USA > Pennsylvania > The Wyoming Valley in 1892 > Part 12
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The church bells from steeples are ringing their How the sounds, as they float on the wings of Bing, bong ; [chimes, the wind-
A reverent, resonant, wrangle in rhymes ; And the vibrant air, humming in sonorous waves, Breaks in musical surf thro' the aisles and the naves,
Baptizing the echoes in sanctified staves. Ding, dong.
Bing, bang-
Embody as 't were and bring forth to my mind Tintinabulous messengers sent to collect The stray sounds of Christendom into a sect, Harmonizing the chosen as-truly elect ; Cling, clang.
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
And sweet to one's heart as it is to one's car- Bim, banı-
'Mid the world's belligerent tumult to hear Sounds appealing to cents, asking discord to stay And list while the Bell-fry adnionish and prey That the tolls may be gathered to one fold alway; Flin1, flanı.
Each bell as it swings in its dome campanile So-high,
Pitches sounds in a lofty self-sanctified style, Religiously toney as if to imply, [fry ; The "More holy than thou " at the other bell- On the which all the rest, bellow forth in reply You-lie.
In all niatters profane such discordance would Ah me! Is it fancy or reason unstrung, Rang, clang- [show- Bing, bang,
A certain old gentleman's work from below ; But wondrous to tell ! when divines make the laws,
And sects-tone the regular bell-ringer claws The rope that swings open old bel-zebub's jaws, Swing-swang ;
The choice variations on discord are made, Bang, bang,
Are too much rattle-banged by the bells e'er to A means of atonement to further and aid, In bringing sweet har-money into the fold Which is right, or which wrong, but where jan- gles abound [found, (Of the garments) of those, who like Aaron of I, perhaps, may conclude on a theme so pro- old That the claim of each bell is most strikingly- Hem their kirtles with bells of Rabinical mould, Ding, dong. [sound,
Whang, whang.
And they ne'er interrupt the grand dulcet refrain Bong, bing,
· Of the chorus of bells if they feel in the vane ; For let this one ring in or let that one ring out, Or another ring-cling over roof-tree, or spout, Or together bell-mouth in a clapper-claw rout- Clong, cling.
They all with an orthodox voice of their own, Sing, song, [phone : Alliterate something like this through their " Believers believe me by God ! I belong To the church with the only true sanctified gong, I'm the only one right, all the others are Ding, dong. [wrong."
That makes me imagine each bell puts its tongue Derisively out as it gets a good swing, And wags it at those who are caught by its ring, Whilst some crafty ecclesiarch pulls on the Fling, flang. [string?
My conjecturing powers, I sadly confess, Sing, song, [guess
JOHN S. McGROARTY
Was born and educated in this valley. He is a young man whom all admire and respect, whose friends are legion, who, by force of character, intelligence and untiring energy, is as well and as favorably known as any young man in this section. Has been a teacher, editor, and is now Treasurer of this county. He has written many fine poems and prose articles. They are not only good art, but a mirror of the many admirable qualities of the writer. His volume of poetry, issued in 1886, entitled "The Poets and Poetry of Wyoming Valley," is the only collection of valley poetry ever published.
A LOST FRIEND.
She was a maiden sweet and true, No purer is the summer's dew Than was the thought she'd speak ; Oh, dark her eye was and her hair,
From out a close walled city's way She came to spend a summer's day Amid the peaceful homes That stand the healthful hills among,
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But never lily grew more fair, Than was her brow and cheek.
And then it was my lot, full oft, To clasp her hand so small and soft, And hear her gentle speech, And tell her each romantic tale That hovered over hill and dale, Where'er her gaze might reach.
Oh, sweet that summer was to me; How happy did I grow to see Her pale cheek softly show That kisses from our valley's breeze, And rambles 'mong her hills and trees, Could bring again health's glow. .
And then how hard to say farewell, To break affection's happy spell, And speak each other's name; And tell of all the joys we'd known, And the dear friendship that had grown, Between us since she came.
Back to her home she went, and I Think of her still, and think and sigh; For that sweet face no more Will see Wyoming's vale and skies, While the dark lustre of her eyes Grow happy, gazing o'er.
Where, in its grandeur fair and strong, The Susquehanna roams.
They took her to the city's ways,
Back where disease in griminess stays, With all its sickly care:
And so it was that from her brow Fled the soft color and the glow Wyoming had left there.
Ah, nevermore can city din Throb in thy temples, Florence Lynn, Cold is thy pale cheek now:
Ruthless, the chilly reaper, Death, Has blown his dead'ning, fatal breath, Upon thy sweet, pale brow.
Florence! forever fare-thee-well, My grief 't were vanity to tell- You ne'er can hear my sighs;
You never now can know how dear Were you to him who shed the tear Whene'er these memories rise.
I know that now the spring-tide air Blows o'er thy grave in Delaware. And yet the dream will come
That faithful to thy promise made,
The footsteps that once hither strayed, Here once again will roam.
THERON G. OSBORNE, (TOM ALLEN,)
Was born at Lake Wynola, Wyoming county, Pennsylvania. He was educated in the public schools and Wyoming Seminary. For several years he was en- gaged in newspaper work, the greater part of which was done on the Wilkes- Barre Leader. He is now principal of the public schools at Minooka. As a writer he is a master of the various forms of verse, has an extensive and well chosen vocabulary, and his inspiration is drawn from the living present and nature. His poems are delicate, refined, often subtle as well as strong. They are neither passionate nor sensational, but full of the warmth, richness and beauty of true poetic feeling.
THE SLATE PICKERS.
Out of the rattle and roar and boom, Clash and clang and rumble, Grinding of wheels and fret and fume, Culm of the chutes and the blackened room, Night-elves wriggling out of gloom, The breaker urchins tumble.
Glad of their freedom who can doubt ? On with tremendous gabble
From night within to light without, Swinging their cans with laugh and shout- Kick and clatter, rant and rout,
Oh ! what a noisy rabble !
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
Up the street with scurry and din, Iron-clad boots in riot, Dancing a jig or barking a shin, Doubly smutted on lip and chin, Silhouettes of fantastic grin, Charging on peace and quiet. Droller specimens never were yet, Never a troupe more inerry. Youth and maturity strangely met In an aptness for toddy, a ganie or a bet, A quid, a " cuss " or a cigarette, A caromel or a cherry.
Like the clear-toned trill of a singing bird, 'Mid a clang or discordant voices heard, Came through the din of the noisy street The childish accents, rippling sweet, " Violets !" " Violets !"
A timid form, a tattered gown, Free, flowing hair of softest brown, And eyes as rich in their azure hue
Looking for jewels? here in the rough, Grist of Toil's own grinding, Sturdy and staunch whate'er the rebuff, Giving a kick in exchange for a cuff, Gnarled and twisted, knotted and tough- Diamonds for the finding.
Strength that will rise to mountain height, Impulse giving and sharing, Firmness to stand in the face of night, Courage to dare for the true and the right- Mettle to temper the front of the fight With many a noble daring.
VIOLETS.
As the dainty gems held up to view- Violets, Violets.
Ah, who could fail, with saddened mind, To chide himself, to chide mankind, For social evils that have made Such holy symbols stock in trade- Violets ! Violets !
HER WEDDING DAY.
O tender grass ! with dewy jewels laden, Red-gold in the morning ray,
You ne'er clad earth so rich for foot of maiden, As for my feet to-day.
Stately moss rose, queen in thy modest dressing, My spirit never was so bent to follow Bending above my way, And sip as 't is to-day.
You never breathed so dear, so pure a blessing As you breathe on me to-day.
Sweet-throated bird of olden oak and leaning, Thy love-impassioned lay
Was never fraught with so divine a meaning As 't is for me to-day.
Blithe bee, fleet-loitering blooming hill and On honied quest alway, [hollow,
O blade and bloom and bird and bee! o'erflowing With joy and love for aye, How could you fail to set my bosom glowing ? For this is my wedding day.
THREE YANKEE FAIRIES.
In a cavern mysterious, Wonderful, curious,
Stalactite, stalagmite on ceiling and floor Dwell three little fairies As blithe as canaries Who dance all day long on an echoing shore. And over and under, An ominous thunder [clime
But the thunderbolt's clamor, Its fury and glamor,
Ne'er ripple the mirth of this pert little band. For, when the bolts whistle, Each catches a missile, And fashions it into a magical wand. Their dress is romantic ; Caps, three-cornered, antique,
Reels through their retreat from some turbulent White vests with red trousers, and jackets of blue; Till you'd think in its antic, 'T would render them frantic, Their ears are so keen to the touches of time.
And no beings ever Had such magic ; no, never ! But here is an inkling of what they can do :
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Is a heart to be captured ? Delighted, enraptured,
· Is fame their desire ? They have but to require, [feet.
Away o'er the meadows and clover-bloom sweet, And the mountain-born echo lies tame at their Where the maiden reposes, Again at their willing, Then from perfume of roses [plete. With obedience thrilling,
It is off and forever their names to repeat.
They weave a sure web, and the work is com- And if they want riches, These gay little witches, [join ;
And if they would gain Fame ultra-mundane-
They hie where the bright fountains bubbling A word-winged monsters the stars to explore ; A motion-each bubble Has grown to a pebble,
A touch, and each pebble 's a jingling coin.
Then in revel delirious, Regal, imperious, [ring,
With gold-spangled trappings that glisten and Who, in all that they wish, are so certain to win, In derision they 'd pinion, Triumvirate, pranky, The æsthete for a minion,
Are decidedly Yankee, [Chin.
And dance in high jest on the nose of a king.
And their practical titles are Cheek, Lip and
THE PATCHES ON HIS COAT.
Long purses do not always sport The highest kind of hat,
Ah, what scenes of joy and comfort In his home-turned vision float !
Nor fine clothes always indicate A bank account that's fat ;
You can tell it by the patches- Dainty patches on his coat.
And your judgment of your neighbor Will sometimes be remote,
Mark you, too, that young mechanic, Striding onward through the mart,
By adverse calculations On the patches of a coat.
Oh, the patches, big and little, . Placed on crosswise, up and down,-
The worsted on the shoddy, The green upon the brown,-
All unconscious, in the stitching Of the patches on his coat.
The dainty ones that, stitched with care, Such loving hands denote-
Take the laborer or tradesman, Miner grim, or weary swain,
There are lessons for the learning In the patches of a coat !
Read the story of the patches, And the owner's life is plain ; Husband, wife-one to the other- Worth a fortune or a groat,
See that school boy coming yonder, Bravely through the battling snow ! Basket swinging, tippet flying,
And with cheek and eye aglow.
Love and joy, neglect and sorrow, In the patches of a coat.
D. M. JONES, EsQ.
The subject of this sketch, was born in New York city, September 2d, 1843. Graduated from the Scranton High School, and also at the University at Lewis- burg, now Bucknell College, Pennsylvania, a member of the class of '67. Took the degree of Master of Arts in 1870, on which accasion he read a poem before
There is vigor in his bosom And courage in his heart. Would you know a wife's devotion ? You may read it where she wrote,
Once more of their magic, (And oh, 't would be tragic,) [four. They might drive this world like carriage and And these three little fairies, As blithe as canaries,
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
the Alumni Society. In 1880, he was the chosen poet of the literary society of his Alma-Mater and recited a poem, written by him for the occasion, on William Lloyd Garrison. He has written considerable verse, much of which was published in the metropolitan press, and many hundreds of lines in the lead- ing columns of the Boston Pilot. But all this was the work of his leisure hours. A lawyer by profession, he has been actively engaged in the practice of law for twenty years. With a mind, in reality, better adapted to the law than to litera- ture, his ability and general equipment as a lawyer has been, perhaps, too much lost sight of by reason of his popularity as a poet. Lippincott & Com- pany issued his first volume of verse, entitled "Lethe and Other Poems," in 1882, and is now preparing a second volume for publication. Has been at various times the chosen poet of the Grand Army on Decoration Day, of the Robert Emmet Anniversary, was the orator Decoration Day in 1891, at Forty Fort, and the orator of the Grand Army exercises at Music Hall, Decoration Day, 1892.
LOVE'S WOUNDS.
Life the first-born of Eden's bowers, Death Last, And Love that came beetwen-Mysterious Three; O Life and Death, at last on which of ye Shall blame of Love, unkindest hurt be cast ? All located there, and every sorrow passed. Whose pitying hand, whose balsam-dropping tree
Left for those wounds and all that misery The sweetest cordial ? Death's the iconoclast ? Oh! Life, I fear, Love at the Last will say That thou, not Death, didst him severely smite And tell how, when he faint and bleeding lay By Time's roadside, Death softened at the sight, And decently enwrapping them in white Took all the soreness front his wounds away.
BURIED LOVE'S EPITAPH.
Kind words, warm as Love's heart, Love's Living breath, In marble cold and white: O subtle flame Within whose charmed circle one dear nanie Defeateth the devouring jaws of death! Not heeding what the night wind muttereth, Smiling thro' storm and sunshine just the same, In this love shelter, more secure than fame,
Content with what surviving Love's heart saith
The marble's time-swept snow may drift away.
IONE H. KENT,
Was born in California, and now resides at Waymart, Pennsylvania. She is a graduate of the Art League, of New York city. She was one of the art critics
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LITERATURE OF
for the World and Express. periodicals of the country. poems from the German.
Her poems have appeared in most of the leading She has made some fine translations of Heine's
OUTWARD BOUND.
Far out like snowy-winged butterflies The sails flash white in the sun,
And the waves roll in but they bring no word From the ships they meet, one by one.
The waves roll in with their tawny hues, Blendings of green where an opal dies
Threaded with gold and a mocking light Like the depths of a siren's eyes.
Only thy murmur a message brings, O sea, from the outward bound
To comfort the lonely they leave on shore And the comfort with sorrow is crowned.
VIGIL.
The storm put out the moon, as did the Moor Fair Desdemona's lamp; its passion spent Southward it flees, while Night on vigil bent Her rainbeads tells in reverie sweet and pure.
The wet leaves rustle strangely in the wind, Lisping like waves that lap a lonely shore, Hinting fantastic laughter, gloating o'er The dripping forest tangles few may find.
While I, with eyes by sleep unvisited Send forth my spirit on the midnight deep To seek out yours, in fancy you may keep Some thought more sweet, some word as yet unsaid.
How needless were the touch of lip or hand To souls that meet, and meeting, understand!
THE LOST MAY.
Each year the sassafras with feathery gold Bursts forth like sunshine woven into bloom; The orchards foam with sweetness and unfold In brighter growth each day. The shy per- fume
Of woods steals out with subtle hints of deeps Fern-scented where a long dim twilight sleeps.
The milk-white cherry blossoms drop their pearls
Upon the grass set thick with violets,
And deftly by the road the brake uncurls
From web-like wrappings and the maple lets They know that only once for them may dawn Its coral pendants stir uneasily Life's May-time and its tender hours are gone.
As quick with life and loth to set it free.
And when the wind at winter midnight shrills Past, like the spirit of a long regret
That's voiced in nature and the darkness thrills With loneliness and sleepless eyes are wet; When all the pent up agony has roon1 To free itself enshrouded in the gloon;
The earth still dreams amid the piercing chill That holds life in a trance, of days to come, When from the dewy mazes shall distil
The sweets of May. But they whose hearts are numb,
DAWN.
The heavens quicken with a newer life; The stars grow timid and the shadows shrink Behind the hedges in the noiseless strife Of Day with Night. We tremble on the brink Of sound amid a silence so intense We dread to have it broken, till a bird
With one sweet strain of song-then hushed again,
As if a violin-bow lightly drawn Across the strings at prelude, should pause then One breathless moment-till the white-winged dawn
In yonder thorn-bush, startled, breaks the sense Flashes thro' hollow skies, and eastward grows Of stillness and the dewy leaves are stirred With trembling leaves the morning's fairest rose.
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
EDWARD ALEXANDER NIVEN
Was born in Livingston county, New York, and raised in Buffalo. In 1856 he went to New York city, and entered the mercantile business in the wholesale hardware firm of which his uncle was a member. Commerce was not to his liking, and he quietly drifted into newspaper work. In 1861 he enlisted and served nearly two years in the Army of the Potomac, being taken prisoner at the battle of Savage's Station, June 29, 1862. He subsequently served in a battery of light artillery with Sherman's army, in the famous march to the sea. Return- ing to New York after the war, Mr. Niven went to work as a reporter, and served in that capacity for eight or nine years in that city. He afterwards traveled as a correspondent for several papers, and during his career as a newspaper man has worked on some of the most popular journals from Maine to California. Mr. Niven's great-grandfather, Daniel Niven, was a Captain of Engineers in the War of the Revolution, and raised a company at Newburg, New York. He has written much in his time for magazines and weekly story papers, but newspaper work claimed his constant attention.
SABBATH BELLS.
When the Sabbath bells are ringing And blossoms greet the eye ; When the merry birds are singing Where the woodland shadows lie, Then 'neath the spell of mem'ry From care my heart is free, And I'm a little child again Beside my mother's knee When the Sabbath bells are ringing.
When the Sabbath bells are ringing In the summer time so sweet,
And the sun his gold is flinging Where the lane and orchard meet, Then I close my eyes and listen,
And there comes again to me The music of a song I learned Beside my mother's knee When the Sabbath bells were ringing.
When the Sabbath bells are ringing Childhood's days come back again,
And my lonely heart, outflinging All its sorrow, beats as then ; Though my locks be whitening slowly And the grave hides all from me, Thank God for loving songs I heard Beside my mother's knee When the Sabbath bells were ringing.
UNFAILING.
Say, Hannah, can you tell me why the papers of to-day, About the marriage bus'ness have so very much to say ?
Is there no such thing as honor now, where Cupid's bow is hung, No lovin' like there used to be, when you and I were young?
'T is forty years ago, when by the homestead hearth, dear wife, We stood afore the preacher and bound ourselves for life ;
Your cheeks were like the roses then, your tresses dark as night, While flashin' 'neath your lashes, dear, was Heaven's holy light.
I mind me of our sparkin' time, the gladness that was real, When you and I together sat close by the spinnin' wheel,
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With the kettle singin' softly just before us on the hearth, And both our hearts rejoicin' in the glow of honest mirth.
Oh ! those were happy days, dear, when Love began to shed Its blossonis on the pathway that just before us spread. And, Hannah, though your tresses dark have long since turned to gray, The roses that were on your cheeks are bloomin' there to-day.
And as I look at you to-night, you seem the same to me As when I met you first, dear heart, beneath the old roof-tree ; The music of your voice the same, that cheered and gladdened so, In those early days of happiness, some forty years ago.
We've had our ups and downs, dear wife, with grief been made acquaint, But Love has ever held a balm to soften Sorrow's plaint ; At times, when darkest clouds obscured the daylight from our way, How soon they passed, when you, dear wife, bent silently to pray.
Oh ! Hannah, I have often thought, when absent from your side, What might have been my lot if you had never been my bride ; How different might have been the life that love has gilded so, If you had not stood by my side, some forty years ago.
And sittin' by the fire to-night, I fold you in my arms, And wonder whether Heaven holds a gift of sweeter charms ; Enriched by time, your precious life has grown into my own, While glad contentment's holy light o'er both our hearts is thrown.
Though wild the winter night without, with echoes so forlorn, Serene as paradise, the spot where our first babe was born, And though the band is scattered now that once rejoiced us so, Thank God the same old love remains of forty years ago !
It can't be long afore, dear wife, we'll enter Heaven's day, For both our heads are holdin' now its glory streaks of gray, And though we part this side the grave, the one who goes afore Shall briefly wait to greet again the lovin' mate of yore.
With rounded years of wedded bliss, God's angel standin' near, And lovin' as we used to love, oh what have we to fear ? Eternity shall blossom with the sweetness and the glow Of the flower our fond hearts planted some forty years ago.
MRS. H. G. WATRES,
The mother of Louis A. Watres. Lieutenant-Governor of Pennsylvania, lived and died in Lackawanna county. Her poems appeared in the leading publications and her published collection of poems, "Cobwebs," was well received.
WYOMING. THE ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY.
Over the dust of a century's dead, Soft as the strains of the lute o'er the sea, Hushed be our laughter and muffled our tread; Let the deep chords of our symphonies be; Voice no loud anthem ; we stand where they Noiseless the footfall, and low-bowed the head, stood- [blood; Over the dust of a century's dead.
Kinsmen that hallowed the turf with their
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THE WYOMING VALLEY.
Who has not shuddered, with cheeks ashen pale At the appalling and soul-thrilling tale, Traced o'er the page of a weird long ago, With the deep pathos of measureless woe ? Who never traversed-tho' seas roll between- Cool breathing wildwood and shadowed ravine, Where rang the war-whoop and bended the bow Of a red-handed and treacherous foe ?
Curls the blue smoke from homes so apart That never quickened a throb of the heart, O'er the dire story of rapine and wrong, Blighting our beautiful valley so long? Stretches a solitude-gloom-girt and far- Where gleanis a sunbeam or glitters a star, That never caught, from the night-wailing blast, Hints of our tragic and terrible past ?
As clears the mist from the forehead of night, Brightened the sky: see! what sparkle, what light,
O'er the green slope of meadow and hill, Where the wild roses are nodding at will :
Over the river that moaned in its flow, Twice fifty perilous summers ago, Where by its tide in the sunset's low fires, Fell, with slow torture, our fiend-hunted sires.
Down the far centuries-winding their way 'Mong the gray vapors of time-shall the clay, Tenderly wrapped at the granite's pure feet, Be all forgot in life's hurry and heat ? No! sob the waves from the muse-haunted shore; No! sighs the forest, with arnis drooping lower; Nor may the years-swift as eagles above. Purge the red stain from the Valley we love.
Over a century's historic dust, This be our legacy, this our proud trust- That no invading and arrogant tread Press the dear turf folded over our dead: And the sweet tide of each incoming spring To our fair homes no disloyalty bring: This be our legacy, this our proud trust, Over a century's love-hallowed dust.
MY POEM.
A moonless night, when the old forests shiver- By gales front the seaward torn; [ed- A pang, a passion, and a joy all crowning, And thou, beloved, wert born.
Thou liest beside me, tender, voiceless, plead- All worn and weary I; [ing; And yet to call thee mine, a half smile lightly Beats back the started sigh.
Thou grewest shaped in sadness and in long- How else should child of mine, [ing; When the great world its cruel wrongs went cry- And my life nourished thine. [ing,
I smile and weep by turns, and would caress And yet between us stands [thee
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