Thomas William Herringshaw.

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

. (page 136 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 136 of 138)
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Thy furious name to know.







Born: Chestnut Level, Pa.
The poems of Miss Chandler have appeared in
the Lancaster Intellig'encer, Philadelpliia Free


Press, and other papers of prominence. Miss
Chandler is still a resident of her native place,
where she has numerous friends and ardent


Jennie we two are old and useless.

Wrinkled skin and sallow g-rown.
And to look at our seamed faces

With the crows' feet thickly sown ;
Who would think we loved each other

With a love that lasts for aye?
Who would think I loved you better

Than upon our wedding- day?

But our love has braved the billows

That would wreck a lighter craft;
Now we float in peaceful waters

And our pleasures cometh oft.
I've often thought that man's broad shoul-

After all, were weak and small,
Compared with the patient toiling

Of those flng-ers for us all.

And in the evening, wife and mother,
With the babies on her knee,

Tells some quaint old Scottish story

Of a cottage by the Dee.
For my wife was a Scotch lassie,

And she loves old Scotland's hills —
Here and there a low-thatched cottage —

And its gently flowing rills.

And some day we'll wander there,

Bride and bridegroom, old and gray.
With our comic old-time costumes

That have seen a better day.
But what care we for things in fashion?

Jennie'll look so bright and glad
That I'll think I'm wooing the lassie

In her highland checkered plaid.

Only waiting for the evening

With its twilight soft and sweet.
Only waiting for the shadows

Till we meet at Jesus' feet.

Only waiting till the stars come
In their brightness, one by one.

Missing not the light of day time,
Or the rising of the sun.

Sweetest time for recollection
When the day draws to a close.

When the crickets sing their night song
And the bees forsake the rose.

Only waiting till the birdllngs

In their tiny home of nest.
Find a shelter, helpless creatures,

Find a safe and grateful rest.

Waiting, what a time of waiting —

Will we ever cease to wait?
Will our Savior, to rebuke us,

Will he say, alas, too late?

'Twas the same in ancient ages
With the poet, priest and king.

And the vaults of rocky caverns.
With their echoes ever ring.

And the walls give back the echoes.
With their sound reverberate;

Pause not in life's journey waiting
Lest you be forever late.

Wonderful! Mystical! Etherial creature.

From whence comest thou?
Didst thou spring from some medieval age?

Pray answerest now

Methinks a moss from the land of CJtopia,

Soft as a damsel's eye-lash.
Has in some mysterious way come forth

To mold thy moustache.







Born: Canada, Feb. 10, 183i.
Fob many years this lady has written poems
from time to time, which have appeared in
the periodical press. She was married in 1849
to John Urich, and is now a resident ol Wil-
mot, Dakota. Mrs. Urich has had quite an
eventful career; in her youth she was stolen
from home, and was the cause of litigation.

I am tired of this busy world,
So full of hustle and ol strife.
For me is left no peaceful rest or fond re-
Thoug'h half a century has bleached
My once dark hair.
Those fifty years have brought me
Naught but weary work and care.

Sometimes I wish that I might look

Into the world unknown.

To see if there be peace and harmony

Whither our friends are flown;

To know if happiness and rest

With the future life is given,

Or if perchance that weary souls [driven.

Beyond the tomb are still by care and sorrow


One more unfortunate, rashly unforturiate,

tired of life;
Wearied of this world and all its bitter strife ;
In he plunged madly,— no matter how coldly

ran the river death ;
Madly he went without any summons, where

none return mortal breath to breath.

The poor victim owoied that his master was

And relentless the master persuaded till his

soul he did sink; [life down.

At the noonday of manhood he laid his own
While the world looks on with a smile and a


But there were bereaved ones left at the pret-
ty prairie home;

Children with father dead, and the mother
gone to roam ;

Two lonely babes, twin sister not yet a sum-
mer old,

Are left to the care of strangers, or to charity
so cold.

Yet men look coldly on and drink. They quaff
their cups just the same.

No matter though the same fate is waiting to
blast their own life and name.

Then on ye friends of prohibition, let your
works resound

Till not a drinking den within your reach be


Born: Newport, N. H., Oct., 1830.
After receiving his education Mr. Jenks
entered the publishing business, and for a
while was editor of the Manchester American.
In 1862 he became connected with the firm of
Alexander Swift and company, government
contractors and builders Of ships. He has
since been state printer and connected with
many prominent publications. The poems
of Mr. Jenks have appeared in many stand-
ard works and the periodical press generally.
He is now a resident of his native town.


Under the snow-white sheet she lies,—

Helene, my beautiful! Helene, my true!

Softly the morning breaks over the skies,

Softly, regretful stars kiss her adieu;—

Lies she there seeming.

So blissfully dreaming,—
Fragrant her ripe lips as breath of the morn,—

No one shall lisp her

Name even in whisper:
She's roaming where fairy-land fancies are

Clustering clouds of dark, passionate hair

Frown back the curious beams of the sun :
Hidden but meagerly, shapely and rare,
Bound, white, soft mysteries wait to be

Seem i ngly bolder, [won ; —

One Parian shoulder,
Purity's self, dims the pillow below —

While, thrown above her

Head — who could but love her!
A round arm lies white as the shimmering-
Parting as clouds part when summer winds

Heavenly wonders unveiling above,—
So part the gauze-clouds, revealing below
Opaline mountains in gardens of love;—

Soft undulations.

Like music's vibrations,
Coursing- light-footed the silvery strings,

Seem like the ocean

In jubilant motion.
Rocking- its burden of beautiful things.
Waking as wake the young birds in their

Baby Nell opens her wondering eyes —
Climbs where the lush mountains bear on

their crests
Strawberries ripe as the ruddiest skies ;

There, among treasures

In bountiful measures,
Eoguish-eyed, cherry-lipped, pink-footed Nell

Drinks from a chalice

The king in his palace
Might barter his crown for, and barter it well






Born: Sutton, N. H., Sept. 2T, 1823.

After receiving- her education this lady be-
came a teaciier iu the Andover Academy. In
1855 she became the wife of Mr. Charles F.
Worthen, but is now a widow. She is the au-


thor of a history of her native town, and has
contributed quite extensively both prose and
verse to numerous newspapers and mag-a-
zines. Mrs. Worthen is a daug-hter of Col.
John Harvey, and is now a resident of Lynn,


Ling-er not within the shadow

Of the lonely forest pines;
See on yonder hill and meadow,

Bright October sunlight shines!
Come, for bright must fall its radiance,

On the pond where lihes grew.
Still, perchance some breath of fragrance

Hovers o'er its waters blue.
O'er the rocks the wild vines creeping-.

Flushed with autumn's crimson glow.
Wondering-, see the clouds lie sleeping-

In the mirror depths below.
We, with such sweet fancies haunted.

Seek the spot last year so fair,
Painfully are disenchanted.

For no pretty pond is there.

Coarse and rank the weeds are g-rowing-

O'er its dark and cosy bed.
But no murmuring- brook is flowing

'Neath the alder-berries red.
Yet, iu yon low quagmire g-leaming.

Something- pure and white I see!
But, I'm only fondly dreaming —

Can the flower a Lily be?
Yes, all fragrant, fresh and smiling-

In October's mellow light.
Me of all sad thoughts beguiling,

'Twas a Lily met my sight.
None can tell my heart's deep pleasure.

Half the foolish things it said.
As 1 sought the precious treasure —

Bent me o'er its beauteous head.
Had my loving admiration

Waked some sweet responsive thrill?
Saw I not a faint pulsation

All its slender stamens flll?
Wliy did every petal tremble

'Neath my warm admiring gaze?
Mig-ht it not its joy dissemble

At my words of eai'nest praise?
Had it, like the human spirit,

Longed for recognition too?
Strong- desires did it inherit

For appreciation true !
Wilt thou credit this sweet marvel

That, within my spirit's ear.
Words of hopeful, earnest counsel

From the Lily I should hear?
Sweet the tale of joy and sorrow

Whieli the Lily told to me;
Would I mig-ht its accents borrow

While I tell it unto thee.

Spring- was young-, thus ran the story.

When the tiny bud had birth;
Came and went the summer's glory

Ere she bloomed in beauty forth.
Never, on the clear bright billow.

Lifted from her lowly bed.
Never on a wavelet pillow

Rested she her gentle head.
Still, the torturing-, upward-yearnntg

Instincts of her dainty race,
Bade her, from the dull earth turning.

Rise iu purity and grace.
"Mockery every aspiration,

Prone and helpless here I lie !"
This in hours of dark temptation

Was her spirit's anguish cry.
" Yain the hopes, the longings endless,

For a freer, brighter life.
Making me more lone and friendless.

Wearying me with useless strife.
Let my better nature perish;

Nevermore will I aspire.
Nevermore will seek to cherish

Higher instinct, pure desire;






On these weeds will gaze admlriog',

Nodding- in this earth-born breeze,
Coarse, contented, unaspiring.

Would I were like one of these."
But the sunbeams on her falling-.

Roused from that despairing chill.
And the voice within her calling.

Bade her be a Lily still.
Wind-borne, from some purer region.

Came this testimony free:
•' Fear not, for their name is Legion,

Who have hoped and tolled like thee.
Slowly, painfully, thou learnest

What thy destiny must be:
All thine inner promptings earnest

Are but glorious prophecy.
Faithful to thy highest duty,

Hope, yet work with heart and will,
Thou Shalt yet arise in beauty.

Thou Shalt be a Lily still."

Then, as to some touch mysterious,

Everj' inmost heart-string thrilled.
While her spirit, thoughtful, serious.

With a wondrous joy was filled.
Blessed hours of exaltation!

Memories of such rapture rare.
Saved her from her dark temptation,

Strengthened her against despair.
Thougli no partial friends beholding

Cheered her with delicious praise.
All unmarked her slow unfolding-

Through the long, long summer d^ys ;
Though half doubtful of her mission.

Dreading lest her power might fail,
Musing on that dream Elysian,

Hopeful g-rew the Lily pale.
All its meaning scarce divining-,

Still new efforts she put forth;
For the vital moistures pining-

Deeper struck her roots in earth.
Gratefully, her thirst allaying-.

Every dewdrop gathered up;
Choice perfumes from zephyrs straying-.

Hoarded in her pearly cup.
Once, to let the sunbeams enter.

Dared to ope that chalice white:
Instantly her heart's deep center

Caught their golden radiance bright
So she kept her pure corolla

Free from earthly soil or stain.
Till the autumn winds blew hollow-
Fell the welcome autumn rain.
Then a little pool collected —

Raised her on her slender stem.
Then a Lily was perfected

Fairer than the fairest gem.
Toiler, thinker, dreaming poet.

Doubtful of your highest powers,
Work in hope, for, ere j'ou know it,
Help shall come like autumn showers.


Born: Brooklyn, N.Y., Sept 5, 1846.
The poems of this gentleman have appeared
from time to time quite extensively in the
periodical press. Mr. Scudder is a resident of

Walden, N.Y., where he is a journalist and
printer. Mr. Scudder was married in 1869 to
Miss Emma G. Armstrong-.

Sitting- in the blessed twilight

Of a summer's day that's past.
How the tears that dim my eyesight.

Gather thick, and gather fast.
As the thoughts of many a wrong-.

Flash through tired and weary brain.
And the memories of many song,

Cause me to live life o'er again.
Let the dead past be dead and perished,

No more to haunt my wearied brain ;
Yet the hopes that I have cherished

All spring- back to life again.
Is there no surcease of sorrow?

Why into future attempt to gaze.
Why live T, hoping- for the morrow,—

All of life seems but a maze.
Yet there's one that still keeps luring,

Her to whom my heart goes out.
Ever aiion my hopes assuring:.

Cheering- even as I doubt.






At the ag'e of seventeen William began to
write verses. Removing: to Aiistin, Texas,
when a young man, Mr. Gilleland remained
there over a quarter of a century, during-
which time he was employed in the state de-
partment, and for a number of years was a


clerk in the general laud office; also was the
enrolling' clerk of the senate for two terms,
and librarian of the supreme court. In 1864
Mr. Gilleland wrote his greatest poem. The
Burial March of General Tom Green. Of late
years Mr. Gilleland has suffered greatly from
wounds received in 1860. He is now a resident
of San Antonia, where he lias a large family.

I'm sitting- all alone to-night.

And sad November 'round me grieves,
The sky is mistj% dark and cold.

And sadly sound the falling leaves:
The cat is purring on the rug —

The dog is dreaming of the chase.
And starts and snaps at Tabb3''s tail.

Forgetful of the time and place.
The windows rattle to the blast.

Which moans like some deep lieart in pain.
And like the strains of saddest song

Comes down the cold November rain !
The bells their funeral chimes have hushed,

Where late the burial rites were read.
And they who swelled the weeping train.

To music of the banquet tread.
It is a niglit for niem'ries wild —

Of golden dreams of diamond days, —
A night when ghosts the churchyards walk.

And minstrels con their tragic lays;
The fire is low upon the hearth.

My midnight lamp is burning low;
While tranquil sleep on couch and tomb,

The travelers of the world below;
It is the last of lonely nights.

That I perchance shall know for years,
And wine of joj- will fill the cup.

That only brimmed before with tears!
My books around me scattered lie,

Old tones of ancient daj's and men.
Where I have followed Csesar's hosts,

Or watched the march of Zenopheu.
But what to me is now romance.

Or hist'ry's page, or burning song.
Since they but cloud the glowing hopes

That to an untried life belong.
To-morrow night I leave the shore,

My barque is waiting on the tide.
To bear me from this single state,

To scenes that I have never tried.
And will my days like music glide.

No clouds obscure my being's sky?
Will she who is to be mj- bride

Still love till the day I die?
And will she soothe me when I'm sad,

And roam beside me hand in hand
Till one or both have passed the gate

That opens to the spirit land?
All pleasure must have some alloy,

A nd joy, and grief a kindred born.
There is no rose however fair.

That still does not conceal its thorn,
Comparison is beaut.v's test.

And love is measured by its scale,
For he who Alpine snows have felt,

Will best enjoy tlie genial vale.
My life has been a wild romance.

With pain, and grief and sorrow rife.
And in my wintry years of youth,

I've seen few pleasant days of life!
But still I do not hate the world.

For many faithful friends I've known.
While 'round my heart their names are sat

Like jewels in a kingly crown!
But life must change from old to new.

And 'tis a tale that soon is told;
I'll link tliem in the name of wife

And bind them with a ring of gold
The moon is rising in the east —

My taper fades in liglit of day.
So in the beams of wedded joy

My autumn sliall be changed to May.
And will there be no sad regrets.

For human nature's ever frail.
Has sentiment and real life

Been weighed within a separate scale?







Will she to whom my heart is pledged

JSTe'er murmur at her wedded choice,
And will her words be always kind.

And uttered with a gentle voice?
Then will we banquet all our days.

And life will be a song- of love,
Harmonious as the spheral chimes,

Within the universe above.
Then wedding- bells ring- out for joy.

And haste ye sluggard, weary hours!
Ye are the steeds that bear my life

From barren wastes to blooming- bowers.


Born: Jefpersonville, Ind., March 27, '61.
The poems of Mr. Bevan have appeared in
the Chieapo Current and the local in-ess g-en-


erally. He follows the profession of a school
teacher, is unmarried, and still resides in his
native state at Martinsburg-.


As I stand on the sand

By the rolling- sea.
Fanned by the breeze's gentle flow.

From out the far-off strand
There are waft to me

Sweet mem'ries of long ago.
Mem'ries though filled with lo\e

For that pebbled shore.
Like the wave-washed rock seem hidden,

While I gaze far above

'Mid the breakers' roar,

A voice seems to say " forbidden."
And those murmuring- waves.

As they ripple along.
With the drifting- tide are sighing;

And weeping o'er the g-raves
Where the great and strong-

In watery tombs are lying-.
The place where I'm standing-
Is the shore of Time,
And the past the sea that's rolling-;

Thoughts like tides — commanding- •
My spirit to chime.

And feelings seem past controlling.
But that mingling- sounds

A lesson repeat:
'Tis " Future Improvement,''— be true;

But the sea now surrounds
And warns me retreat.

So I to the past bid adieu.

Bring- out the flags, unfurled in waves,

And let the drums of veterans beat ;
Bring- on the flowers to deck the graves.

And crown each urn with roses sweet.
Tread lightly o'er your comrade's bed.

And sadly drop a tear
For one who lived, but now is dead.

Lies slumbering- in his coflin here.
Let not your acts your thoughts beguile.

Nor weave the wreaths with careless
hand ;
But march in rank of funeral file

To deck the low, immortal band.
Perchance the one a year ago

Who wove a wreath for a comrade's bier.
Is now at rest and lying- low.

Waiting- a flower or orphan's tear.
Perhaps there's one of Shiloh's band

Who marshals now, at beat of drum.
That may be borne by comrade's hand

To the place we deck, a year to come.
Their feeble steps, and tottering- ranks

We view ; and lines of veterans brave;
Our hearts are touched to grateful thanks.

But still they march toward the grave.
Let each one act an humble part

To keep the star of freedom high;
May each one have a patriot's heart.

And feel he's not afraid to die.
And when you're laid away to rest

Within the dark and silent tomb.
May each one in his turn be blest

With heavenly flowers and endless bloom.
Then rest your arms and furl the bars.

And leave the heroes where they fell,
And doff your cap to fallen stars.

And sav to all a last farewell.







Born: Mauston, Wis., Feb. 6, 1863.
The poems of this lady have appeared in the
Furm aud Home aud the local press gener-


ally. She was married la 1879 to Bert Martin,
and now resides in Camp Douglas, Wis.

Rose-colored clouds in the sunset sky.
Amber and gold colors around them lie,
Ahove all a blue dome rises high.
A crescent moon like a silver boat,
In the upper deep is gently afloat.
Whilst I sit down to take note.
Later a twinkling star peeps out
To see what all the world is about.
And to help Luna put the shadows to„rout.

The rose-colored clouds are prone to stray.
The amber and gold die slowly away;
Bni the dom e of blue will remain for aye.



Born: Guilford, Me., 1836.
Since the death of her husband this lady has
resided at the old homestead at Foxcroft,
Maine. Her poems have appeared in some of
the leading periodicals, and she is represent-
ed in the Poets of Maine. Mrs. Dinsmore is a
teacher of vocal music.

Forever palpitates creative thought
In nature's vast expanse to all her deeps.
And drawn by sun-smile of His love upleaps
New formed — reflecting glory, clear en-
With deathless sign, — And tho' o'er mountain

And down its slope, where, brooding dark it

Its mingling teardrops hid, at length, forth

In mighty tide, upbearing and strength

By skyward flight, and sweeping torrent's

On toward the pulsing-, primal, deep abyss.
Where rhythmic life on life forevermore
Moves up from darkness in the Spirit's course
And, at that Light-commanding word there

Forms radiant clothed from Death's dark



Born : New Brunswick, Feb. 14, 1864.
The greater portion of the life of Miss Crock-
er has been spent in the United States, and
she is now a resident of Valparaiso, Ind. She
has contributed quite extensively both prose
and verse to western papers, and has already
gained quite a reputation as a local poet.

The songs of life have changed to monotone ;

Eegret drowns all the music of the past;
My heart through empty chambers weeps

For joys that did not last.
But if to-day I stood within the glare

Of proud success perhaps I should not know.
The gentle name of sympathy and care.

To soothe another's woe.
Perhaps I would not lift the fallen one.

On whom the world heaps scorn and bitter
Forgetting, as I haste this soul to shun,

I might have been tlie same.
'Tis only those who've walked awhile with sin

Can estimate the little step that lies
Between what is and that pure might have

For which their spirit cries.
And so, if life does sti'etch before me drear,

Aud hopes have fled and visions come to
I hold this sympathy for souls most dear

For it was dearly bought.







Born: Bethany, N.Y., June 31, 1841.
For sometime this lady was a member of the
editorial staff of Wood's Household Magazine,
published at Newburg-, N. Y. In 1878 she was
married to Josiah Howard Hobbs, a lawyer
of Madison. N. H.. where she still resides.


Few writers so exqulsitelj- realizes the wealth
and worth there is in word -shading', as does
this lady. Although her late poems have
been penned amid the pressure of household
duties, they exhibit a carefulness of expres-
sion and a dainty choice of language, indeed,
as the most artistic taste could aslj.


No arms are stretched to me f i-om out the dark

No pitying- palms enfold my fevered own.
My sea-sent dove has never found its ark —

From life's bleak out-look all the way is
One is no more than all the rest to me, [lone.

My ear knows not the magic of a name,
I hear no voice that holds me thrilling-ly,

I pass each face as calmly as I came.
At first I looked upon each lifted brow.

Into each life, into each lofty soul
For recognition, but am learning now

To curb the quest I cannot quite control.
I have no past particularly sweet.

No buried hopes enshrined in memory;
No far-off Mecca to which bleeding- feet

Go back to find some heart-held yesterdav.

I know not what it is for which I yearn, [j-ears

For which I've hungered all these heavy
When from the outlook, to the in — I turn,

I find my spirit drenched with unshed tears;
I find a hearthstone white with ashes cold,

A taper sunken in a socket low,
An open volume, prey to moth and mold —

A dusty chain, deserted long ago.
1 miss a something I have never known:

Too vague, too uudefinable to name;
A something seeming to have been my own

In climes from which I uncompanied came.
t miss, j'et find it seeming everywhere.

In opening flower, or in falling leaf.
Amid the whispers of the autumn air

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 136 of 138)