Chapter IV: Poets (4)

And the bright band now around me, from their home perchance will rove,
In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love;
But my first-born still shall wander, from the sky in dreams to rest
Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.

Time may steal away the freshness, or some 'whelming grief destroy
All the hopes that erst had blossomed, in my summer-time of joy;
Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray,
Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away;--

But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home,
Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come;
And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly love,
Angel children call me "Mother," and my soul will look above.

[Footnote 97: A native of Mississippi, but of late a resident of Kentucky; the author of several novels, and of many poetical pieces.]

* * * * *

=_Sarah J. Lippincott._=

From Putnam's Magazine.

=_422._= "ABSOLUTION."

The long day waned, when spent with pain, I seemed
To drift on slowly toward the restful shore,--
So near, I breathed in balm, and caught faint gleams
Of Lotus-blooms that fringe the waves of death,
And breathless Palms that crown the heights of God.

Then I bethought me how dear hands would close
These wistful eyes in welcome night, and fold
These poor, tired hands in blameless idleness.
In tender mood I pictured forth the spot
Wherein I should be laid to take my rest.

"It shall be in some paradise of graves,
Where Sun and Shade do hold alternate watch;
Where Willows sad trail low their tender green,
And pious Elms build arches worshipful,
O'ertowered by solemn Pines, in whose dark tops
Enchanted storm-winds sigh through summer-nights;
The stalwart exile from fair Lombardy,
And slender Aspens, whose quiet, watchful leaves
Give silver challenge to the passing breeze,
And softly flash and clash like fairy shields,
Shall sentinel that quiet camping ground;
The glow and grace of flowers will flood those mounds
An ever-widening sea of billowy bloom;
And not least lovely shall my grave-sod be,
With Myrtles blue, and nestling Violets,
And Star-flowers pale with watching--Pansies, dark,
With mourning thoughts, and Lilies saintly pure;
Deep-hearted Roses, sweet as buried love,
And Woodbine-blossoms dripping honeyed dew
Over a tablet and a sculptured name.
There little song-birds, careless of my sleep,
Shall shake fine raptures from their throats, and thrill
With life's triumphant joy the ear of Death;
And lovely, gauzy creatures of an hour
Preach immortality among the graves.
The chime of silvery waters shall be there--
A pleasant stream that winds among the flowers,
But lingers not, for that it ever hears,
Through leagues of wood and field and towered town,
The great sea calling from his secret deeps."

'Twas here, methought or dreamed, an angel came
And stood beside my couch, and bent on me
A face of solemn questioning, still and stern,
But passing beautiful, and searched my soul
With steady eyes, the while he seemed to say.

What hast thou done here, child, that thy poor dust
Should lie embosomed in such loveliness?
Why should the gracious trees stand guard o'er thee?
Hast thou aspired, like them, through all thy life,
And rest and healing with thy shadow cast?
Have deeds of thine brightened the world like flowers,
And sweetened it with holiest charities?

* * * * *

=_Edmund Clarence Stedman,[98] 1833-._=

From "The Blameless Prince and other Poems."

=_423._= THE MOUNTAINS.

Two thousand feet in air it stands
Betwixt the bright and shaded lands,
Above the regions it divides
And borders with its furrowed sides.
The seaward valley laughs with light
Till the round sun o'erhangs this height;
But then, the shadow of the crest
No more the plains that lengthen west
Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps
Eastward, until the coolness steeps
A darkling league of tilth and wold,
And chills the flocks that seek their fold.

Not like those ancient summits lone,
Mont Blanc on his eternal throne,--
The city-gemmed Peruvian, peak,--
The sunset portals landsmen seek,
Whose train, to reach the Golden Land,
Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,--
Or that whose ice-lit beacon guides
The mariner on tropic tides,
And flames across the Gulf afar,
A torch by day, by night a star,--
Not thus to cleave the outer skies.
Does my serener mountain rise.
Nor aye forget its gentle birth
Upon the dewey, pastoral earth.

But ever, in the noonday light,
Are scenes whereof I love the sight,--
Broad pictures of the lower world
Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled.
Irradiate distances reveal
Fair nature wed to human weal;
The rolling valley made a plain;
Its chequered squares of grass and grain;
The silvery rye, the golden wheat,
The flowery elders where they meet,--
Ay, even the springing corn I see,
And garden haunts of bird and bee;
And where, in daisied meadows, shines
The wandering river through its vines,
Move, specks at random, which I know
Are herds a-grazing to and fro.

[Footnote 98: Was born in Connecticut but has long resided in New York, where he has combined an active business life with literary pursuits--a favorite contributor to that magazines.]

* * * * *

=_John James Piatt,[99] 1835-._=

From "Landmarks and other Poems."

=_424._= LONG AGO.

Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,
Through years of woe,
The Paradise with angels in its gates
Is Long Ago.

The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever,
In silence, show
Vanishing faces! but they vanish never
In Long Ago!

Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow,
With footsteps slow,
Poor Yesterdays! Immortal gleams ye borrow
In Long Ago.

The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning,
Our eyes o'erflow:
Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,
Leave Long Ago.

We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing,
From valleys low;
To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming
In Long Ago.

Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!--the fair
Beloved ones, lo!
Shine yonder, through the angel gates of air,
In Long Ago.

[Footnote 99: Of Western birth and education. His verse though somewhat crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]

* * * * *

=_Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-._=

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_425._= "REGRET."

Softly Death touched her, and she passed away,
Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair;
Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May,
The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.

All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight,
That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!
How must the house be emptied of delight!
What shadows on the threshold she passed o'er!

She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yet
I could not give her back all she gave me,--
Ever I think of it with vain regret,
Musing upon a summer by the sea:

Remembering troops of merry girls who pressed
About me, clinging arms and tender eyes,
And love, light scent of roses. With the rest
She came to fill my heart with new surprise.

The day I left them all and sailed away,
While o'er the calm sea, 'neath the soft gray sky
They waved farewell, she followed me to say
Yet once again her wistful, sweet "good by."

At the boat's bow she drooped; her light green dress
Swept o'er the skiff in many a graceful fold,
Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress,
Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:

And tears she dropped into the crystal brine
For me, unworthy, as we slowly swung
Free of the mooring. Her last look was mine,
Seeking me still the motley crowd among.

O tender memory of the dead I hold
So precious through the fret and change of years!
Were I to live till Time itself grew old,
The sad sea would be sadder for those tears.

[Footnote 100: A native of New Hampshire; long resident on the Isles of Shoals, and remarkable for her vivid pictures of ocean life, in both prose and verse.]

* * * * *

=_Theophilus H. Hill.[101] 1836-._=

From "The Song of the Butterfly."

=_426._=

When the shades of evening fall,
Like the foldings of a pall,--
When the dew is on the flowers,
And the mute, unconscious hours,
Still pursue their noiseless flight
Through the dreamy realms of night,
In the shut or open rose
Ah, how sweetly I repose!

* * * * *

And Diana's starry train,
Sweetly scintillant again,
Never sleep while I repose
On the petals of the rose.
Sweeter couch hath who than I?
Quoth the brilliant Butterfly.

Life is but a summer day,
Gliding languidly away;
Winter comes, alas! too soon,--
Would it were forever June!
Yet though brief my flight may be,
Fun and frolic still for me!
When the summer leaves and flowers,
Now so beautiful and gay,
In the cold autumnal showers,
Droop and fade, and pine away,
Who would not prefer to die?
What were life to _such as I_?
Quoth the flaunting Butterfly.

[Footnote 101: Born in North Carolina; in the intervals of his law practice has published a volume of poems.]

* * * * *

=_Thomas Hailey Aldrich.[102] 1836-._=

From his "Poems."

=_427._= THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.

Kind was my friend who, in the Eastern land,
Remembered me with such a gracious hand,
And sent this Moorish Crescent which has been
Worn on the tawny bosom of a queen.

No more it sinks and rises in unrest
To the soft music of her heathen breast;
No barbarous chief shall bow before it more,
No turbaned slave shall envy and adore!

I place beside this relic of the Sun
A cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon,
Once 'borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod
The desert to Jerusalem--and his God!

Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds,
Each meaning something to our human needs,
Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith,
By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.

That for the Moslem is, but this for me!
The waning Crescent lacks divinity:
It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes
Of women shut in hushed seraglios.

But when this Cross of simple wood I see,
The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me,
And glorious visions break upon my gloom--
The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!

[Footnote 102: Born in New Hampshire, but long connected with the press in New York. Has produced several volumes of poetry of unusual beauty and finish.]

* * * * *

=_Francis Bret Harte._=

From his "Poems."

=_428._= DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river ran below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health,
On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure,
To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader
Was youngest of them all,--
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar,
A silence seemed to fall.

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,
Wandered, and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken
As by some spell divine--
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp I and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?--
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,--
This spray of Western pine!

* * * * *

From "East and West Poems."

=_429._= THE TWO SHIPS.

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,
Looking over the ultimate sea,
In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,
And one sails away from the lea:
One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,
With pennant and sheet flowing free;
One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,--
The ship that is waiting for me!

But lo, in the distance the clouds break away!
The Gate's glowing portals I see;
And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay
The song of the sailors in glee:
So I think of the luminous footprints that bore
The comfort o'er dark Galilee,
And wait for the signal to go to the shore,
To the ship that is waiting for me.

* * * * *

=_Charles Dimitry,[103] 1838-._=

=_430._= "THE SERGEANT'S STORY."

Our army lay,
At break of day,
A full league from the foe away.
At set of sun,
The battle done,
We cheered our triumph, dearly won.

* * * * *

All night before,
We marked the roar
Of hostile guns that on us bore;
And 'here and there,
The sudden blare
Of fitful bugles smote the air.

No idle word
The quiet stirred
Among us as the morning neared;
And brows were bent,
As silent went
Unto its post each regiment.

Blank broke the day,
And wan and gray
The drifting clouds went on their way.
So sad the morn,
Our colors torn,
Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn!

At early sun,
The vapors dun
Were lifted by a nearer gun;
At stroke of nine,
Auspicious sign
The sun shone out along the line.

Then loud and clear,
From cannoneer
And rifleman arose a cheer;
For as the gray
Mists cleared away,
We saw the charging foe's array.

[Footnote 103: Of a Louisiana family: is considered one of the most promising of the young writers of the South. The present is a favorable specimen of the poetry of the secession writers.]

* * * * *

=_John Hay._=[104]

From "Pike County Ballads."

=_431._= THE PRAIRIE.

The skies are blue above my head,
The prairie green below,
And flickering o'er the tufted grass
The shifting shadows go,
Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds
Fleck white the tranquil skies,
Black javelins darting where aloft
The whirring pheasant flies.

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance
The dim horizon bounds,
Where all the air is resonant
With sleepy summer sounds,--
The life that sings among the flowers,
The lisping of the breeze,
The hot cicada's sultry cry,
The murmurous dream of bees.

The butterfly--a flying flower--
Wheels swift in flashing rings,
And flutters round his quiet kin
With brave flame-mottled wings.
The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,
The Phlox' bright clusters shine,
And Prairie-cups are swinging free
To spill their airy wine.

* * * * *

Far in the East, like low-hung clouds
The waving woodlands lie;
Far in the West, the glowing plain
Melts warmly in the sky;
No accent wounds the reverent air,
No foot-print dints the sod,--
Lone in the light the prairie lies,
Rapt in a dream of God.

[Footnote 104: Born in Indiana. Gave up the practice of the law to become Secretary and Aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Served briefly in the Rebellion war with the rank of Colonel, and was afterward Secretary of Legation at Paris and Madrid, and for some months, Chargé d'Affaires at Vienna. Subsequently applied himself to literature and journalism.]

* * * * *

=_Joaquin Miller._=[105]

From "Songs of the Sierras."

=_432._= THE FUTURE OF CALIFORNIA.

Dared I but say a prophecy,
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
Along those shining shores of gold,
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told!
Enough to know that empire here
Shall burn her brightest, loftiest star;
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learn'd and famous from afar,
To pay their noble court, shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all, with wonder dumb.

Afar the bright Sierras lie,
A swaying line of snowy white,
A fringe of heaven hung in sight
Against the blue base of the sky.

I look along each gaping gorge,
I near a thousand sounding strokes,
Like giants rending giant oaks,
Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;
I see pick-axes flash and shine,
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A moss'd and silver stream instead;
And trout that leap'd its rippled tide
Have turn'd upon their sides and died.

Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mould,
And wheels no more croak in distress,
And tall pines reassert command,
Sweet bards along this sunset shore
Their mellow melodies will pour;
Will charm as charmers very wise,
Will strike the harp with master-hand,
Will sound unto the vaulted skies
The valor of these men of old--
The mighty men of 'Forty-nine;
Will sweetly sing and proudly say,
Long, long agone, there was a day
When there were giants in the land.

[Footnote 105: Cincinnatus Heine Miller, commonly known by his assumed name of Joaquin Miller. Born in Indiana, but was taken when very young to Oregon. After a wild career in Oregon and California, he at length studied for the law. His poetry, like his life, is of an eccentric cast.]

* * * * *

=_Joel Chandler Harris,[106] 1846-._=

=_433._= "AGNES."

She has a tender, winning way,
And walks the earth with gentle grace,
And roses with the lily play
Amid the beauties of her face.

When'er she tunes her voice to sing,
The song-birds list, with anxious looks,
For it combines the notes of spring
With all the music of the brooks.

Her merry laughter, soft and low,
Is as the chimes of silver bells,--
That like sweet anthems float, and flow
Through woodland groves and bosky dells,

And when the violets see her eyes,
They flush and glow--with love and shame,
They meekly droop with sad surprise,
As though unworthy of the name.

But still they bloom where'er she throws
Her dainty glance and smiles so sweet.
And e'en amid stern winter's snows
The daisies spring beneath her feet.

She wears a crown of Purity,
Full set with woman's brightest gem,--
A wreath of maiden modesty,
And Virtue is the diadem.

And when the pansies bloom again,
And spring and summer intertwine.
Great joys will fall on me like rain,
For she will be for ever mine!

[Footnote 106: A native of Georgia; is deemed one of the best of the younger poets of the South.]