Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 109

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 109

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Back to your realms ! I would not once recall

A single hour or song in love's sweet story, Life is not ever dark, and earth not all Bereft of glory.

Burn brighter, fire ! throw out your cheer- iest light,

Fall on my hearth and home with tender gleaming, That I may see a fairer scene to-night- No longer dreaming.

The crimson carpet on my cottage floor Looks warmer still beneath your red re- flection ; The faithful house-dog by the fastened door Insures protection.

The painted landscapes pendant from the wall Show many a winding brook, and verdant meadows, And grand old trees whose leafy branches fall In pleasing shadows.

The never-tiring clock above my head Chimes out the fleeting hours in silver numbers, While, close beside me, on her little bed My baby slumbers.

Was ever fairer scene or fonder sight ? I kiss her rosy lips to make more certain: Mine eyes and heart are very full ! Oh Night, Let fall your curtain !

598

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

MRS. ALICE MCCLURE GRIFFIN,

Née MeClure, was a native of Newport, Ky., where her father was famous for his benefactions and public liberality when the wheel of fortune made him suddenly wealthy. Since her marriage to George W. Griffin (himself an author and writer of some distinction) her home has been in Louisville, except when absent with her husband in Europe, while he was consul to Copenhagen. A volume of " Poems by Alice McClure Griffin," 126 pages, 12mo., was pub- lished at Cincinnati, in 1864; they were all written when the author was between fourteen and twenty years of age.

VOICE OF THE STREAMLET. BY ALICE M'CLURE GRIFFIN. GAYLY through the forest flashing, With a bounding tide I go; Over rocks and rocklets dashing In a wild and gladsome flow.

Mosses fringe my bed of pebbles, And the bending bluebells lave, Lovingly, their silvery petals In the nectar of my wave.

And the violet and the lily, Peeping from the wavy grass, With their modest eyelets shyly Nod me welcome as I pass.

Peeping vines and climbing roses Twine triumphal arches o'er My wild path, and swaying osiers Sigh sweet greetings from the shore.

Tall trees bend to do me homage, Holding o'er me feathery boughs, And the shadows of their foliage Lightly on my bosom glows.

Now I catch them, and reflect them On my glancing wavelets bright, And embrace them and caress them Till the coming of the night.

Then the sweet stars send their beamlets Trembling down, to gem my breast ; And I sing each tiny gleamlet With a lullaby to rest.

And I fold them and I hold them In a fond and sweet embrace, Till the coming beams of morning From my arms the treasures chase.

Then I kiss them and release them With a murmur and a sigh, And upon the breezes send them To their azure homes on high.

Thus, 'mid scenes of beauty flowing, Dancing, glancing, on I sweep, With a bounding spirit going To my home, my native deep.

WANDERING STARS. BY ALICE M'CLURE GRIFFIN.

ALAS ! how many gems of human worth, Bright stars of nature, gifted souls of earth,

Have left the orbit of their glorious spheres,

Lured by the glowing of some meteor bright,

On glitt'ring transit's blaze, to thread the path

Where Pleasure's voice was heard, in siren notes

Of sweet enchanting strains, that wooed them on

To feasts of joy and sparkling banqueting, Where glowed the wine and whirled the giddy dance,

And music soft, entrancing, thrilled the heart ;

Where praises soft, delusive, sought the ear ·

Of untaught innocence, in whispers low, And ofttimes led, by flattery's witching spell,

The unsuspecting to the snares of sin.

Oh, look abroad ! behold the tott'ring forms

And haggard countenances that meet the eye

At every turn of these your city's streets ; And while your sympathies inquire why and

Wherefore all these sufferings, list the tale Which hundreds of these sorrowing hearts might tell,

Formed upright in the image of our God !

597

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Major HENRY THOMAS STANTON,

Eldest son of Judge Richard H. Stanton, was born in Alexandria, District of Columbia, June 30, 1834, and brought to Maysville, Ky., in 1836; was liberally educated at the Maysville Seminary ; at an early age manifested a passion for rhyming, the very fervor and persistence of which amused and interested his friends, and made them wonder, but gave ro great promise of the remarkable success and popularity he has achieved. In 1861, he entered the Confederate army as captain of a company in the 5th Kentucky regiment; in 1862-3-4, was assistant adjutant-general, with the rank of captain, on the staff of Gen. John S. Williams; occupied the same position on Col. Henry L. Giltner's staff, while he commanded a brigade ; was, when the war closed, upon Gen. John Echols' staff, having been promoted to be assistant adjutant-" general with the rank of major, and was surrendered with Gen. Johnston at Greensboro, N. C., on May 1, 1865, and paroled. His service was very active, but limited to Eastern Kentucky, East Tennessee, and Western Virginia ; he fought bravely and gallantly in many battles and skirmishes. After the war, he practiced law and was editor of the Maysville Bulletin until 1870, and from 1870-74 was chief assistant in the office of State Commissioner of In- surance, at Frankfort. His poetry, much of which is of a high order and ex- ceedingly popular, was published in a volume, " The Moneyless Man, and other Poems," at Baltimore, in Dec. 1871.

THE MONEYLESS MAN.

BY HENRY T. STANTON.

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth,

Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth ?

Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave,

When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive ?

Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor,

Will bring a kind angel to open the door ? Ah, search the wide world wherever you can,

There is no open door for a Moneyless Man !

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light

Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night,

Where the rich-hanging velvet in shadowy fold

Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold,

And the mirrors of silver take up, and re- new,

In long lighted vistas, the 'wildering view : Go there ! at the banquet, and find, if you can,

A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man !

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reach- ing spire,

Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire,

Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within,

And the walls seem as pure as a soul with- out sin ;

Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great

In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate ;

Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can,

Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man !

Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told

His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold ;

Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor,

Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore !

Walk up to their counters-ah, there you may stay

'Til your limbs grow old, 'til your hairs grow gray,

And you'll find at the Banks not one of the clan

With money to lend to a Moneyless Man !

Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown,

With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down,

Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong,

And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong ;

Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid,

To render a verdict-they've already made;

598

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Go there, in the court-room, and find, if | The living oak, with noble shade, you can,

Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man!

Then go to your hovel-no raven has fed The wife who has suffered too long for her bread ; Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost From the lips of the angel your poverty lost ;

Then turn in your agony upward to God, And bless, while it smites you, the chas- tening rod, And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span,

There's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man !

TYPES OF LIFE. BY HENRY T. STANTON. I saw a star fall from its home In Heaven's blue and boundless dome, To gleam no more ; I saw a wave with snowy crest Thrown from the Ocean's stormy breast, Upon the shore.

I saw a rose of perfect bloom Bend, fading to its wintry tomb In silent grief; I saw a living oak, but now, Touched by the storm, with shattered bough And withered leaf.

The star had shone thro' countless years, And shed its rays like virgin tears, So pure and bright, That earth scarce knew the holy thrall, And only sighed to see it fall And fade in night.

The wave had wandered to and fry, With Ocean's ebb and Ocean's flow, From pole to pole, Till here upon the nameless strand It sank beneath the thirsty sand, Its final goal.

The rose sprang from a fallen seed, And smiled above the graceless weed, To greet the sun ; But 'neath the Winter's chilling breath, The lovely flow'rets' race to death Was quickly run.

Had stood the monarch of the glade, Thro' ages long ;

But, rifted by the lightning's glare, His sturdy arms grew brown and bare, And were not strong.

And these are types of human lives ; Man lives a little while and thrives, But withers fast.

He sees a thousand lovely gleams, But wastes his life away in dreams, And falls at last.

FALLEN. BY HENRY T. STANTON.

THE iron voice from yonder spire Has hush'd its hollow tone, And midnight finds me lying here, In silence and alone.

The still moon through my window Sheds its soft light on the floor, With a melancholy paleness, I have never seen before ;

And the summer wind comes to me With its sad Eolian lay, As if burthened with the sorrows Of a weary, weary day ;

But the moonlight can not soothe me Of the sickness here within, And the sad wind takes no portion From my bosom's weight of sin.

Yet my heart and all its pulses Seem so quietly to rest, That I scarce can feel them beating In my arms, or in my breast :

These rounded limbs are resting now So still upon the bed,

That one would think, to see me here, That I was lying dead.

What if 'twere so ? What if I died As I am lying now, With something like to virtue's calm Upon this pallid brow ?

What if I died to-night ? Ah, now This heart begins to beat- A fallen wretch, like me, to pass From earth, so sadly sweet !

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

599

Yet am I calm 1-as calm as clouds That slowly float and form, To give their burthen-tears in some Unpitying winter storm ; .

As calm as great Sahara E'er the simoom sweeps its waste- As the ocean, e'er the billows All its miles of beach have laced.

Still, still, I have no tears to shed ; These eye-lids have no store- The fountain once within me, A fountain is no more.

The moon alone looks on me now, The pale and dreamful moon ; She smiles upon my wretchedness, Through all the night's sweet noon.

What if I died to-night-within These gilded, wretched walls, Upon whose crimson tapestry No eye of virtue falls.

What would its soulless inmates do When they had found me here, With cheek too white for passion's mile, Too cold for passion's tear ?

Ah! one would come, and from these arms Unclasp the bauble bands ;

Another, wrench the jewels from My fairer, whiter hands.

This splendid robe, another's form Would grace, oh, long before The tender moon-beam shed again Its silver on the floor.

And when they'd laid me down in earth Where pauper graves are made, Beneath no drooping willow-tree In angel-haunted shade,

Who'd come and plant a living vine Upon a wretched grave ? Who'd trim the tangled grasses wild No summer wind could wave ?

Who would raise a stone to mark it From ruder graves around, That the foot-fall of the stranger Might be soft upon the ground ?

No stone would stand above me there- No sadly bending tree ; No hand would plant a myrtle vine About a wretch like me.

What if I died to-night !- and when To-morrow's sun had crept Where late the softer moonlight In its virgin beauty slept,

They'd come and find me here-oh, who Would weep to see me dead ? Who'd bend the knee of sorrow By a pulseless wanton's bed ?

There's one would come-my mother ! God bless the angel band That bore her, ere her daughter fell, To yonder quiet land !

Thank God for all the anthem-songs, That gladdened angels sung, When my mother went to heaven, And I was pure and young !

And there's another, too, would come- A man upon whose brow My shame hath brought the winter snow To rest so heavy now.

Ah ! he would come with bitter tears All burning down his cheek, Had reason's kingdom stronger been When virtue grew so weak !

My sisters and my brothers all, Thank God ! are far away ! They'll never know how died the one That mingled in their play ;

They'll never know how wretchedly Their darling sister died; The one who smiled whene'er they smiled, Who cried whene'er they cried.

For him that sought a spotless hand, And lives to know my shame, In such a place I'd tear the tongue That dared to speak his name.

The cold sea-waves run up the sand In undulating swells, And backward to the ocean turn When they have kissed the shells ;

So, there's a torrent in my breast, And I can feel its flow Rush up in crimson billows On a beach as fair as snow ;

And backward, backward to my heart, The ocean takes its tide, My cheeks and lips left bloodless all, And cold, as if I died !

600

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

I'm all alone to-night ! How strange That I should be alone ! This splendid chamber seems to want Some roué's passion-tone !

Yon soulless mirror, with its smooth And all untarnished face, Sees not these jewelled arms to-night, In their unchaste embrace-

Oh, I have fled the fever Of that heated, crowded hall, Where I might claim the highest-born And noblest of them all;

Where I might smile upon them now With easy, wanton grace, Which subdues the blood of virtue That would struggle in my face.

I hate them all-I scorn them, As they scorn me in the street ; I could spurn away the pressure That my lips too often meet ;

I could trample on the lucre That their passion never spares : They robbed me of a heritage Of greater price than theirs.

They can never give me back again What I have thrown away- The brightest jewel woman wears Throughout her little day !

The brightest, and the only one, That forms the cluster riven, Shuts outs forever woman's heart From all its hopes of Heaven ! -

What if I died to-night ?- and died As I am lying here !

There's many a green leaf withered Ere autumn comes to sear ;

There's many a dew-drop shaken down Ere yet the sunshine came, And many a spark hath died before It wakened into flame.

What if I died to-night, and left These wretched bonds of clay To seek beyond this hollow sphere Å brighter, better day ?

What if my soul passed out, and sought That haven of the blest-

"Where the wicked cease from troubling, The weary are at rest ?"

Would angels call me from above, And beckon me to come

And join them in their holy songs In that eternal home ?

Would they clasp their hands in gladness When they saw my soul set free,

And point-beside my mother's- To a place reserved for me ?

Would they meet me as a sister, As one of precious worth Who had gained a place in Heaven By holiness on earth ?

O God ! I would not have my soul Go out upon the air With all its weight of wretchedness To wander, where-oh, where?

MRS. NELLY MARSHALL MCAFEE,

A native of Kentucky, was born at Louisville, May 8, 1845. Her father, the late Gen. Humphrey Marshall, was distinguished as a statesman, diplomat, lawyer, and soldier. Her education, which had been conducted with singu- lar care and advantage, was interrupted by the vicissitudes of the war around her Henry county home-whence she went, in 1862, through the Southern Jines, to nurse a wounded brother, and soon after met the gallant Confeder- ate officer, Capt. John J. McAfee, whom she married, Feb. 13, 1871, while he was serving his first of two terms, 1869-73, as the representative of Mercer county in the Kentucky legislature. This affaire du cœur was very roman- tic, and attracted the complimentary notices of the Press quite generally ; indeed, Mrs. M. boasts of possessing seventy-two of these, being all that fell under her eye. For more than eight years, it seems, " the course of their true love had not run smooth ; " the lady's parents having opposed the mar- riage. Consent at last was given, and the wedding day appointed for the spring of 1871. But in January before, the talented legislator was attacked with typhoid pneumonia, and his life despaired of. The lady was sent for, and the ceremony which made them man and wife took place at Frankfort in the presence of only five witnesses, the bride being given away by the nearest friend of both parties, Col James Q. Chenoweth, senator from the Mercer district.

601

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

In 1863, when only 18, Miss Marshall began her literary career, taking rank immediately as a brilliant and fluent writer, and in ten years probably wrote more than any woman of her age in the United States. She has writ- ten poems enough to comprise two volumes entitled "A Bunch of Violets," and " Leaves from the Book of my Heart." Of novels, she wrote " Eleanor Morton, or Life in Dixie," published in New York in 1865, " Sodom Apples " in 1866, " Dead under the Roses " in 1867, " Wearing the Cross " in 1868, "As by Fire" in 1869, and in March, 1874, had ready for the press, " Pas- sion, or Bartered and Sold." Besides these, she has published several vol- umes on miscellaneous subjects, and contributed to magazines and newspa- pers many serials, essays, letters, poems, and sketches. She writes without effort-as naturally as a bird sings. Many of her poems are marked by ten- der touches of pathos and passion.

TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND. BY NELLY MARSHALL M'AFEE.

Thou hast come to my life like the blaze of the sun When it touches the rockiest steep, And the world by its warmth and its splendor is won To awake from its night-tranced sleep.

Thou hast come to my life like celestial per- fume

That lies hid in the violet's breast,

". Or yet-in the fringe of the cocoanut's bloom Blown in by spice- winds from the West. Thou hast come to my life like the blossom- ing white

By which the green fronds of the aloe are crown'd, When the waning of day and the waning of night The roll of a century bringeth 'round.

Thou hast come to my life like an oasis bright

That lies fresh in a wild waste of sand- Thou'rt my "cloud " by the day -- my " pillar " by night-

That guides to a fair, promised land.

Thou hast come to my life like the single gold star

That beams on the robes of the Dark- Like the Glory of Bethlehem-shining afar -- Or-the Olive Branch brought to the Ark !

As the one blessing comes, thou hast come to my life,

Thou-the truest-the sweetest-the best; And I turn to thee from the world's woe and its strife

As the Rock whose deep shade meaneth REST !

WILD BIRDS. BY NELLY MARSHALL M'AFFE.

Lo! by the grave of one I loved I bent in bitter weeping,

When clear in air there rang the songs Of birds, where he lay sleeping.

Blithely they sang unheeding on- Unmoved by my heart's sadness ; The anguished tears that wet the mold Chilled not their pæans of gladness.

It seemed so strange to me, to see Mirth and Misery meeting- And over a lonely grave to hear Joy and Grief give greeting ! There I knelt in dark despair My dear dead deploring- Above me, far in upper air, The happy birds were soaring.

And e'en as broke my plaintive sobs Over his precious dust- While Faith, beside me-weeping, too- Forgot his solemn trust, Lo ! from the shadowy grasses round, A gay, glad bird upspringing Cleft the clouds and heavenward soared, Softly, sweetly singing.

And close to my wretched heart I clasped This blessed, bright conviction-

That God's dear love is always near In every deep affliction.

And just as out of silence then Broke the song of the little bird,

If we but listen, the " still small voice " Of love is ever heard.

And out of every darkness That shades our lives on earth,

There is a day of brightness To which it will give birth ; And so we do observe it- To faith and duty clinging ;

Our hearts, like birds both far and wido, Will all all life with singing.

602

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

MRS. FLORENCE ANDERSON CLARK

Was born in Virginia, but brought thence at so tender an age that she has never known any but her " Kentucky home;" was educated by her father, John B. Anderson, a Virginia gentleman, of elegance and culture. Her first writings were prose ; and her first book, " Zenaida, a Romance," was pub- lished by Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, in 1860, when she was a resident of Paris, Ky. Her first poems were published in 1858 and '59; " Blind Tom's Music," in the Cincinnati Enquirer, July, 1865 ; during the War, some were published in the South, and in London; since then she has contributed to "Southland Writers," and other collections, published in New York. In 1869, she was married to Capt. James B. Clark, editor of the Kentucky People, at Harrodsburg, Ky., and her pen has contributed to make that paper both elegant and interesting, in poetry and prose.

ANSWER TO "THE MONEYLESS MAN."

BY MRS. FLORENCE ANDERSON OLARK.

There are places, not secret, where Virtue has birth,

Where Charity dwells on this beautiful earth ;

Where mercy and kindness are joined hand in hand,

And pity's tear falls at the warm heart's command.

There are doors that the least gentle knock will unbar,

And others that swing on their hinges ajar,

Giving egress to angels who lovingly scan The woes and the wants of the Moneyless Man.

Does he work? Does he strive? Is he faithful and true ?

Does he know what man has done, and what he may do ?

Or does he creep on with the sluggard's slow pace,

And refuse to take part in ambition's proud race ?

Does he drink, while his neighbor, with whole heart and soul,

Is giving his strength to be first at the goal?

If such be his crimes, pity him if you can-

Content to be scorned as a Moneyless Man.

Labor, taught by the brain, with its strong skillful hand

Has reared princely palaces over the land, And the man who will work, will, sooner or late,

Cease to sigh like a vagrant, at some rich man's gate.

With purple and crimson his walls may be hung,

While the chandelier's light o'er the table is flung !

With a heart brave and free, ere he meas- ures life's span,

He'll forget that he e'er was a Moneyless Man.

There are churches whose loftiest turret and spire

Have sprung from the depths of some poor. boy's desire ;

There are colleges, hospitals, founded by those

Who knew, at the outset, stern poverty's woes :

But they labored, undaunted, with hand, heart, and brain,

And we know that such labor is never in vain.

That man with his millions, when first he began,

Was known upon " Change " as a Money- less Man.

Did he call on the Ravens for meat and for bread ?

Or expect that his wife was by miracle fed, While he spent his leisure in looking for Banks,

That would lend out their gold for a poor devil's thanks ?

Ora Court where the law was so cheap and 80 free

That a client was welcome with fever & fee ?

No-if he had been of this base, thriftless clan,

He too would have died as a Moneyless Man.

Nor do portals of Paradise open for one Who has left any work that he could do undone !

Its honors, its blisses await the true men,

603

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Who, with ten talents trusted, have made other ten.

" He is worse than the heathen who does not provide

For his own ; " and the Judge of all lives may decide

That, brave earnest labor being part of life's plan,

Heaven has no rewards for this Moneyless Man. 1871.

THE WORLD OF THE IDEAL.

BY FLORENCE ANDERSON.

( Das Ideal ist das einzige Paradies aus welchem wir nicht getrieben werden konnen.)

OH ! spirit-world ! by thy golden streams, I sit in a trance of delicious dreams, A magical flush in the air doth rest Soft as the tint in the sea-shell's breast.

The summer ne'er fades in thy shady bowers,

And long bright branches of clustering flowers

Trail thick over paths by the river's side, As if wooed by the murmurs of the tide.

There is no sun in the blue above, And yet a glow, like the light of love, Diffuses its radinace over all, And binds the spirit in magic thrall.

The air is stirred by a faint, soft breeze, There's a sound like the humming of myr- iad bees,

And oft to the listening ear doth float The exquisite swell of a song-bird's note.

No friendship ever may enter there That would feel a taint in the soft, pure air,

No lover intrude on the hallowed spot Whose vows are unheeded or forgot.

No votary kneel on thy holy sod Whose soul is traitor to his God ! Nothing unholy, nothing untrue, Can dwell 'neath that arch of stainless blue.

But friends, whose tender and loving smile Can all remembrance of grief beguile, Walk with the spirit, and share its joy, Unmixed with envy's base alloy.

And poets tune their mystic lyres Where slumber sacred hidden fires, And, skilled in music's subtlest lore, Unfathomed depths of the soul explore.

To the fair aurora-tinted heights Of the world beyond, they wing their flights,

And stand and beckon from their bands The Angels of the immortal lands.

They sing of beauty, of love, of youth, The value of life, the power of truth, Of all things holy, of all things pure, Which shall eternally endure.

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 109

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