Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 108

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 108

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The bloody blade, and bare, The gored and mangled wretches strewn That stenched the troubled air, To glut the eye and nostrils wide With cry, " Let every lance be dyed !"

A hundred bondmen, by decree To basely fight or fall, Strode unto death to make the "free " , A Roman carnival For savage natures set on flame, The Hell of torture and of shame.

Amid the shouts of triumph thou Didst mark the victor's pride ; And beauty bared her laureled brow With Cæsar at her side, And him, the Dacian wreten, no more To clasp his Loves, but gasp in gore

Now through the ruins, ivy-bound, There stalks no wailing ghost ; Through all thy thousand aisles no sound Comes from thy buried host; But silent all, and silence dread And desolation reign instead.

Yet, in thy desolation thou Hast seen their glories fade ; And, one by one, their temple bow, Their shrines in ruins laid ; And those that worshiped with the clay That formed their idols, pass away.

And Time hath writ upon thy brow Pride and ambition's fall : Wealth, pageant, glory, empire, thou Hast reared and buried all ; In stern decay, sublime and lone, Art now a moralist in stone.

JAMES RUSSELL BARRICK,

A native of Kentucky, was born at Glasgow, Barren co., April 9, 1829; was liberally educated ; was a merchant in the town of his birth, and a farmer

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

near by; represented Barren county in the Kentucky legislature for four years, 1859-63 ; was a favorite contributor to the Louisville Journal, and to several Philadelphia magazines.

THE FOREST STREAM. BY JAMES R. BARRICK. IN a low and ceaseless murmur Gently flows the forest stream, Day and night to nature chanting, Music sweet as song and dream, In the mirrored sky revealing All the beauty of its gleam.

With a song of joy and gladness Doth the little minstrel sing; And each passing breeze and zephyr Wafts its echo on their wing, Till the air around, above it, Swells with magic murmuring.

Bubbling onward like a fountain, Born of melody and song, Like a transient gleam of beauty, Flows the silver stream along- Chanting anthems unto nature- She to whom its notes belong.

Hastening onward-onward eve. Like the life that flows in me, As a wave upon the river, Hastening onward to the sea ; As a hope the hidden future Scanning for the things to be.

Summer storms may o'er it gather, Winds of autumn round it wail- Winter, too, its bosom ruffle, With its icy sleet and hail ; But with summer-autumn-winter, Doth its steady flow prevail.

Thus life's fountain to its river In a winding current flows, And its river to its ocean In a channel deeper grows, Till its fountain-river-ocean, In eternity repose.

MATTIE GRIFFITH

Was born in Louisville, Ky., about 1833. As she grew up, and developed a love for poetry, she became a favorite contributor to the Louisville Journal. Her poems were published in 1853, in New York city, in a thin volume. Before 1860, she removed to Boston, and devoted herself to writing poems and tales for New York and Boston Journals.

LEAVE ME TO MYSELF TO-NIGHT. BY MATTIE GRIFFITH. Go, leave me to myself to-night ! My smiles to-morrow shall be bright, But now I only ask to weep, Alone, alone, in silence deep.

Go, go and join the wreathing dance, With floating step and joyous glance ; But leave, oh leave me here to weep O'er holy memory's guarded keep.

Within my soul's unfathomed tide Are pearls and jewels I must hide, Deep froin the rude and vulgar eyes Of Fashion's wild, gay votaries.

I ask not sympathy, I ask But solitude for my dear task

Of watching o'er those gems that gleam Deep in my soul's unfathomed stream.

Ah ! tears are to my weary heart Like dew to flowers-then do not start, Nor deem me weak, that thus I weep In silence lone, and dark and deep.

'Tis but a few brief hours that I Would from the glad and joyous fly, And then, like them, I'll wear a brow Free from the tears that stain it now.

But oh ! to-night I needs must weep, And deeply all my senses steep In the sweet luxury of tears, Shed o'er the shrine of buried years.

MRS. ROSA VERTNER (JOHNSON) JEFFREY

Was educated nt Lexington, Ky., and has been a resident of that city since about 1857. Her maiden name was Griffith, and she was born at Natchez, Mississippi; was the adopted child of a wealthy and prominent planter named

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

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Vertner, near Port Gibson, Miss. ; while at school at Lexington, began to write poems for the Louisville Journal, which its poet-editor, Geo. D. Prentice, encouraged for their " beautiful imagery and delightful rhythm," and declared, at a later period, that " heaven made her a poet," that she was " the daughter of a poet and man of genius," and wrote poetry "because she must." Her portrait was published in Graham's Magazine, in 1856, with a handsome biographical sketch and some of her poetry. In 1858, her " Poems by Rosa " were published in Boston, in a 12mo. volume of 334 pages, and received with great favor. Some years after the death of her husband, Mr. Johnson, a prom- inent lawyer and elegant gentleman, she was married to Mr. Alexander Jeffrey, of Lexington. Their home is as famed for its generous hospitality, as its mistress is " eminent for beauty and poesy among even the women of Kentucky."

THE SUNSET CITY.

BY ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. I SAW a strange, beautiful city arise On an island of light, in the sapphire skies, When the Sun in his Tyrian drapery dress'd,

Like a shadow of God, floated down to the West.

A city of clouds ! in a moment it grew On an island of pearl, in an ocean of blue, And spirits of twilight enticed me to stray Through these palaces reared from the ruins of day.

In musical murmurs, the soft sunset air, Like a golden-winged angel, seemed call- ing me there,

And my fancy sped on till it found a rare home,

A palace of jasper, with emerald dome, On a violet strand, by a wide azure flood ; And where this rich City of Sunset now stood,

Methought some stray seraph had broken a bar

From the gold gates of Eden and left them ajar.

Here were amethyst castles, whose turrets 1 seemed spun

Of fire drawn out from the heart of the sun ; With columns of amber, and fountains of light,

Which threw up vast showers, so chang- ingly bright,

That Hope might have stolen their ex- quisite sheen

To weave in her girdle of rainbows, I ween; And arches of glory grew over me there,

As these fountains of Sunset shot up through the air.

While I looked from my cloud-pillared palace afar,

I saw Night let fall one vast, tremulous star, On the calm brow of Even, who, then, in return

For the gem on her brow, and the dew in her urn,

Seemed draping the darkness and hiding its gloom

With the rose-colored curtains which fell from her loom,

All bordered with purple and violet dyes, Floating out like a fringe from the vail of the skies.

And lo 1 far away, on the borders of night, Rose a chain of cloud-mountains, so won- drously bright,

They seemed built from those atoms of splendor that start

Through the depths of the diamond's crys- talline heart,

When light with a magical touch has revealed

The treasure of beams in its bosom con- cealed ;

And torrents of azure, all graceful and

. proud,

Swept noiselessly down from these moun- tains of cloud.

But the tide of the darkness came on with its flood,

And broke o'er the strand where my frail palace stood ;

While far in the distance the moon seemed to lave

Like a silver-winged swan in night's ebon wave.

And then, like Atlantis, that isle of the bless'd,

Which in olden time sunk 'neath the ocean to rest

(Which now the blue water in mystery shrouds),

Dropped down in the darkness this City of clouds.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

THE MIDNIGHT PRAYER. BY ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 'MID the deep and stifling sadness, the stillness and the gloom, That hung a vail of mourning round my dimly-lighted room,

I heard a voice at midnight, in strange tones of anguish, say : "Come near me, dearest mother ! Now, my God, O let me pray ! " * * * * * #

He prayed-and dumb with anguish did my trembling spirit wait, Till that low wail had entered at the ever- lasting gate ; And then I cried, " O Father ! throngs of angels dwell with thee, And he is thine-but leave him yet a little while with me !

" Two buds has Azrael plucked from out the garden of my love,

And placed them in the living wreath that spans thy throne above ; Twice o'er love's consecrated harp have swept his cold, dark wings,

And when I touch it now, alas ! there are two broken strings.

"Twice have his strong, sharp arrows pierced the lambs within my fold,

And now in his unerring grasp another shaft behold ! "

Two prayers went up at midnight-and the last so full of woe,

That God did break the arrow set in Az- rael's shining bow.

THEODORE O'HARA,

Well known in Kentucky and the South as a poet, soldier, and editor, was a native of Danville, Ky. (See extended biographical sketch elsewhere in this volume.) His celebrated poem, published below, was written in 1847, on the occasion of the interment at Frankfort of the Dead who fell in Mexico.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. BY THEODORE O'HARA. THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ! No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few ; On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind ; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms ; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered. swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud- And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, in battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past-

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe- Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death. * * # *

Full many a mother's breath has swept O'er Angustura's plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moulder'd slain ; The raven's scream or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground ! Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongue resound Along the heedless air ; Your own proud land's heroic soil Should be your fitter grave ; She claims from war its richest spoil- The ashes of her brave.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Thus, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The hero's sepulchre. /

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! Dear as the blood ye gave ; No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceful stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown, The story how ye fell ; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb.

THE OLD PIONEER, DANIEL BOONE.

BY THEODORE O'HARA.

A DIRGE for the brave old pioneer ! Knight-errant of the wood ! Calmly beneath the green sod here, He rests from field and flood ; The war-whoop and the panther's screams No more his soul shall rouse, For well the aged hunter dreams Beside his good old spouse.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! Hushed now his rifle's peal- The dews of many a vanish'd year Are on his rusted steel ; His horn and pouch lie mouldering Upon the cabin door- The elk rests by the salted spring, Nor flees the fierce wild boar.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! Old Druid of the West !

His offering was the fleet wild deer; His shrine the mountain's crest. Within his wildwood temple's space, An empire's towers nod, Where erst, alone of all his race, Ho knelt to nature's God.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! Columbus of the land ! Who guided freedom's proud career Beyond the conquer'd strand; And gave her pilgrim's sons a home No monarch's step profanes, Free as the chainless winds that roam Upon its boundless plains.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! The muffled drum resound ! A warrior is slumb'ring here Beneath his battle ground. For not alone with beast of prey The bloody strife he waged, Foremost where'er the deadly fray Of savage combat raged.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! A dirge for his old spouse ! For her who blest his forest cheer, And kept his birchen house. Now soundly by her chieftain may The brave old dame sleep on, The red man's step is far away, The wolf's dread howl is gone.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! His pilgrimage is done ; He hunts no more the grizzly bear, About the setting sun. Weary at last of chase and life He laid him here to rest, Nor recks he now what sport or strife Would tempt him further West.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! The patriarch of his tribe ! He sleeps, no pompous pile marks where, No lines his deeds describe ; They raised no stone above him here, Nor carved his deathless name --- An Empire is his sepulchre, His epitaph is Fame.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

WILLIAM WALLACE HARNEY,

The son of native Kentucky parents, was born June 20, 1832, at Blooming- ton, Indiana, where his father, the late John Hopkins Harney, (for 24 years, 1844-68, the able and distinguished editor of the Louisville Daily Democrat) then resided as professor of mathematics in the Indiana University. When five years old, his father removed to Louisville, where William was educated, with the finest advantages to be obtained; he taught school there, for some years ; was for two year's principal of the High School; then professor in the State Normal School at Lexington, during the two years of its existence ; studied law, and practiced in Louisville; became one of the editors of the Louisville Democrat. His occasional contributions of poetry to the journals of the day attracted much attention, and were regarded by the best judges as possessed of high merit.

THE SUICIDE.

BY WILLIAM W. HARNEY. THR night was cold, the wind was chill, The very air seemed frozen still, And snowy caps lay on the hill, In pure and spotless white ; The icy stars lay on the sky ; The frozen moon went sailing by With baleful, livid light.

The leafless tree, with whitened limb, Stood, like a specter lean and grim, Upon the darkened river's brim, A moveless sentinel ! And waters turbulent and vast Went swiftly boiling, eddying past, Adown the inky swell.

The twigs with tracery of white, And tapestry of curtained night, With fringe of strange, phosphoric light, Bowed idly to the moon ; Anon, across the silent wood, The owl would break the solitude With wild and awful tune !

No hurrying wheel or beating tread Disturbed the sleeper in his bed, But earth and all on earth seemed dead, And frozen in their graves ; The moon seemed that All-Seeing eye That watched the waters whirling by In black and silent waves.

Near where the wrinkled waters fell, A woman-oh ! such tales to tell- Lay, like a frozen Christabel, Upon the river's brim. Ah ! was it so ? or had I dreamed ? Yet so I saw, or so it seemed, By that cold light and dim.

And fearfully I drew a-nigh, With opened lip, and staring eye, And trembling limbs-I knew not why-

Unto the darkened spot, Half-willing to advance, or flee The thing that lay so silently, And moved or muttered not.

Adown upon the river's bank, With raven hair, the tresses dank, A corse the yawning waters drank, To cast upon the shore; The placid features, cold and still, The pallid lip and bosom chill, Lay washing at the water's will, And speechless evermore.

An ivory arm of purest white Was swinging with the water's might, And swaying slowly left and right, As if the pulse was there ; The eyes were closed upon the cheek, And one white arm was folded meek Upon the bosom fair.

And raven shreds were tangled in Among the fingers long and thin, As rent by grief, or chance, or sin, In moments of distress ; The garments, as in hours of trust, Were rent from off the icy bust, That gleamed in loveliness. .

I, kneeling by that lovely face, And gazing, vainly sought to trace Her name, her station, or her place, But all in vain at last- But hark ! what sounds are those I meet ? 'Tis hurrying, clambering, stealing feet That fearfully go past.

A wave, much larger than the rest, Came rolling o'er that lovely breast, And seizing it from out my quest, It bore it down the tide ; But was not that a horrid dream, That thrilling. shrilly, piercing scream That started from my side ?

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

I turned, but naught of earth was there, , Nor specter from the church-yard lair, Nor creature dark, nor foul, nor fair, Nor living thing, nor dead ; But all was silent, still, and deep, As are forms that lie in sleep, Within their narrow bed.

JIMMY'S WOOING. BY WILLIAM W. HARNEY.

THE wind came blowing out of the West; And Jimmy mowed the hay ; The wind came blowing out of the West : It stirred the green leaves out of their rest, And rocked the blue-bird up in his nest, As Jimmy mowed the hay.

The swallows skimmed along the ground, And Jimmy mowed the hay ; The swallows skimmed along the ground, And rustling leaves made a pleasant sound, Like children babbling all around, As Jimmy mowed the hay.

Milly came with her bucket by, As Jimmy mowed the hay ; Milly came with her bucket by, With wee light foot, so trim and sly, And sunburnt cheek and laughing eye- And Jimmy mowed the hay.

A rustic Ruth, in linsey gown- And Jimmy mowed the hay ; A rustic Ruth, in linsey gown,

He watched her soft cheeks' changing brown,

And the long dark lash that trembled down Whenever he looked that way.

Oh! Milly's heart was good as gold- And Jimmy mowed the hay ; Oh ! Milly's heart was good as gold ; But Jimmy thought her shy and cold, And more he thought than e'er he told, .. As Jimmy mowed the hay.

The rain came pattering down amain, And Jimmy mowed the hay ; The rain came pattering down amain ; And, under the thatch of the laden wain, Jimmy and Milly, a cunning twain, Sat sheltered by the hay.

The merry rain-drops hurried in Under the thatch of hay ; The merry rain-drops hurried in, And laughed and prattled in a din, Over that which they saw within, Under the thatch of hay.

For Milly nestled to Jimmy's breast, Under the thatch of hay ; For Milly nestled to Jimmy's breast, Like a wild bird fluttering to its nest ; And then I'll swear she looked her best Under the thatch of hay.

And when the sun came laughing out, Over the ruined hay- And when the sun came laughing out, Milly had ceased to pet and pout, And twittering birds began to shout, As if for a wedding-day.

GRANVILLE MELLEN BALLARD

Was born, March 30, 1833, at Westport, Oldham co., Ky .; graduated at Asbury University, Greencastle, Indiana, in 1851; in 1860, was the princi- pal teacher in the Deaf and Dumb Asylum at Indianapolis, Ind .; began to write poetry when a boy, and has contributed poems to magazines and news- papers all over the land.

WHERE ?- HERE. BY GRANVILLE M. BALLARD. WHERE doth the sunlight linger latest ? Where ? Where doth Diana smiling meet us ? Where doth Delphinus nightly greet us ? Where ?

Where doth the early primrose bloom ? Where doth the pink exhale perfume ? Where do the shadows bring no gloom ? Oh ! Where ? I ... 38

Where hath the sky the softest blue ? Where hath the grass the greenest hue ? Where doth the night distil her dew, Into the lap of the sullen yew ? Where ? Where ?

Where do the waters murmuring low, Reflect the sunset's golden glow ? Where do the springs forever flow ? Where do the winds most softly blow ? Where doth moss on the hill-sides grow ? Where ? oh ! Where ?

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Where do ivy and woodbine cling To the twisted trunk of the forest king ? Where doth the blue-jay loudly sing ? Where is the lark first on the wing ? Where doth the robin early bring Her brood of young in the vernal spring ? Where ? Where ?

Not in the cold and dreary North, Whence Boreas sends her children forth ; Nor yet beneath those Southern skies,

Where withered flowers shut their eyes ; Nor in the old and fabled East, Where adders in the palace feast. But here, oh soul that panteth, rest Beneath the blue skies of the West ; Here find that ocean deep, and wide, O'er which the bark of life may glide- Nor wind, nor wave, nor aught beside Can give to hope an ebb or tide- Here.

MRS. MARY L. CADY,

Nee Mitchell, is a native of Kentucky, born at Maysville, whither her great- grandfather, Jacob Boone (a favorite cousin of the distinguished pioneer, Daniel Boone), immigrated and settled in 1786 ; was liberally educated; de- veloped at 15 a love for poetry, and at that age wrote several pieces with marked poetic taste; has contributed short poems to the Louisville Journal, Willis' Home Journal, Saturday Evening Post, and to the papers of her native city, Maysville Eagle and Maysville Bulletin. About 1854, she was married to Jarvis G. Cady ; in 1873-4, was a resident of Covington, Ky.

IMMORTAL.

BY. MARY L. CADY. THE merest grain that softly falls Upon the ground shall live again, And blossom, when the spring-time calls Across the plain.

The star that drops from out the skies And fades beyond our mortal sight, In other space, mayhap, will rise To greater height.

The dew that lies within the flower Shall spend itself upon the air, And fall again in pleasant shower Some other where.

There is no death ! All things obey A voice that calls them from the night, And in God's own mysterious way Approach the light.

Eternal change, unerring laws Renew again the smallest thing, And from decay sweet Nature draws The heart of Spring.

Let us revere the glorious type Which seed and star and dew-drop show; We are the tree with fruit full ripe ; We fall, and so-

We live again ! In brighter spheres Our souls shall climb to greater height, And, reaching toward immortal years, Wax infinite.

THE FABRIC OF LIFE. BY MARY L. CADY.

BACKWARD and forward, to and fro, The tireless shuttle plies In and out and over ; and so, With heavy and restless eyes, I sit at the loom of life and weave A fabric of many dyes.

Rose-hued and somber, dark with shade, And crossed by many a line That the fleeting changeful years have made, Is this varied web of mine ; Into its warp both flower and weed Their clasping tendrils twine.

Royal lilies with cups of gold A-brim with the sweetest breath ; And lying below, in the dank and mould, The noisome hemlock of death ; Beauty and grace and life above, And nightshade underneath.

Blossoms of orange, fit for brows Where the kiss of love is laid ; And then, too, the sweep of willow-boughs Where a grass-grown grave is made. 'Tis thus they blend in this work of mine A mixture of light and shade.

Dreaming and weaving in and out A tangled and knotty thread, Buds of promise and lines of doubt By the noiseless shuttle sped ; Thus shall I sit at my mystic loom Working 'till I am dead.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Weaving and praying all the while, That when my labors are told My work shall drop 'neath the Master's smile In many a shining fold- Shall fall and spread at His precious feet The veriest "cloth of gold."

FLAME-PICTURES.

BY MARY L. CADY.

A WINTRY night! The wind moans at my door ! But from the grate, the ruddy firelight glowing, Upon my lowly walls and cottage floor A charm is throwing.

And I, meanwhile, reclining in its beams, Forget alike the world and wintry weather, And roam abroad within the realm of dreams, Lost altogether.

I watch the bright flames as they tower- ing blaze And shape themselves to many a quaint ideal, Sach as my fancy wrought in other days When joy was real.

Proud palaces with gilded dome and spire, And bannered battlements in bold de- fiance, And broad domains all merged within the fire In apt appliance.

The placid moon-lit sky that bends above Drops softly down its silver beams in showers, To add perfection to this scene of love And gild the hours.

Within those stately halls a happy throng Makes time pass merrily with joyous laughter, I list, and catch the ripple of a song That floateth after.

And lo, what trains of olden mem'ries rise As the faint echoes of those tones come stealing ! How swells the touched heart upward to the eyes In fond revealing !

Ah, days of youth, and song of long ago, Why haunt my heart to-night with such strange sweetness ? Is it to mock me with your loss, and show Life's incompleteness ?

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 108

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