Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 107

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 107

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).

DANIEL BOONE. BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

HA! how the woods give way before the step

Of these new-comers ! What a sickening smell

Clings round my cabin wafted from their town

Ten miles away ! But yesterday I heard A stranger's gun sound in the loneliest glen That yet remains to me; and when I climbed

The mountain there, and stood alone, alone !

Upon its top amid the sounding clouds, And proudly thought that I was first to crown

That mighty mountain with a human soul, Another's foot-print in the airy sand Smote my unwilling eyes, and I at once Was scepterless, unthroned, there beaten back

To restless thought again. This can not last ;

For I am of the mould that loathes to breathe

The air of multitudes. I must respire The universe alone, and hear, alone, Its Lord walking the ancient wilderness ; And this, because He made me so-no more.

I must away : for action is my life ; And it is base to triumph in a Past, However big with mighty circumstance, Danger full-faced and large heroic deed, If yet a Future calls. It calls to me. What if some seventy years have thinned this hair,

And dimmed this sight, and made the blood roll on

Less riotous between the banks of life ? This heart hath vigor yet, and still the woods

Have voices for my ear; and still the stream

Makes music in my thought; and every hour

Can show some awful miracle performed Within the wilderness ; and Danger still Leans proudly o'er the mountain's dizzy crag,

Bathing his forehead in the passing cloud, And calls to me with a most taunting voice To join him there. He shall not call in vain.

Yes! Surely I must go, and drink anew The splendor that is in the pathless woods, And wear the blue sky as a coronal,

And bid the torrent sound my conquering march,

And ponder far away from all that mars The everlasting wonder of the world,

And with each dewy morning wake and feel

As though that world, so fresh, so beautiful With sunrise and the mist, had just been made.

Farewell, O dweller of the towns ! One State

Have I made eminent within the wild, And men from me have that which they call "Peace ! "

Still do the generations press for room, And surely they shall have it. Tell them this :

Say " Boone, the old State-Builder, hath gone forth

Again, close on the sunset ; and that there He gives due challenge to that Indian race Whose lease to this majestic land, misused, It hath pleased God to cancel. There he works-

Away from all his kind, but for his kind- Unseen, as Ocean's current works unseen, Piling huge deltas up, where men may rear Their cities pillared fair, with many a mart

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

And stately dome o'ershadowing "-should | For the bell of Freedom, at midnight they ask tolled,

"What guerdon Boone would have ?"_ then answer thus :

"A little wilderness left sacred there For him to die in ; else the poor old man Must seek that lonely sea whose billows turn

To mournful music on the Oregon, And in its desolate waters find a grave." So-but I was not made for talk-Fare- well !

THE GRANDEUR OF REPOSE. BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

So rest ! and Rest shall slay your many woes ;

Motion is god-like-god-like is repose, A mountain-stillness of majestic might,

Whose peaks are glorious with the quiet light

Of suns when Day is at his solemn close. Nor deem that slumber must ignoble be. Jove labored lustily once in airy fields ; And over the cloudy lea

He planted many a budding shoot Whose liberal nature daily, nightly yields A store of starry fruit :

His labor done, the weary god went back Up the long mountain-track

To his great house; there he did while away

With lightest thought a well-won holiday; For all the Powers crooned softly an old tune,

Wishing their Sire might sleep

Through all the sultry noon

And cold blue night ; and very soon

They heard the awful Thunderer breathing low and deep:

And in the hush that dropped adown the spheres,

And in the quiet of the awe-struck space, The worlds learned worship at the birth of years :

They looked upon their Lord's calm, kingly face,

And bade Religion come and kiss each starry place.

THE LIBERTY BELL .* BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. A SOUND like a sound of thunder rolled, And the heart of a nation stirred-

* Rung in Philadelphia on the passage of the Declaration of Independence.

Through a mighty land was heard. And the chime still rung From its iron tongue

Steadily swaying to and fro ; And to some it came Like a breath of flame- And to some a sound of wo.

Above the dark mountain, above the blue wave

It was heard by the fettered, and heard by the brave-

It was heard in the cottage, and heard in the hall-

And its chime gave a glorious summons to all-

The saber was sharpened-the time-rusted blade

Of the Bond started out in the pioneer's glade

Like a herald of wrath : And the host was arrayed !

Along the dark mountain, along the blue wave

Swept the ranks of the Bond-swept the ranks of the Brave ;

And a shout as of waters went up to the dome,

When a star-blazing banner unfurled, Like the wing of some Seraph flashed out from his home,

Uttered freedom and hope to the world.

O'er the hill-top and tide its magnificent fold,

With a terrible glitter of azure and gold, In the storm, in the sunshine, and darkness unrolled.

It blazed in the valley-it blazed on the mast --

It leaped with its Eagle abroad on the blast ;

And the eyes of whole nations were turned to its light ;

And the heart of the multitude soon

Was swayed by its stars, as they shone through the night

Like an ocean when swayed by the moon.

Again through the midnight that Bell thunders out,

And banners and torches are hurried about :

A shout as of waters ! a long-uttered cry! How it leaps, how it leaps from the earth to the sky !

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

From the sky to the earth, from the earth to the sea,

Hear a chorus re-echoed, "The People are Free !"

That old Bell is still seen by the Patriot's eye,

And he blesses it ever, when journeying by ;

Long years have passed o'er it, and yet every soul

Will thrill in the night to its wonderful roll;

For it speaks in its belfry, when kissed by the blast,

Like a glory-breathed tone from the mystical Past. .

Long years shall roll o'er it, and yet every chime

Shall unceasingly tell of an era sublime More splendid, more dear than the rest of all time.

O yes ! if the flame on our altars should pale,

Letits voice but be heard, and the Free- man shall start

To rekindle the fire, while he sees on the gale,

All the stars and the stripes of the Flag of his heart !

REV. SIDNEY DYER

Began his career as a Baptist preacher in Kentucky, in 1845. In 1849, he published at Louisville a volume of poems, entitled " Voices of Nature, and Thoughts in Rhyme." " He has written a large number of very popular songs.

MY MOTHER'S EASY CHAIR. BY SIDNEY DYER.

THE days of my youth have all silently sped,

And my locks are now grown thin and gray ;

My hopes, like a dream in the morning, have fled,

And nothing remains but decay ; Yet, I seem but & child, as I was long ago,

When I stood by the form of my sire, And my dear mother sung, as she rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire.

Oh, she was my guardian and guide all the day,

And the angel who watched round my bed ;

Her voice in & murmur of prayer died away For blessings to rest on my head. Then I thought ne'er an angel that heaven could know,

Though trained in its own peerless choir, Could sing like my mother, who rocked to and fro

In the old easy chair by the fire.

How holy the place as we gathered at night .

Round the altar where peace ever dwelt, To join in an anthem of praise, and unite In thanks which our heart truly felt.

In his sacred old seat, with his locks white as snow,

Sat the venerable form of my sire, While my dear mother sung, as she rocked to and fro

In the old easy chair by the fire.

The cottage is gone which my infancy knew,

And the place is despoiled of its charms, My friends are all gathered beneath the old yew,

And slumber in death's folded arms ; But often with rapture my bosom doth glow,

As I think of my home and my sire, And the dearest of mothers who sung long ago, In the old easy chair by the fire !

LET

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

AUSTIN T. EARLE

Was for several years, about 1857 to 1860, a resident of Newport, Ky .; a native of Nashville, Tenn., born June 15, 1821; his father dying while he was young, he was chiefly raised and educated in Ohio, and when not engaged in steamboating upon the Ohio river, generally resided in Ohio; was a soldier in the Mexican war ; and a contributor of prose and poetical articles to several Cincinnati newspapers.

THIS WINTER NIGHT, 'TIS DREARY. BY AUSTIN T. EARLE. A TIME I do remember well,

When all the earth was covered o'er With snow that fast and thickly fell ; And moaning winds were at the door. My father to the mill had gone, My mother with her toil was weary, Whilst sister Sue did nothing do, But look and listen, sigh and yawn, "This winter night, ah me !'tis dreary."

The hickory logs were all ablaze, That lay within the chimney jams, And threw aloft the ruddy rays, Where to the rafters hung the hams And on the polished puncheon floor,

A warmth and light we christen cheery, Yet sister Sue did nothing do, But sigh and yawn, as oft before, " This winter night, ah me ! 'tis dreary."

The youngsters all had gone to bed, And I sat gazing in the fire, Imagining in the embers red,

A village with its church and spire. Old Lion to the hearth had drawn, His limbs, so feeble, worn and weary, Yet sister Sue did nothing do, But look and listen, sigh and yawn, " This winter night, ah me ! 'tis dreary."

Young Watch who in his kennel kept, Commenced with all his might to bark- Then on the porch we heard a step- Then sister to me whispered-"Hark "- Then heard a knocking at the door- Then bade come in-and came young Leary, And sister Sue had much to do, And never thought, I ween, once more, " This winter night, ah me ! 'tis dreary."

WILLIAM WHITEMAN FOSDICK

Was a native of Cincinnati, Ohio, born Jan. 28, 1825-his father, Thos. R. Fosdick, a merchant and banker, and his mother, Julia Drake, a talented actress; graduated at Transylvania University, Lexington, Ky .; studied law at Louisville with Hon. Garnett Duncan, and afterwards at Carrollton, Ky., with Judge James Pryor; practiced law at Covington, Ky., then at Cincin- nati, then in New York city for seven years, 1851-58; traveled in Mexico, 1847-49; gained his first distinction as a poet by a dramatic effort, " Tecum- seh ;" in 1855, published a collection of poems, " Ariel, and other Poems;" resided in Cincinnati, generally, after 1857.

LIGHT AND NIGHT. BY WY. W. FOSDICK. Our through the loom of light, When comes the morning white Beams, like the shuttle's flight, Other beams follow, Up the dawn's rays so slant, Forth from his roof and haunt, Darts the swart swallow.

Back, like the shuttle's flight, Sink the gold beams at night ; Threads in the loom of light Grow dark in the woof ;

All the bright beams that burn Sink into sunset's urn ; Swallows at night return Home to their roof.

Thus we but tarry here A moment, a day, a year- Appearing, to disappear- Grosser things spurning, Departing to whence we came, Leaving behind no name- Like a wild meteor flame, Never returning.

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

583

Back to the home of God Soul after soul departs,

And the enfranchised hearts

Burst through the sod ; Death does but loose the girth Buckling them on to earth, Promethean rack !

Then from the heavy sod,

Swift to the home of God, The Soul, like the Shuttle and Swallow, flies back.

The Swallow, Shuttle, Soul, and Light, All things that move or have a breath, Return again to thee at night- To thy dark roof, O ancient Death !

MRS. MARY EULALIE FEE SHANNON

Was a native of Flemingsburg, Ky., born Feb. 9, 1824; left an orphan at 11; educated at Cincinnati; married in 1854 to an editor from California; and died in that State, Dec. 26, 1855, aged 31. In Aug., 1854, her poems were published at Cincinnati, " Buds, Blossoms, and Leaves," 12mo., 194 pages.

A WISH. BY MARY E. FEE SHANNON. O! WOULD I were a poet ! I'd teach my harp to breathe Like a bright, enchanted thing, And from its chords and bosom fling The sunny lays I'd weave.

O ! would I were a poet- Not for the wreath of Fame That twines around a poet's brow, Nor the homage of the souls that bow Unto a deathless name ;

But, oh ! in sorrow's trying hour, 'Tis surely sweet, to rove

Afar on Fancy's iris wing, To a world of our imagining, All pure, and bright with love. .

I'd be a poet-ah, and yet One other boon I crave -- A priceless gem, that is not bought With yellow gold, nor is it brought From 'neath the crystal wave :

It is a gentle heart, to thrill In concord with mine own, To hold for me affection pure- Abiding love, which shall endure When change-fraught years have flown.

MRS. MARY ELIZABETH NEALY,

Nee Hare, was born in Louisville, Ky., Dec. 12, 1823, the daughter of a mechanic; educated in the public schools of that city; was married at 17, and became a citizen of Indiana. She was a poetical contributor to the Louisville Journal and several of the leading monthly periodicals of the country, from 1846 to 1860. Some of her pieces were full of thoughts deeper and more profound, but few of them sweeter and simpler than the following ; it found its way across the ocean, into the British newspapers.

THE LITTLE SHOE. BY MARY E. NEALY.

I FOUND it here-a worn-out shoe, All mildew'd with time and wet with dew; 'Tis a little thing-ye who pass it by, With never a thought, or word, or sigh ; Yet it stirs in my spirit a hidden well, And in eloquent tones of the past doth tell.

Of bright blue eyes and golden hair, That ever shed joy and sunlight there- Of a prattling voice so sweet and clear, And tiny feet that were ever near.

It tells of nopes that with her had birth, Deep buried now in the silent earth ; Of a heart that had met an answering tone Which again is left alone-alone ! It tells of a little fairy form Of days of watching and anxious prayer- That bound my heart with a magic charm, | Of a night of sorrow and dark despair.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

It tells of a form that is cold and still- Of a little mound upon yonder hill, That is dearer far, to a mother's heart, Than the classic statues of Grecian art, Ah ! strangers may pass with a careless air, Nor dream of the hopes that are buried there.

Oh ye, who have never o'er loved ones wept-

Whose brightest hopes have ne'er been swept Like the pure white cloud from the morn- ing sky-

Like the wreath of mist from the mountain high- Like the rainbow, beaming a moment here, Then melting away to its native sphere ;

Like rose leaves, loosed by the zephyr's sigh-

Like that zephyr wafting its perfume by- Like the wave that kisses some grateful spot,

Then passes away-yet is ne'er forgot ; If your life hopes like these have never fled,

Then ye can not know of the tears I shed.

Ye can not know what a little thing From memory's silent fount can bring The voice and form that were once so dear. Yet there are hearts, were they only here, That could feel with me when, all wet with dew,

I found it this morning-this little shoe.

MRS. MARY E. WILSON BETTS,

Née Wilson, was born in or near Maysville, Ky., in 1823; was married in the summer of 1854 to one of the editors of the Detroit Times ; and died at Maysville, of congestion of the brain, Sept. 16, 1854, aged 31; her death was believed to be one of the results of the great gunpowder explosion, on Aug. 13, 1854, at Maysville, within a quarter of a mile of where she was lying sick at the time (see page 72, ante); her husband died in the month of Oct. following. During ten years before her marriage, Mrs. B. published many short poems, some of them of considerable merit. The following, by no means her best, is the only one immediately accessible :

A KENTUCKIAN KNEELS TO NONE BUT GOD.#

BY MARY E. WILSON.

AH ! tyrant forge thy chains at will- Nay ! gall this flesh of mine ; Yet, thought is free, unfetter'd still, And will not yield to thine. Take, take the life that heaven gave, And let my heart's blood stain thy sod; But know ye not Kentucky's brave Will kneel to none but God ?

You've quenched fair Freedom's sunny light, Her music tones have stilled ; And with a deep and darken'd blight, The trusting heart have fill'd !

* W. L. Crittenden. nephew of John J. Critten- den, United States Senator for Kentucky, com- manded the fillibuster forces taken prisoners at sea near Havana, August 15th, 1851. Doomed to death by the Cuban anthorities, and ordered to be shot on the loth, they were all commanded to kneel. Colonel Crittenden spurned the com- mand with these words : " A Kentuckian kneels to none but God."

Then do you think that I will kneel Where such as ye have trod ? Nay ! point your cold and threat'ning steel, I'll kneel to none but God.

As summer breezes lightly rest Upon a quiet river,

And gently on its sleeping breast The moonbeams softly quiver- Sweet thoughts of home lit up my brow When goaded with the rod; Yet, these can not unman me now- I'll kneel to none but God.

And though a sad and mournful tone Is coldly sweeping by ; And dreams of bliss forever flown Have dimm'd with tears mine eye- Yet, mino's a heart unyielding still- Heap on my breast the clod ; My soaring spirit scorns thy will- I'll kneel to none but God.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

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MRS. HELEN TRUESDELL

Was a resident of Newport, Ky., when, in 1856, the 5th edition of a 12mo. volume, 212 pages, of " Poems by Helen Truesdell " was published. She had been a contributor to the Parlor Magazine, the Ladies' Repository, and other periodicals. The daily newspapers praised the volume as " possessing high poetic merit."

THE YOUNG WIFE'S SONG. BY HELEN TRUESDELL. I LIST for thy footsteps, my darling ! I've waited and watched for thee long : The dim woods have heard my complain- ings, And sorrow has saddened my song.

The last rays of sunset are gilding The hill-tops with purple and gold ; And, lo ! in yon azure dominion, Does a beautiful rainbow unfold.

Like the hues of that rainbow, my spirit All fondly is blended with thine ; Then how canst thou linger away, love, When thou know'st this fond spirit will pine ?

The game and the chase are alluring, I know, my bold hunter, for thee ; But when borne on thy swift Arab courser, Do thy thoughts ever wander to me ?

Or e'er to the home of my childhood, The beautiful cot far away, Where the birds sang so sweet, in their gladness, And I was as happy as they ?

The lone willow droops in its sadness ; The stern oak stands sturdy and still ; But a loved form is seen in the distance, And footsteps are heard on the hill.

"'Tis he! 'tis my Ulric ! I hear him, I see him ; O ! joy, he is here !" She threw back her curls in her gladness, And silently brushed off a tear.

There were low-murmured words of for- giveness ;

Fond,clasping of hands, and a kiss. The past ! ah ! the past is forgotten- What could mar such a moment as this !

MRS. MARY ROOTES THORNTON McABOY

Is a native of Bourbon co., Ky., born Feb. 9, 1815, two miles from Paris- the daughter of Walker Thornton, the brave boy cornet in Capt. Wm. Gar- rard's cavalry troop in the war of 1812, afterwards a merchant in Paris until his early death, Feb. 9, 1819; she was raised and educated by her uncle, Hon. John Rootes Thornton (who died in Dec., 1873, aged 83); was married, April 24, 1839, to Rev. Paradise Lynn McAboy, of Washington, Mason co., Ky., a young Presbyterian minister of lovely character and rather brilliant talents, who was killed by the falling of a large flouring mill at Murphysville, in the same county, Aug. 29, 1839. Mrs. McAboy's modest signature, " M. R. M., Roseheath, Ky.," has been well known at intervals for thirty years to readers of the Louisville Journal, Paris Citizen, Paris True Kentuckian, Mem- phis Enquirer, Presbyterian Herald of Cincinnati, and other newspapers and monthlies. A friend, in writing of her poetry, says, "her songs have been sung, as soldiers sing songs by camp-fires at the dead of night, to comfort her heart when she was faint. She claims for them no literary merit-not any more than wild-blossoms on the hills claim the brilliancy of cultured garden flowers !" And yet wild blossoms are beautiful and attractive ; and so has been much of Mrs. M's. poetry. The following are probably the best poems at hand, but not equal to some she has written :

SONNET. BY MARY R. M'ABOY.

THE thistle-down soared up to meet the SUD- -

The way-side nursling of the summer shower-

A matchless purple tint its only dower, That blanched to whiteness ere the day was done.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Though carelessly her web the spider | spun

To hide the splendor of the day-god's power ;

Yet, vainly still, the veiled and fettered flower --

The thistle-down-soared up to meet the sun.

The wind's wild play-mate through the summer day

Soared to the sun it worshipped from afar ;

The whiteness caught the glint of golden rays,

In triumph passed beyond a rainbow bar ;

The wondering world looked on with words of praise,

And lips inspired named the flower A STAR.

MADELEINE. BY MARY R. M'ABOY.

THE moon is up-the night is waning fast, My boat is anchored by the pebbled shore, And I have lingered here to look my last, Upon the home that may be ours no more; To keep again an old familiar tryste, To clasp thy gentle hand once more in mine,

And braid thy hair with flowers by night- dews kiss'd,

While o'er thy upturned brow the young stars shine,

Madeleine.

Dost thou recall to-night the beauteous time,

When in these fragrant woods I met thee first :

While faintly fell the vesper's holy chime, Thy maiden charms upon my vision burst. The sun was setting in a golden glow,

His parting glance beamed bright on flower and tree ;

A roseate hue had tinged the mountain snow,

But these were naught, for thou wert all to me,

Madeleine.

How oft to me, upon the battle's eve, That picture of the past comes floating by. And then my inmost spirit doth receive The tender glances of thy soul-lit eye.

The west wind dallies with thy mantle's fold,

Beneath the arch where myrtle branches meet,

And softly fans thy ringlet's wavy gold, That almost ripple to thy tiny feet, Madeleine.

And then I hear the full, majestic swell, Of the deep organ in the old church aisle, And thy dear voice that softly rose and fell,

More sweet to me than seraph's tone the while ;

I start to hear the cannon's booming sound,

The clash of steel upon the deep mid sea,

The conflict's roar the anthem notes have drowned,

The war-cloud dimmed that vision bless'd of thee,

Madeleine.

Yet pledge once more, dear love, before we part,

While o'er thy upturned brow the young stars shine,

In fearless faith, to me, thy guileless heart, Ere sails our ship across the foaming brine.

The moon is up, the night is waning fast, My boat is anchored by the pebbled shore, And I have lingered here to look my last, Upon the home that may be ours no more, Madeleine.

IT IS THE WINTER OF THE YEAR. BY MARY R. M'ABOY.

IT is the winter of the year,

On buried flowers the snow-drifts lie, And clouds have veiled with ashen gray, The blueness of the summer sky. No brooks in babbling ripples run- No birds are singing in the hedge- No violets nodding in the sun, Beside the lakelet's frozen edge ;

Yet unto bruzed and broken boughs, Freshly the greenest mosses cling, And near the winter's stormy verge, Floatheth the fragrant bloom of Spring.

It is the winter of my life, On buried flowers the snow-drifts lie,

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

And clouds have veiled with ashen gray, The blueness of my summer sky. No light steps cross my threshold stone, No voice of love my ear doth greet, No gentle hands enclasp mine own,

With cordial welcome fond and sweet ; Yet unto bruised and broken hearts,

The words of tenderest promise cling, And floateth near Time's stormy verge The bloom of everlasting Spring.

JOEL T. HART,

The " Poet-Sculptor," while certainly one of the greatest of living sculptors, has taken great pleasure occasionally in writing poetry. (See sketch of him in this volume, among the Artists of Kentucky.) His original poem, at the banquet-reception at Florence to the great American editor-poet, Wm. Cullen Bryant, was reckoned a remarkable effort. The following-the only one of his pieces at hand-was written at Rome, Italy, in January, 1850 :

INVOCATION TO THE COLISEUM AT ROME. BY JOEL T. HART. A thousand years ago, and thou Wert then a thousand old ; The mightiest wreck of splendor now Time lingers to behold. And, like thy victims, torn and pale, And falling, thou wouldst tell thy tale.

Thy subject realms from zone to zone, Their trophies sent each sea

The suppliant from the shrine, the throne Their tributes borne to thee. While Parian throngs in forms divine, And gods were ministers of thine.

The vast arenas gloom and glow, The human cloud around,

The roar of savage beasts below, The stalwart man unbound, Alone, and stern, and pale-aside His gives, and weeping babes and bride; The startling jar, th' unbolting cage, The hosts' suspended breath, The Nubian monarch starved to rage, The bugle's note of death, The murdered victim, now again Another-yet another slain ! The bound, the shriek, the shout, tue groan,

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 107

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