Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 105

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 105

Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).

But now our course of life is short ; And as, from day to day, We're walking on with halting step, And fainting by the way, Another Land more bright than this, To our dim sight appears, And on our way to it we'll soon Again be pioneers ! Yet while we linger, we may all A backward glance still throw, To the days when we were Pioneers,. Fifty years ago !

THE LABORER. BY WY. D. GALLAGHER.

STAND up-erect! Thou hast the form, And likeness of thy God !- who more ? A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm Of daily life, a heart as warm And pure, as breast e'er bore.

What then ?- Thou art as true a Man As moves the human mass among ; As much a part of the Great Plan That with creation's dawn began, As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy ?- the high In station, or in wealth the chief ? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With'proud step and averted eye ? Nay ! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one's scorn to thee ?

A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree.

No :- uncurb'd passions-low desires- Absence of noble self-respect- Death, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspire3 Forever, till thus check'd :

These are thine enemies-thy worst : They chain thee to thy lowly lot- Thy labor and thy life accurst. Oh, stand erect! and from them burst ! And longer suffer not !

Thou art thyself thine enemy ! The great !- what better they than thou ? As theirs, is not thy will as free ? Has God with equal favors thee Neglected to endow ?

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

True, wealth thou hast not : 'tis but dust ! Nor place; uncertain as the wind ! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water may despise the lust Of both-a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up, then-that thy little span Of life may be well trod !

NOBLE BUTLER,

Although a native of Western Pennsylvania, where he was born, July 17, 1811, became a citizen of Louisville, Ky. (where he still lives, Feb., 1874), before 1840; graduated at Hanover College, Indiana, and was for some time a professor there; has steadily followed the profession of teaching; is author of a valuable work on grammar, and has been active in editing other school books; has written much and well for the press, but little of it being poetry.

THEKLA, FROM SCHILLER. TRANSLATED BY N. BUTLER. THE dark clouds rush! hear the forest roar! The maiden wanders along the shore. The waves are breaking with might, with might!

And the maiden sings out to the murky night,

Her tear-troubled eye upward roving : My heart is dead, the world is a void; There is nothing in it to be enjoyed. O Father, call home thy child to thee ; For all the bliss that on earth can be I have had in living and loving.

THE BLUE-BIRD. BY NOBLE BUTLER.

THOUGH Winter's power fades away, The tyrant does not yield ; But still he holds a waning sway O'er hill and grove and field.

But while he still is lingering, Some lovely days appear-

Bright heralds from the train of Spring, To tell that she is near.

It is as if a day of heaven Had fallen from on high,

And God's own smiles, for sunlight given Were beaming through the sky.

The blue-bird now, with joyous note, His song of welcome sings ; Joy swells melodious in his throat ; Joy quivers in his wings.

No cunning show of art severe, But soft and low his lay-

A sunbeam shining to the ear- Spring's softest, brightest ray.

Those magic tones call from the past The sunny hours of youth ; 2

And shining hopes come thronging fast From worlds of love and truth.

The harmony is seen and heard ; For notes and rays combine, And joys and hopes, and sun and bird, All seem to sing and shine.

JAMES BIRNEY MARSHALL,

A member of an old Kentucky family distinguished in oratory, in legislation, at the bar, and on the bench-eldest son of Judge John J. Marshall, and born in Frankfort, Ky., May 25, 1810, died in Memphis, Tenn., Sept. 3, 1870, aged 60-was a literary editor and publisher, 1836-39, after which he returned to his former profession as a political editor. He was chief or assistant editor of newspapers in Frankfort and Louisville, Ky., and in Cincinnati and Colum- bus, Ohio, Memphis, Tenn., and other places. Most of his poems were written and published in 1836-38, in the Cincinnati Mirror and in the Western Literary Journal.

TO EVA: IN HER ALBUM. BY J. BIRNEY MARSHALL. TorcH gently with thy taper finger, The string of some lov'd lute --- The cherish'd sound will with thee linger E'en when the string is mute.

And thus I'd have thy thoughts recur When far away from thee, To him who leaves a tribute here For friendship's memory.

TRENTE

ЧТ

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Over the azure sky above, Clouds sweep in caravans, But still the star we watch and love, In memory remains ; And even through their dusky forms, O'ershadowing earth and sea, As fiercely driv'n by winter-storms, That star is bright to me.

Go grave thy name upon the stone O'er which the brooklet hies, And though with moss it be . o'ergrown, And hid to duller eyes,

Yet from the eye of love that name Can never be effaced-

Time-covered, 'twill as plainly seem As though but newly traced.

When starry night doth wane away Beneath the sun's gay gleam, Do we forget the moon's pale ray Lost in a gaudier beam ? Oh with the stars, I'd have thee keep My friendship's memory,

And when I gaze on heaven's blue deep, I'll fondly think of thee.

JAMES G. DRAKE,

Was the latest survivor of an English family which emigrated to the United States before 1810, and of whom the father, Samuel Drake, two sons, Alex- ander and Samuel, and a daughter, Julia, became celebrated in the dramatic annals of the West. Julia was the mother of Wm. W. Fosdick, the poet, by her first, and of Julia Dean the actress, by her second husband. Two des- cendants of the family became conspicuous actresses-Julia Dean Hayne (the one last mentioned above), and Julia Drake Chapman, daughter of Alex. Drake. James G. Drake was the youngest brother of Alexander, Samuel, and Julia, and the last survivor bearing the family name. He died in Louisville, Ky., where he resided nearly all his life, May 13, 1850. A number of his songs have been widely admired.

PARLEZ BAS. BY JAMES G. DRAKE.

Parlez bas ! The moon is up, And o'er the sleepy throng The mocking-bird's high notes are heard, In wild and witching song- Noeye shall trace thy footsteps here, But fear thee not while love is near.

Parlez bas ! Though here we meet In silence deep, alone, No guilty thoughts disturb our souls, Nor wish we fear to own. Pure as the light yon orb imparts, Shall be the meeting of our hearts.

Parlez bas ! A genial breath Is wandering o'er earth's flowers ;

Their fragrance mingles with thy voice, And holy joy is ours. Parlez bas ! and let each tone Echo the fondness of mine own.

Parlez bas ! And now repeat The vow those lips once made ; Mine is a love that can not change, A heart that ne'er betrayed. O say that thou wilt love me still, Through storm or sunshine, good or ill.

Parlez bas ! I bless thy words, The last that I may hear ; Sweet on my brow thy breath I feel, Upon my cheek thy tear. Now take thee to thy bed and rest, And be thou bless'd as I am bless'd.

GEORGE WASHINGTON CUTTER

Was born in Massachusetts about 1809, and died in Washington city, Dec. 24, 1865, aged 56; was for a number of years a resident of Kentucky ; prac- ticed law at Covington ; commanded a company of Kentuckians in the Mexican war, and on the field of carnage, after the battle, wrote his poem "Buena Vista ;" was at one time a citizen of Indiana, and a member of the Indiana legislature. His poems-of which the "Song of Steam" is the finest and best known-were twice collected and published in a volume, in 1848 and 1857.

----

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

THE SONG OF STEAM. BY GEORGE W. CUTTER.

HARNESS me down with your iron bands ; Be sure of your curb and rein : For I scorn the power of your puny hands, As the tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed as I lay conceal'd from sight For many a countless hour, At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power.

When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas,

Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze ; When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil which he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, Or tugged at the weary oar ;

When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the carrier dove, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love, I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripp'd afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chain'd to the flying car.

Ha ! ha! ha! they found me at last ; They invited me forth at length ;

And I rushed to my throne with a thunder- blast, And laughed in my iron strength O then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and the ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurra ! hurra ! the waters o'er The mountain's steep decline ; Time-space-have yielded to my power ; The world ! the world is mine ! The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, Or those where his beams decline ; The giant streams of the queenly west, Or the orient floods divine !

The ocean pales whero'er I sweep -- I hear my strength rejoice ; And the monsters of the briny deep Cower, trembling, at my voice.

I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The thoughts of his god-like mind : The mind lags after my going forth, The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,

My tireless arm doth play ;

Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, Or the dawn of the glorious day,

I bring earth's glittering jewels up From the hidden caves below,

And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, In all the shops of trade ;

I hammer the ore and turn the wheel Where my arms of strength are made ;

I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; I carry, I spin, I weave ;

And all my doings I put into print, On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,

No bones to be " laid on the shelf,"

And soon I intend you may "go and play," While I manage this world myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein ; For I scorn the power of your puny hands, As the tempest scorns a chain.

THE SONG OF LIGHTNING.

BY GEORGE W. CUTTER.

AWAY ! away ! through the sightless air Stretch forth your iron thread ! For I would not dim my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread ! Aye, rear it up on its million piers- Let it circle the world around-

And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound !

Tho' I can not toil, like the groaning slave Ye have fetter'd with iron skill

To ferry you over the boundless wave, Or grind in the noisy mill, Let him sing his giant strength and speed ! Why, a single shaft of mine Would give that monster a flight indced, To the depths of the ocean's brine !

MIT

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

No! no ! I'm the spirit of light and love ! To my unseen haud 'tis given To pencil the ambient clouds above And polish the stars of heaven ! I scatter the golden rays of fire On the horizon far below, And deck the sky where storms expire With my red and dazzling glow.

The deepest recesses of earth are mine ; I traverse its silent core ; Around me the starry diamonds shine, And the sparkling fields of ore; And oft I leap from my throne on high To the depths of the ocean caves, Where the fadeless forests of coral lie Far under the world of waves.

My being is like a lovely thought That dwells in a sinless breast ; A tone of music that ne'er was caught; A word that was ne'er expressed ! I dwell in the bright and burnish'd halls Where the fountains of sunlight play, Where the curtain of gold and opal falls O'er the scenes of the dying day.

With a glance I cleave the sky in twain ; I light it with a glare, When fall the boding-drops of rain Through the darkly-curtain'd air ! The rock-built towers, the turrets gray, The piles of a thousand years, Have not the strength of potter's clay Beneath my glittering spears.

From the Alps' or the Andes' highest crag, From the peaks of eternal snow, The blazing folds of my fiery flag Illumine the world below. The earthquake heralds my coming power, The avalanche bounds away, And howling storms at midnight's hour Proclaim my kingly sway.

Ye tremble when my legions come- When my quivering sword leaps out O'er the hills that echo my thunder drum And rend with my joyous shout. Ye quail on the land, or upon the seas Ye stand in your fear aghast, To see me burn the stalworth trees, Or shiver the stately mast.

The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall- The letters of high command- Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall, Were traced by my burning hand.

And oft in fire have I wrote, since then, What angry Heaven decreed ; But the sealed eyes of sinful men Were all too blind to read.

At length the hour of light is here, And kings no more shall bind, Nor bigots crush with craven fear The forward march of mind. The words of Truth and Freedom's rays Are from my pinions hurl'd; And soon the light of better days Shall rise upon the world.

But away ! away ! through the sightless air Stretch forth your iron thread ! For I would not dim my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread ! Aye! rear it up on its thousand piers- Let it circle the- world around-

And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound.

INVOCATION .*

BY GEORGE W. CUTTER.

SPIRIT of truth, of love, and light ! Thou that hast ever faithful been To cheer the long and stormy night Of hope and God-abandon'd men ; Pilgrim, whose worn and bleeding feet Have sought each joy-deserted place Of earth, to shed thy visions sweet Before our chain'd and burden'd race.

Scorner of dungeon, whip, and rack, Thou only angel that remain'd When weeping Mercy turned her back Upon a world that crime had stained ! Thou tyrant-tamer, born in heaven, To be the polar star of man ; Thou moral earthquake, that hast riven And trampled every bar and ban.

There's not a vale in all the world, However dark, but thou hast trod ; There's not a hill but where has curl'd Thy altar-fircs, as to a God ! O'er forest, field, or ocean wave, Thy deathless pæans have been heard ; The lion roars them in his cave, They're shouted by the desert-bird.

* Written during the late contest between Hungary and Austria.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Thou soul of all that's good and grand, Thou essence of the great sublime, Thou star of hope, thou beacon brand That lights the onward march of time.

O Liberty ! let tyrants start And tremble at thy dread appeal, Thou music of the patriot's heart Midst rending fire and bristling steel !

MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.

This favorite poetess, nee Coppuck, was a native of Maryland, born at St. Michael's, Feb. 3, 1819; removed, in 1834, to Louisville, Ky., where her poetic genius first became generally known ; and there she died, May 3, 1852, aged 32. A full biographical sketch will be found under Jefferson county, in Volume II of this work.

THE RAINBOW.

BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

I SOMETIMES have thoughts, in my loneliest hours,

That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon, When my heart was as light as a blossom in June;

The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers,

The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers,

While a single white cloud to its haven of rest

On the white wing of peace, floated off in the west.

As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze,

That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas,

Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow un- rolled

Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth,

It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth,

And, fair as an angel, it floated as free, With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea.

How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell !

Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell ;

While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er,

When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore.

No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there,

And bent my young head in devotion and love, 'Neath the form of the angel that floated above.

How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings !

How boundless its circle ! how radiant its rings ! If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air ;

If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there ;

Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole

As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul.

Like the wing of the Deity, calmly un- furled,

It bent from the cloud and encircled the world.

There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives

Whole volumes of thought on its un written leaves,

When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose,

Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose.

And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky,

The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by ;

It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove,

All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with love.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

I know that each moment of rapture or pain

But shortens the links in life's mystical chain ;

I know that my form, like that bow from the wave,

Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave ;

Yet 0! when death's shadows my bosom encloud,

When I shrink at the thought of the coffin . and shroud,

May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold

In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.

THE DEW-DROP. BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

I AM a sparkling drop of dew, Just wept from yon silver star, But drops of dew Have very few To care for what they are ;

For little ye dream, who dwell below, Of all I've wandered through ; Ye only know I sparkle so,

Because I'm a drop of dew.

I flashed at first with waves, that whirl O'er the blue, blue tossing sea ; Where eddies curl O'er beds of pearl I wandered wild and free, Till I chanced to spy an elfin king, And I danced before his view, When the merry king, With his glittering wing, Whisked off the drop of dew.

The evening air with sweets was fraught, And away we flitted far,

When, quick as thought, I was upward caught, To yon lovely vesper star ; And I'm very sure a gentle charm That bright thing round me threw, For an angel form, In her bosom warm, Enfolded the drop of dew.

But I slept not long in yon starry bower, In the bosom of my love, For, in a shower, To this primrose flower, She sent me from above ;

And soon its moonlight leaves will close, But they hide me not from view,

For the wind, that flows

O'er the young primrose, Will kiss off the drop of dew.

PULPIT ELOQUENCE. BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

THE day was declining; the breeze in its glee,

Had left the fair blossoms to sing on the sea,

As the sun in its gorgeousness, radiant and still,

Dropped down like a gem from the brow of the hill ;

One tremulous star, in the glory of June, Came out with a smile and sat down by the moon,

As she graced her blue throne with the pride of a queen,

The smiles of her loveliness gladdening the scene.

The scene was enchanting ! in distance away

Rolled the foam-crested waves of the Chesapeake Bay,

While bathed in the moonlight the village was seen,

With the church in the distance that stood on the green ;

The soft-sloping meadows lay brightly un- rolled,

With their mantles of verdure and blos- soms of gold,

And the earth in her beauty, forgetting to grieve,

Lay asleep in her bloom on the bosom of eve.

A light-hearted child, I had wandered away

From the spot where my footsteps had gamboled all day,

And free as a bird's was the song of my soul,

As I heard the wild waters exultingly roll, While, lightening my heart as I sported along,

With bursts of low laughter and snatches of song,

I struck in the pathway half-worn o'er the sod By the feet that went up to the worship of God.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

As I traced its green windings, a murmur of prayer,

With the hymn of the worshipers, rose on the air,

And, drawn by the links of its sweetness along,

I stood unobserved in the midst of the throng ;

For awhile my young spirit still wandered about

With the birds, and the winds, that were singing without ;

But birds, waves, and zephyrs were quickly forgot

In one angel-like being that brightened the spot.

In stature majestic, apart from the throng, He stood in his beauty, the theme of my song !

Fis cheek pale with fervor-the blue orbs above

Lit up with the splendors of youth and of love ;

Yet the heart-glowing rapturesthat beamed from those eyes,

Seemed saddened by sorrows, and chas- tened by sighs,

As if the young heart in its bloom had grown cold,

With its loves unrequited, its sorrows un- told.

Such language as his I may never re- call ;

But his theme was salvation-salvation to all ;

And the souls of a thousand in ecstacy hung

On the manna-like sweetness that dropped from his tongue ;

Not alone on the ear his wild eloquence stole ;

Enforced by each gesture it sank to the . soul,

Till it seemed that an angel had brightened the sod

And brought to each bosom a message from God.

He spoke. of the Saviour-what pictures he drew !

The scene of his sufferings rose clear on my view- .

The cross-the rude cross where he suf- fered and died,

The gush of bright crimson that flowed from his side

The cup of his sorrows, the wormwood and gall,

The darkness that mantled the earth as a pall,

The garland of thorns, and the demon-like crews,

Who knelt as they scoffed Him-" Hail, King of the Jews !"

He spake, and it seemed that his statue- like form

Expanded and glowed as his spirit grew warm-

His tone so impassioned, so melting his air,

As touched with compassion, he ended in prayer,

His hands clasped above him, his blue orbs upthrown,

Still pleading for sins that were never his own,

While that mouth, where such sweetness ineffable clung,

Still spoke, though expression had died on . his tongue.

O God! what emotions the speaker awoke!

A mortal he seemed-yet a deity spoke; A man-yet so far from humanity riven ! On earth-yet so closely connected with heaven !

How oft in my fancy I've pictured him there,

As hestood in that triumph of passion and prayer,

With his eyes closed in rapture-their transient eclipse

Made bright by the smiles that illumined his lips.

There's a charm in delivery, a magical art, That thrills, like a kiss, from the lip to the heart;

'Tis the glance, the expression, the well- chosen word,

By whose magic the depths of the spirit are stirred,

The smile, the mute gesture, the soul- startling pause,

The eye's sweet expression, that melts while it awes,

The lip's soft persuasion, its musical tone-

O such was the charm of that eloquent one !

570

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

The time is long past, yet how clearly defined

That bay-church and village float up on my mind ;

I see amid azure the moon in her pride, With the sweet little trembler, that sat by her side ;

I hear the blue waves, as she wanders along,

Leap up in their gladness and sing her a song,

And I tread in the pathway half-worn o'er the sod,

By the feet that went up to the worship of God.

The time is long past, yet what visions I see !

The past, the dim past, is the present to me ;

I am standing once more mid that heart- stricken throng,

A vision floats up-'tis the theme of my song-

All glorious and bright as a spirit of air, The light like a halo encircling his hair- As I catch the same accents of sweetness and love,

He whispers of Jesus-and points us above.

How sweet to my heart is the picture I've traced !

Its chain of bright fancies seemed almost effaced,

Till memory, the fond one, that sits in the soul,

Took up the frail links, and connected the whole :

As the dew to the blossom, the bud to the bee,

As the scent to the rose, are these memories to me;

Round the chords of my heart they have tremblingly clung,

And the echo it gives is the song I have sung.

MRS. LAURA M. THURSTON.

This highly gifted poetess, née Hawley-born in Connecticut, Dec., 1812, died in New Albany, Indiana, July 21, 1842, aged 29-can scarcely be classed as a Kentucky poetess. And yet she spent so much time in Louisville, and among appreciative Kentucky friends ; her poetic talent was so generously encouraged and developed by the Louisville Journal and by Wm. D. Gallag- her in his Hesperian ; and her intimacy with Mrs. Amelia B. Welby and other Kentucky poetesses was so charming-as to make it not improper to preserve the following pieces in memory of her-the second written by her . self, but the first Amelia B. Welby's tribute to her.

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER POETESS.

BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

SHE has passed, like a bird, from the minstrel throng,

She has gone to the land where the lovely belong !

Her place is hush'd by her lover's side, Yet his heart is full of his fair young bride ;

The hopes of his spirit are crushed and bowed

As he thinks of his love in her long white shroud ;

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 105

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