Thomas William Herringshaw.

Local and national poets of America, with biographical sketches and choice selections from over one thousand living American poets; online

. (page 107 of 138)
Online LibraryThomas William HerringshawLocal and national poets of America, with biographical sketches and choice selections from over one thousand living American poets; → online text (page 107 of 138)
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Wide Awake, Boston Transcript, Living
Church, Chicago Times, Inter-Ocean, and the
leading periodicals of America. Two prose




CALLIE L. BOXNEV-MARBLE.

works from her pen, 'SVit and Wisdom of Bul-
wer and Wisdom and Eloquence of Webster,
have been highly praised by the press. In 1889
she was married at San Francisco to Earl
Marble, a well-known poet and journalist. As a
writer of prose and verse Mrs. Marble is gain-
ing a national reputation.



ee-



AN EASTER CUSTOM.
I met her Easter morning
In the old cathedral isle.



And, early at the service.
She gave me bow and smile.

The sexton old had vanished.

The organist asleep ;
I asked if ancient customs

It were not well to keep.

"Oh, yes," she gravely answered;

"To which do you refer?"
i>To one the Greeks now practice;

'Tis pleasing I aver."

" Oh ! something quaint and olden !

And could we do it here? "
Slyly I glanced about us.

And saw no one was near.

•' I think we might," I answered;

Eor how could I resist?
I wonder if the preacher

Knew some one had been kissed !



GOOD-NIGHT.
The golden gleam of the western sun

In a flood of amber light.
Streamed softly in at the window, where

It lingered to say good-night.

And slowly, sweetly the vesper bell

Rang out in the evening air.
While floating upward the music came

Like the sound of an angel's prayer.

Then over the misty clouds of pearl.

In a glorious wave of light.
The daylight faded from earth away.

And was lost in the starry night.

And clearly, softly the day went home,
With its record of joy and pain,—

Written in shadow or gleaming light.
The eternal loss and gain.



UNDER THE MISTLETOE.
I stood beneath the mistletoe,

Nay, do not chide me !
How should I know that one would come

And stand beside me?

How should I know that he would claim

The forfeit from me?
To surmise even such a thing

Would ill become me.

And then you know the Christmas song.
Of " Peace, good will toward men,"

Kept running through my mind, mayhap
Obscuring mental ken.

The circumstance, not I, to blame

That there should be I trow,
A kiss, a vow, a promised bride

Beneath the mistletoe.



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LOCAL, AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



799



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MRS. DORCAS FOSTER COOKE.

Born: Somerset Co., Me., May 25, 1839.
Mrs. Cooke is a resident of Oconto, Wis.,
"where her husband is a uurserj-man and
farmer. Since her twentieth year the pro-




. IKlliCAS FOSTER COOKE.

ductions of this ladj- have appeared more or
less in tlie periodical press. In 1888 she pub-
lished, In conjunction with Mrs. Julia Ellen
Jenkins, a neat volume of poems entitled
Memories, a work that has been well and
favorably received.



^-



DEOPS OF DEW.

Radiant spark of trembling- lightj.

Little silver spray;
The spear of knot grass' shining brig-ht

In gorgeous array.
As diamond bright it does entrance,

The various rays combine.
Garnet and topas at a glance.

With violets do entwine.

Yes, there's the ruby's clearest hue,

And amethyst so gay.
And sapphires ever changing too.

The emerald ; but stay.
It all in one bright rainbow seems.

And by the breezes tossed.
Like sudden gleams on life's dark stream.

Is quickly, strangely lost.



INDIAN SUMMER.
Indian summer's golden days,

Tho' the leaves are sere and brown,
Tlie lonely heart now breathes thy praise,

Blue-crested jays scream thy renown.
Oh! blest incensed reviving air;

Than balmy June's most perfumed flower.
That lines the walks, thou art more fair,

Indian summer's golden hours.
Indian summer's golden hours.

How soft thy breeze o'er smoky hill.
Bears autumn leaves and wrecks of flowers.

Ere winters breath comes cold and chill.
I love thy tints, thy sweet perfume.

Thy dimmest ray, thy loudest tone ;
Thy voiceless morn, thy mellow moon,

Indian summer's golden day.



HUBBARD ALONZO BARTON.

BOBN : Ckoydon, N. H., May 1, 1843.
For manj^ years this gentleman held the po-
sition of superintendent of schools. In 18T9
he became the editor and one of the proprie-
tors of the N. H. Argus and Spectator.



FLAG OF OUR COUNTRY.

O flag of our country and emblem of glory !
How dear to my heart is the shrine thou
infold.
How noble the deeds enbalmed in thy story,

How sacred thy trust to the millons untold.
The Royal of Britain may cause admiration
To well in the heart of the Englishman's
breast ;
The German Inperial point admonition
To the foe that would dare that nation's
behest.
The Stars and the Stripes have a far grander
meaning :
They stand for freedom and liberty's law;
For learning and progress and Christ's spirit
gleaming.
The grand, hailing future our forefather's
saw.
They tell of a nation whose glory and
grandeur
Are known in remotest abodes of the earth,
Whose blessings are shed on the poor and the
stranger.
As well as the rich and the subjects by birth.
Then guard ever well our lov'd ensign of free
dom.
Protect tlie proud emblem on land and by
sea,
Sing its praises in song and hopeful Te Deum,
And long- let it wave o'er the land of the
free.



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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMEKICA.







MRS. CLARA KING-TAYLOR.

Born : Hartford, Conn., Jan. 4, 1866.
This lady was married in 1886 to William H.
Taylor, secretary of the Connecticut Weekly
Press Association, and resides at Eockville,
Conn. Mrs. Taylor is a gifted writer, and has
gained quite a reputation as an author, writ-
ing- with equal success both poetry and prose.
She is undoubtedly the best known poetess
and writer other age in New England.



INDEPENDENCE DAY.

Hail to thee, glowing eastern sun,

Thou king of light.
Send out thy gleams o'er us, great orb.

Thy rays most bright.
Goddess of peace and union fair.

Wave high to-day
The banner of thy freedom strong.

In colors gay.
Shout now for liberty anew,

Thy anthems swell ;
One hundred years and 'leven ago

Oppression fell.

Fathers felt the fetters loose.

The tyrant quailed.
He dropped the sword to flight no more;

Our rights prevailed.
This is our Independence day.

Reminder dear
Of hours when faithful hearts fought long

Without a fear.
They loved thy true and noble cause,

Sweet Liberty,
May we in every future year

Be true to thee.



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THE PRESS.
Genius, wisdom, wit and humor,

Sparkle in the timely toast.
As they grace the well-flUed table.

Which the Tontine well can boast.

The Connecticut Weekly Press

Might honor a royal board;
Its value to the state and home

Is mightier than the sword.

To-day the Association

Has met; and this its object:
Mutual gain and protection;

To bless the Craft, its project.

The want of fraternal concourse
Will no longer cloud the skies;

The light of growing ambition
Will kindle new enterprise.

Priendship, strength will crown the union.
Raise the standard of the press



As a preacher, teacher, power,
In the field of usefulness.

We would see its numbers widen
In good work and motive pure ;

Without difference or envy.
It must succeed and endure.



REV. TRUEMAN S. PERRY.

Born: Oxford, Me., Dec. 20,1826.
In 1861 Mr. Perry was appointed one of the
clerks of the U. S. senate, at the same time
acting as correspondent for the Portland
Press, Transcript, Washington Chronicle and
other papers. In 1873 he was ordained as a
Congrational clergyman, laboring for twelve
years at Cumberland, and is now a pastor of
the above demomiuation at Limerick, Me. He
was married in 1854 to Miss Elizabeth G. Hale.



SILVER.
Pive and twenty j-ears have sped.
Gentle heart, since we were wed!
Some in shade, but more in light,
Some bedimmed, but more bedight;
Pive and twenty years have run
Since the day that made us one.

I will weave a simple lay,
Wifle mine, for thee to-day ;
Glad and thankful shall it be.
Time has touched us sparingly;
He has stolen away our youth.
He has left us love and truth.

Loyal faith and tender love.
Fortune's golden gifts above.
More than praise of sweetest tongue.
More than plaudits said or sung;
These have made us rich alway.
These our treasures are to-day.

Blessings on thee, gentle wife,
Who hast crowned with love m j' life.
Shared each sorrow and annoy.
Doubled for me every joy,
Sweetness of the sweet lang syne.
Blessings on thee, heart of mine.

Unto Him whose will benign
Made thee mine, and made me thine.
Who has filled our lot with weal.
Made us loving, kept us leal.
Kindly led us on our way.
Render we our thanks to-day.

Thanks to God for years gone by.
For these moments now that fly ;
May He guide us hand in hand.
Journeying toward the better land,
Keep us still in trust and love-
Bring us to the home above.



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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



801



ALICE W. ROLLINS.

Born: Boston, Mass., June 12, 1847.
Alice Wellington was taught by her father,
and completed her studies in Europe. She
taught for several years in Boston, and in 1876
married Daniel M. Rollins of New York. The
Ring- of Amethyst is the title of her volume of
poems. She has written several prose works.



INDIAN SUMMER.

Linger, O day !
Let not thy purple haze

Fade utterly away.
The Indian summer lays
Her tender touch upou the emerald hills,

Exquisite thrills
Of delicate gladness fill the blue-veined air.

More restful even than rest.
The passionate sweetness that is everywhere.

Soft splendors in the west
Touch with the charm of coming changef ulness

The yielding hills.

O linger, day !

Let not the dear
Delicious languor of thy dreamf ulness

Vanish awayl

Serene and clear.
The brooding stillness of the delicate air.
Dreamier than the di-eamiest depths of sleep

Fall softly everywhere.

Still let me keep
One Uttle hour longer tryst with thee,

O day of days !

Lean down to me.
In tender beauty of thy amethyst haze

Upon the vine
Rich clinging clusters of the ripening grape

Hang silent in the sun,

Butin each one [wine.

Beats with full throb the quickening purple
Whose pulse shall round the perfect fruit to
shape.

Too dreamy even to dreaii.
T hear the murmuri jig bee and gliding stream ;
The singing silence of the afternoon,
LulUng my yielding senses till they swoon

Into still deeper rest.

While soul released from sense,

Passionate and intense,
With quick exultant quiver in its wings,
Prophetic longing for diviner things.

Escapes the unthinking breast;
Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist.
But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed
By burning stars ; delirious foretaste
Of joys the soul — too eager in its haste
. To grasp ere won by the diviner right [bear.
Of birth through death — is far too weak to

Bathed in earth's lesser light.
Slipping down slowly through the shining air.
Once more it steals into the dreaming breast.



Praying again to be its patient guest.

And as my senses wake,
The beautiful glad soul to take,

The twilight falls:

A lonely wood-thrush calls

The day away.
"Where hast thou been to-day,
O soul of mine? " I wondering question her.
She will not answer while the light winds stir
And rustle near to hear what she may say.

Thou needst not linger, day !

My soul and I
Would hold high converse of diviner things
Than blossom underneath thy tender sky.

Unfold thy wings;
Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze.
And gliding down the slowly darkening ways,

Vanish away !



JOHN BURROUGHS.

Born: Roxbury, N. Y., April 3, 1837.
After receiving an academic education, John
taught school eight or nine years, and then be-
came a journalist in New York. For ten years
he was a clei-k in the treasury department at
Washington, and at the end of that time was
appointed receiver of a national bank. In 1874
he settled on a farm in Esopus, N. Y., devoting
his time to literature and fruit culture, except
the months when his duties as bank-examiner
called him away. He has issued several vol-
umes of prose, and has contributed largely
both prose and verse to periodicals.



WAITING.

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate.

For lo ! my own shall come to me.
I stay mj^ haste, I make delays.

For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day

The friends I seek are seeking me :
No wind can drive my bark astray,

Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;
Mj' heart shall reap where it has sown,

And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height ;
So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky:

The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high.

Can keep my own away from me.



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802



LOCAL A2fD NATIONAL POETS OF A3IERICA.



HARRIET p. SPOFFORD.

Born : Calais, Me., April 3, 1835.
In her youth Harriet was taken by her parents
to Newburyport, Mass., which has ever since
been her home. She received a good education,
and at an earlj- age contributed to the story-
papers of Boston, earning small pay with a
great deal of labor. Her first notable hit was
a sparkling story of Parisian life, which ap-
peared in 1859 in the Atlantic Monthly, under
the title of In the Cellar; and from that day
she was a welcome contributor, of both poetrj'
and prose, to the chief periodicals of the coun-
try. A volume of poems appeared in 1882, and
Ballads About Authors in 1888, in addition to
which she has written numerous prose works.

MOTHER MINE.
When by the ruddy fire I spelled

In one old volume and another.
Those ballads haunted by fair women.

One of them always seemed my mother.
In storied song she dwelt, where dwell

Strange things and sweet of eld and eerie.
The foam of Binnorie's bonny mill-dams.

The bowing birks, the wells o' Wearie.
All the Queen's Maries she did know.

The eldritch knight, the sisters seven.
The lad that lay upon the Lomonds

And saw the perch play in Lochleven.
Burd Helen had those great gray eyes.

Their rays from shadowj' lashes fliugmg;
That smile the winsome bride of Yarrow

Before her tears were set to singing.
That mouth was just the mouth that kissed

Sir Cradocke under the green mid wood;
Fair Rosamond was tall as she was

In those fixed fancies of my childhood.
And when she sang — ah, when she sang!

Birds are less sweet, and flutes not clearer —
In ancient halls I sr.w the minstrel.

And shapes long dead arose fo hear her!
Darlings of song I've heard since then,

But no such voice as hers was, swelhng
Like bell- notes on the winds of morning.

All angelhood about it dwelling.
No more ^vithin those regions dim

Of rich romance my thoughts would place her,
Her life itself is such a poem

She does not need old names to grace her.
Long years have iled, but left her charm

Smiling to see that years are fleeter.
Those baUads are as sweet as ever,

But she is infinitely sweeter.
For love, that shines through all her ways.

Hinders the stealthy hours from duty,
A soul divinely self-forgetful

Has come to blossom in her beauty.



While the low brow, the silver curl.

The twiUght glance, the perfect features.
The rose upon a creamy pallor.

Make her the loveUest of creatures.
Now with the glow that on the face

Like moonlight on a flower has found her.
With the tone's thrill, a faint remoteness,

Half like a halo hangs around her.
Half like a halo? Nay, indeed,

I never saw a picture painted —
Such holy work the years have rendered —

So like a woman that is sainted.



COL. THOMAS W, HIGGINSOX.

Born: Cajibridge, Mass., Dec. 22, 1823.
This great anti-slavist, minister, soldier, and
author has had a varied career. He is an earn-
est advocate of woman suffrage and of the
higher education for both sexes. He has con-
tributed largelj- to current literature,and is the
author of a score or more volumes of prose,
'oesides editing several large and important
works. Col. Higginson was also a member of
the Massachusetts legislatui-e in 1880 and 1881,
sei-ving as chief of staff to the governor at the
same time; and in 1881-83 was a member of the
state board of education.



DECORATION.
manibus date lilia plenis.
Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand
Bearing lilies in my hand.
Comrades! in what soldier-grave
Sleeps the bravest of the brave?
Is it he who sank to rest
With his colors round his breast?
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine ;
Garlands veil it; ask not mine.
One low grave, yon trees beneath.
Bears no roses, wears no wreath:
Yet no heart more high and warm
Ever dared the battle-storm ;
Never gleamed a prouder ej"e
In the front of victory,
Never foot had firmer tread
On the field where hope lay dead.
Than are hid within this tomb.
Where the untended grasses bloom;
And no stone, Avith feigu'd disti'ess.
Mocks the sacred loneliness.
Youth and beauty, dauntless will.
Dreams that life could ne'er fulfill,
Hei-e lie buried; here in peace
Wrongs and woes have found release.
Turning from my comrades' eyes.
Kneeling where a woman lies,
I strew lilies on the grave
Of the bravest of the brave.



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LOCAL AND XATIOXAL POETS OF AMEKICA.



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MARGA RET MCRAE LACKEY.

Born: Copiah Co., Miss., Oct. 24, 1858.
The poems of Miss Lackey have appeared in
tbe New Orleans Picayune, Southern Culti-
vator and the periodical press generally.




_J



.MAHUAKET M RAE LACKEY.

She follows the profession of teaching, and
resides in her native state at Crj'stal Springs.
Miss Lackey hopes soon to issue a volume.

EVEX THIS WILL PASS AWAY.
Of all the proverbs quaint and sweet,
That burdened .souls so often greet.

As some wise voice from ancient clay.
There sure is none in M-hose belief,
The worn heart finds such sweet relief,

As "Even this will pass away!"
When weary hands from early dawn
Till lengthening- eve must labor on.

And know not surcease day by daj';
How gladly comes the sweet refrain.
That echoes o'er and o'er again,

" This, even this, will pass away."
When burdens that are hard to bear
Would sink the soul 'neatli Ijlack Despair,

And whitening- lips refuse to pray;
Faith's lovelj' face e'en then will glow.
And sweet her voice that whispers low,

" But even this will pass away."
When earth to earth and dust to dust
Is read above our heart's best trust.



«■



And we in aug-uish turn away:
The bitter cup less bitter seems.
When through its dregs the bright truth
gleams,

That even this will pass away.
Yea, even this ! With hearts bowed down
We stand before the new-made mound,

And long to greet the coming- day.
When weary feet have found a rest;
When hands are folded o'er the breast;

And all life's woes have passed away.



V.^HEN THE SUN GOES DOWN.
When the sun goes down,
And lengthening shadows round me fall.
And night enwraps the world in its dark pall,
I wonder if I'll sit at close of day
And backward glance along the dreary way.
And count with blinding tears its anguished

woe, [blow

And mark the spots where adverse winds did
And storms did lash me ere the sun went

down.
When the sun goes down,
I wonder if I'll weep o'er graves we made,
O'er brightest hopes so dear within them laid;
O'er friends who left me e'en at morning's

dawn.
To bear the burden of the day alone.
O'er others who beside me fainting fell,
When naught could noontide's scorching heat

dispel, [down.

And sought the shade before the sun went

When tho sun goes down,
And crimson glory floods the western skies.
And veils th' eternal hills in beauty's guise,
1 wonder if this glad, enti-aucing light
Will fill my earth-worn soul with such delight.
That I'll forget the daj- was long and drear.
Forget each blasted hope, each idle fear.
That saddened life before the sun went down.

When the sun goes down,
I think I will not sigh because the day
Had more of Winter's chill than smiles of

May;
Because 'twas crowded full of weary toil.
And griefs that made the aching heart recoil;
Because so many blinding tears were shed.
Above low mounds which held my cherished

dead.
Who left me lonely ere the sun went down.

When the sun goes down,
I think the twiliglit rest will be so sweet.
Which greets the tired heart, the restless feet.
That I will gladly fold these weary hands.
And thinking naught of this past day's de-
mands, [morn.
Will gaze enraptured toward that coming
To which my longing soul shall soon be borne.
And his eternal sun shall ne'er go down.



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804



LOCAL AXD :XAT10NAL POETS OF AMEKICA.



EDWARD S. GOODHUE.

Bokn: Canada, Sept. 39, 1861.

Mr. Goodhue has received a good education.
For a year he lectured lu the state of New
York, and iii 1883 edited the Dawn, hut the
following- year went to California to regain
his health. Since that time he has resided in
Riverside, and lias been connected M'ith sev-
eral of the daily and weekly publications of




EDWARD S. GOODHUE.

that city, besides contributing- to the Youth's
Companion, New York Witness, St. Louis
Magazine and the periodical press generally.
Mr. Goodhue is now attending the Rush Medi-
cal College of Chicago. He was married in
1889 to Lulu May Rose, a Chicago young lady
who is also studying medicine. The earlier
poems of Mr. Goodhue were collected and pub-
lished in 1888 under the title of Verses from
the Valley; he has also other books in pre-
paration.

MIDNIGHT.
'Tis midnight and no sleep.

No sleep, comes to my eyes;
Long have I lain awake

Watching the skies.

Watching vague waves of cloud,
Moving like ghosts of night

Over the moon's pale face,
Veiling her light.



How do they drift and drift

Onwai-d so far away.
Going no whitherward.

Where can they stray?
Large grows my vision now,

Nothing- but sky I see —
Nothing but clouds that pass

On silently.



EVENA.

They do not flash, her eyes,

But they sparkle and shine.
Reflecting the kindly light

Of a soul divine ;
I wish — I have often wished —

Their dark orbs were mine.
Mine to look into — and

Mine, to have love express.
With, oh ! such a wealth and power

Of deep tenderness;
With virtue to cheer, I know

And comfort and bless.
Better than words they speak

Out M-hat the heart would say.
Bidding me wait and hope

Till another day —
When clouds which threaten low

Have all cleared away.



THE EBB AND FLOW.

'Tis an ebb and a flow

Of the ocean wide,

Of the tireless tide.

It is coming and going the long hours thro'

Rushing along in its beaten track,

Onward and upward and forward and back.

To its paths in the rocks and the sand,

Here and on every hand.

What it brings it will take away,

What it takes it will give again —

Even as rain clouds give the rain —

Some day.

If we only knew.

And we all may know.

This life of ours is an ebb and a flow.

Of days and of years.

Of joy and of woe.

And, like the tide that breaks on the rocks

And throws in the air its briny spray.

Is the tide of our life which bears along

Toward the ragged rocks of ill and of wrong,

That cast through our years

Their spray of tears.

By our Tide

Must we all abide;

What it brings it will take away —

Wluit it takes it will give again —

All but the woe and the pain —

Some day.



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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.



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MRS. EMMELIXE B. WELLS.

Born: Petersham, Mass., Feb. 29, 1838.

This lady has been counected with the edi-
torial staff of the Woman's Exponent since
1875, and has been the sole editor and publish-
er since 18T7. She has written verses from her




MRS. EMMEIilNE BLANCHE WELLS.

childhood, and will at some future time pub-
lish them in book-form. Mrs. Wells has at-
tended conventions of women in Washingtou
and other places; presented memorials to
congress; called upon presidents and senators
and members of the House in the interests
of Utah, in which state she resides at Salt
Lake City.



AT EVENING.



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How softly fall the evening shadows pale.

Golden and purple sunsets blend and fade;
Night robes earth quietly with mantling veil.
And peace and i-est the gentle hour per-
vade.
Great nature soothing with her potent power,
Breatlies to the world-worn heart her sym-
pathy;
And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound
hour.
The mem'ries of the past steal tenderlj-.
Athwart the scene the moon with golden trail
As erst with pitying glance and mellowed
light.



Sweeps thro' the empty space with steadj-
sail,
And floods with beauty the enchanted night.
It is the hour for sweet and tender thought



Online LibraryThomas William HerringshawLocal and national poets of America, with biographical sketches and choice selections from over one thousand living American poets; → online text (page 107 of 138)