Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 106

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 106

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For the fragrant sighs of her perfumed breath Were kissed from her lips by his rival- Death.

Cold is her bosom, her thin white arms All mutely crossed o'er its icy charms, As she lies, like a statue of Grecian art, With a marbled brow and a cold hushed heart ; Her locks are bright, but their gloss is hid; Her eye is sunken 'neath its waxen lid : And thus she lies in her narrow hall- Our fair young minstrel-the loved of all.

Light as a bird's were her springing feet, Her heart as joyous, her song as sweet ; Yet never again shall that heart be stirred With its glad wild songs like a singing bird :

Ne'er again shall the strains be sung, That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue ;

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

The music is o'er, and Death's cold dart Hath broken the spell of that free, glad heart.

Often at eve, when the breeze is still, And the moon floats up by the distant hill,

As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers,

And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers, I will think of the time when she lingered there,

With her mild blue eyes and her long fair hair ; I will treasure her name in my bosom- oore : But my heart is sad-I can sing no more.

THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHER-LAND.

BY LAURA M. THURSTON.

THE green hills of my father-land In dreams still greet my view ; I see once more the wave-girt strand- The ocean-depth of blue- The sky-the glorious sky, outspread

. Above their calm repose- The river, o'er its rocky bed Still singing as it flows- The stillness of the Sabbath hours, When men go up to pray- The sunlight resting on the flowers- The birds that sing among the bowers, Through all the summer day.

Land of my birth 1-mine early love ! Once more thine airs I breathe ! I see thy proud hills tower above- Thy green vales sleep beneath- Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills, All rise before mine eyes, The dawn of morning on thy hills, Thy gorgeous sunset skies- Thy forests, from whose deep recess

A thousand streams have birth, Glad'ning the lonely wilderness, And filling the green silentness With melody and mirth.

I wonder if my home would seem As lovely as of yore !

I wonder if the mountain stream Goes singing by the door ! And if the flowers still bloom as fair, And if the woodbines climb, As when I used to train them there, In the dear olden time ! I wonder if the birds still sing Upon the garden tree, As sweetly as in that sweet spring Whose golden memories gently bring So many dreams to me !

I know that there hath been a change, A change o'er hall and hearth ! Faces and footsteps new and strange, About my place of birth ! The heavens above are still as bright As in the days gone by, But vanished is the beacon light That cheered my morning sky ! And hill, and vale, and wooded glen, And rock, and murmuring stream, That wore such glorious beauty then,, Would seem, should I return again, . The record of a dream !

I mourn not for my childhood's hours, Since, in the far-off West,

'Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowers, My heart hath found its rest.

I mourn not for the hills and streams That chained my steps so long, Yet still I see them in my dreams, And hail them in my song ; And often by the hearth-fire's blaze, When winter eves shall come, We'll sit and talk of other days, And sing the well-remembered lays Of my Green Mountain Home.

MRS. SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER

Was a native of Lexington, Ky., born 1811 ; married, in 1837, and removed to southern Ohio; contributed some of her best poems to Cincinnati news- papers, between 1841 and 1851.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

SHADOWS.

BY SOPHIA H. OLIVER. THEY are gliding, they are gliding, O'er the meadows green and gay ; Like a fairy troop they're riding Through the breezy woods away ; On the mountain-tops they linger When the sun is sinking low, And they point with giant finger To the sleeping vale below.

They are flitting, they are flitting, O'er the waving corn and rye, And now they're calmly sitting 'Neath the oak-tree's branches high. And where the tired reaper Hath sought the sheltering tree, They dance above the sleeper In light, fantastic glee.

They are creeping, they are creeping, Over valley, hill, and stream, Like the thousand fancies sweeping . Through a youthful poet's dream. Now they mount on noiseless pinions With the eagle to the sky- Soar along those broad dominions Where the stars in beauty lie.

They are dancing, they are dancing, Where our country's banner bright In the morning beam is glancing, With its stars and stripes of light ; And where the glorious prairies Spread out like garden bowers, They fly along like fairies, Or sleep beneath the flowers.

They are leaping, they are leaping, Where a cloud beneath the moon O'er the lake's soft breast is sleeping, Lulled by a pleasant tune ;

And where the fire is glancing At twilight through the hall, Tall specter forms are dancing Upon the lofty wall.

They are lying, they are lying, Where the solemn yew-tree waves, And the evening winds are sighing In the lonely place of graves ; And their noiseless feet are creeping, With slow and stealthy tread, Where the ancient church is keeping Its watch above the dead.

Lo, they follow !- lo, they follow ! Or before flit to and fro By mountain, stream, or hollow Wherever man may go! And never for another Will the shadow leave his side-

More faithful than a brother, Or all the world beside.

Ye remind me, ye remind me, O Shadows, pale and cold ! That friends to earth did bind me, Now sleeping in the mould ; The young, the loved, the cherished, Whose mission early done, In life's bright noontide perished, Like shadows in the sun.

The departed, the departed- I greet them with my tears- The true and gentle-hearted, The friends of earlier years, Their wings like shadows o'er me, Methinks, are spread for aye, Around, behind, before me, To guard the devious way.

MRS. REBECCA S. NICHOLS

Was a native of Greenwich, New Jersey; brought to the West during her childhood, by her father, Dr. E. B. Reed; married in 1838, while a resident of Louisville; assisted her husband in editing a daily newspaper in St. Louis ; in 1846, conducted a literary newspaper in Cincinnati, The Guest ; was a frequent or regular contributor to a number of newspapers and periodicals, in Louisville, Cincinnati, and the Eastern cities. Her earliest poems were published, over the signature of ELLEN, in the Louisville Journal and the Louisville News Letter. In 1844 and again in 1857, her poems were collected and published, in an elegant volume. The length of her best poems forbids their insertion here.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

INDIAN SUMMER.

BY REBECCA S. NICHOLS.

IT is the Indian Summer time,

The days of mist, and haze and glory, And on the leaves in hues sublime,

The Autumn paints poor Summer's story ;

"""" She died in beauty,'" sing the hours, "And left on earth a glorious shadow ; """ She died in beauty,' like her flowers," Is painted on each wood and meadow : She perished like bright human hopes, That blaze awhile upon life's altar ; And o'er her green and sunny slopes The plaintive winds her dirges falter.

It is the Indian Summer time ! The crimson leaves, like coals are gleaming,

The brightest tints of every clime Are o'er our Western forests streaming ; How bright the hours ! yet o'er their close, The moments sigh in mournful duty, And redder light around them glows, Like hectic on the cheek of beauty. Fair maiden, when thy spring is o'er,

And all thy summer flowers are gath- ered,

May Autumn with a golden store, Replace the buds so quickly withered ; And bind unto thy heart this truth, That it may live when dead thy roses, " Religion is the light of youth, And gilds life's Autumn as it closes."

TO-DAY.

BY REBECCA S. NICHOLS.

As into space, from poet's prophet tongue, Fall cadenced thoughts, harmonious as the spheres ;

So by Time's voices syllabled and sung, The hours drop down the silent gulf of years !

Farewell, fleet moments ! which are ours no more,

How swift ye flew along the dial's way! And now, transfigured on that distant shore, Ye make the Present's solemn yester- day !

Wide grave, to which the morrows are all whirled,

By Time's steep car that ne'er has paused to rest,

Since first its wheels went circling round our world,

Wearing deep furrows in its rocky breast.

Through the long yesterday of cycles past, We grope, to find a self-illumined page, Which like a star within a dreary vast,

Reveals but darkness of a by-gone age.

We read that man who turned aside from God,

Begot a loathsome leprosy within ; Incarnadined his hands with brother's blood,

And made foul sacrifice to new-born sin.

Death and destruction followed in his path; Fair Knowledge shrieked and hid her from his gaze ;

The slave of Ignorance, man s cruel wrath Stamped with red guilt those early evil ' days.

This night of horror past, the dawning came ;

Now, beauteous feet of Wisdom walk the Earth ;

On Freedom's altar burns a heavenly flame, The world rejoices in its second birth I

Fair sons of Science, revel in the light ! Your star shall pierce all hidden depths of things;

Teacher and Toiler, your task unite, And crowns shall prove the empty dream of kings.

The watch-words, " Peace, Good-will " from man to man,

Those golden lessons by the Meek Ono taught,

Which down the serried lines of ages ran, Until To-day's blessed liberty they - wrought.

"Peace and Good-will !" transcendent words of power,

Written in stars upon the azure way ; Guides of the year, and guardians of the hour,

Our promise yesterday-our hope To- day !

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

MRS. CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD,

Née Ware, was born in Washington, Mississippi, in 1817; married in 1833 to Elisha Warfield, Jr., of Lexington, Ky .; spent several years in foreign travel ; about 1838, settled at Lexington, and in 1858 removed to Pewee Valley, near Louisville. In 1842, her poems and those of her sister, Mrs. Eleanor Percy Lee, were published in a volume entitled "Poems by Two Sisters of the West;" and in 1846 a second volume was published-the poems evincing a riper judgment and more maturity of thought. In 1858-60, Mrs. Warfield published in the Louisville Journal some poems of increasing strength and beauty.

THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.

BY CATHARINE A. WARFIELD. IN the gray depths of the silent sea Where twilight reigns over mystery ; Where no signs prevail of the tempest's mood,

And no forms of the upper life intrude ; Where the wrecks of the elder world are laid

In a realm of stillness, of death, of shade, And the mournful forests of coral grow- They have chained the lightning and laid it low !

Life of the universe ! Spirit of fire ! From that single chord of thy living lyre, Sweep us a strain of the depths profound- Teach us the mysteries that gird thee 'round-

Make us to know through what realms unsought

By the mariner's eye, or the poet's thought Thy thrilling impulse flows free and strong, As the flash of soul, or the stream of song !

Say, does the path of the lightning lie Through desolate cities still fair and high? With their massive marbles and ancient state ---

Though the sea-snake coils at the temple's gate ?

Or lays his length in the streets of sand, Where rolled the chariot, or marched the . band-

Or where, oppressed by his martial load, The monstrous step of the mammoth strode ?

Doth he raise for a moment his crested head

As the thrill of thought is above him sped? And feel the shock-through every fold- Firing his blood-from its torpor cold ? Till he learns to woo the mystic chain That stirs new life in each sluggish vein And seeks its warmth, as it works its task, As a desert serpent in sun may bask ?

Doth that slender cord, as it threads the waves,

Stretch past the portals of mighty caves ? Places of splendor where jewels gleam In the glare of the blue phosphoric stream Shed by those living lamps that grow In the lofty roof and the walls of snow ; And where the kings of the weltering brine Hold their wild revels-by throne and shrine.

We follow fast on thy path of fire With a dreaming fancy-oh, mystic wire; We see the mountains and valleys gray With plants that know not the upper day- We see the fissures that grimly lie

Where the wounded whale dives down to die ---

And more ! we see, what hath stirred us more,

The wrecks that checker the ocean floor ---

Ships that full freighted with life and gold, Suddenly sank to a doom untold ;

Galleons that floating from haughty Spain, Reached not the haven of home again ; Martial vessels of power and pride Shattered and mounted and carnage. dyed ; And giant steamers that stemmed the seas Whose fate is with ocean mysteries.

We know that our country's flag is there, And many a form of her brave and fair- Dost thou keep them safely, oh ! lower deep,

In their changeless beauty and solemn sleep ?

Or are they given to the dark decay Of the charnel-house and the bed of clay ? 'Tis a holy charge that thou hast in trust- Our stately vessels-our sacred dust !

Full many a message of haste and love Shall quiver the broken mast above, Or flash by those shapes, erect and pale, With loaded feet and with shrouding sail,

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

575

That "stand and wait " without hope or dread,

For the great sea to give up its dead- When those long parted by land and wave Shall meet in the glory beyond the grave.

Sad thoughts are these that will have their hour,

Let them pass in the tide of exulting power! In the stream of praise and the anthem free,

To the mighty Maker of earth and sea, Who hath granted skill to a finite race, To conquer time and to cancel space- And through a human hand hath thrown His grappling-iron from zone to zone.

SPRING THUNDER.

BY CATHARINE A. WARFIELD.

WE know by the breath of the balmy air, By the springing grass and the sunshine fair --

By the soft rain falling-as if in love The sleeping blossoms and bulbs above- By the tint of green on the forest brown, By the fallen tassels of Aspen down, By the lilac bud and the tufted larch- That we have done with the wayward March. 1

We know by the call of the nestling bird, As she feels her mother impulse stirred, By the venturing forth of the lonely bee (Like the dove sent out o'er the olden sea ),

By the croak of the frog in his willowy pond, By the dove's low moan in the copse beyond,

By the quickening pulse and the thrilling vein,

That April laughs into life again.

But not the sunshine, the breeze, the showers,

The tender green on the embryo flowers, The voices of birds or the quickened sense,

Appeal with such startling eloquence To the heart that yearns for the summer's reign

(Weary and earth-sick from winter's chain),

As that sound which seems through space to ring

The first low Thunder of wakened Spring.

O marvel not that the men of old

Deemed its deep music by gods con- trolled,

And, by the power that within them strove,

Called it the wrath of the mystic Jove- For we are stirred with an awe profound By that mysterious and sullen sound- Nor give we faith to the birds and bloom 'Till we hear that fiat of Winter's doom.

So in the Spring of our life's career We stand and gaze on the opening year, We feel the sunshine, we drink the breeze, But no source of feeling is stirred by these ;

Not till the voice of the stormy soul Swells like the sound of the thunder's roll- Not till the floodgates of sorrow break In passionate tears-doth our Summer wake!

MRS. LOIS BRYAN ADAMS

Was for only three years, 1849-52, a resident of Kentucky. She was a native of Moscow, N. Y., born Oct. 14, 1817; removed to Michigan, married an editor, and thenceforth was a regular contributor to the newspaper and periodical literature of Michigan and New York city.

HOEING CORN. BY LOIS BRYAN ADAMS.

Our in the earliest light of the morn Ralph was hoeing the springing corn ; The dew fell flashing from the leaves of green,

Wherever his glancing hoe was seen,

While dark and mellow the hard earth grew Beneath his strokes so strong and true. And steadily still, hill after hill, As the sun went up, he swung the hoe, Hoe, hoe, hoe-row after row, From the earliest light of the summer morn,

Till the noonday sound of the dinner-horn.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

What was Ralph thinking of all the morn, Out in the summer heat hoeing corn, With the sweat and dust on his hands and face,

And toiling along at that steady pace ? A clear light beamed in his eye the while, And round his lips was a happy smile, As steadily still, hill after hill,

While the sun went down, he swung the hoe,

Hoe, hoe, hoe-row after row,

Faster toward nightfall than even at morn He hastened his steps through the spring- ing corn.

Across the road from this field of corn, Was the stately home where Ralph was born ;

Where his father counted his stores of gold, And his lady-mother so proud and cold, Lived but for the satins and gauze and lace

That shrouded her faded form and face ; While steadily still, hill after hill,

Unthought of went Ralph, and swung his hoe,

Hoe, hoe, hoe-row after row,

Day after day through the springing corn, Toward the humble home of Isabel Lorn.

This he was thinking of all the morn, And all the day long as he hoed the corn- "How sweet it will be, when the shadows fall Over the little brown cottage wall, To sit by the door 'neath the clustering vine,

With Isabel's dear little hand in mine ! So cheerily still, hill after hill,

From morning till night I'll swing my hoe, Hoe, hoe, hoe-row after row,

Knowing each step that I take through the corn,

Is bringing me nearer to Isabel Lorn ! "

O glad was he then that the growing corn Shielded his steps from his mother's scorn : And glad that his father's miser hand Had barred all help from his fertile land. So safely he kept his forest-flower,

And dreamed of her beauty hour by hour, As steadily still, hill after hill,

Through the field so broad he swung his hoe,

Hoe, hoe, hoe-row after row,

Knowing each step through the growing corn,

Was bringing him nearer to Isabel Lorn.

But months passed on, and the ripened corn Was laid on the ground one autumn morn, While under the sod in the church-yard bless'd

Are two low graves where the aged rest. The father has left broad lands and gold, And the mother her wealth of silks untold, And sweet Isabel-why need I tell What she said to Ralph, when without his hoe

He sought her side ? It was not " No !" That made her the mistress, one summer morn,

Of the stately home by the field of corn.

MRS. SARAH J. HOWE,

Wife of Hammond Howe, resided in Newport, Ky., for many years ; between 1839 and 1849, contributed numerous poems to the Ladies Repository and other Cincinnati magazines and newspapers; in 1847, published in pamphlet form a dramatic poem founded on incidents in the history of Poland, " Boles- las II., or the Siege of Kiow.' A volume of her poems was promised, but never issued.

AFTER A TEMPEST. BY SARAH J. HOWE.

THE stars had come out from their homes of bright blue- Eternity's watchers-the pure and the true !

As I wander'd abroad 'neath the beautiful moon

That lit up the skies of our radiant June, There lay the proud oak that had shelter- ed the vine Through winter's dark tempests and sum- mer's warm shine.

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

577

It lay in the pomp of its towering pride, The vine's gentle tendrils all crushed to its side, The vine flowers scattered, still bright in their bloom,

And yielding in dying their richest per- fume !

As I gazed on the ruin the tempest had wrought-

The blossoms of spring with such promises fraught,

I saw by my side in the cleft of the rock, A flower unscathed by the hurricane's shock,

Still blooming so sweetly, its delicate form Defying the wrath of the pitiless storm ! I looked at the flower, and I turned to the sky, And thought of the " Rock that is higher than I."

MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON,

Née Barritt, was born in Newport, Ky., in 1820, but removed with her parents, before she was four years old, to Indiana-her home henceforth being at Madison and afterwards at Indianapolis, except while absent in Europe with her husband, when he was U. S. consul to Geneva, Switzerland, 1855-58. Between 1845 and 1858, Mrs. Bolton wrote numerous poems, some of them "among the most beautiful of the day;" and while in Switzerland was a correspondent of the Cincinnati Commercial.

IF I WERE THE LIGHT OF THE BRIGHTEST STAR.

BY SARAH T. BOLTON. .

IF I were the light of the brightest star, That burns in the zenith now.

I would tremble down from my home afar, To kiss thy radiant brow. If I were the breath of a fragrant flower, With a viewless wing and free,

I would steal away from the fairest bower, And live, love, but for thee.

If I were the soul of bewitching song, With a moving, melting tone, I would float from the gay and thoughtless throng, And soothe thy soul alone. If I were a charm, by fairy wrought, I would bind thee with a sign ; And never again should a gloomy thought O'ershadow thy spirit's shrine.

If I were a memory, past alloy, I would linger where thou art ; If I were a thought of abiding joy, I would nestle in thy heart. If I were a hope, with the magic light That makes the future fair,

I would make thy path on the earth as bright As the paths of angels are. I ... 37

DIRGE FOR THE OLD YEAR. BY SARAH T. BOLTON.

TOLL, toll, toll, Where the winter winds are sighing Toll, toll, toll, Where the somber clouds are flying ; Toll, toll, toll, A deeper, sadder knoll- Than sounds for a passing soul- Should tell of the Old Year, dying. Spirits of beauty and light, Goblins of darkness and night,

From your sunny paths, in the azure sky, From the Stygian shores, where the shad- ows lie,

From your coral homes, in the ocean caves, From the frigid north, where the tempest raves,

Come to the pale one dying. Hark ! to the falling of phantom feet, Beat, beat, beat, beat, Like the solemn sounds, when the surges meet,

On the shores of a mighty river -- They are folding the dead in his winding sheet, To bear him away forever. A rush of wings on the midnight wind- The fall of a shadowy portal- And the good Old Year, so true and kind, Passed to his rest, but left behind The record of deeds immortal.

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, THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

EDMUND FLAGG

Was a native of Maine, born Nov. 24, 1815; emigrated to Louisville in 1835, and was a citizen of Kentucky for several years-part of the time associated with George D. Prentice in the editorial management of the Louisville News Letter, to which, and to the Louisville Journal, he made some poetical contri- butions. He became somewhat distinguished as a prose writer.

THE MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH. BY EDMUND FLAGG.

SCIENCE,

With her twin-sister, Art, hath scaled th' Empyrean !

Science, like the dread angel of th' Apoc- alypse,

Hath destined Space and Time to be no more !

From the immortal mind now leaps the thought,

And, yet unspoken, on the lightning's wing Girdleth the globe ! Away, away flasheth The magic line of thought and feeling ! Over land, o'er sea, o'er mountain, stream, and vale,

Through forest dense, and darkest wilder- ness,

Mid storm and tempest, fleets the electric spell ;

Then to its home, through earth's deep entrails, speeds

Backward in fiery circuit to its rest ; While earth's green bosom doth itself evolve

Magnetic flame to light the flashing line ! No more the viewless couriers of the winds Are emblems of the messengers of mind. The speed of sound, the speed of light surpassed,

The speed of thought-mind's magnet- ism-

And th' omnipotent power of Fancy's flight, Alone can rival the electric charm !

LEWIS F. THOMAS

Was a native of Maryland, born about 1815 ; was a citizen of Kentucky for less than two years, in 1839-40 ; was editor of several newspapers ; published a volume of his poems in 1842, and another in 1848; in 1838, wrote a suc- cessful drama, " Osceola," and in 1859, another, "Cortez, the Conqueror ;" settled at Washington city in the practice of law.

MEMORY. BY LEWIS F. THOMAS. A HARP whose every chord 's unstrung, A doubted treason proved ; A melody that once was sung, By lips that once we loved ; A bark without a helm or sail, Lost on a stormy sea ; A dove that doth its mate bewail- Like these is Memory.

And oh, it is the spirit's well, Its only fount of truth, Whose every drop some tale can tell Of bright and buoyant youth ; And as we traverse wenry years, Of sorrow and of crime, We feed that fount with bitter tears, Wept for the olden time.

The sun doth dry the springs of earth With rays from summer skies, But feeling's fountain knows no dearth, Its current never dries. The rills into the rivers run, The rivers to the sea, Months into years and years into Life's ocean-Memory.

At noon our little bark sets sail, Hope proudly mans its deck, At eve it drives before the gale A wreck-a very wreck- Our early youth's untainted soul, Our first love's first regret ; These storm-like over Memory roll- Oh, who would not forget !

WTL

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE,

Son of Rev. Matthew G. Wallace, a Presbyterian preacher, was a native of Kentucky, born at Lexington in 1819; well educated ; read law, and began its practice with good prospects; but was persuaded, by literary friends, to abandon it, and settle in New York city, in the profession of authorship. He published three volumes of poems in 1848, 1851, 1856, and was preparing a fourth in 1860. Wm. Cullen Bryant, the poet-editor, awarded him high praise when he said "his poems are marked by a splendor of imagination and an affluence of poetic diction which show him the born poet." Mr. Wallace has been a regular contributor to some of the leading New York magazines and literary newspapers.

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 106

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