nor blessed sunbeams fell with freshening power,

Nor gentle breeze its Eden message told Amid the dreadful gloom. Six thousand years

Swept o'er the earth ere human footprints marked

This subterranean desert. Centuries

Like shadows came and passed, and not a sound

Was in this realm, save when at intervals, In the long lapse of ages, some huge mass Of overhanging rock fell thundering down, Its echoes sounding through these corridors A moment, and then dying in a hush Of silence, such as brooded o'er the earth When earth was chaos. The great Mas- todon,

The dreaded monster of the elder world, Passed o'er this mighty cavern, and his tread

Bent the old forest oaks like fragile reeds And made earth tremble ; armies in their pride

Perchance have met above it in the shock Of war with shout and groan, and clarion blast,

And the hoarse echoes of the thunder gun ;

The storm, the whirlwind, and the hurri- cane

Have roared above it, and the bursting cloud

Sent down its red and crashing thunder- bolt ;

Earthquakes have trampled o'er it in their wrath,

Rocking earth's surface as the storm-wind rocks

The old Atlantic; yet no sound-of these E'er came down to the everlasting depths Of these dark solitudes.

How oft we gaze

With awe or admiration on the new And unfamiliar, but pass coldly by The lovelier and the mightier ! Wonderful Is this lone world of darkness and of gloom,

But far more wonderful yon outer world Lit by the glorious sun. These arches swell

Sublime in lone and dim magnificence. But how sublimer God's blue canopy Beleaguered with his burning cherubim, Keeping their watch eternal ! Beautiful Are all the thousand show-white gems that lie

In these mysterious chambers, gleaming out

Amid the melancholy gloom, and wild These rocky hills, and cliffs, and gulfs ; but far

More beautiful and wild the things that greet

The wanderer in our world of light-the stars

Floating on high like islands of the blest- The autumn sunsets glowing like the gate Of far-off Paradise ; the gorgeous clouds On which the glories of the earth and sky Meet and commingle ; earth's unnumbered flowers,

All turning up their gentle eyes to heaven; The birds, with bright wings glancing in the sun,

Filling the air with rainbow miniatures ; The green old forests surging in the gale ; The everlasting mountains, on whose peaks The setting sun burns like an altar-flame ; And ocean, like a pure heart rendering back

Heaven's perfect image, or in his wild wrath

Hearing and tossing like the stormy breast Of a chained giant in his agony.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

559

- WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

THE trembling dew-drops fall Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest The stars shine gloriously ; and all, Save me, are blest.

Mother, I love thy grave ! The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, Waves o'er thy head ; when shall it wave Above thy child !

'Tis a sweet flower, yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow ; Dear mother. 'tis thine emblem ; dust Is on thy brow.

And I could love to die : To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams : By thee, as erst in childhood, lie, And share thy dreams.

And must I linger here, To stain the plumage of my sinless years, And mourn the hopes to childhood dear With bitter tears ?

Ay, must I linger here, A lonely branch upon a withered tree, Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, Went down with thee ?

Oft, from life's withered bower, In still communion with the past, I turn, And muse on thee, the only flower In Memory's urn.

And, when the evening pale, Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, bluo wave, I stray to hear the night-winds wail Around thy grave.

Where is thy spirit flown ? I gaze above-thy look is imaged there ; I listen-and thy gentle tone Is on the air.

Oh, come, while here I press My brow upon thy grave ; and, in those mild And thrilling notes of tenderness, Bless, bless thy child !

Yes, bless thy weeping child ; And o'er thine urn-Religion's holiest shrine- Oh, give his spirit, undefiled, To blend with thine.

FORTUNATUS COSBY, JR.,

Was a native of Kentucky, born near Louisville, May 2, 1802, and died in that city June 16, 1871, aged 69. His father, after whom he was named, was a prominent lawyer, member of the Kv. legislature, and circuit judge ; died in 1846, aged 81. The son was a student at Transylvania University, but graduated at Yale College ; studied law, but did not follow it steadily ; was a clerk in the U. S. treasury department at Washington city. and for several years U. S. consul at Geneva, Switzerland. Between 1840 and 1850, Mr. Cosby was a frequent contributor of charming poems and prose to several Louisville newspapers.

FIRESIDE FANCIES. BY FORTUNATUS COSBY.

BY the dim and fitful fire-light Musing all alone,

Memories of old companions Dead, or strangers grown ; Books that we had read together, Rambles in sweet summer weather, Thoughts released from earthly tether- Fancy made my own.

In my cushioned arm-chair sitting Far into the night, Sleep, with laden wing extinguished All the flickering light ;

Butthe thoughts that soothed me waking, Care, and grief, and pain forsaking, Still the self-same path were taking -- Pilgrims, still in sight.

Indistinct and shadowy phantoms Of the sacred dead,

Absent faces bending fondly O'er my drooping head, In my dreams were woven quaintly, Dim at first, but calm and saintly, As the stars that glimmer faintly From their misty bed.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Presently a lustrous brightness Eye could scarce behold, Gave to my enchanted vision, Looks no longer cold, Features that no clouds encumber, Forms refreshed by sweetest slumber, And, of all that blessed number, Only one was old.

Graceful were they as the willow By the zephyr stirred ! Bright as childhood when expecting An approving word ! Fair as when from earth they faded, Ere the burnished brow was shaded, Or, the hair with silver braided, Or lament was heard.

Roundabout in silence moving Slowly to and fro- Life-like as I knew and loved them In their spring-time glow ; Beaming with a loving luster, Close and closer still they cluster Round my chair that radiant muster, Just as long ago.

Once, the aged, breathing comfort O'er my fainting cheek, Whispered words of precious meaning Only she could speak ; - Scarce could I my rapture smother, For I knew it was my mother, And to me there was no other Saint-like and so meek.

Then the pent-up fount of feeling Stirred its inmost deep- Brimming o'er its frozen surface From its guarded keep, On my heart its drops descending, And for one glad moment lending Dreams of Joy's ecstatic blending, Blessed my charmed sleep.

Bright and brighter grew the vision With each gathering tear, Till the past was all before me In its radiance clear ; And again we read at even- Hoped, beneath the summer heaven, Hopes that had no bitter leaven, No disturbing fear.

All so real seemed each presence, That one word I spoke- Only one of old endearment, That dead silence broke. But the angels who were keeping Stillest watch while I was sleeping, Left me o'er the embers weeping- Fled when I awoke.

But, as ivy clings the greenest On abandoned walls ; And as echo lingers sweetest In deserted halls : Thus, the sunlight that we borrow From the past to guild our sorrow, On the dark and dreaded morrow Like a blessing falls.

THOMAS H. SHREVE,

Like his poet-editor friend, George D. Prentice, whose assistant and associ- ate he was at the time of his death, was not a native of Kentucky, but settled in Louisville in 1838, when 30 years old, and died there, Dec. 23, 1853, aged 45. He was raised a merchant; but while following that life, gave free scope to his literary taste; contributed many excellent articles to the periodicals and daily press; and finally abandoned mercantile life, and became one of the editors of the Louisville Journal. Prentice said that Shreve " could write with extraordinary vehemence, eloquence, and pathos." His poetry scarcely had the fire, and life, and freshness of his best prose writings. He excelled as an amateur artist, in portraits, landscapes, and paintings in animal life.

REFLECTIONS OF AN AGED PIONEER.

BY THOMAS H. SHREVE.

THE Eternal Sea

Is surging up before my dreaming mind ; And on my ear, grown dull to things of earth,

Its sounds are audible. My spirit soon Shall brave its billows, like a trusty bark, And scek the shore where shadows never fall.

Oh, I have lived too long ! Have I not seen The suns of four-score summers set in gloom ?

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Hath not my heart long sepulchered its | In the light tapestry that decks the sky. hopes,

And desolation swept my humble hearth ? All that I prized have passed away, like .clouds

Which float a moment on the twilight sky And fade in night. The brow of her I loved

Is now resplendent in the light of heaven. They who flung sunlight on my path in youth,

Have gone before me to the cloudless clime. I stand alone, like some dim shaft which throws

Its shadow on the desert's waste, while they Who placed it there are gone-or like the tree

Spared by the ax upon the mountain's cliff,

Whose sap is dull, while it still wears the hue

Of life upon its withered limbs. Of earth

And all its scenes, my heart is weary now. "Tis mine no longer to indulge in what Gave life its bliss, jeweled the day with joys,

And made my slumbers through the night as sweet

As infant's dreaming on its mother's breast.

The blood is sluggish in each limb, and I No longer chase the startled deer, or track The wily fox, or climb the mountain's side. My eye is dim, and can not see the stars Flash in the stream, or view the gathering storm,

Or trace the figures of familiar things

My ear is dull, and winds autumnal pass And wake no answering chime within my breast ;

The songs of birds have lost their whilom spells,

And water-falls, unmurmuring, pass me by. 'Tis time that I were not. The tide of life Bears not an argosy of hope for me,

And its dull waves surge up against my heart,

Like billows 'gainst a rock. The forests wide,

All trackless as proud Hecla's snowy cliffs, From which, in youth, I drew my inspira- tion,

Have fallen round me; and the waving fields

Bow to the reaper, where I wildly roamed. Cities now rise where I pursued the deer ; And dust offends me where, in happier years,

I breathed in vigor from untainted gales. Nature hath bowed before all-conquering Art-

Hath dropped the reign of empire which she held

With princely pride, when first I met her here.

The old familiar things, to which my heart Clung with deep fondness, each, and all, are gone ;

And I am like the patriarch who stood Forgotten at the altar which he built, While crowds rushed by who knew him not, and snecred At his simplicity.

WILLIAM DAVIS GALLAGHER

Was born in Philadelphia, Aug., 1808; was brought by his mother, then a widow, to Cincinnati, in 1816; learned the printing business, and in 1824, while yet an apprentice, edited and published a small literary paper. Ever since, he has been thoroughly identified with the West, in her literature, her history, and her press; has been sole or joint editor of several magazines and newspapers (of the Cincinnati Gazette, 1839-50, and of the Louisville Courier, 1854) ; edited, in 1841, an interesting volume entitled " The Poetical Litera- ture of the West;" since 1854, has made his home in or near Louisville, much of the time holding office under the U. S. government. Some of his contributions to local history are valuable. He is the author of a number of minor poems of much power, and of one of extended scope, " Miami Woods."

SONG OF THE PIONEER. BY WM. D. GALLAGHER. A SONG for the early times out West, And our green old forest home, . 1 ... 36

Whose pleasant memories freshly yet Across the bosom come : A song for the free and gladsome life, In those early days we led,

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

With a teeming soil beneath our feet, And a smiling Heav'n o'erhead ! Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, And had a joyous flow, In the days when we were Pioneers, Fifty years ago !

The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase, The captur'd elk, or deer ; The camp, the big, bright fire, and then The rich and wholesome cheer : The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night, By our camp-fire, blazing high- Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, And the panther springing by. Oh, merrily pass'd the time, despite Our wily Indian foe, In the days when we were Pioneers, Fifty years ago !

We shunn'd not labor : when 'twas due We wrought with right good will; And for the homes we won for them, Our children bless us still. We lived not hermit lives, but oft In social converse met ; 'And fires of love were kindled then, That burn on warmly yet. Oh, pleasantly the stream of life Pursued its constant flow, In the days when we were Pioneers, Fifty years ago !

We felt that we were fellow-men; . We felt we were a band, Sustain'd here in the wilderness By Heaven's upholding hand. And when the solemn Sabbath came, We gathered in the wood, And lifted up our hearts in prayer To God, the only Good. Our temples then were earth and sky ; None others did we know, In the days when we were Pioneers, Fifty years ago !

. Our forest life was rough and rude, And dangers clos'd us round ; But here, amid the green old trees, Freedom was sought and found. Oft through our dwellings wint'ry blasts Would rush with shriek and moan ; We cared not-though they were but frail, We felt they were our own 1 Oh, free and manly lives we led, Mid verdure, or mid snow, In the days when we were Pioneers, Fifty years ago !.

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 104

Author: Collins, Lewis, 1797-1870. cn; Collins, Richard H., 1824-1889. cn Publication date: 1874 Publisher: Covington, Ky., Collins & Co. Number of Pages: 1452

Author: Collins, Lewis, 1797-1870. cn; Collins, Richard H., 1824-1889. cn
Publication date: 1874
Publisher: Covington, Ky., Collins & Co.
Number of Pages: 1452