Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 110

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 110

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).

Such bowers of rest do the Angels plan For the earth-worn weary soul of man, And none has the power to disinherit, From its world of dreams, the ideal spirit.

MRS. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM

Was born in Scott co., Ky,, near Georgetown, about 1830; her father, Benj. S. Chambers, a lawyer of brilliant oratorical powers and lively wit; her mother a daughter of one of the brothers Bradford, whose enterprise and pub- lic spirit, when other efforts failed, established the first newspaper west of the Alleghenies, the KentuckE Gazette, at Lexington, Ky., in August, 1787. Her educational advantages were of the very best. She was twice married ; about 1844, to William Bradford, and about 1859, to Leo Ketchum, of Ten- nessee, who gave his life to the " Lost Cause" on the fatal field of Shiloh.

Of her genius as a poet, the Lexington Press says: "Mrs. Ketchum's Christmas ballad " Benny " has become a household song in all lands, and alone would immortalize her ; but her later poems bear evidence that she has been an earnest and enthusiastic student. "Semper Fidelis," in the Octo- ber number (1873) of Harper's Magazine, is pronounced one of the most fin- ished productions of American literature ; and " Dolores," " Waiting," and " Amabere Me," are gems of the finest type." A volume of her poems is passing through the press at New York ( April, 1874).

604

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

SEMPER FIDELIS.

: BY ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. SHE stands alone on the rose-wreathed porch, Gazing with star-like eyes On the white moon lighting a silver torch In the glowing western skies, While her cheeks and her tresses kindle and scorch In the sunset's fiery dyes.

Her broad straw hat, with its loosened bands, Falls from her shoulders down ; Idly she frees her slender hands From their garden gauntlets brown, And smiles as she smooths her hair's bright strands And looks toward the distant town.

High overhead, round the tower's bright vane, The circling swallows swoop ; Tinkling along the bowery lane The.loitering cattle troop To drink, with the snow-white youqua- pêne,* Where Babylon willows droop.

Black as jet in the sunset's gold Loom spire and buttressed wall ; Soft as a veil o'er the tangled wold The twilight shadows fall, While the white mists rise from the valley cold,

And climb to the mountains tall.

Now bounding out to the rustic stile, Now crouching at her feet, Her setter's bright eyes wait the while Till hers shall bid him fleet Down the dim forest's scented aisle, With wild-wood odors sweet.

Of what is she thinking, while her hand Caresses the fond old hound, Fidelio, whelped in Switzerland, And trained on Tuscan ground, His throat still wearing a golden band By kingly fingers bound ?

Semper fidelis : on the clasp The glittering legend shines As when the giver linked the hasp

# The familiar name-derived by the Spaniards from the Indians-for the beau- tiful lotus flowers that adorn the lakes and lagoons in all tropical countries of the Western world.

'Neath Conca d'Oro's vines, Then, silent, sailed where torrents rasp The pine-girt Apennines.

She hears again St. Rosalie's bell, From Pelegrino's height ; Ave the fishers' voices swell Across the waters bright, While, incense-like, from the Golden Shell Rose odors bless the night.

From Posilippo's poet shrine, Haunted by flower and bee,

She sees the peaks of Capri shine On the rim of the sparkling sea ;

She sings 'neath Ischia's fig and vine ; She dreams in Pompeii.

Where soft Venezia's mellow bells Float o'er the silver tide,

Where bright Callirhoe's diamond wells Deck dry Ilissus' side, Or where, down the sandy Syrian dells, The wild scarfed Bedouins ride-

Bright as in those long-parted days, Fair classic scene and song,

In all their magical, phantom grace, Back to her memory throng, Yet framing ever one thoughtful face Their arabesque among.

Swallow and tower and tree forgot, She spans the chasm of years ; She talks with him by shrine and grot Of human hopes and fears- Of lives spent nobly, without a blot, Of blots washed clean by tears.

Brilliant and proud that dazzling train In the classic lands so fair-

Pilgrims gay from the sparkling Seine And the cliffs of Finisterre ; The Austrian pale, and the fair-haired Dane, And the Kentish lady rare :

Yet he turned away with sober grace From each haughty titled hand, And sought the light of a charming face From the distant sun-lit strand, Where a tamarind-shaded river lays Its floors of golden sand.

Title nor diadem was hers. Yet-true to truth, O fame l- No record of bards or chroniclers E'er roused a readier claim To the good man's love or the coward s fears Than her simple Saxon name.

605

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

So dowered in her own pure womanhood, Regal in soul as in air,

Where coronets flashed with their ruby flood, And crowned with their diadems rare, Ever a queen among queens she stood, Crowned in her braided hair.

Yet ever, albeit with trembling lips, One answer o'er and o'er-

While her bright eyes suffered a strange eclipse- She gave to the vows he bore : Troth plighted afar, where the wild surf drips

Down the cliffs of a Western shore.

What though she felt with keen despair She had grown from that childish vow ; That the plodder who won it, though earn- est, bare No trace of her likeness now ; That the wreath soon to gleam on her golden hair Would circle an aching brow ?

What though he urged that the demon Pride And the tyrants Chance and Youth Forge chains that forever should be defied For the deathless spirit's ruth ; That a false creed's logic should be denied For the majesty of truth ?

Silent, she showed him the quaint old ring On her twisted châtelaine- A soldier's gift from a grateful king- With its legend's lesson plain, To be worn, whatever the soul might wring, Bravely, without a stain.

Shine on her softly, white moon, to-night ! Thou, only thou, dost know How she kept, true child of the belted knight Who won it long ago, That ring's stern semper fidelis bright And clean as the Jura snow.

Softly ! thou heard'st the deep sea break At the foot of the terrace sward, When she said, while the words of their doom she spake, No fate need be reckoned hard, Since duty, well done for duty's sake, Is ever its own reward.

Softly I next morn thy wraith in the skies Looked down on a wraith as pale, Transfixed and deaf to Fidelio's cries

As he ramped on the terrace rail, And bayed the sea, where his mistress's eyes Followed a fading sail.

Kingdoms have risen and fallen since then ; Prelate and prince have found Both altar and throne the scoff of men, And glory's dazzling round Summed up, to one thoughtful spirit's ken, In the life of a silken hound :

One spirit on field or council floor Of first and best repute, Spotless amid the strife and roar Of mad ambition's suit, Still finding the worm at the bitter core Of kingcraft's golden fruit ;

And pausing 'mid victory's din, perchance, Or the hazard game of power, To dream of a sea where the sunbeams dance, And the white clouds sail or lower- To call up a woman's tender glance, And a bitter parting hour.

While she who turned from a throne away, In steadfast royal truth, Stemming the tide she might not stay For duty as for ruth, Hath wrought in a miracle day by day The promise of her youth,

Till the one for whom she gave up the ways Of a life with high hopes fraught, And chose a place with the commonplace, The spell of her spirit caught, And the lustrous gold of a noble grace With his coarser fibre wrought.

Bright with all eloquent potent things, This home of quiet peace : Ebon and palm from the desert's springs, With the marble gods of Greece ; Conch and coral and painted wings Of birds from Indian seas ;

Hemlet and shield in the frescoed hall, Bronzes beside the door, Clefts where the cool clear waters fall, Waves on the lonely shore, Blossom and cloud and mountain, all Teaching their sacred lore.

Sweet from the gnarled black ebony wood Flowers the fragrant snow ;

606

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Pure from their rocky solitude The singing fountains flow; Fair 'neath the chisel sharp and rude The living marbles grow :

So blessings begot of the wakening morn And the peace of midnight skies. Feature and form and voice adorn, And shine in their amber eyes, Aglow with the deathless beauty born Of stern self-sacrifice.

Shine on her softly, as she stands To catch the signal light From a father, who waits beside the sands To see o'er the waters bright A ship sail in from the classic lands With a gallant child to-night.

A sudden gleam through the alleys green- Fidelio flies apace ; Glad voices float on the air serene, And then the fond embrace Of a boy, with his father's quiet mien And his mother's radiant face.

They sit 'neath the crystal chandelier, And list with smiling eyes As he talks of the Alpine yodel clear, Of the pifferari's cries, Of the lazy song of the gondolier, Of Hellas' golden skies ;

Then, sad, of the carnage in fair Moselle- Of his school-fellows shattered wide, When the convent was shattered by shot and shell, Its portals wrenched aside, Where Saxon and Frank who fought and fell Were gathered side by side.

Then one and another strange romance Of the battle's ruthless test ;

And, last, the tale of a princely lance With the death-wound on his breast, Clasping close, with a star-like glance, A portrait beneath his vest.

"No one its history could trace ; None knew it except the dead. One of the priests-who had served his race- The night before we fled Gave me the picture, because the face Was so like mine," he said.

A gold-framed portrait with vermil dyes : A woman, standing pale In the glow of soft Sicilian skies, And a hound on the terrace rail Baying the sea, where his mistress's eyes Follow a fading sail.

They have sung with the boy a welcome back ;

They have chanted the evening psalm ; The swallows sleep in the turret black, The winds in the desert palm ; Silence broods o'er the bay's bright track, And the mountains cold and calm.

The spicy breath of the deepening night Floats through the oriel fair, As the moon looks in with her parting light, And rests with her silver rare, Beneath the bust of a mail-clad knight, On a woman bowed in prayer.

THOMAS JOHNSON, JUN.,

Familiarly known in the latter part of the last century as the "Drunken Poet of Danville," was probably a native of Virginia, born about 1760, and removed to Kentucky in 1786. His little pamphlet of doggerel satires, enti- tled " The Kentucky Miscellany,"-of which the only copy we know of is in the collection of Rev. L. W. Seely, D. D., of Frankfort, of the fourth edition, 36 pages, 24mo., and published at Lexington in 1821-bears internal evi- dence that some of the familiar and personal pieces were indited in 1786-87, one probably as early as 1776, but how much later does not appear. This only copy of the pamphlet we have seen is mouse-eaten at one corner, and some of the best pieces partially lost. The following are preserved here, not for their merit, but for their mischievous humor and as indications of the times. [See under Boyle county, in Volume II.]

607

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

ON PARSON R-E,*

WHO REFUSED TO PERFORM DIVINE SERVICES TILL HIS ARREARS WERE PAID. YE fools, I told you once or twice, You'd hear no more from canting R -- e ; He can not settle his affairs, Nor pay attention unto prayers, Unless you pay up your arrears. Oh, how he could in pulpit storm, And fill all bell with dire alarm ! Vengeance pronounced against each vice, And, more than all, cursed avarice ; Preached money was the root of ill ; Consigned each rich man unto hell ; But since he finds you will not pay, Both rich and poor may go that way .. It is no more than I expected- The meeting-house is now neglected. All trades are subject to this chance, No longer pipe, no longer dance.

A PANEGYRIC ON DR. FIELDS.

EXTRACT. *

OH, could I reach the true sublime ! With energy of thought, in rhyme, My verse should far inscribe thy name, In standing monuments of fame ; Long as my life its course should run,

Till all the fatal thread be spun ; Each morning early as I rise, Each evening ere I close my eyes ; When I adore the Unseen Above In whom I live and whom I love, And pay the reverential praise For all the blessings of my days,- In that memorial first shall stand His mercy by thy saving hand ; 'Bove all the joys that fortune yields, I bless my God for Doctor FIELDS.

THE AUTHOR'S OWN EPITAPH. UNDERNEATH this marble tomb, In endless shades lies drunken Tox ; Here safely moor'd, dead as a log, Who got his death by drinking grog. By whisky grog he lost his breath- Who would not die so sweet a death !

EPITAPH

ON COL. WILLIAM CHRISTIAN, KILLED BY IN- DIANS, 1786.

To great and noble things, a transient date And sudden downfall is decreed by fate ! Witness the man who here in silence lies, Whom monarchs might have viewed with envious eyes.

*Note .- Rev. David Rice (" Father " Rice, he was generally called) " had purchased land on the faith of his congregation guaranteeing the payment ; but this was deferred, until the sons had forgotten the promises of their fathers, and the sheriff held up before his eyes the terror of imprisonment for debt. While in this morbid state he refused, on a certain communion occasion, to administer the sacrament at Dan- ville-on the ground that it was not right to admit to the holy table persons who were unfaithful to their engagements. A great sensation was the consequence ; disatis- faction vented itself in loud murmurs ; he became the song of the drunkard ; and pasquinades were affixed to the church door, whose doggerel rhymes were remem- bered and repeated for many years . Mr. Rice was often in great straits, like many others of his brethren, for want of an adequate support ; and his family would have been reduced to a crust of bread, had it not been for the seas- onable friendship of one man."-Davidson's Hist. of Pres. Church in Ky.

REV. JOUETT VERNON COSBY,

A citizen of Bardstown, Ky., since 1847, but a native of Staunton, Va., was born July 8, 1816-son of Dabney Cosby, and grandson of two revolutionary soldiers. He was educated at Hampden Sidney College; read a thorough course of law, but abandoned it for theology ; pursued his studies for the min- istry at Union Seminary, Va., and at Princeton, N. J .; preached for three years in North Carolina and Virginia, and in 1847 was called to Bards- town, where he still lives (April, 1874). Mr. Cosby has written many fugitive pieces, but only one poem of any considerable length, "Consecra- tion," published in pamphlet form, 51 pp., 12mo., in April, 1374, from which we give several extracts:

608

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

SONG.

BY J. V. COSBY. I.

" A GENTLE wind, unvoiced Along its viewless way, By chance smote on a Lily bell Wherein a Dew-drop lay ;- The drop, in perfumed fragments fell, And, whispering in my ears, The Spring wind sigh'd and sweetly said 'I've kissed a Beauty's tears.' II.

" That wind was as my thought Which wandered here and there, Loving, but restless not to find A love-shrine any-where, Till smiting on thy love-dewed heart The spell of silence broke, And through the chambers of my soul Exquisite music woke." 1848.

CONSECRATION : A POEM. BY J. V. COSBY.

This poem depicts the noblest type of woman, from that morn of life when

-" Neither outward form, nor on- ward thought,

Revealment of that being's might had bought; "

when "The soul was there a heavenly toned lyre

Unsmitten yet its music to inspire ;". onward, through joys and sorrows, till

"In God's threefold furnace tried, Earth's refinement purified; Till the fineness of the gold Equals that we shall behold In the New Jerusalem ! Consecrated twice ; Oh ! consecrated thrice- Maiden, Mother, Widow-now · A new name is on her brow ; Written on its pearly white As no mortal hand can write."

The simple, touching "annals " of this " Maiden, Mother, Widow" is the story which this poet sings.

Twilight, nature's pensive queen, Throned apon her favored hour, In such drapery clothed the scene

As no hand but her's has power ; Mingling hues like these to grace, With sorrow's loveliness, the face Of joyous earth and heavenward fling. A charm that poet may not sing, Nor hand of limner trace. On the hills the golden light

Like a dream of beauty lay- Shadow borrowed from the night- Splendor lingering from the day. Mellow clouds, gray, gold, and blue, Crowned the near horizon's view Curtains wrought by day to hold (Tho' ever changing, fold on fold)

The portals of the sky, and raise A beacon to the spirit's gaze, Which seems to tell the fond heart where The boundaries lie 'twixt Here and There.

We, sleeping, dream, and waking, can not name

The phantom shape that to our dreaming came !

Be it a token, thus divinely lent, Of good a pledge, of ill a warning sent; Or exhalation, rising from earth's soil, Mid heat and cold, along our path of toil ; It dwells apart, a shadow without light- A sadness now, and then a pure delight, A deed unwrought, a song without a tone, A scene in life that life has never known- We take no thought, whate'er its promise seem,

But pass along and say, 'tis but a dream ! -And what are these throng'd visions of the soul

That fill our waking thoughts beyond control !

These bless'd ideals of a beauteous place Where earthly forms are shaped in heav- enly grace ;

Where human hearts may beat but never break,

And every pulse but that of sorrow take: Where golden hours have hue of rosy dawn,

Forever coming, and yet never gone ! Where deathless love, made passionless by power,

Becomes, at last, the soul's consummate (lower :-

This hope Immortal, wreath'd around the heart With life's first pulse, and of our being part ;

609

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Which builds its City glorious in the skies, Beyond the sphere where Death's domin- ion lies ;

Which, reverent, hears the word of Christly love,

Of mansions in the Father-house above ; And, rapturing, looks beyond the starry dome

And hails the soul's grand shrine, ETER- NAL HOME ?

Is this a dream ?-

VI.

Hid in the splendor of unvision'd light That day of Revealing is tarrying yet ; But its promise of glory awakens the night,

Its star on the brow of the morning is set.

The stir of the Nations, as waking from sleep,

Is portent of storm, like the moan of the sea,

Giving sign of unrest from its solitudes deep,

Ere the wind wake its waves to fierce revelry.

The storm of the Nations will gather at length,

Till Destiny point to the moment of wrath ;

And then, in the might of its terrible strength,

Sweep down, with the vengeance of God on its path.

IX.

-- And here a Home, where might be traced,

Full many a sign of cultured taste ; Where affluent hand and skillful art, With nature wrought in every part, Creating beauty which should be A form of living harmony ! And yet the magic of the place Was not its form of outward grace; The charm that made it half divine Was wrought beside its inner shrine, Where love's sweet fountains 'waken first And from their hidden heart-springs burst ;

Where first the harp of life is strung And measure of its psalm first sung ;- Where first from artless lips is heard That Talisman of Love, in word,- Where, wrapp'd in unconsuming flame, Is first reveal'd earth's sacred name, MOTHER !

I ... 39

XV.

Ah! " Home, Sweet Home !" thy never weary lay

Enchants us ever thro' our youthful day, And age, with faltering lips, would still prolong

The tuneful numbers of thy happy song ! And when the heart has grown too sear to feel

The Winter chill along the pulses steal, And dead to Summer of the passing years, The rare, scant Summer that to age ap- pears :-

It thrills to hear, and strives to wake again

The life-warm numbers of thy passion'd strain.

And thine, O mother, consecrated queen, And beauteous light of every home-bright scene

Pictured in hearts, whose substance wrought of thine,

Is of immortal souls the wondrous shrine- Souls born on earth, but native to the skies --

Thy name is one whose glory never dies ;- For when the tongue that learn'd its speech of thee,

Can speak no more its earthly melody ; In that fair realm where life delights to range

Beyond all bound of death, and fear of change,

Free as the light far-flashing from a star, Pure as the pure where all celestial are,- There shall awake, in love's melodious tone

That angel harp may crave to make its own,

Thy hallow'd name, to linger 'mid those spheres

Echoed in beauty without change of years ! x. I heard-it was the saddest sound That ever made my pulse to bound- I heard the heavy booming gun, And wept and pray'd till set of sun :- And then they came-Ah me ! the thought With bitterness of death is fraught ! Well,-then they brought my loved ones home,

But not to me :- they had not come To clasp me in love's warm embrace, To wipe the tear stains from my face, To tell me tidings of the day,

And smile my idle fears away .-

610

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

XI.

-Her face the hue of anguish took, Her frame a sob convulsive shook,- A thunder of the heart, that breaks The gathered cloud of grief, and shakes The tear-drop from the heavy eyes, As lightning smites the storm-clad skies ! She wept, and so the heart's dry plain Was freshened by the tearful rain. -The sorrow-storm swept by, and then, With outward calm, she spoke again. XII. I gazed upon them as they lay- My jewels both-father and son ! It seemed my heart was still as they, Had ceased to beat and turned to clay ; "Oh God, Thy holy will be done, But this is hard,"-I did not say ; I had no thought, no heart to pray, Nor lips to murmur,-they were sealed In presence of such fate revealed. -So strange it seemed !- They were so near

And yet so still !- They were so dear, And in the measure given back Of true heart's love, there was no lack In word or deed ! This silence-change, This stillness was unearthly strange !

They seemed to have fall'n into a sleep Awe-full, because it was so deep. Sometimes, the vision of my thought With fear and love was so much wrought, I fancied still the swell of breath Was heaving on those breasts of death. But this was fancy of the night That vanished at the touch of light. Then came strange joyance to my heart ; I knew my dead and I must part,- But this was mine-'twould be relief, 'Twould be some solace to my grief To shroud, and see the earth-sod close In honor on their last repose !- -They to the grave -- the living, we, A widow'd wife and children three, Must 'bide-alas ! I did not know In how much bitterness of woe !- I thought 'twould be my daily lot In mournful joy to tend the spot, The precious earth where should be laid My dead beneath the Home-trees' shade. -Ah, thus how often Hope divines Even as the loving heart inclines, Nor asks, indeed, for better proof To hold its dream a thing of truth ! So now it was-so came to me That morn of earth's bleak destiny.

MRS. ALICE SMITH WINSTON,

Nee Smith, a native of Cincinnati, Ohio, but since 1850, a resident of Cov- ington, Ky., except about two years spent in Boone co., is a lady of elegant culture, of fine poetic taste, and as retiring and modest about the productions of her pen as she is beautiful in person. The earliest published pieces we have seen, all short, were written about 1860, some years after her marriage to Alex. V. Winston, a Cincinnati merchant; and gave promise of the undis- guised popularity of many of her pieces over the signature of "Ecila," in the Cincinnati Enquirer. Her latest pieces have been over another signa- ture. From the limited number of pieces we find preserved by an apprecia- tive friend, the following are selected as among the sweetest, but are prob- ably not the best or most original in expression :

THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE.

BY ALICE SMITH WINSTON.

In the little brown house where the mosses had grown O'er the roof and the eaves, like a soft velvet gown,

A mother once sat with her babe on her knee,

Rocking backward and forth as she sang merrily,

With its staircase so steep, and its ceil- ings so low ;

O, clap hands, my darling, to-morrow we go!

To-morrow the pigeons will cooall in vain For baby's pink hands will not feed them again.

The little brown house will be empty and still,

And only the whirr of the busy old mill, Or noise of the crook, or the murmur of bees,

"Oh, baby, we're going forever away From this little brown house, with its Or warble of birds in the old orchard shadows so gray, trees,

611

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Wake echoes familiar around the old | home,

All empty within, and all dusky with gloom !

The spiders may work just as hard as they can,

And curtain with cob-webs each diamond- shaped pane,

For baby's bright face will be peeping no more

Through vines which are shading the window and door.

Clap hands, my wee darling, to-morrow we'll sleep

Where ceilings are high, and where stair- way is steep ;

But sometime we'll come in the June eve- ning's still, And visit the little brown house by the mill."

* * * * * *

To the little brown house where the mosses seemed sewn

Need help finding more records? Try our genealogical records directory which has more than 1 million sources to help you more easily locate the available records.

Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 110

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