History of Salt Lake City, Part 104

Author: Tullidge, Edward Wheelock
Publication date: 1886
Publisher: Salt Lake City, Star printing company
Number of Pages: 1194

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During the early residence of Mr. Mills in Salt Lake City, he sent several poems to Godey's Lady's Book, for which the editress, Mrs. Sarah Jane Hale, herself one of America's sweetest poets, sent complimentary letters requesting further effusions. One of these poems furnished a leader for the Monthly Liter ary Gazette of Boston. It was entitled " Our Good Time is in the Present."

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The following sweet morceaux, of conjugal affection, simple as sweet, and unique, yet enjoyed by millions of young hearts, appeared also in Godey's Book, and received compliments from Mrs. Hale :

TO MY WIFE.

(On my first visit to my parents' home after marriage.)

I'm seated 'neath my parents' roof, This old familiar place ; And, as I cast a glance around, Can each fond relic trace.

My mother clasps her first-born son, With all a mother's feeling ; My father's smile and heaving breast His inmost soul's revealing.

My brothers clasp me by the hand, Each sister round me clings ; Here words are true, and hearts sincere- O, rare and priceless things.

The joyous welcome breathings fall, Like music on my ears ; The tales they tell, and questions bring The life of other years.

Well I can prize this happy scene, And feel its sweet control ; And every word and smile can find A place within my soul.

I love them all, but there is one Is dearer still to me, Without whose presence this fair earth A dreary waste would be.

She spreads a charm through every scene, That mocks the cares of life ; She leans her trusting heart on mine- My own endearing WIFE.

For her I'd leave friends, kin and place- All I have known before; Not that I love them aught the less, But that I love her more.

Mr. Mills' translations of some of Anacreon's lyrics have been pronounced by Greek scholars as equal, in purity of translation and versification, to any that have ever appeared. His great poem of Cleanthes, the Stoic philosopher, entitled " Hymn to Jove," will illustrate Mr. Mills' classics :

HYMN TO JOVE.

Greatest of Gods! by many names adored, Ruling all things, and Ever-ruling Lord ! Zeus ! All nature's origin and source, Governing by Law creation in its course, We mortals, Thee address in praise and prayer, As it is due, for we Thy offspring are, To whom, alone, of all that move or live,

The power of imitative speech dost give ; Hence will 1 praise Thee ever, and make known Thy power and glory through all nature shown. The sparkling heavens that round our planet roll Obey 'I hy will, submit to Thy control ; Whither thou leadest following the way, And freely the eternal Law obey.

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Thou hollest in Thy mighty hand at ease,- As minister of power to work Thy purposes- The deathless thunderbolt, two-edged, a flame, Whose flashing roar appal great nature's frame ; Thon guid'st the common Reason that does all Things permeate, passing through great and small, Filling the radiant orbs that whirl afar, From sun and moon and every midnight star To the minutest particle that is. Making It King of all existencies.

Without Thee naught is done, Oh, Deity, From the ethereal pole to earth's deep sea,- Save the great evils wrought and seen and heard By sinful, senseless, wicked men preferred. But order out of chaos, Thou canst make, Beauty from grossness, chord from discord wike; So from variety bring unity, l'hat even out of evil good shall be ; Thus, throughout nature, one great Law is known, Which but the wicked disobey alone.

Deceived are they for happiness who pine That will nor see nor hear the law divine, Which, if obeyed, would truly lead to life ; But each his own way joins the hapless strife. Some strive, in battle, glory to attain ; Others, inglorious lost, are seeking gain ; Others to sensual joys and pleasure trend, While seeking life in hasting ruin end

But Zeus! All-bestower Cause and Force Of clouds, Ruler of thunder in its course ! Do thou guard men from error's sad control ; Dispel the clouds that gather round the soul, And let us follow, to eterna! gain, The laws all-governing Thy righteous reign. That we be honored we will honor Thee, Hymning Thy love and deeds harmoniously, As mortals should to make them truly great .-- For, nor for gods nor men in their estate, Can ought be nobler than, adoring, raise Their voices in perpetual songs of praise Of the eternal Law and Reason found, Common to all, the universe around !

There is a pensive plaint in his last beautiful effusion :

THOUGHTS ON A STARRY NIGHT.

Oh, beautiful and glorious orbs of light That thus have glistened round the throne of Night, Unnumbered cycles in your ether wave And radiant still, but silent as the grave! How many yearning hearts like mine, on earth. Ilave questioned you to know your holy birth ? In vain the thought our deepest feelings stirred. Ye shine, and shine, but answer not a word. Why is it thus? Why your vast dises be less By lifeless, cold, illimitable space ? The music, too, is lost of your grand motion In the wide waves of your ethereal ocean ; Or if some meditative poet-car ('atch the sweet cadence, flowing from you here, It is so soft, so faint, so exquisite It vibrates only through the soul made fit To listen to the " music of the spheres," Rather than vibrates on the outward cars.

But, then, ye are so distant, and with all Your vast and bright immenseness are so small, That a bat's wing, nay, ev'n a tiny leaf Which trembles by a zephyr, soft and brief, If intervening can your brightness shade- An eclip e to our raptured vision made :

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What! a lone feather on a bird unfurled, Or tiny fading leaf eclipse a world !

But, ah ! 'tis thus, ev'n on our globe itself The veriest trash, the lure of filthiest pelf, The hidden mischief of the secret earth, The claim of title, blood, descent and birth, If interposing, 'twixt the priceless gem Of genius forming in the mine, to stem The current of the warm sun's fostering rays, Will intercept the bright creative blaze, And let the glorious jewel lie in doom To waste in grand prolific Nature's womb.

Ay! but there are some souls of holy fire That will shine out and other hearts inspire, Whose light will sparkle with increasing rays Till genial natures kindle in the blaze.

With natures such as those 'tis purest joy The hours in blest communion to employ.

And we can gaze upon the stellar light In lustre beaming in the dome of night:

Behold the self-same stars that Byron viewed

When in his Grecian skiff he skimmed the flood ; Or when the sprightlier Moore oft glanced amony Translating them into his glowing song, And those that sparkled in the skies of Greece Inspiring Homer into extacies,

Who deemed them exquisitely beautified That ev'n the gods might dwell in them with pride ; Nay more-perchance the very stars that shone Which David in Judea gazed upon, Whose glorious beauty filled the vaulted span, He wondered God should think of puny man.

Oh, holy Night! seen by thy distant beams ! If thou can'st wake so many luminous dreams

Can'st bring us into one immortal feeling Past, present, future with their grand revealing, Oh, let me from thy influence and power Draw inspiration for this musing hour, Let me mount up thy mystic atmosphere. Let shapes of heroes, poets, gods appear To my impassioned gaze amid the clouds, And have the greeting of those noble crowds.

My soul is pensive, wayward, lonely now ; And so the silvery moon, that from her brow Shoots her mild rays across the misty deep, Or on the rugged mountain lies asleep, Seems brighter, grander and more glorious than The glaring sun that shines upon the haunts of man.

Mr. Mills obtained two prizes for poems in London literary papers, compe- tition for which was open to all writers in Great Britain. The principal and pro- fessors of St. Bees College, in England, presented great marks of esteem to Mr. Mills for his beautiful " Monody on the Death of a Young Lady."

Mr. Henry W. Naisbitt has long held a foremost place among our Salt Lake poets. His poems are typical of the man. His subjects exhibit the native dig- nity of his own thoughts. Following are specimens :

TO-DAY. "As thy duy is so shall thy strength be." -Bible,

Strength for to-day is all we need, There never will be a to-morrow, For to-morrow will prove another to-day, With its measure of joy and sorrow.

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Strength for to-day is all we get, "Iis well to have that when needed ; Full oft when the sun in the west is set, Our strength has our hope exceeded.

Strength for to-diy, is all we ask ; Why grasp like the miser reaching ? When many are tired, though small their task, And they perish while life besecching.

Strength for to-day ; what more to say,- What use for a soul to borrow ; Life's troubles are surely enough to-day, And we never shall see a morrow.

Strength for to-day, I bless that word ; Ah, it falls like a sunset's glory ; My Father, 'tis not too long deferred, Each day brings the self-same story.

Strength for to-day ! No trouble now Seems worthy of thought or sorrow ; THY promise spans, like yon arching bow, The day-life, which knows no morrow.

THY NAME BE PRAISED!

Swells there a grand inspiring thought ; It comes from God,

And breaks with lofty purpose fraught ; On earth's green sod !

With tidal force it ebbs, it flows, As centuries pass ; Man knows not whence it comes, or goes, Or why it was!

"Tis meteor like, now here, now there,- Impulsive seems ; Now in the summer's morning air, Then, midnight dreams !

In zones apart, in lands afar, With us,-to-day ; Then moveless as yon radiant star, Or Milky-way !

Erratic, yet there is design, And wondrous plan ; What sage hath lore to help define For fellow-man ?

This inspiration shall be felt, And wide extend ; 'Till fertile hearts our earth shall belt, And time shall end !

Hail glorious age, hail latter-day ;- The days of light ! Hail Priesthoods grasp, hail its full sway, 'The rule of right !

For purpose is its end and aim, From sire to son ; To give to God, earth, back again. Which will be done!

How proudly beats the true man's heart, But God's can know ; For they to him that fire impart, Whose intense glow,- Shall light the world to higher spheres That day of earth's, one thousand years!

BESIDE THE GARDEN GATE.

The stars had lit their ruddy fires O'er all the crowning arch of night ; For day had fled to gild the spires Of western lands, with living light. The silent beauty bade me wait, Beside the swinging garden gate.

"T was Springtime then and perfume filled The evening air as twain we stood ; While love-tones through my being thrilled, As hand pressed hand, to say, I should, And bright eyes told that lips would wait, A kiss beside the garden gate.

As gently round my arms I swept, 1 clasped her to my bounding heart ; 'T was then the love which long had slept, Made two hearts one no time could part, And now-no need to wish or wait, My kiss beside the garden gate.

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For weal or woe, Love's impulse swells And that true heart is mine, my own ; My every pulse and action tells 'That happy hours from Love have grown. But memory knows I onee did wait, My first kiss by the garden gate.

DRIFTING !

Drifting apart, two fallen leaves, On the rippling face of a laughing tide, Yet each coquetting with make-believes, That still they are floating side by side !

Dancing and drifting to music sweet,- Murmuring musie 'neath Autumn's sun ; They, in the Springtime and Summer's heat, On the same tree had their life as one !

Drifting apart, obstructions tell,- Further and further they now divide; One goes down where the rapids swell, The other finds rest on a peaceful tide !

Quiet it floats, and a peaceful nook Controls its end, where it sinks away ; The other,-is dashed and wildly shook, Yet, like its fellow, meets sad deeay !

Drifting apart. - two human hearts, Though life's sun glows in their azure skies, And ever from each, the one thought starts,- ''Fis only a moment,"-they both despise !

A moment of life, yet fraught with death From chilling words, from a dark surmise, "Tis drifting apart,-yet, neither saith, " The distance is creeping," ah, sad disguise !

The one by a quiet pathway lies, Out of the current, in shady nook ; 'The other, the whirl of excitement tries, For pleasure is followed for garish look !

Destiny,-aeting on self-is met, Through self delusion ; the end portray ; Dancing or silent, life's sun doth set, In drifting apart, Love meets decay !

Mr. Orson F. Whitney, the youngest of our poets is working on a poem of the epic order. His jubilee poem, written in 1880 to celebrate the jubilee of his people, brought him into prominent notice. It is a noble picture of the Mormon Pioneers, and the subject of their first sight of the Valley of the Great Salt Lake.

At a later period he struck a loftier theme,, under the style of " A Christmas Idyl," published in the Contributor. This is also an epic fragment, which he has re-named " Immanuel." His last effort of a similar class is entitled

THE ANCIENT OF THE MOUNT.

Alone upon the mount ; a mighty hill Capped with the lingering snows of vanished years, Where towering forms the etherial azure fill, Swept by the breath of taintless atmospheres ; Where Nature throned in solitude, reveres The God whose glory she doth symbolize, And on the altar watered by her tears Spreads far around the fragrant sacrifice Whose incense wafts her sweet memorial to the skies.

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Here let me linger, O my native hills- Snow -mantled wonders of the western waste ! - With what a joy the bounding bosom thrills, Whose steps aspiring mar your summits chaste ! Not Language with her robes of rarest taste, Could clothe the swift-born thoughts in fitting dress, Surging upon the mind with torrent haste, Wrapt in mute wonder's conscious littleness Where loom the cloud-crownedl monarchs of the wilderness,

Whereo'er I roam, and still have loved to roam From early childhood's scarce-remembered day, And found my pensive soul's congenial home Far from the depths where human pissions play. Born at their feet, my own have learned to stray l'amiliar o'er these pathless heights and feel, As now, my mind assume a loftier sway, Soaring for themes that past its portails steal, Beyond its power to reach or utterance to reveal.

Oh, that my words were written in the rock, Graven with iron pen whose letters bold, Surviving still the crumbling ages shock, Should stand when seas of change around them rolled ! In kindred phrase lamented one of old. Knew he not well, ye mighty tomes of clay, How firm the trust your flinty page might hold ? Have ye not spurned the fiats of Decay ? Are ye not standing now where nations passed away ?

Ye hoary sentinels, whom heaven willed Should guard the treasures of a glorious land ! Had primal man the sacred garden tilled, Ere yet terrestrial scenes your vision scanned ? Were ye of miracles primeval, planned Ere rolled the world-creating fiat forth ? Or came at fell Convulsion's fierce command. 'Mid loud-tongued thunders bursting from the earth- The martial music that proclaimed your war-like birth ?

Ye voiceless oracles, whose intelligence Sleeps in the caverns of each stony heart, Yet breathes o'er all a silent eloquence, What wealth historie might your words impart ! Lone hermit of the hills, that loom'st apart From where thy banded mates in union dwell ; A chosen lender seemingly thou art, The spokesman of the throng that round thee swell ! And oh, were speech thy boon, what volumes could'st thou tell !

Thrice wondrous things were thine to wisely sean. And stranger yet than dreamed of mortal lore- Had'st thou that gift full oft misused by man, Though deemed his glory-thou might'st all restore. Till learning's tide o'erwhelmed its shining shore, And doubting souls, ill-fated to deny Bright truths exhumed fiom wisdom's buried store, Might in yon stream persuasion's force desery, And gladly drinking live, who doubting thirst and die.

Vain, vain the unavailable. Firm sealed Those rigid lips whose accents might diselose Marvels and mysteries yet unrevealed, Realms rich with joy, or wastes of human woes ; Or names of mighty empires that arose And fell like frost-hewn flowers before thy face ; Causes which wrought them an untimely close, Dark crimes for which a once delightsome race Was doomed to sink in death or live 'neath foul disgrace.

And like the laboring brain that burns to speak Unutterable thoughts, deep in its dungeons pent ; Or liker still to inward boiling peak Of fires volcanic, vainly seeking vent Where rock-ribbed walls an egress c'er prevent,

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Thou'rt doomed to utter stillness, and shalt keep The burden of thy bearing till is rent Yon heavenly vail, and earth and air and deep "Tell secreis that shall rouse the dead from solenin s'eep.

Thus musing, lone upon a beetling brow, Clothing with utterance the thoughts that sprung Swift as the sun fused flood's impetuous flow, Methought from out the rocky caves there rung A voice, whose tones bewraved no mortal tongue, But deeply clear though darkly mournful broke, As notes from off the weird-toned viol flung, Or, as the heavens lowly rumbling spoke, Heralding the storm-king with vivid flash and stroke :

"Son of man!"-the solemn sound rose echoing high- " Why lingerest here upon the mountain's brow ? Deem'st thou no stranger ear was listening nigh ? No louder tongue than thine, which did but now Powers of mine own so boldly disallow ? What would'st thou? Speak ! And haply thou shalt find These silent rocks their story may avow, In words such as the will of human-kind Hath made the wings whereon thought flits from mind to mind."

Amazed I listened. Did I more than dream ? Had random words aroused unhoped reply ? Or was it sound whose import did but seem ? Hark !- for again it breaks upon the sky : ' 'Then query hast thou none, or none would'st ply, Sve to thy soul in meditative strain, Or heedless winds that wander idly by ? So be it; still to me thy purpose plain, Thy hidden wish revealed, nor thus revealed in vain."

Whi'e yet upon the circumambient air Weird echoes trembled of that wilder tone ; While, as on threshold of a lion's lair, Speechless I stood, as stricken into stone ; Methought the sun with lessening splendor shone, As if some wandering cloud obscured his gaze. Expectant of such trite phenomenon, Turning, mine eyes beheld with rapt amaze What memory ne'er should lose were life of endless da. s.

A stately form of giant stature tall, Of hoary aspect venerable and grave, Whose curling locks and beard of copious fall Vied the white foam of ocean's storm-whipt wave. The deep-set eye flashed lightning from its cave, Far-darting penetration's gaze, combined With wisdom's milder light. Of learning, gave Deep evidence that brow by labor lined. Thought's ample throne where might but rule a monarch mind.

The spirit's garb-for spirit so it seemed- Fell radiant in many a flowing fold, Of style antique, by modern limners deemed Befitting monk or eremite of old. The hoary head was bare, the presence bold With majesty, e'en as a God might wear When condescended to a mortal mould. It spake-the voice no longer thrilled with fear, Like solemn music's swell it charmed the listening ear.

" Mine is the burden of the mighty past ; Far ages flown find oracle in me; Reserved of all my race, on earth the last, Alike thy minstrel and thy muse to be. For this my doom, fixed by a firm decree- Wherefore or whence it suits me not to say : But hence to pass might I no more be free, Till destiny should guide or hither stray One who would quest my tale and list my solemn lay.

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Long have I watched and waited; but no sound Broke the deep stillness of my drear abode- Save 't were the thunder smote the trembling groun.I. Or far beneath some torrent's fury flowed ; Anon the screaming eagle past me rode ; The seeker after gokl, with toilsome stride, And eager eyes to fix the shining lode. Hath paused and panted on the steep hill-side ;- But none for greater things till now have hither hied.

" List, son of man, for I am one by whom l'idings of times forgotten thou shalt hear ; Thy mission to dispel in part the gloom "That wraps the mystic past and chains me here. Thou, my deliverer from durance drear, Ilearken till I the record have unrolled ; Then, rest not thou, nor toil nor danger fear, Till all that I may tell or yet have told

Shall blaze in letters bright on history's page of gold."

The ancient paused, and, unespied till then, A mammoth harp his bosom swung before ; Such as, perchance, tuned Israel's psalmist when An evil sprite his monarch tossed and tore, And music's magic quelled satanic power: Seated, his form against a erag reclined. He waved me to his feet, and forth did pour In rolling numbers on the mountain wind. The song whose surges swept the channels of his mind

" The soil whereon thou stand'st is Freedom's own, Redeemed by blood of patriots o'er and o'er ; When all else was defiled, this land alone Was saered kept-a consecrated shore. The Gods of freedom and of justice swore No tyrant should this chosen land defile ;

And nations here, that for a season wore The robe of power, must righteous be the while, Or Ruin's toreh should swiftly light their funeral pile.

" Three races nursed upon this goodly land ; And nations glorious as the stars of heaven Have fallen by Retribution's blood-red hand Before mine eyes, since that dread word was given; Empires and realms, as trees by lightning riven ; Cities Jaid waste and lands left desolate ; The wretched remnant, blasted, cursed and driven Forth by the furies of revengeful Fate- Till Wonder asks in vain, ' What of their former state? '"

Mr. Whitney is still working upon this poem, which gives promise of great capacity and variety of treatment. It is designed to embody the epic story of three races of this continent-two of the ancients who have passed away, whose history in a poem is to be revealed by " The Ancient of the Mount," and the present race of Americans whose future is to be outlined by this august shadow of the olden times.

The veteran poet, John Lyon, in his native Scotland, now nearly sixty years ago, entered the sphere of authorship and earned his daily bread by his pen. This note of itself is a suggestive reminiscence of his life, for sixty years ago were days when authors lived and died in garrets, and the " fittest alone survived." As an author he came into the Mormon Church and has held his place as an author to the good old age of eighty-three. His best line of authorship was in his char- acteristic Scottish stories. His description of Scottish scenery not only shows the professional author's hand, but sometimes they remind the reader of the touches of Sir Walter Scott. It is not possible in a general chapter to give ade-

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quate examples of his stories ; they are published and will occupy a place in Utah literature; but the following reflections from his venerable pen may be repeated as the closing talk to the reader from a dear old friend :

YOUTH AND AGE.

The thoughts of infancy and childhood seem Like dreams that vanish at our waking hours, While boyhood's actions is a fresher theme, Ere age is weak'ning the reflective powers. Well we remember most we've said or done, What others said or sung in sport or play, Of thoughts and feelings long since past and gone, We see and hear, as if 'twere yesterday.

The smile parental approbation gave, The pedant's birch that o'er the truant played ;, The shallow brook, we, wading, stem'd the wave, Or played at hide-and-seek in bushy glade. The tempting treasure of the ripened fruit ; The yellow cream the cupboard hid from view ; The stolen sugar and the quick pursuit, When grandmi with the broomstick di I pursu >.

The old graveyard, so lonely on the hill, We've thoughtless roamed, and on the tombstones read Of severed friendship, graved by human skill, That would have raised the blushes of the dead ; The burning fever, stung by Cupid's dart, That longed for something death had nameless made, Which we could feel, yet dared not to impart Of what we felt for some bewitching maid.

The favors granted that no toil had won ; The praise or blame we earned for good or bad ; The tricks we played; the races we had run ; The proud contentions and the fights we had ; The giant thoughts by emulation sown, How great we would be if with learning fraught ; Graved golden scenes of life, with riches strewn, Without a thorn to gall youth's happy thought.

Beyond the hoary age of four score years The best of life is tainted with disease- A semi-lameness, blindness, half-closed ears ! But youth's reflection minds all things with case. Beyond this date we grow a child again, Minus of all the pleasures of our youth, With here and there a little touch of pain, And wav'ring step would tumble us forsooth.

" If not to know the tale of ages past," 'Tis said, " we will continue still a child ;" Alas! when mem'ry fades, a dark cloud cast O'er manhood, life looks mystified and riled. Search where we may to find some truth revered, It seems a phantom fading from our sight ; Our boyhood life starts up, loved, loathed or feared, Instead of what we looked for in another light.

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History of Salt Lake City, Part 104

Author: Tullidge, Edward Wheelock Publication date: 1886 Publisher: Salt Lake City, Star printing company Number of Pages: 1194

Author: Tullidge, Edward Wheelock
Publication date: 1886
Publisher: Salt Lake City, Star printing company
Number of Pages: 1194